DC/Fate: Age of Heroes

High above the mortal world, atop Mount Olympus, where the clouds curled around columns of gold and white marble, the air was far too quiet.

There has been a divine council called in urgently. All of the 12 Olympians were supposed to be present.

Yet The throne of Poseidon sat empty.

The sea god's sigil—his great trident carved into the marble beside his seat—glowed faintly, flickering like a dying star.

The others had felt it. Every god and goddess gathered in the Grand Hall had felt the great disturbance in their very essence, as if something ancient and immovable had shattered.

Poseidon was dead.

Not banished. Not wounded. Dead.

Murdered By a mortal of all things.

Ten thrones were filled now, and another one remained bare. The only absentee, as always, was Hades—distant and silent in his cold dominion beneath the earth. But the other Olympians had gathered in haste, summoned by lightning that tore the skies over Olympus and a call that reverberated across realms. Divine blood had been spilled.

And that was no small thing.

Zeus stood, thunder-eyed, his massive form draped in a robe of stormclouds and gold. His beard crackled faintly with electricity, and his voice, when it came, was angry and dangerous.

"Who," he said slowly, "dares strike down an Olympian… in our own realm! What sort of madness has happened under our watch!" He punched the table with a fist crackling with lightning, making cracks across it.

The others remained silent but felt the anger. Even Ares—usually quick to boast and quicker to threaten—sat with a clenched jaw, staring hard at the empty seat of his uncle. His eyes showed a hint of bloodlust.

It was Apollo who finally answered after a cough.

"I tried to see," he said, his golden eyes dimmed with unease. "I used all the magic I had. I traced the echoes of Poseidon's divinity to the point where it disappeared. The mortal was… strange."

"Strange?" Hera scoffed lazily from her throne, swirling a goblet of ambrosia in her hand. "Is that what we're calling it now?"

Apollo ignored her. "His essence is not of this world. He is certainly not Greek. When I tried to view him through the mirror of Helios, I could see him… but I couldn't read him. He doesn't register on the threads of fate. He moved through time like he didn't exist, yet just like a regular mortal… but without the weight of power or divinity. Until ...."

Artemis leaned forward, her eyes cold and sharp. "Until?

"

Apollo sighed. "He changed. Or rather, became something. Someone. I saw it clearly. A transformation… or possession.

He became Golden haired, wearing Ancient Sumerian armor , posseing unlimited weapons of demonic and divine origin. Even a chain that restricts divinity. He reminded me of the That person. The first God Killer from Babylonia."

There was absolute Silence.

That words hung in the air like a storm cloud.

Even Zeus narrowed his eyes.

Athena's gaze darkened, her fingers curling slightly around the edge of her seat. "Are you talking about Gilgamesh of Uruk?"

"The same," Apollo confirmed grimly. "The first God-Killer. The man who waged war on the Sumerian pantheon and succeeded. Who cut their divine plane from Earth and vanished into legend."

"He was supposed to be dead," muttered Demeter, frowning. "Dead and buried four thousand years ago."

"Maybe he is," Athena said. "But something in this mortal is tied to him. Maybe a shard of his soul. Maybe his essence. But I know this—Poseidon didn't stand a chance once he awakened it."

"Sheer blasphemy," Ares growled, slamming his fist into the armrest of his throne. "A mortal dares lay hands on a god, one of us, and you stand here debating shadows and whispers?"

He stood up, muscles rippling under a blood-red mantle, his hand already on the hilt of his spear. "Send me to kill him. I'll paint the earth with his blood."

"No," Athena said sharply.

Ares turned on her. "No?"

"This is no ordinary mortal," she replied. "He didn't just kill Poseidon. He stole his divinity. Took the trident, and with it, the dominion over the sea. That's not something a mortal can do."

"Then he must be a god in disguise."

"He wasn't," Apollo said. "Not until the possession , even that wasn't proper divinity. But now? He might be something worse."

