Since then, although my father has personally said that he is not afraid of him and that they are a family no matter what, Amphitreon is not the kind of person who only talks about beautiful things. He knew that Hercules was different.
He also saw the golden flames that burned that day.
Therefore, he chose a more clumsy and attentive path - since this child was born
with divine power, since he had something hidden in him that could destroy everything, then teach him how to coexist with that thing. Teach him restraint, teach him tolerance, teach him to think of something else when anger comes up.
"Hercules."
That day Amphitreon called him to him, sat down on the stone steps, and motioned for him to sit down next to him. Hercules sat down as he was told, waiting for his father to speak.
"Do you know why you got out of control that day?"
Hercules was silent for a moment.
"Because I was angry." 1r5Rp "It's right to be angry." Amphitreon said, "Anyone can be angry. I'm angry too, your mother is angry, your eldest brother is so soft-tempered, sometimes he gets angry. It's not wrong to be angry.
He turned his head and looked at Hercules.
"The wrong thing is to let anger control you."
Hercules listened.
"You have power." Amphitreon continued, "A lot of power. Big enough to tear apart beasts, big enough to smash the ground. This power is given to you by God, not
your fault. But how to use this power is your business." He stretched out his hand and pointed to Hercules' chest.
"Here, it's more powerful than your fist." Hercules lowered his head and looked at the place where his father's finger was
lit. 1r5Rp The heart is beating. "I remember." He said.
Amphitreon looked at him and suddenly smiled. "It's useless to just remember, you have to do it." 1r5Rp
Since then, Amphitreon has started teaching him more.
Not only swordsmanship, not just riding and archery, not just the skills that those warriors should learn. He began to teach him other things-how to treat the weak,
How to tolerate mistakes, how to count to three before speaking when angry. "If someone offends you, first consider whether they did it intentionally."
Even if he did it on purpose, think about whether it's worth getting angry.
"Fist is the last resort, not the first choice."
Hercules listened, nodded, and took note.
Sometimes he feels that his three views are quite normal, more normal than most people in this era. After all, he has lived two lifetimes, seen more things, and knew
more truths.
But he didn't say anything.
Because when my father said this, there was light in his eyes. It is the light that a father teaches his son little by little what he thinks is the most
important.
He didn't want to interrupt the light.
At the same time, Amphitreon also thought of another layer.
Why did Hercules lose control that day? Because of anger. Where does anger come from? From the heart. So what if there is something else in your heart that
can squeeze out anger?
So, he added a new lesson to Hercules.
Drawing, writing, music.
"Father?" Hercules looked at the parchment and charcoal in front of him, his
expression was a little subtle, "This is ..." "Learn to paint." Amphitreon rightly said, "Your mother said that painting can calm
people's minds." You try." Hercules was silent for a moment. He was an adult in his previous life, an ordinary adult with no artistic cells. He has
only been exposed to painting in elementary school art class, and his grades
have always been worrying. But he looked at his father's expectant face and swallowed the words back.
"Okay."
So, he began to leam.
Learn to draw.
Amphitreon found him a clay pot, placed it in front of him, and asked him to follow
the painting.
Hercules looked at the clay pot, then at the charcoal in his hand, and took a deep
breath.
After a stick of incense.
A shape appeared on the parchment - if that could be called a shape. A round or
not square outline, with something on top of it that I don't know what it is.
Hercules examined his work and was silent for a long time.
He silently crumpled the parchment into a ball and stuffed it into a corner.
Learn to write.
Greek writing, curvy lines, his fingers were powerful, he could tear horses, he
could smash the ground, but when he held the tiny charcoal, he always trembled.
One stroke down, crooked. Another stroke, crooked again.
The parchment leaves crooked marks, like spiders crawling.
Hercules stared at the traces, the corners of his mouth twitching.
Learning music. 1r5Rp
Amphitryon found him a violin, which fit his hands perfectly. The strings were taut and produced a clear, crisp sound when plucked.
