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In the Golden Temple of Olympus, the 142nd tedious meeting regarding “The Division of Faith Territories” was currently underway.
“Zeus! Can you stop spacing out during meetings?!” Hera‘s screech nearly blew the roof off the palace. She pointed an iron-cold finger at the mirror in the center of the grand hall, her face livid with rage. “Which mortal are you looking at now? I am warning you, as long as I am the Queen of Heaven, don’t even dream about any of your bastards getting a single shred of godhood! Furthermore, starting tomorrow, you are forbidden from leaving the main temple without my permission! I refuse to see any more of those women. Why do you respect me so little? Am I really that unattractive to you?!”
Atop the throne, Zeus pinched the bridge of his nose. Clad in brilliant golden armor, he was, in the eyes of outsiders, the all-powerful, all-calculating “Chairman of the Gods.” But only he knew he was being driven absolutely insane by this bunch of deities.
Poseidon sat on the left, casually twirling his trident while frantically using magic under the table to text his underlings, plotting to encroach upon the sacrificial rights of Delphi. Apollo sat on the right, locked in a fierce, unyielding argument with Artemis over whose temple deserved a twenty percent larger cut of the tribute. Not a single soul was listening to their King speak. Yet, the moment something went wrong, everyone would invariably throw their hands up with absolute entitlement: “Zeus, you’re the King, you’re the one who has to fix this.”
What broke Zeus the most was that, due to Hera‘s total lockdown, he hadn’t been able to sire a new child in a very long time. The mere thought of the prophecy—“The final child shall overthrow the God-King”—sent a tremor of dread through his heart. If he stopped having children entirely, wouldn’t his current pack of rebellious offspring and siblings keep their eyes glued to his throne forever?
He deeply, utterly regretted marrying Hera. To think he had actually done it just for that damn “noble bloodline.”
“Alright, everyone shut up,” Zeus suddenly stood up, slamming his thunderbolt-forged spear onto the table. The gods fell instantly silent.
Zeus arched an eyebrow, flashing his trademark smug, confident smile. “This King has suddenly conceived a magnificent strategic plan that requires my personal inspection. As for the rest of the meeting, finish it yourselves.”
With that, he dissolved into a streak of golden light, vanishing entirely from the temple.
But he didn’t inspect a damn thing. He fled straight to the shores of the Aegean Sea under the cover of night, completely masking his divine presence. There, he stealthily hopped onto the most ramshackle wooden boat he could find and rowed frantically westward, steering straight toward the Italian peninsula.
To hell with Olympus. I can’t carry this team anymore. I’m taking my leave and running away!
Meanwhile, by the banks of the Tiber River, it was a peaceful afternoon.
Compared to the dagger-drawn tension of Greece, Rome (which they currently called Saturnia) felt serene and harmonious. Sunlight washed over the river’s surface, fracturing into shimmering, golden ripples.
In a quiet courtyard blanketed by lush green grapevines, a man dressed in a simple linen robe sat leisurely on a stone bench, savoring fresh figs. He possessed a beautifully textured mane of platinum-blonde hair that cascaded loosely over his shoulders. Within those deep, ancient eyes—resembling weathered gold coins—there was no longer any of the malice from the Titan War. There was only the gentle, profound tranquility distilled by time itself.
He was Cronus. In Rome, the mortals called him Saturn.
Splash—Crash!
Out on the river channel just outside the courtyard, a jarring, violently uncoordinated racket suddenly erupted. A battered little wooden boat had smashed directly into the shore reef. Due to atrocious handling, the vessel spun a wild circle in the water, nearly splitting apart on the spot.
Immediately following the crash, a disheveled man with “sheer exasperation” practically written across his face scrambled and stumbled his way off the boat.
Cronus tilted his head slightly, putting down his fig to pour a cup of red wine. He didn’t even bother to stand up, choosing instead to quietly watch the pathetic figure kick open the courtyard gate and swagger right in.
“Well, well, look who it is,” Cronus curled his lips, his voice low, carrying a smooth, amused barrette of sarcasm. “The grand Chairman of Olympus, His Majesty Zeus, Master of Lightning. What kind of storm blew you all the way into the yard of this exile? Can you no longer afford to ride your golden chariot?”