Hephaestus, sitting hunched with his hammer resting beside him, let out a low grunt. "If he has the trident and a divine spark… we're no longer dealing with a man. We're dealing with a force that can threaten our rule."

Zeus said nothing for a while. He simply stood there, staring at Poseidon's empty seat. His brother. His rival. The sky god and the sea god were often at odds—but they were still kin. They fought together to overthrow the titans. Immortal. Untouchable.

Now? The natural order had been shattered.

"What does he want?" Hera asked, disinterested but mildly curious, sipping from her goblet.

"We don't know," Apollo answered. "There was no declaration. No prophecy. Just… battle. Vicious, brutal. He didn't just defeat Poseidon—he humiliated him. Made sport of him. Used his own domain against him."

"Sounds familiar," Aphrodite said idly, brushing golden strands from her cheek. "Gilgamesh had a flair for dominance according to legends. But I must admit… the mortal was quite charming and handsome. Strong, too. If he wasn't so violent, he'd be just my type."

Ares growled. "Of course that's your takeaway. You can lust after even our enemy. This is a serious matter."

"Don't be jealous, dear, I won't try to charm him even though he suits my taste" she said sweetly while licking her lips.

Hera listened with a bored look, but in her mind, she was thinking, 'If this person is strong enough to kill Poseidon, can he be of use to me to take down Zeus ? I must meet this mortal .'

"Enough," Zeus growled, slamming his Thunderbolt on the ground. The lightning surged and roared, declaring his divine authority.

The chamber fell quiet again.

"This mortal—this Edward, as you say—must be brought to Olympus to atone for his sins by serving us. Or be destroyed. If he walks this world with such power and no leash, he will upset the balance we have kept since the Age of Titans ended. He must be punished for his crime."

Hermes, who had been quiet in the corner, tapped his chin. "There's something odd. My network of mortals :my temples, my oracle, none of them have seen him. Never before the incident. It's like he blinked into existence only for the battle."

"More reason to be cautious," Athena said. "If he is tied to Gilgamesh, even spiritually, then we're dealing with someone who could sever Olympus from Earth itself—just as Gilgamesh did to the Sumerians."

"That cannot happen," Demeter said. "We barely held the mortal realm together after the last separation. Mortals are already turning away from us after the Trojan war."

Zeus turned slowly, his voice like rolling thunder.

"Then we bring down absolute punishment. Divine and swift. Let it be known—any who strike a god shall face the wrath of entire Olympus."

His eyes scanned the room.

"Ares."

The war god stood at attention.

"Artemis."

She rose, her silver bow slung over her back.

"Heracles."

From the far side of the room, the demigod-turned-deity stepped forward, massive and silent, his lion pelt draped over one shoulder.

"And Hermes," Zeus finished.

The messenger bowed slightly, a flicker of curiosity in his eyes.

"You four will descend. Find this Edward. Capture and enslave him if you can. But if he threatens Olympus—if he dares raise his hand again—end him."

A beat passed.

"Bring me his head."

****

The sky stretched endlessly above, clear with pale sunlight, as the Vimana soared over the Aegean sea like a star reborn. It shimmered like golden authority. It was quite interesting and a new experience for me who used to travel via packed subways, to ride a private mythical jet.

I sat at the helm, silent, one hand gripping the throne as I peered down at the world below.

Ancient Greece.

Circa around 1200 BC, if I was right. Never thought I'd view this outside of an Assassin's Creed game.

It was surreal. The ground beneath was a living canvas—fertile hills and winding rivers, olive groves sprawling across valleys, marble columns rising amidst clustered settlements.

City-states dotted the coastline, some humble and sun-baked, others already showing signs of burgeoning glory. Ships with square sails floated like insects over turquoise waters, and the scent of the sea mixed with wind-blown myrrh from the incense burners on temple rooftops.

So much of this I had read in books or seen in movies—always romanticized, always distant. Now, it unfolded below me in real time. And it wasn't a fantasy.

It was alive.

It was real.

And I was flying over it in a damn mythological spacecraft from Babylon, like something torn straight from the dreams of a lunatic scholar.