Hercules' fingers pressed on the strings.
He wanted to play a note.
The string broke. 1r5Rp
Hercules looked at the broken string, then at his own fingers, and fell into deep thought. He replaced the string and tried again.
It broke again.
Try again, try again. 1r5Rp
Break.
Break.
Break.
Hercules put down his lyre and rubbed his temples.
He probably gets it.
He probably put all his skill points into his physique.
That evening, Alcmene entered his room and found him staring blankly at the parchment. On it was a row of tiny figures—if those matchsticks with large heads and small bodies could be called "tiny figures."
She couldn't help but laugh.
"What's this?"
"People," Hercules said expressionlessly, "a group of people walking." Alcmene looked at the stick figures, then at her son's serious face, and laughed even harder.
1r5Rp
Hercules looked at her and sighed.
"Mother, laugh if you want to."
Alcmene laughed so hard she bent over, while Hercules leaned back in his chair, staring at the ceiling. Never mind. 1r5Rp
If this painting can make my mother laugh like this, then it's not entirely useless.
The Alcmenes clearly also noticed their son's artistic talent.
Or rather, a severe lack of expertise.
That night, Alcmene pulled Amphitryon aside and lowered her voice, but Hercules' ears were too sharp; he could hear her clearly even through three walls.
"Look at the good thing you've done."
"What's wrong with me?"
"That painting," Alcmene's voice held a hint of reproach, "that little figure, is that even a painting?"
"I think it's okay...
"Is it okay?" Alcmene's voice rose, "What did your own ability, half a bottle of
water still sway, destroy my son's artistic cells?" "
Amphitreon was silent for a moment.
"Does he have such a thing as an art cell?"
"Of course there is!" Alcmene said, "Every child has it!" It's just that it wasn't
discovered!"
"Then how do you know he has?"
"Because he is my son."
Amphitreon fell silent again. 1r5Rp
Hercules lay in his room, listening to this conversation, the corners of his mouth
twitching.
He really doesn't have such a thing as an art cell. He knows better than anyone
else. Those matchstick villains are already the highest level he can come up with.
So, the best teachers of Thebes were invited into the palace.
The person who taught writing was an old man with gray hair and beard, who is said to have carved inscriptions for the temple. His fingers are slender and stable,
and his pen holding posture is very elegant. He looked at Hercules' words, was
silent for a long time, and then said: "There is salvation.""
The one who taught painting was a young man, who is said to have come from
Athens and studied under a famous school. He looked at Hercules' painting, was
silent for a long time, and then said, "... I will do my best."
The music was taught by a blind old man. His eyes were invisible, but the moment his fingers touched the strings, the whole room fell silent. He asked Hercules to play a passage, and after listening, he nodded.
"It's very strong." 1r5Rp
Hercules waits for the following.
The blind old man paused and added: "Other aspects, let's not mention them for the time being.""
Hercules: "..."
Ir5Rp
The professional is different.
Hercules had to admit this.
The old teacher started teaching him from the most basic strokes, one stroke at a time, and practiced repeatedly. His fingers were still strong, but he learned to
control them. The lines on the parchment began to become regular, and those traces that were once crooked gradually became orderly.
The young man from Athens taught him to observe. Not looking at the clay pot, but looking at its shape and the relationship between light and shadow and the
surrounding space. Hercules knew for the first time that painting was not just about drawing things, but about turning what he saw into something that others
could see. 1r6Rp
The blind old man taught him to listen. Listen to the sound of the strings vibrating.
listen to your own heartbeat. His fingers were still strong, but he learned how
much force he used.
"Your strength is innate." The blind old man said, "But strength is not everything.
Just like this piano, you use three parts, it gives you three parts. You use ten
forces, and it gives you ten sounds. But if you use twelve points of force
direction.
He reached out and gently pressed his hand on the strings.