Hearing that trademark mockery, the fury Zeus had been bottling up back in Greece nearly exploded. He marched over, fully intending to strike his usual victor’s pose and slam his hands on the table to drop some arrogant threats. But the moment he arrived in front of Cronus and met those inclusive, serene golden eyes—eyes that looked as though they could cradle the entire universe—all of his carefully constructed armor completely crumbled.
“Don’t hit me, Father,” Zeus groaned, flopping straight onto the grass right next to Cronus. He tossed the heavy, symbolic crown aside like a piece of junk, deflating entirely like a punctured balloon. “I really don’t want to do this anymore. Let whoever wants to run those Greek idiots run them. This batch of guys is truly awful. I can’t carry them!”
Cronus had initially intended to lift a hand to discipline this rebellious son who had overthrown him all those eons ago. But as his gaze fell upon the heavy, dark bruises of exhaustion under Zeus’s eyes, and that normally fiercely proud golden hair now thoroughly ruined and tangled by the sea gale, his hand froze mid-air.
“What is it?” Cronus’s tone softened, carrying a subtle, faint trace of protective heartache. “Did your brothers and sisters cause you trouble again?”
“Trouble doesn’t even begin to cover it!” Zeus treated the situation like a bursting dam. He snatched the wine Cronus had just poured and downed it in a single, desperate gulp. “Hera is practically running a full military roll-call in the temple every single day! If I so much as glance at a daffodil, she pulls it up by the roots! And she won’t let me have children! Tell me, is she trying to suffocate me to death just so she can inherit my estate? Poseidon and Apollo do nothing but whisper sarcasm on the sidelines, showing up to work but doing absolutely zero labor. Every time I open my eyes, it’s an endless mountain of complaints. What kind of God-King am I? I’m just a glorified, high-end babysitter!”
The more Zeus vent, the more aggrieved he felt. Ultimately, he lowered his head and buried it right into Cronus’s lap, muttering in a muffled, sullen voice, “I deeply, completely regret letting that crowd out just to maintain the alliance back then. Looking back now, the decision to lock you away was easily the most foolish, short-sighted mistake I’ve ever made in my entire life.”
Staring down at his lap at this son—who usually commanded the winds and rains of the divine realm, yet currently resembled a giant, beaten hound that had fled home to complain to his parent—Cronus let out a helpless, quiet sigh.
His long, soothingly cool fingers gently wove into Zeus’s brilliant golden hair, meticulously untangling the messy strands whipped up by the ocean winds.
“Weren’t you quite the dashing figure back when you were playing the God-King in Greece?” Cronus‘s voice was exceptionally tender amidst the afternoon sun. “Boasting to the mortals day in and day out about how you are all-powerful. How is it that the moment you come to me, you’re whining like an unweaned infant?”
“I am not whining!” Zeus retorted stubbornly, yet he greedily snuggled deeper into Cronus‘s embrace. That chilly scent unique to Cronus, carrying the ancient weight of time, instantly pacified every drop of restlessness in his soul.
“Yes, yes, you’re not whining,” Cronus indulged him with a soft chuckle, reaching out to pick a plump, ripe fig and popping it straight into Zeus’s mouth. “Eat up, then. In Rome, no one is going to restrict what you eat, and no one is going to hold a meeting with you.”
For the entirety of that afternoon, Zeus simply lazed around with his head glued to Cronus‘s lap, devouring fruit while relentlessly trash-talking every single colleague back in Greece. Meanwhile, the Titan King who had once ruled the entire world just listened in absolute silence, his fingers tenderly and mechanically brushing through his son’s golden hair, his eyes brimming with pure adoration.
To Cronus, the throne was gone, and that was that; the sovereignty of the universe was a poisoned chalice to begin with. But being able to see this otherwise fiercely proud son willingly run to him for reliance brought a covert sense of possessiveness and satisfaction that tasted sweeter than the ancient throne ever did.
Happy times are always fleeting. The wealth and glamor of the divine realm were like an invisible chain, always capable of dragging a runaway back.
Three days later, at twilight, an unnatural surge of blue and golden light suddenly rippled across the Roman sky.
