Six Years before Alkaios and Medea meet.
Alkaios POV
Huh. Who knew I'd get an actual isekai adventure?
Honestly, appearing in "Ancient Greece in the Nasuverse" wasn't my preferred venue. The Nasuverse, prioritizing mournful conclusions, rarely showcases the art of tragedy, originating with the Greeks. I possessed comprehension concerning events within the lives of heroic figures. As a result, I had to choose between two options: I could either endlessly express my dissatisfaction until I lost my voice, or I could simply accept the existing circumstances and play through them as one would in a genuine JRPG.
The answer seemed obvious.
On Stymphalos' border, distant from observers, I practiced my sword katas, a youngster wielding a blade oversized, an orphan. That explained it. The way Reid traveled through the atmosphere had a certain weight to it that was accurate, akin to the manner a teacher would assess handwriting—unemotional, fault-finding, and stringent.
Whenever I drew my sword, I thanked my former self for its creation, as it reminded me of them. By slightly adjusting the sword's characteristics, I could make it so that I could draw it whenever I wanted, avoiding the necessity of requesting an iron blade from Nikos, which I couldn't readily purchase. Reid still scaled with threat—fine. That was fair. It wasn't here to let me bully farmers. It was here for monsters, and monsters were exactly the problem.
I put down the sword, took a breath, and then continued into the Astrea family's next sequence of movements. Included in this workout are exercises that will focus on the foot, hip, shoulder, and wrists. The form had no visible issues and was spotless. These particular techniques were in use far longer than my current physical form had existed, and the purpose they served was quite basic. The chief aim of the Astrea family's distinctive style was to eliminate monsters.
Reid Astrea proved that by slaughtering hundreds of dragons in a single battle.
First, I couldn't leave the Stymphalian birds alive.
For many past eras, they killed and harassed Arcadian inhabitants. Not when my village was practically their neighbor. Because I could reshape existing reality, I could not simply remain inactive, for hoping for the best frequently worsened matters for those lacking power.
Under normal circumstances, I would likely have felt quite terrified. The notion of battling formidable monsters like that felt childish fantasy.
Yet, I possessed Reinhard van Astrea's power within my grasp, akin to a miracle ready to be unleashed. Half of Reinhard was still ridiculous. The power of a Sword Saint, even if it was only half of the greatest one ever, was enough to make the impossible actually happen according to a plan.
I was gaining confidence, though I couldn't be certain whether it was Invictus who had spoken, or just the part of me that refused to accept a second life for perishing anonymously in a mud-brick village. My actions displayed no recklessness.
At this moment, I possessed three Divine Protections that were contributing to the refinement of my swordsmanship, transforming it into something more precise and effective than what a human could achieve: Sword Saint, War God, and Training. I had uncovered something crucial; it explained the function of these blessings.
Sadly, wishing alone couldn't fulfill my aspirations. If I weren't in genuine need, if my soul didn't demand it with honest feeling and the right conditions, then nothing would have answered. It wasn't as if I possessed the "Divine Protection of Poison Immunity" simply because I had hoped it would be helpful. These things weren't a menu. They were a response.
Using the back of my wrist, I removed the moisture from my face and then allowed my eyes to wander upwards towards the expansive sky. Moving at a languid pace, the clouds appeared to be detached and uncaring. Birds circled afar from the lake, these birds held typical wisdom: keeping clear.
Once I had slain the Stymphalian birds, my plan was to make my way to Mount Pelion in Thessaly, where I would undergo training led by Chiron. One would have to be a fool to decline the opportunity to receive instruction from a truly remarkable teacher within the context of mythology. Chiron and Scáthach were the mentors you desperately hoped for, the ones you practically begged the universe to send.
Training under Miss Friendship-With-Thighs would bring me joy; however, absence prevented attendance due to my lack of a map to Shadows' Land.
"If only I'd chosen Ireland," I muttered, and let out a depressed breath.
Following a controlled arc as I swung Reid downward, I subsequently transitioned into a frontal cut. My aim in going to Chiron was to gain knowledge in areas where my abilities fell short. Despite all the help I had received, there were still some areas where I was lacking.
I did not grasp the notion of combat without blades. The only training I had, other than the Astrea forms, came from some Brazilian Jiu-Jitsu I had learned in my previous life, and to believe that was sufficient in the Nasuverse was a level of optimism that would inevitably lead to death and transformation into a cautionary tale.
