My birth was never meant to be.

Some call me a mistake. Others whisper that I am a prophecy.

But my blood tells a different story.

It burns with the cursed legacy of the Gorgon Queen herself—Medusa.

Yes, Medusa.
Not a fallen monster.
Not some tragic corpse in a hero’s tale.
But a Queen. A legend.

In this timeline, Perseus raised his blade believing himself a savior. A champion of Olympus.
But the gods miscalculated.

Because when steel met the gaze of the Gorgon Queen, it wasn’t she who fell.
It was Olympus’ illusion of power that shattered.

Before his blade could strike, my mother shattered him.
Medusa did not die. She ascended—
Beyond vengeance.
Beyond fury.
Beyond even divinity itself.

No blade can pierce her hide.
No magic can break her will.
Not even Zeus, the almighty King of Heaven, dares to challenge her in her final form.

And me?

I am her son.

A single wound from my fangs—yes, I have fangs, retractable and hidden—and even the mightiest warrior becomes a prisoner in their own body. Helpless. Frozen.Forced to watch as time slips away. 

A mercy, compared to what my mother can do.

But Olympus does not tolerate my existence.

Zeus has summoned his champions.
Athena, my mother’s eternal nemesis, sharpens her blade once more.
Hades watches from the depths, motives cloaked in silence.
Even Ares, the God of War, hesitates—
Should he strike me down… or claim me as his own?

And me?

I remember another life.

A different existence.
One of insignificance.

I was no one.
A man with an empty life. Forgotten.
No one respected me.
No one greeted me.
No one noticed when I entered a room—or when I left it.

I was invisible.

But here?

Here, the mention of my mother’s name makes seasoned warriors falter.
They don’t just avert their gazes in fear—they won’t even look me in the eye.

They bow.
They stammer.
They tremble in the presence of my bloodline.

I am no longer invisible.

I am feared.

But fear is a double-edged blade.

***

I never asked to be feared.

Yet the moment I enter a room, conversation dies. Eyes lower.
Warriors—men who’ve slain monsters and fought Titans—refuse to meet my gaze.
They whisper my name like a curse. Like an omen.

Not because of what I’ve done.
But because of who my mother is.

And I am Raezel—Son of Medusa.
A legacy of fear wrapped in mortal skin.

I had no quarrel with the gods. No desire to challenge Olympus.

My mother asked nothing of me but to live.

I would have honored that.

But the gods won’t let me.

They whisper prophecies.
Of omens.
They believe I am the first step toward Medusa’s revenge—even though she seeks none.

It is their paranoia—not her wrath—that made me a target.

So they sent their hunters.

The first came at night. I barely saw his face before my venom took hold.
His body froze mid-strike, his blade inches from my throat.
His eyes, wide with horror, stayed locked on mine long after the fight was over.

A champion of Zeus.
Reduced to a prisoner in his own flesh.

I let him live.
Maybe that was a mistake.

Because after him, more came.

Ares' warriors.
Apollo’s assassins.
Even Hermes’ messengers, swift and cunning, tried their luck.

Each time, they failed.
Each time, I sent them back.

Paralyzed. Broken.
But breathing.

But if pawns fail, kings will rise.
And when kings fall…

The gods themselves will come.

I wanted peace. But war… war wanted me.

So the question is no longer if I will fight.

The question is when.

And more importantly…

Who will strike first?