"It broke." *
Hercules remained silent, gazing at the string.
"Learn to control," the blind old man said. "It's not about taking your power back, but about putting it where it should be."
Those teachers are indeed very capable.
Hercules could feel his own progress. His handwriting became neater, his drawings were more recognizable, and his piano playing improved.
The string wouldn't break so easily anymore. More importantly, he felt his mindset had calmed down considerably. Anger still lingered. That power still surged within him, like an eternally flowing river. But now...
Then, he learned to remember something else when anger surged within him. He remembered his father's words. He remembered his mother's smile. He remembered the unconditional dependence Iphicles showed him when she hugged him. He remembered the blind old man's words—"Put your strength where it should be used."
Theoretically speaking, he shouldn't get angry so easily anymore.
perhaps.
Days passed in this way. When Hercules was ten years old, he stood on the roof of the palace.
This is the tallest building in Thebes. Standing here, you can overlook the entire city, see the distant mountains, and even further to the horizon. The setting sun is painting the entire sky red.
Hercules' appearance was now indistinguishable from that of an ordinary sixteen or seventeen-year-old boy. His hair was thicker than when he was a child.
It had been a while, and the breeze rustled gently. His bronze skin shimmered in the setting sun, as if it had been coated with a faint layer of gold.
Firm muscles covered his increasingly muscular body, smooth, toned lines that exuded astonishing power. He wore a simple, belted robe, revealing his arms and calves, where every muscle undulated perfectly.
Location.
Those eyes were golden, a mark left from the day he awakened. He usually concealed them.
His eyes rose, turning a slightly lighter shade. But when he was alone, when he was off guard, that gold would quietly emerge, gleaming deep within his pupils. At this moment, those golden eyes were gazing at the sky.
At the edge of the sky, there is the silhouette of a mountain.
It hung in the sky, above the clouds, sometimes visible, sometimes not. Sometimes it was visible, sometimes not, but today, it was exceptionally clear. Those majestic temples, those towering peaks, those places only gods could tread, hung there above his head.
Olympus.
Hercules stared at it, bewildered.
As a child, he had wondered which Greek world he was in. Was it the authentic mythological world, or the reinterpreted world he had seen on screen?
Now he knows.
This look, this face, this increasingly burly body-he had seen it. In that anime, in those games. He knows what he will become. Moon Greece.
He blinked and looked at the mountain hanging in the sky.
I heard that the Greek gods in the moon are all alien creatures. Not a natural god,
but a mechanical creation descending from the distant stars. They took on human forms and ruled the earth with the appearance of gods, but their main bodies
were those huge and cold machines from the depths of the sea of stars. 1r5Rp
Hercules was suddenly a little curious
I don't know if there will be a chance to see the mecha form of those main gods in
the future?
"I don't know if I can see it in the future." He talks to himself.
As for Valhalla -
He looked at the phantom of the mountain and thought about that distant
existence.
I can also ascend to Valhalla in the future, right?
In the world of the moon, heroes will ascend to Valhalla after death and become
servants who can be summoned. They will be recorded in their most glorious form
and become eternal legends.
In what form will he be recorded?
Berserker?
Still -
He shook his head and threw these messy thoughts out.
Why do you want to think so much?
Those are all afterlife.
He is still alive, only ten years old, and still has a lot of time to squander.
Hercules lay on the roof, the sunset gradually faded, and night slowly fell. Stars
began to light up in the sky, one, two, countless.
He looked at the stars and remembered the galaxy that Hera had raised.
That woman...
When she hugged him that day, she was really gentle
He remembers that embrace
Warm, soft, like any mother holding her child.
But she also sent those two poisonous snakes. She hated his existence, and hated him for representing her husband's betrayal. But
when she hugged him, fed him, and gave him stars, those tenderness were also true.
Hercules closed his eyes and let the evening breeze blow through his face. Ten years old.
There is still a long way to go.
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