Hercules was still human, a lone lantern in cosmic wind. Even with the Stellar Goddess’s power, he’d only grasped a sliver of power’s true essence. Memory and soul intact, he slipped into a body wholly different. Anyone would feel wrong in their skin.
He’d even picked a Nine-Headed Hydra’s body on purpose, to study the legendary creatures. That warped mismatch still makes him sick when he remembers it, a bitter tide in his throat. Humans can shift their sight with many lenses of power, like swapping masks under moonlight—but a hydra’s anatomy was like nine masks buzzing with static; words fail.
Most humans never imagine seeing through nine heads, nine pairs of eyes, nine suns burning at once. For Hercules, it pressed him toward madness, a drumbeat he couldn’t silence. A human brain rules the organs: eyes take light, nerves carry it, the brain replies—like a relay of torches.
The Nine-Headed Hydra was different—a ship with no helm, a body with no brain.
Maybe the Stellar Goddess kept creation simple, spare strokes on a night canvas. Most first-generation legendary creatures ran on an Arcane Power core as their basic unit. That made Hercules miserable; human habits couldn’t steer a hydra’s strange frame. He tried to pilot it like a man, but the storm wouldn’t obey. It took nearly a century before he mastered a legendary creature’s body.
“Lady Aphelia, you didn’t set behavior patterns for them, did you? You gave them power crystals and fierce, bestial bodies, so they wouldn’t threaten human society.”
Aphelia nodded without hesitation, a moonlit answer to his doubt. It was true—she had kept it simple, almost careless, by design. She didn’t want the gardens she planted for her friends seized by other beings. So she altered some formidable ones, chisel on stone, star-fire in flesh.
Giants once mighty in her old world became elemental giants here. They shed human-like innards, turned into Arcane Power crystals and elemental crystals—pure element, pure order. That kept these balancers from birthing wills of their own. The rest followed the same grain, carved in the same vein. After Aphelia achieved godhood, she held the genomes of her worlds like scripts. For a god, the rules of making are hers to write; her pen rewrites bone and breath. Even a legendary golden dragon could be revised into a mangy dog.
“Yes, their core is a power crystal,” she asked with a smile, sun on snow. “So, did you glean a new insight from it?”
This worldline had accepted her as its highest presence, like a mountain accepting its peak. A nation may have an emperor, but never two; one throne, one crown. So it was here, one sun for one sky. As the sole Creator, she sealed the upward path, a gate of clouds locked. Those beneath her might brush the limit, a hair’s breadth from the sky. But they could no longer gain new insight from this world, nor become the next god—a ladder cut short.
Even Aphelia couldn’t break that rule; to deny it would cut her own divinity. Doing so would drown her—an ocean swallowing its maker.
Are gods immortal, like stones in a river? No.
Upon taking the throne and her true name, Aphelia received the messages of those before her. Gods spoke through a force akin to Aether, a silver thread that endures epochs. Memories are carved into the divine throne; time’s dust can’t erase them. From those traces, she learned her predecessors didn’t live forever; they left, by many doors. Each god begins a new cosmic epoch, resetting the universe to zero. A god binds to a worldline; unless the world ends, a god doesn’t die. And the death of a world is near-infinite out beyond counting. So yes, gods are effectively immortal—but still, the elders departed. One, the one before Aphelia, even tried to deny godhood itself.
That memory thrilled and terrified her, twin snakes twining in her chest. It hinted her friends might break through together, a flock breaking cloud. A god may live for a near-infinite span, but companions don’t. Even a step from godhood is a chasm you can’t cross.
The god who left the mark failed, his footprint slipping from the cliff. He tried to deny divine right, to share the climb to the throne again. The backlash of the worldline turned them to ash, a storm of ruin. The one already a god suffered worse; his obsessions became dark creatures and a dark world in Aphelia’s realm.
Luckily, before he turned to dust, he etched that warning into the throne. It woke Aphelia and spared her from his path. When she first rose, she had contemplated the same madness. The mark arrived in time and stilled her hand.
Now Hercules showed signs of grasping power, fingers closing on a spark. Joy sprang up in her like spring rain. If such a path exists, she’ll help him again, and more; she’ll light more lamps.
“No, of course not. It’s a bit of insight, yes, but far from power’s true essence. At best, it’s another way to wield strength.” Hercules gave a wry smile, bitterness like tea on his tongue. He wanted it to be new insight, but it wasn’t. Years of trials had brought him to the borderland, like walking to a cliff edge. The closer he came, the heavier the world pushed back—mountains on his shoulders.
“However, in that stretch of study, I saw the legendary creatures drift from your design. They’re growing minds.”
“Is that true?”
Aphelia’s brows pinched, a shadow crossing her brow. Her grip on this world should have no leaks, no cracks in the ice. She had set them to never awaken; for her, tiny probabilities are zero. A locked door doesn’t open itself.
“It’s true, as clear as frost. I watched for nearly a thousand years. From habits and interactions, they’re even evolving language. You’re a god; you know a mindless race can’t simply sprout minds, much less speech. If you haven’t loosened control, then… then someone else has a hand on the strings.”
Worry hollowed Hercules’s gaze, a winter pond under ice. If anyone tried to assault godly power here, Aphelia would feel it first. But she hadn’t felt a ripple. He hoped he was overthinking, chasing shadows. Yet when he slipped into their world, he found the solitary ones gathering. Not a crisis for humans, not yet, not while the sea sleeps. The real question was the source—the root under the rock.
Aphelia moved to soothe him—then a chill pricked her side. Her jewel-blue eyes widened; the sudden rift of sensation told her enough. She surged to her feet; starlight spilled from her fingertips, a portal blooming at her flank. She dove through like a comet.
Damn it—someone found my sanctum.
Inside the separate world Aphelia had carved, Fenrir sat in cultivation. A cold wind slashed her back—killing intent honed to a razor. She didn’t think; she rolled aside without hesitation. Training kept her alive, a shield under the storm. The strike glanced her; a line of pain carved her pale arm.
How—just a graze…
Fenrir grit her teeth and roused the power within. Force met the wound; jet-black blood sprayed from her arm. In that breath, the attacker lunged again. Pitch-black shadow flew at her, a noose of death seeking her throat.