Although I might have been able to call Reid back if I were disarmed, it was still during the Age of Gods, a time of great significance. Beings, both human and monstrous, that could sever ties, obstruct invocations, and confine fundamental principles. Assuming I were foolish enough to think nobody could interfere with my sword, then I would have merited whatever transpired afterward.
After completing the kata, I exhaled, and then allowed the point of Reid to lower gently toward the ground. Afterwards, my mind, which I felt had betrayed me, thought about my ambitions. This was my second life. Why wouldn't I live it to the fullest?
The thought of reliving a dull existence was unappealing, considering I had already experienced one. Having already lived through the silent periods, the predictable schedules, and the constant deferral of plans, I was familiar with those experiences.
I wanted to experience something that someone could describe as an epic undertaking. In all honesty, my aspirations extended beyond simply getting by. I hoped to be remembered for what I had done. Should one settle for local renown, or could one strive higher? Wouldn't it be a worthwhile endeavor to establish a kingdom that would make Greek history turn away from its tragedies and give its full attention?
There was no single kingdom in Arcadia; rather, the region comprised several independent city-states and other smaller territories, all of which had a strong sense of self-governance. The Peloponnesus, however, was in a fractured state, making it ready and suitable for the process of unification to begin. Considering the memories I had gained in this body, Sparta was the only formidable competitor, and I recalled Sparta had a special event in honor of the birth of Zeus's twin children.
Castor and Pollux. The Dioscuri.
The anticipation of meeting the Argonauts was so great that it caused an involuntary twitch of my lips. Even before Fate had refined some of their more unrefined qualities into individuals I could truly admire, I had always held a fondness for them.
Jason's behavior and actions were especially complex and intricate. My past self held a strong dislike of him during the initial stages of Fate/Grand Order. With a cowardly nature and a slippery demeanor, this person is consistently on the verge of running, with an excuse readily available. However, in the Atlantis Lostbelt, Jason's actions showed the reason for his selection as captain. He did not act in such a way because of a lack of fear, but because he found the strength to stand up when the situation required it. That was the sort of individual I could envision myself working alongside. Even though I had developed many strategies, I lacked the expertise to lead.
Yes, I had chosen the skills beforehand. I thought that diplomacy and politics would be impressive on a character sheet, as they seemed like ideal choices. Theoretically understanding something and being able to do it were dissimilar, despite their relation. Acquiring the skills needed to build a kingdom from a village magically is not possible without facing significant challenges, including potentially being threatened by those who disapprove of your decisions or manner.
Chiron had educated royalty. Chiron educated Peleus. In the same way that a smith shapes bronze, Chiron could mold men into the best versions of themselves, which included shaping them into rulers. Given his expertise, if anyone possessed the knowledge to guide me in developing aspects beyond just physical strength, it was undoubtedly he.
Having completed another side swing, I pictured an adversary before me, being sliced perfectly in two. The moment I thought I had forgotten the chaos, reality stepped in and reminded me I was still standing within a village that was under siege. As I turned my direction back toward Stymphalos, the landscape itself appeared to have endured some suffering.
The trampling made the fields muddy, and the broken stalks showed damage. The wooden fences were in a state of disrepair, lying on the ground with broken posts that looked as though something had nonchalantly glided over them with incredible force. There were some dark stains on a portion of the road that had dried, and rain did not cause them. The way the light hit the feathers, which looked like bronze-colored spilled coins, tightened my stomach as they covered the ground.
Once more, the birds had launched an attack. I understood what was happening before I arrived at the first row of houses, as the signs were clear to me. The roofs of the buildings had sustained considerable damage, with some sections having completely caved inwards. The walls showed signs of a violent encounter, breached by bronze figures that used considerable force. Something had chewed off the door, tearing it from its hinges. On its side lay a cart, which was missing one wheel, while the other continued to turn slowly as though the world had not yet acknowledged the cart's demise.
People were behaving with deliberate movements, as though they were wary of a danger that the air itself might pose. In the street, a man knelt and wrapped his hands in dirty linen. The fabric had thoroughly saturated, and he gazed at it with an empty expression, similar to that of a person attempting to avoid comprehending the depth of his loss. The older farmer was being assisted by two women as they walked together, with each of the women supporting him.