After making sure I wasn't being followed—especially by anything divine—I veered off toward the highlands beyond a walled settlement nestled along the coast. It was a well-fortified city, with steep acropolis walls and farmers just beyond, busy with harvest.

I found a small clearing just beyond the tree line of a cypress grove. Quiet. Untouched. Perfect.

With a command, Vimana returned back into the Gate of Babylon in a shimmer of golden light, the sound echoing like the chime of some divine harp. As the craft vanished, I exhaled and turned to the bag I'd stashed away—relics from the gate's vast treasury, including clothing.

I chose something that resembled what the locals wore: a white chiton fastened with a bronze fibula at the shoulder, and a leather belt around my waist. Sandals. A short cloak, just enough to ward off the ocean breeze.

I studied my reflection briefly in a polished bronze plate. My black hair had grown a bit, and so did my beard . My body didn't look too skinny or muscular. I didn't look too out of place—other than the skin. Too fair. Too… northern.

Still, with some gold and a convincing tongue, I could pass as a common guy. I had plenty of gold thanks to Gilgamesh's treasury, and I could speak any language due to heroic spirit assimilation.

I walked down a stony path toward the city, the earth dry and warm beneath my feet. The closer I got, the more noise I heard—children laughing, carts creaking, dogs barking. The distant sound of a kithara being played, with a woman singing some tragic tale of lost love.

And then, I stepped into the heartbeat of the ancient world.

The Agora.

It was overwhelming.

Stalls covered in dyed fabrics and goat hides. Merchants shouting their wares—spices, honey cakes, olives soaked in vinegar, glinting jars of wine. Philosophers in flowing robes debating loudly in corners while barefoot boys ran between them with scrolls. Pigeons flapped over mosaics depicting gods and monsters. A priestess stood near a statue of Hera, offering a chant in exchange for a few coins and a blessing of fertility.

It was chaos, and yet... perfect.

I weaved through the agora, weaving between sandal-clad feet and chipped stone columns, the scent of grilled lamb and spiced oil thick in the air. The place was alive—shouts in coarse Doric, laughter, the occasional call of a merchant trying to sell a chipped amphora as "blessed by Apollo."

After a while, I stopped at a stall where skewered meat sizzled over a crackling fire pit. The vendor, a thick-armed man with sun-leathered skin and a faded blue headband, eyed me warily until I dropped a shining gold coin into his palm.

He blinked. "That's enough to buy my whole stall, foreigner."

"I just want two skewers and directions to the best wine-seller."

He grinned despite himself and handed me the skewers, now suddenly the friendliest man alive. "Kallias, just near the fountain. Red clay jars. You can't miss the stench—or the singing."

I gave a nod, took the meat, and strolled toward the central plaza where a stone fountain trickled lazily.

There, beside it, I spotted a man slouched against its base—a wiry fellow in his fifties, eyes half-lidded from too much sun and not enough water. His tunic was frayed, his beard peppered with grey.

He glanced at me as I approached, then his eyes caught the glint of the bottle I carried and the gold ring tied to my belt.

"Fancy sandals," he drawled, lips curling into a toothy smile. "And hands that don't look like they've held a plough."

"I travel light," I said, offering him a skewer. "Wine, too?"

The smile widened. "By all the gods, yes."

I sat beside him, pouring wine into two clay cups, and soon enough, others drifted over. Old men with skin like wrinkled bark, eyes sharp from years spent squinting under sun and suspicion. They sat in a loose circle—grumbling, nodding, sipping. I handed the last of the skewers to one with a pronounced limp who introduced himself as Damon, while the man I first approached gave his name as Thales.

The last to join, a silver-bearded elder with a crooked nose and permanent scowl, was called Pheidon.

"So," Thales asked after a few generous sips, "where does a pale-skinned stranger come from with gold heavier than a priest's ego and sandals too clean for these roads?"

