Theseus, the future King of Athens, was one of the most famous heroes of early Greece.
According to the memories of Samael's previous life, the current Athenian king, Aegeus, had no sons. Because of this, he deeply feared his brother Pallas, who had fifty children and held hostility toward him.
Driven by a growing sense of crisis, Aegeus decided to secretly remarry without his wife's knowledge, hoping to father a son who could comfort his later years and inherit his throne. He confided this plan to his friend, King Pittheus of Troezen, seeking his help.
By coincidence, Pittheus had just received an oracle stating that his daughter would never have a public marriage but would give birth to a son of great renown. So, Pittheus secretly married his daughter Aethra to Aegeus.
The Athenian king and the princess of Troezen lived together in secret for a time before Aegeus returned to Athens. He left behind a token for his new wife and told her,
"If the gods favor us and grant you a son, raise him in secret. Tell no one who his father is. When he grows up and becomes strong, send him to Athens with this token to find me."
In time, the princess of Troezen became pregnant and gave birth to a boy, naming him "Theseus."
This identity, blurred by gaps in time and unverifiable genealogy, provided ample room for manipulation. Besides, whether Aegeus could firmly hold the Athenian throne—or even have a son named "Theseus"—ultimately depended on the will of the Goddess of Wisdom. With Athena's intellect, it would take little effort to ensure that the truth of Theseus's existence could never be proven.
In the courtyard, the ancient serpent stood still, stroking its chin in thought.
Theseus's bloodline was also notable. His father Aegeus was descended from Cecrops, the founder of Athens. According to legend, Cecrops was born from the earth itself, with the upper body of a man and the tail of a serpent.
If Samael were to reveal serpentine traits while using divine power at a critical moment, he could easily explain it away by invoking that heritage.
Theseus's mother, meanwhile, descended from Pelops, son of Tantalus, King of Mycenae. Pelops was the very one who had been chopped into pieces and served at the gods' infamous feast, when Tantalus mocked them by offering human flesh.
Later, the gods punished Tantalus, imprisoning him in the underworld, but under the binding of their oaths, they did not blame humankind. They cleansed the earth and even resurrected the unfortunate Pelops who had been boiled.
Samael couldn't help but think of his own near-death experience upon first arriving in Mesopotamia—when Gilgamesh nearly turned him into snake stew—and felt an odd mix of amusement and irony.
Perhaps from the day of his departure, Athena had believed in his return. She had poured her full effort into building the city of Athens, even using a childless king to craft the identity of "Prince Theseus," ensuring he could inherit all she had built without disruption.
Samael touched his forehead with a helpless smile, reluctantly admitting that Athena's plan had truly moved him. The name "Theseus" suited him perfectly.
It was likely because of this uncanny alignment that, under the unseen influence of fate, he had unconsciously taken Theseus's place.
With this layer of protection, the ancient serpent believed that, combined with the power of the Tablet of Destinies to obscure divine perception, his past would remain perfectly hidden. As long as he didn't expose himself or act recklessly, no one would ever suspect the truth.
The only problem was that Theseus himself was infamous throughout Greece—a notorious troublemaker who defied all restraint.
Just look at his record: crimes upon crimes, deeds that earned him eternal notoriety. He abducted Hippolyta, the Queen of the Amazons, provoking the Amazon warriors to march on Athens; he kidnapped Helen of Sparta, the most beautiful woman in Greece, while she danced in the Temple of Artemis, leading her twin brothers, Castor and Pollux, to chase him all the way to Athens to demand her return...
He once rushed into the Underworld to abduct Persephone, Queen of the Dead, only to be discovered by Hades and imprisoned in the Abyss as punishment...
Even Samael, destined to inherit that name, had to admit—sometimes, Theseus truly acted without sense or shame.
What left the ancient serpent speechless was that nearly all of Theseus's crimes stemmed from women, each one more absurd than the last.
I mean, was the bearer of this name really that desperate? That much of a lecher?
As his fusion with the Tablet of Destinies deepened, Samael's understanding of fate also grew clearer. Having taken Theseus's place, he began to worry that the so-called Mandate of Heaven might drive him down the same ruinous path as the Athenian king.
Am I that kind of person... cough... am I that kind of snake?
As he tried to justify himself, a faint guilt stirred in his chest. If Theseus was inhuman, then so was he. If Theseus was lustful, well... he wasn't exactly innocent either.
No, no—this won't do. Focus. Composure!
Right. Setting aside those scandals, the achievements Theseus left behind were what truly deserved attention.
Suppressing the clutter of his thoughts, Samael began to trace the course of Theseus's fate. The life of the Athenian king was wild and vivid. He had taken part in two great epic events—the Calydon Hunt and the upcoming Argonautic Expedition.
Later, he would volunteer in place of Athens' sacrificial youths, venture into Minos's labyrinth, and slay the bull-headed monster, the Minotaur. Through that triumph, he won the admiration of the Athenians and ushered in an age of prosperity.
How fitting. Assuming this identity for his plan seemed almost preordained.
As the ancient serpent reflected on his strategy, he realized that the name "Theseus" felt like it had been crafted for him. His resistance toward this disguise quietly faded.
And as for the so-called "trajectory of fate"? Ha. He'd already devoured the gods' own Tablet of Destinies—what was there to fear from this?
Even with this name, I will write a story of my own.
Having shed his doubts, Samael felt his spirit lighten. His body relaxed as he stretched lazily.
When he lifted his head again, he noticed the sky had turned golden. Dusk was near, and he had been standing in the courtyard for most of the afternoon.
Seeing Samael stir from his long stillness, Atalanta—who had been perched atop the pavilion, scanning the area—leapt down lightly and landed before him.
The huntress circled him a few times, inspecting him carefully. Only after confirming that this divine-blessed being showed no irregularities did she finally breathe a sigh of relief.
"It seems the goddess Athena truly favors you..."
Atalanta patted Samael's shoulder lightly, her eyes showing both satisfaction and a faint trace of envy.
"It's fine..."
Samael gave a modest smile before his expression turned serious. He hesitated briefly, then spoke.
"Big Sis, the divine oracle I received commands me to slay the Demon Boar during the Calydon Hunt and offer the beast as a sacrifice to the goddess Athena to receive her blessing."
"Oh? Then it seems our goals are the same after all."
Atalanta raised an eyebrow, a spark of battle fervor lighting her eyes.
"Kid, I'm not going to hold back. Let's see who comes out on top in a fair contest!"
"Perfect. I've been wanting to test myself against you!"
The ancient serpent lifted his hand, meeting the huntress's palm in midair. A sharp, crisp clap echoed through the courtyard as they exchanged confident smiles.
Then Samael's gaze flickered with mischief, though his tone remained grave.
"But for fairness' sake, before that, you'll have to teach me archery first."
Atalanta blinked, momentarily caught off guard.