Sitting on a doorstep, the boy's eyes were wide and devoid of tears, showing he had already cried them all. Because his fingers bent unnaturally, they wrapped too many of them in splints. His mother remained close to him, almost like a shadow, with one hand resting on his shoulder and the other covering her mouth, seemingly in fear that any noise would provoke another assault.
A goat was lying motionless close to the well, and its side had bronze cuts. It appeared as though someone had covered it with a cloth, but then stopped, concluding that such a ritual was unnecessary because humans were suffering and losing blood.
At the young age of just eight years old, I find myself in this situation. Even though the time spent in this new life has been brief. My observations had already given me sufficient insight to understand the fundamental cause of the village's widespread fear, which went far deeper than the obvious destruction. What was striking about the bird attacks was the randomness, which made it seem like there was no obvious reason behind them.
The Stymphalian birds destroyed a roof here, but the roof of the adjacent building remains untouched. One family survived in one home, while the other family perished completely in another home. The Stymphalian birds cruelly took livestock and used them in a sport. The birds, not needing to fully consume the victims to experience enjoyment from their helplessness, left some people alive after mauling them.
Grief had become a constant and inescapable presence, enveloping the surroundings entirely. It was not loud and certainly was not a sound of wailing like one might hear during a theater performance. The grief was not only quiet but also more profound. In hushed tones, the parents communicated with their children, who did not provide any answers to their parents. With their eyes fixed on the heavens, the men looked as if they were expecting the sky to come crashing down. The offerings were being arranged by a priest with trembling hands, and these offerings comprised supplies that were supposed to be used for bandages.
If I put my mind to it, I could still hear the echoes, the cries from the prior day, when the flock attacked at noon, and the entire village came to understand that the idea of a "safe time" was a thing of the past. No schedule. No pattern. Just terror.
Observing the wreckage left by the Stymphalian birds, I clenched my fist, the grip so strong that my nails, digging into my skin, tore it from the immense pressure. I would take the lives of these birds, and it would happen before the close of this day. I didn't receive the title of Sword Saint so I could spend my time practicing forms in the dirt while people were losing their limbs in the street. Mothers would no longer need to pull their children inside, hoping the roof would not collapse, and men would no longer have to look at their bandaged stumps, trying to act as if they were still whole.
This led me to go straight to Nikos, the only blacksmith I was familiar with. Even though the forge was still standing, something had damaged it recently. The outer wall showed signs of repair with the addition of fresh boards to cover damaged sections. As mismatched timber had been used to repair a portion of the roof, the smoke climbing from the chimney was less dense than it should have been, giving the impression that he was without the fuel or the inclination to keep it running well.
As I got closer, the reason for the situation became apparent to me. Nikos stood at the front, with soot-marked arms, and his face showed the exhaustion from sleeping in fifteen-minute intervals. His eyes were bloodshot, but smoke did not cause this condition. That his family remained a unit resulted from his persistent efforts and powerful will.
As I looked through the open doorway, I saw a tiny person on a blanket, who I realized was his daughter, the small girl named Hermione. A thick cloth completely wrapped her arm, covering it from her shoulder to her elbow, and her posture showed me she was holding back the pain, swallowing her fear, and breathing shallowly to avoid disturbing her injury.
While I was looking, Nikos saw me and realized I was there. A visible tightening of his jaw was apparent while he was attempting to keep his composure. The missing limbs, a sight I had already witnessed on the other villagers, were a stark reminder of their suffering. I took a step and moved myself forward.
"Excuse me, Nikos," I said, keeping my voice level, "can I have a set of leather armor?"
His expression was one of disbelief, as though I had made a request as impossible as asking him for a ship. Afterwards, he barked out a laugh that was not at all humorous before running his hand across his face.
"Look, Alkaios," he said, voice rough. "I know you're young and you've got big dreams, but leave heroics to the demigods. We're normal folk."
His gaze quickly shifted, first to the street, then to the damaged beams, and finally to the people who were passing by, many of whom were limping, with bandages and hollow expressions. Then back to me.
"There's no shame in living a quiet life here," he insisted, and I heard the lie in it even as he said it. "Life isn't so bad."
I made sure not to interrupt Nikos, allowing him to continue speaking. Since I realized his actions did not aim to persuade me, I allowed him to continue digging. It was about convincing himself.
"You're young," Nikos continued, more desperate now. "I've seen enough children die trying to be heroes. We've survived years waiting for the gods to send someone. All we can do is pray and stay faithful."
