The night after his conversation with Crassus and the others, Nathan chose not to return to his quarters in the Senate Castle. Instead, he sought solitude atop the vast Roman estate belonging to Crassus — the roof that overlooked the sleeping city of marble and firelight.

The stars shimmered faintly above, their glow washed in the orange hue of torches that still burned along the avenues. From up there, the entire sprawl of Rome seemed to breathe; the whispers of distant laughter, the clatter of a late-night carriage, and the occasional bark of a hound reached his ears like echoes from another world.

He could have gone back to his chamber in the Senate Castle — the thought crossed his mind more than once — but he dismissed it. Sleeping in the open air felt safer, wiser. Perhaps even freer. He was quite arrogant enough to do that but he wouldn't.

It wasn't Caesar he was wary of; Caesar, for all his ambitions, was at least predictable. It was Aaron who troubled him. The man was far too composed, too deliberate. Nathan didn't know much about him, but instinct told him Aaron was not someone to take lightly.

Aaron was a Hero — older, seasoned, and possibly more cunning than all of them combined. He had drawn Caesar into his schemes with careful precision, the way a spider ensnares a fly not with strength but with patience.

"Just who the hell is he…" Nathan muttered under his breath, his eyes wandering across the paling sky as dawn began to stretch its fingers over the horizon.

Aaron's resemblance to his father was uncanny — not just in features, but in the coldness that seemed to seep through his every word. And they shared the same last name. Coincidence? Hardly. Yet Nathan couldn't recall his father ever mentioning another son. He had always believed himself to be the only one.

Did his father have another family? Another life?

The thought gnawed at him. But there was something stranger still — Aaron had appeared in this world decades ago. That alone defied reason. Unless… unless time did not flow the same between Earth and this world.

Nathan's brow furrowed as a heavy frown settled across his face. He crossed his arms behind his head and lay back against the cool stone tiles, letting the first breath of morning brush against his skin.

"Why…" he whispered to no one, the word dissolving into the breeze.

He thought of his father — of those endless years of training, of the trials that had bordered on torture. Every cut, every bruise, every sleepless night had been inflicted under the guise of preparing him for something greater. And in the end, what had his father told him?

To use none of it.

If the purpose had been to make him mentally unbreakable, then yes, his father had succeeded. But at what cost?

Since his mother's death, everything had unraveled. The warmth that once filled their home had been replaced with silence, discipline, and expectation.

Nathan exhaled slowly. The memories ached like old scars.

Then — without warning — he felt it. A presence. Gentle yet commanding, as if the air itself acknowledged her arrival.

He sat up instantly, turning toward the faint shimmer that rippled at the edge of the rooftop.

Athena stood there.

The morning light crowned her in gold. She wasn't looking at him; her gaze was fixed on the city below, on the sprawling beauty of Rome — domes glinting, columns rising in solemn grace, and the Tiber glimmering like a silver vein through the heart of civilization.

"Athens and Rome are special to me," she said quietly.

Nathan studied her profile. Even now, she seemed both divine and distant — a being forever torn between wisdom and the weight of her own choices.

"You made Rome a strong empire," Nathan replied after a moment, his voice steady, "but you didn't watch over it."

Athena inclined her head slightly, the faintest shadow of regret crossing her face. "Athens needed me," she said. "I believed Rome would not."

Nathan gave a soft, humorless laugh. "That depends on how you see things. Caesar will keep Rome strong, yes — but strength built on suffering is fragile. The nobles drown in wealth while the poor scrape what they can to survive. The people cling to the illusion of glory by cheering for men who die in the arenas… all so they can forget, for a moment, how empty their lives have become."

Athena fell silent at his words, unable to deny the truth within them.

Rome — the city she had once admired from the heavens — had indeed grown strong, but it was not the strength she had envisioned. It was strength forged in greed, gilded with corruption, and ruled by the iron hand of Caesar. Everywhere she looked now, she saw excess where there should have been virtue, pride where there should have been honor.

She had wanted Rome to be a beacon of order, a civilization guided by wisdom. Instead, it had become a monument to ambition — glorious on the outside, but rotting from within.

For a time, silence lingered between them, heavy and thoughtful. The wind swept over the rooftop, stirring the goddess's silver-gold hair and carrying the distant murmur of the waking city below.

At last, Athena spoke, her voice measured, her gaze distant. "Why did you take part in the Trojan War?"

