THEOS

Luke stared nervously at his foe. Dimly aware of the others facing their own robots, but unwilling to tear his eyes away from the one pointing its sword-shaped limb at him. Its lifeless stare, large size, metallic luster, and complete lack of cultivation made it a more menacing foe than most he had faced before. Them he knew, could be killed, this, he wasn’t sure. Seeing as it was made by a god though, he didn’t have high hopes of being able to defeat it.

Even discounting the The First Truth of Death not working, the way its body turned to liquid and then back to solid, gave Luke the impression that not even a clean blow to its heart or severing its head would do any damage to it.

Which means that if it’s not there for us to beat. It should just be an obstacle, and hopefully one that won’t try and kill me.

The Olympics weren’t lethal, of that he’d been assured time and time again. The god’s own children competed, after all.

But, as he raked his eyes over the mercurial body of the machine marching towards him, each of his footsteps ringing with the sound of a dull bell, he knew that losing the tournament didn’t just mean going home with a bruised ego.

The Seed’s intent may not have been easily decipherable, but he doubted that it was planning something that wasn’t important to his path. Each quest was a building block, growing on top of the last. Balancing risk, reward, and safety, in an endless churn towards the ultimate peak.

Any hiccups, may well lead him to needing to use his charges, and that was unacceptable. They were his biggest guarantees for continued safety, but just like losing lives in any game, acted as a sign that he was slipping– losing. That he wasn’t good enough. That he would succumb to the same fate as Aeolus.

And that’s not going to be me. I’m not going to be just a god. I’ll be the greatest.

He felt Maximus stir in reaction to his thoughts, his will inadvertently prompting it to action. The store of his mana within, always equal to his own, began to rush through the bond that connected them, and into him. Activating perhaps, what was becoming Luke’s favorite ability.

Enhancement. It did one of three things, make him twice as strong, twice as fast, or twice as durable.

It wasn’t quite as domineering as his Technique, and not as practical as his blade's ability to give him stat points, but the heady rush that came with using it was like nothing else, and the cost was more than affordable. Unlike the ever hungry First Truth of Death, it applied a negative modifier to his mana regeneration. Instead of gaining seventeen percent of his total mana pool every hour, he would lose twenty percent. His reserves combined with the blades, meant he could sustain it for ten hours if he didn’t spend mana on anything else.

This won’t take that long.

The robot lunged forward, and slammed its bladed arm clean against his sword. With his strength doubled, he caught it with ease that surprised even him. Pushing it back, he changed the focus of his ability from strength to agility, and watched it tumble back. Instinctively, he made to pursue it forward, before deciding against it entirely, and backpedaled. Retreating as quickly as he could to the next step. If he was right, then he didn’t need to fight at all.

The robot squatted down, its feet turned to spring, and its bladed arm morphed into a giant claw. It leapt forward, its claw stretched out and grabbed a fistful of his robes. Undeterred, Luke swung down, and cut himself free. With a gaping hole in his robes, he landed on the next step.

His sword raised, and ready to defend himself if it continued its attack.

The robot stopped in its tracks, and after staring at him for a moment, strode back to the wall, where it stood still.

Immediately after, another robot, identical to the one before, walked in front of him, and lifted three fingers.

Luke deactivated the blade's ability, returned it to its sheath, and ignoring it, walked to the next step.

Should I? He thought, watching the rest of them desperately catching the robots well telegraphed blows on their weapons. It was driving them back towards the bottom, where he suspected they would be eliminated. It was a competition, and regardless of the fact that they had come here together, there would only be one winner. Practically, it didn’t matter if they lost now, or in a few rounds. So long as he did well, Cyzicus would get what he wanted.

His eyes landed on Spiros. The brown haired teen was holding up better than he expected, but like the rest of them, was steadily being driven back. Arya was already eyeing the stairs, and for the briefest of moments, her eyes met his.

He nodded.

“Climb and they ignore you.” Luke called out, and not waiting for them, he advanced to the next step. A few seconds later, he felt that catching up to him.

“Thanks!” Spiros slapped him on his shoulder, and glanced meaningfully at Arya. She nodded at him.

“No need, you all would have figured it out without me.” He said, tracing his eyes over them, and his own companions.

With the current level of their attributes, the climb was beginning to take its toll. Sweat soaked their brows, and drenched their robes. Making the garments cling to their skin. Even for Luke, every step forward was like wading through molasses, and he couldn’t imagine it being any easier for the rest of them.

Climbing to the next step, he deliberately let the machine of liquid metal count to two before he rose to the next step. “The test is pretty clear. He’s setting a pace. Three seconds a step isn’t bad, but I think the timer is going to decrease the more we climb. If it follows the same pattern, we can expect a decrease every time we get to the next thousand steps.”

“That’s not great.” Rex said, his chest rapidly rising and falling.

“Well, he needs to eliminate us somehow.”

“Yeah, but what’s he testing?”

Luke opened and closed his mouth. “Our determination?” He said, eventually. It was the best he could come up with, but even to him, it didn’t fit. Not anymore.

Hepheastus had compared this trial to what mortals typically had to do to join a sect, but even that didn’t make much sense anymore.

It would have if the robots appeared behind them, and attacked the stragglers, but even then, the test wouldn't be about determination, but endurance.

They were all warriors, and none of them were strangers to training or ones to give up. If they lost, it would be because their cultivation was lacking. Not because they didn’t try their best.

So what’s he really looking for? Or is resistance a mental thing, and different for all of us, but equalized in difficulty. Maybe a mix of both?