Even though he was the one speaking them, I could see that the words had a bitter taste. Perhaps his father had spoken these words to him in the past, and now he was continuing the tradition, repeating them as well. My jaw muscles clenched involuntarily, creating a feeling of tension and constriction.
As he stood there, Hermione, who was behind him, moved a little and made a soft, involuntary sound, reminiscent of the sounds that pain forces out when someone's movement is incorrect. The sound seemed to affect Nikos, who responded by flinching as if he had been physically hit. That did it.
"Fuck that," I said.
For a moment, the plaza surrounding the forge fell silent, as if the village had grown unaccustomed to the sound of open rebellion. A look of astonishment crossed Nikos's features, and he blinked at me in disbelief.
I took a step forward, and I didn't have to raise my voice because I was close enough. The level of my inner turmoil and fury had reached a point of obvious intensity.
"Nikos," I said, "don't you feel it? The world is begging for a new age of heroes, and no one's answering."
With a gesture that was both small and sharp, I directed attention toward the village that was in ruins.
"Our home is under siege from the Stymphalian birds. People lose arms and legs and call it 'fate' because they don't have any other word left. Sailors risk Scylla and Charybdis every time they take a boat out. In the east, Lerna holds the line against the Hydra's rot and teeth, and they still get up in the morning, anyway."
I looked him dead in the eye.
"I'm not waiting for someone else to decide we're worth saving."
My voice stayed steady.
"If the gods and their progeny won't act, then I will. With or without help. So yes—armor. Do you have a set of leather armor or not?"
The people who were nearby were staring, as if they could not reconcile my facial features with the words that I was saying. It seemed they had completely disregarded the possibility that children could express themselves using such language.
For a long moment, Nikos kept his eyes fixed on mine, holding my gaze. The fight had left him, and the shift was clear in his posture; his shoulders fell, and what replaced the struggle was a blend of resignation, relief, dread, and pride, each emotion palpable. He released the breath he was holding and exhaled.
"Don't die, kid," he muttered. "Come inside. Let's get you fitted properly."
As he turned, a small voice stopped us.
"Alkaios… why?"
I glanced over to look. Rhoda, who was the merchant's daughter, was four years of age during those winters. Her hair was a mess of tangles, and her cheeks still bore the marks of tears that had dried long ago. She was standing barefoot on the ground, and she gripped a piece of cloth tightly, appearing to rely on it to maintain her composure.
I walked towards her and crouched, wanting to avoid the intimidating effect of towering over her, something I had observed adults often do. I made a point of messing up her hair when I patted her head, since what she required in that instant was something familiar and not the rigid protocol of a formal event.
"It's because that's what heroes do," I told her. "That's all."
She looked into my eyes intently, as though she were attempting to commit the response to memory. I then rose to my feet and proceeded into the forge, walking behind Nikos.
The process began with him having me try on a padded linen underlayer, followed by the leather, which was cut and strapped in a manner that allowed for movement, even considering a child's physique. While it had its merits, the whole thing was far from flawless. The fustanella was not flattering, and I felt ridiculous while wearing it. However, the armor fit snugly enough to shield the crucial areas, and the added heaviness provided a sense of security. As I exited, I turned my shoulders to check their flexibility.
"Thank you," I said. "When I return, I'll gift you the feathers and beaks of the Stymphalian birds as thanks."
Nikos reacted with a snort.
"If you come back," he said, and the words weren't doubt—they were fear. Then he squinted at me. "How do you plan on getting all their attention? You going to scream and wave your arms like a fool?"
I smirked. "I already have a plan. Do you have any sheep's blood left over?"
The lack of expression in his eyes as he stared at me was so pronounced that it nearly caused me to laugh. I explained everything calmly, as being calm made the reckless things I was describing sound like they were actually part of a deliberate strategy.
"I'll head straight to the lake," I said. "I'll drench myself in sheep's blood and stand in the open. Let them come."
As his face became noticeably pale, I found myself unable to prevent a snicker from escaping my lips.
"So you're ringing the dinner bell," he said.
"Exactly," I replied.
He went out of sight into the back room and then returned holding a bag.
"I was going to throw this out," he said grimly. "It's a few days old."
Nikos paused momentarily, and in that fleeting moment, he seemed to consider whether to prevent me from proceeding once more. Rather than doing anything else, he posed the question, "Are you in need of a sword or bow?"
I responded by shaking my head, and then I offered him my hand.
"There's no need," I said. "I already have the best weapon."