Nathan wasn't surprised by the question. He had expected it — and more. There was no evading her curiosity; Athena always sought to understand the motives of those who intrigued her.

"Several reasons," he said simply. Then, without hesitation, added, "But first — for Aphrodite."

Athena turned her eyes toward him, studying the subtle gravity in his expression.

"She literally saved my life," Nathan continued, his tone quiet but resolute. "She dragged me out of the hell that was the Light Empire. Without her, I wouldn't be standing here. And because of her… I awakened the Dark Magic."

Athena's eyes softened, though only slightly. She already knew this part of his story. Aphrodite had shown her what Liphiel had done — the torment, the cruelty, the fire that nearly consumed him. It had been Aphrodite who intervened, wrenching him from that fate and summoning him into Tenebria at the last possible moment.

Nathan owed the goddess of love his life — that much was clear. But Athena could sense there was something deeper beneath his words. Gratitude alone didn't fuel his resolve.

"When your class was summoned," Athena said after a moment, her tone taking on an almost detached curiosity, "I already found Sienna and Siara… remarkable. Talented. But you…" her lips curved faintly, not in mockery but in reflection, "I didn't see anything special about you then."

Nathan gave a faint smile. "They're my stepsisters."

"Not by blood, perhaps," Athena murmured, her eyes narrowing slightly, "but whatever you lacked back then has grown into something far beyond what I expected. The change in you… it's almost unbelievable."

"I had nothing in the beginning," Nathan said simply. "That's normal."

He remembered too well those first days — powerless, underestimated, barely worth the gods' attention. His only gift had been a strange Skill that could steal another's. A curse to most, but in his hands, it had become the foundation of his rise.

He had stolen from a goddess. And in doing so, he had reshaped himself — piece by piece, until the man who once stood behind others had become someone unrecognizable.

Athena studied him quietly. "That's even more impressive, then," she said at last, her tone thoughtful. "A shame Khione didn't see it. She might have saved you from the Divine Knights…" She paused, her expression softening for a fleeting second. "Or perhaps not, knowing her."

Nathan said nothing. He wasn't about to tell Athena the truth about Khione — not now.

He rose slowly, brushing the dust from his cloak, his eyes now steady and sharp.

"Did you come here to take me to Pandora?" he asked. His voice carried a rare edge of seriousness. "Does that mean you trust me?"

Athena turned to face him fully then, her gray eyes meeting his with divine composure.

"I…" she hesitated — a rare thing for her — before speaking again, "What exactly are you seeking from Rome?"

His answer came without pause. "An alliance with Tenebria," he said. "I'm planning to take on the Light Empire." His gaze hardened, his tone unyielding. "The Divine Knights are rotten to the core."

Athena's brows drew together slightly. "I do not hold them in my heart either," she admitted, "but do you understand the implications of what you're saying?"

Her words carried weight — the kind that came not from doubt, but from divine foresight.

To wage war against the Light Empire was to challenge the established order of the world. To lead that charge was to place himself directly beneath the gaze of the gods — beings who did not forgive defiance.

"Attacking the Empire will make you the center of everything," she said softly. "Every god, every power that sleeps behind the veil will turn their eyes toward you. And not all of them will be kind."

Nathan met her gaze without flinching. His expression was calm, but his eyes burned with the quiet fury of purpose.

"I know," he said. "But it has to be done."

More than simple vengeance, Nathan's aim was obliteration. He didn't merely want retribution — he wanted the Divine Knights erased from the slate of history, their names dragged down into the dust so that they could no longer stand above men and gods alike. Only when that stain was gone could he imagine a life unbound: a quieter chapter he could share with the women who had become his anchors, his compromises, his comforts.

What came after that — the shape of a life rebuilt from ruin — remained deliberately vague. Nathan had learned that certainty was a luxury of the unscarred. Plans could be made and struck down; people could be lost and found again. For now, his horizon contained a single fixed point: the eradication of the Divine Knights. Everything else would be negotiated with time.

Athena watched him. For a brief beat, the goddess's expression was unreadable — pity, calculation, perhaps even a grudging admiration all braided together.

"I see," she said at last, quiet as a falling leaf. She stepped closer, and her hand settled on Nathan's shoulder.

Rome's sharp angles blurred as Nathan was brought to Demeter's garden.

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