The road stretched endlessly beneath the scorching summer sun, cracked and lifeless. Once-green hills lay barren, reduced to dry earth. Twisted trees cast thin, skeletal shadows, as if afraid of what lurked ahead.

Hoofbeats shattered the silence.

"Uncle…" Iolaus' voice was cautious.

The man beside him gave no answer.

Hercules kept his gaze locked on the horizon, his knuckles white from gripping the reins. His jaw was clenched. His face—shadowed by an unkempt beard—looked as if it had been carved from stone.

"Alcides…" Iolaus tried again.

Hercules' horse came to an abrupt stop, nearly making the young man crash into him.

"Don't call me that."

His voice was low but sharp. Like iron worn by war.

Iolaus swallowed hard.

"But that's your name…"

"That man died with his family. Now… I am only Hercules."

He turned his head, eyes devoid of warmth or anger. Only exhaustion remained.

Iolaus hesitated. He wanted to tell him there were still reasons to keep going, that this wasn't just his burden to bear. But looking at him, he knew now wasn't the time. He lowered his gaze.

"I'm sorry…"

Hercules spurred his horse forward.

The sound of hooves faded as they entered the village.

It was small—just a handful of mud and wood houses clustered around a narrow path. In the center stood a weathered stone fountain, cracked by time. The water barely trickled.

And the village… was silent.

Too silent.

"Something's wrong…" Iolaus muttered.

Hercules didn't reply. He felt the hidden eyes watching them through curtains and cracks in doors. The tension in the air was thick, like the moment before a storm.

A door creaked.

A woman peeked out, fingers trembling against the wooden frame. Her gaze moved from Iolaus to Hercules.

Her face paled.

"It's him…"

"The murderer."

"The son of Zeus."

"The one who killed his own family."

The words were needles against his skin, but Hercules remained still.

A child, free from the fear the adults carried, stared at him from the dusty street.

"Is that really him?" the boy asked, wide-eyed.

His mother scooped him up and disappeared inside.

Then came the sound of sandals scraping against dry earth.

An old man emerged from the house nearest the fountain. His tunic was plain, his feet bare and calloused. He walked slowly, stopping before them.

His sunken eyes locked onto Hercules.

The hero held his gaze.

"You've come to slay the lion," the old man said.

It wasn't a question.

"Yes." Hercules' voice was rough.

The old man sighed.

"Then I fear you are already doomed."

Iolaus frowned.

"Why?"

The old man didn't look away from Hercules.

"Because not even the son of a god can kill it… Hercules."

The air seemed to grow colder.

"If it has a beating heart, it can stop beating," the hero said flatly.

The old man shook his head.

"Not this one. It is no ordinary lion. No mere beast. It carries the blood of Typhon and Echidna."

Iolaus felt his stomach turn.

A shiver ran down Hercules' spine.

"Since it appeared, the gods have abandoned us," the elder continued. "We once survived on little, but now… the livestock from neighboring villages has been devoured. And those who tried to hunt it… left only bones."

"The gods do not interfere in mortal affairs," Hercules replied, voice hard.

The old man tilted his head.

"Only when they stand to gain from it. Otherwise, they watch. Just as they did when…"

He let the words hang in the air.

Hercules' teeth clenched.

"You said I can't kill it. Why?"

The elder took a slow breath.

"Its hide is impenetrable. Swords, spears, arrows… they shatter against it. Even those blessed by the gods."

Iolaus shifted uneasily.

Hercules only tightened his grip on the reins.

"All things die. Sooner or later."

"Even the gods?"

"Ask Cronus."

The old man gave a tired smile.

"Then discover the answer yourself."

Hercules didn't wait. He urged his horse forward, not looking back.