I smiled faintly. "Far to the north. Beyond Thrace, in the cold lands where forests stretch endlessly and wolves howl more than men speak. I came to learn about your gods and heroes."

At the mention of gods, the air shifted. Even the wine seemed to still in their cups.

"You sure picked a dangerous time for curiosity," Damon said, scratching at his scraggly beard.

I leaned in. "Why?"

Pheidon gave me a long, assessing look. "This was once the Age of Heroes. We had many—Achilles, Odysseus, Ajax, Heracles. Demigods walked among us, mortal men challenged fate. But that ended the day Troy burned."

"Aye," Thales added, leaning closer. "When the last ship returned, the gods spoke. No more half-bloods. No more kleosfor men. They say mortals grew too proud. Thought they could survive without Olympus."

"Have they?"

"They survive," Damon said. "But barely."

"They say Zeus was the first to decree it," Pheidon muttered. "Apollo and Artemis followed. Even Ares keeps his sword sheathed now, though barely. They say the Age of Heroes insulted their authority."

I frowned. "But aren't heroes their children? Their will bearer?"

"Too many became too powerful," Thales said, his voice low. "And too many stories were told where men outwitted the gods. That's not the kind of tale Olympus wants told anymore."

Another man I hadn't noticed joined us—young, no more than twenty, with a hawkish nose and nervous eyes. "Some say the gods grow weaker. That they need temples and prayers just to hold their thrones."

He was immediately shushed by Pheidon, who looked around as if expecting lightning to strike. "Quiet, Nikos! Don't speak such things aloud!"

I couldn't help it. I laughed—short and sharp. "Some divine beings, if they need mortal praise to puff up their egos."

That silenced everyone.

The conversation died instantly. Even the fountain's gentle trickle seemed to hush. Damon's eyes darted around nervously, and Pheidon grabbed my forearm hard.

"Careful, stranger," he hissed. "Words reach far here. Olympus listens, even when unseen."

"They'll have to listen harder," I said with a scoff. "Because I'm not afraid of gods who threaten mortals just to stay relevant."

Nikos looked horrified. Thales muttered a prayer under his breath, and Pheidon glared at me like I had just spat on the Acropolis.

"You'll curse us all."

I stood, the cup still warm in my hand. "Then consider this," I said, pulling two gold coins from my belt and placing them gently on the stone. "Payment for the blasphemy."

They stared at the coins, but no one moved to pick them up. My steps echoed louder than they should have as I walked away from the group, past merchants now whispering behind their stalls, past a pair of veiled priestesses near a bronze statue of Athena.

The streets no longer felt welcoming.

The warmth of the sun turned sharp, burning against my skin. The sweet scent of roasted lamb now seemed cloying. Even the laughter of children had shifted—distant, uncertain.

I pulled my cloak tighter around me and kept walking, mind spinning.

The Age of Heroes had ended? Just like that?

In the Nasuverse, it wasn't merely about time or legend—it was about will, legacy, mana, divine anchoring. Servants and spirits clung to existence because of belief, yes, but not dependency.

But here... here the gods acted like jealous kings, hoarding what little divinity remained in their shrines. Fearful. Vain. Desperate.

It didn't add up.

If they truly were Olympians of this world, they shouldn't fear the erosion of faith—not like this. Unless...

Unless something had happened.

Something new.

A tear in their dominion. A wound that hadn't healed since Troy.

Or worse—maybe they foresaw someone like me will arrive.

I turned a corner into a quieter alley, cool and shaded by stone arches. A woman selling clay figures bowed politely as I passed. I nodded in return but didn't slow down.

I wasn't done here—not even close.

This world was wrong. And someone had rewritten the rules.

If the gods were so obsessed with keeping their grasp on mankind… maybe it was time someone loosened their fingers.

And I was just the heretic to do it. Time to pull a Kratos and go savage I guess. Not like they would leave me alone.

I wasn't going to cower. Not now.

If the gods were watching, I hope they paid attention. I had many questions for them.

And soon, I'll demand answers face to face.

But for now, where do I find a place to sleep?