My hand rested on Reid's sheath, and I'm sure it appeared quite comical; here was an eight-year-old boy, bearing a sword that a grown man ought to have been wielding.
Nikos did not reach out and take my hand when he could have. Instead, he took hold of my forearm with a grip that was so firm it caused me pain.
"Good luck," he said. "Don't die."
"I don't plan to," I answered.
He glanced in Hermione's direction once more, and the pressure of his hold increased.
"None do," he said, and let me go.
As I departed the forge, maintaining a proud posture, while carrying a haversack laden with aged sheep blood, with Reid accompanying me, the gazes of the villagers remained fixed upon me, resembling the devoted nature of a prayer.
Reaching the lake was a quick journey that didn't take an extended period. It was in that location that the birds, secure in the fear they had brought about, would come to rest, groom their feathers, and find nourishment. Seeing them in person, I immediately found their portrayal in the old stories offensive. Beyond their classification as large birds, they represented something else entirely, functioning ultimately as weapons.
Though they had the form of cranes and ibises, their excessive size and their solid, impenetrable appearance characterized these silhouettes. Even the smallest in the group was twice as large as I was. As the sun shone, the bronze wings reflected the light, appearing like protective shields. The beaks looked like curved knives because of their shape. There was something about those eyes that set them apart from the eyes of animals. It appeared as if their eyes held the knowledge of something that was intimately familiar with the concept of cruelty.
In a manner reminiscent of a human master of stealth, I crouched down and endeavored to disappear, and for a fleeting instant, my attempt was successful. In that moment, as several heads turned slowly and suspiciously towards me, I realized the boundaries of human trickery. These creatures were not ordinary predators; they were supernatural beings whose forms a history of terror and bloodshed had refined.
I felt a strong need, an absolute necessity, to achieve a superior advantage. At the moment that my desire became absolute, a precise click, so familiar to me, resonated as something settled within me, like a blessing finding its place.
Divine Protection of Ambushing.
It felt as though everything around me had changed and adapted, not tangible, but in a conceptual sense, as if my very existence was becoming harder for the eyes to register, and the senses were struggling to agree that I was something worth pursuing. After a brief pause, the birds observed my hiding place, then they looked away.
A small puff of air escaped my lips as I exhaled slowly. It was good because if they saw me before I got started, the entire plan would have turned into a muddy death. Instinct was a powerful force, and so was hunger, regardless of any supernatural influence.
Reaching into my haversack, I pulled out the bag, its contents rustling slightly. Then, I grabbed the biggest stone I could find. Its rough surface scraped against my palms as I rolled it in my hands. A rock to the face was a surefire way to provoke fury in any creature. Some tactics never seemed to go out of style.
I tensed, and the War God's blessing filled me with a warm glow as Aura reinforced my muscles. Activating the flow method, I felt the mana surge through my body, awakening every sense, making everything feel faster. With a grunt, I threw the rock as forcefully as possible.
The stone soared through the air, and a sickening crack echoed as the bird's head lolled to the side. Bronze, rather than making it soft, caused it to become brittle in unexpected areas.
Simultaneously, I unsheathed Reid, and the metallic scent of sheep's blood filled the air as I sliced open the bag. Cold and rancid, the unpleasant wash clung to me, its thickness making me feel heavy. As the thick, metallic blood soaked into my armor, I felt the cool, wet sensation of it running down my hands. From their perspective, I must have seemed like a sacrifice, and the scent of the sheep's blood must have been delightful to the Stymphalian birds.
The moment the blood reached the ground, every bird present quickly and simultaneously directed its gaze towards me. As the flock stilled, the lake took on a particular quality, as though it were pausing, holding its breath for a single, fleeting heartbeat. At that moment, the birds emitted a scream, which was a singular, cohesive expression of fury, echoing throughout Arcadia akin to an alarm.
With a predatory gleam in my eyes, I hoisted Reid into my arms and exposed my teeth.
My voice was sharp as a blade when I shouted, "Come get me," and it cut through the jumble of nerves inside me. "You outgrew dinner plates."
As a unit, the flock ascended, its bronze wings forcefully agitating the air with each violent beat. In a tightly packed, synchronized wave, they dove in my direction, and my sole thought was uncomplicated, fulfilled, and mildly deranged.
Don't you love it when a plan comes together?
Chapter 1: Just a Boy, a Bag of Blood, and a Very Bad Idea End