No easy answer was forthcoming, and with a frown set on his face, Luke continued his climb. Keeping an eye on his companions.

Already they were beginning to struggle, and as he looked at both those above them and below them, he realized that they weren’t the only ones. Most everyone was, making the ones that weren’t, stand out like sore thumbs.

There weren’t many of them, maybe a dozen or so including Lke, but their demeanor was different. They were composed.

Most, like him, were being efficient and using the three second timer as an opportunity to recuperate some small measure of their stamina before advancing to the next step. Standing distinguished from their peers with straight backs, and light steps. A stark contrast to most of them, who already had their shoulders hunched, were panting for breath, and looked more like they were crawling than walking.

There was one, however, who looked entirely unconcerned by the mounting resistance against his mana. He walked quickly, and methodically. Lifting and planting his legs with such symmetry, that it seemed more like the robots sentinel observing their climb, than a cultivator competing against them.

For a second, Luke found himself entranced by his presence, and somehow sensing his gaze the other teen looked back at him.

His eyebrows lifted in surprise, and he waved, while Luke’s heart nearly stopped beating. He nodded to the other teen, and trained his own gaze forward, his mind reeling in well disguised shock. They looked so similar, they could pass for brothers, maybe even twins. From the color of their hair, to the structure of their faces, and he only had a dead Hero to blame.

When he had gotten the chance, he had looked into the Mask of a Thousand faces once again. His Warrior-tier mana had revealed a lot about it.

Mainly, he had confirmed his suspicion that all three of the faces that he had found within the mask, from his current one, the female-version of the current one, and the supremely ugly one, were all specifically crafted by its last owner. With his denser mana, he could now adjust his features with much more precision, to anything that he desired, not that he would of course. He had too much riding on his current identity to throw it away, and he had to live with the consequences. Whatever they may be.

He didn’t know what ham-fisted scheme the dead Empress of Carim had been cooking before being executed by the Atlantians, but it very clearly involved impersonating a god, or one of his children.

So she he fucked around, and found out. Then I fucked around, and now I might find out. He thought miserably.

I can’t believe I’m stuck impersonating a child of a god while being in a body descended from a titan. I should have just picked the ugly looking form, but no, I had to get greedy, and pick being handsome.

At the very back of the procession of Warriors, Hephaestus walked with them. Observing, and thinking.

His form was unassuming, and fake sweat poured down his brow. His face was a mask of a man struggling with each step, while internally, he delighted in his acting skills.

None of the mortals suspected him of secretly being among them. It pleased him, and he resolved to do it more often. Maybe even live as a mortal in the territory of a young Hero? It had been a while since he had done it last, and the more he thought about it the more the prospect appealed to him.

Alas, time often slipped while he was in his workshop.

He would still be there, if Zeus hadn’t come knocking. Insisting that he host the silly little tournament, and preaching about the pact the twelve of them had sworn ages past, and then banded together and forced the others to do the same.

How they had agreed to not be like the fat, cruel, and lazy Titans they had overthrown. Promised to tend to the world, and the people on it. To make Theos into a place where the mortals could live long and healthy lives, while nurturing the next generation of cultivators to be their protectors, guardians, and for the few worthy, maybe even gods.

But, hosting a tournament was a boring task. There was only so often that you could watch an infant take its first steps, and not grow sick of it. Still, he consoled himself, it was one that needed to be done. So, he would see it completed. It had been a long time since he had after all, and maybe some time away from his forge would be entertaining. He doubted it.

Moreover, something about how Zeus had come to him didn't feel right, and it had taken him all of a single second to suspect his King’s intentions, and another two to confirm them. His drones acted as eyes and ears all across the realm, and the news he was looking for was not hard to unearth. Zeus had sired a son named Heracles, and was overjoyed for he believed the child possessed the potential to reach divinity. An emotion he could understand. It was hard watching kids die, and those of a kind nature were even harder to come by. Which was why he hadn’t sired any since the last passed onto the Aether millenia ago, failing to climb past the Saint tier, even with all the resources at his disposal.

Heartache from the past, however, did not dull his thinking today.

It wasn’t hard to predict why it was that Zeus was calling on him specifically to host the games. The King of Gods was rich, as all gods were, but not all gods shared the same specialties.

While the others had waged wars, killed mighty beasts, built empires and holy lands, explored Theos and the worlds beyond– he had chosen to learn.

The True Tongue was mysterious, even to him. It was old. Older than them, the Titans, and the Ancients before them. If Thoth was right, like he suspected he was, the True Tongue had come into existence alongside the Aether itself during the dawn of time.

His own mastery of it, though he would never claim to be a master, had allowed him to become the Greatest Craftsman.

An artifact made by him, was unquestionably the best, because only he could craft something that could invoke the Eternal Will, and demand a name to be given. It wasn’t a surprise then, that Zeus wanted one for his son.

Which was fine, but Hepheastus didn’t like being lied to, so he had changed the rules to make Zeus’s son ineligible.

If the brat wanted a weapon, he could come barter for one himself. It was only fair. Zeus, it seemed, had forgotten or was too blinded by love to remember that coddled children did not make for good people, let alone good cultivators. Once he remembered, he would thank him.

But as Hepheastus spread his senses though the pyramid, and locked on to what he was sure was a child of Posiedon, he couldn’t help but think that the world was truly unfair. Most gods couldn’t even evoke the Eternal Will, but some child, not even eighteen had done it and named his sword.