The courtyard door was violently kicked open.
“Zeus! You really are here!”
Two intimately familiar figures strode into the yard. Poseidon wore a flamboyantly loud blue robe, holding a scaled-down trident in his hand, his expression darker than the bottom of a burnt pot. Next to him, Apollo was tunelessly strumming a golden lyre, yawning with a complete lack of energy.
This pair of arch-rivals, who did nothing but tear at each other’s throats back on Olympus, were actually standing on a unified front today.
“What the hell are you doing here? Get out! This is private property!” Zeus bolted upright from Cronus‘s lap like a cat that had its tail stepped on. He instinctively threw his arms out, shielding Cronus entirely behind his back.
“Oh, give me a break, my dear brother,” Poseidon rolled his eyes, speaking with pure irritation. “Do you think we actually wanted to come? Hera is currently smashing up the entire palace back on Olympus. She said if you don’t return today, she’s going to confiscate every single one of our private slush funds! For the sake of our wealth and prosperity, you have to come back with us.”
Apollo chimed in with an equally sarcastic tone, “Indeed, magnificent God-King. Without you standing at the front lines to take the brunt of Hera‘s nuclear wrath, life is very difficult for us. Hurry up and come back. There are still three public hearings regarding sacrificial tax revenues waiting for your chairmanship tonight.”
Zeus looked at these two enabler brothers who had literally formed a union just to drag him back to work. His handsome face flushed crimson with rage. “I am not going back! Whoever wants to be the God-King can take it! Hey, Poseidon, I think you look perfectly suited for the job. Go on! Go back and give them a harsh lesson!”
“Oh, absolutely not,” Poseidon declined with total righteousness. “Being the God-King means working overtime every single day with zero overtime pay. I am not doing a thankless, exhausting job like that.”
The situation instantly plummeted into a deadlock. Poseidon even looked ready to physically step forward and drag him away.
Right then, Cronus, who had been sitting quietly in the back, slowly stood up. The moment he rose to his feet, an oppressive, terrifying aura unique to the Old God-King—the tyrant who had once dominated the entire Titan Era—flooded the pavilion. Though his divine power was nowhere near its ancient peak, the pure coldness and majesty in his eyes caused both Poseidon and Apollo‘s bodies to instantly lock up.
“Tell me,” Cronus lowered his golden eyes slightly, casting a freezing gaze over the two young gods. “Is my courtyard a place where you two can presume to act so presumptuously?”
Poseidon swallowed hard, instinctively taking a step back. Apollo‘s casual, slacker smirk vanished entirely, his expression growing tense. Even though they had technically won the Titan War, facing this senior figure who had once literally swallowed his own children whole still triggered an ancestral fear rooted deep within their divine bloodlines.
“Father…” Zeus tugged gently at Cronus‘s sleeve, his voice suddenly dropping into a low, quiet register. He knew that if a fight broke out here, it would only bring chaos to Cronus’s peaceful life.
Cronus turned his head to look at Zeus. In a fraction of a second, that icy, absolute pressure dissolved into boundless tenderness. He raised his hand, gently caressing Zeus‘s cheek one last time, brushing his collar straight.
“Go on, child,” Cronus murmured, a playful, knowing glint dancing in his eyes. “You are their Chairman, and that is the throne you chose for yourself. It may be a complete mess, but you are the one who has to clean it up.”
“But I don’t want to leave you…” Zeus had completely shed his usual arrogance in front of the others, his eyes brimming with reluctance and a deep sense of grievance, looking exactly like a child being forced to go to school.
“I know,” Cronus leaned in, pressing a ghost-light, profoundly tender kiss against Zeus‘s forehead. “Once this hectic storm blows over and Olympus settles down, you can always take that boat and come right back. The gates of Rome will always be open to you.”
Hearing those words, Zeus‘s eyes instantly lit up. The intrinsic, smug confidence inside his bones instantly surged back to life.
He spun around, jutting his chin out arrogantly at Poseidon and Apollo, letting out a sharp, haughty scoff. “Alright, stop nagging! This King was merely conducting a routine ‘inter-pantheon academic exchange’ here. Lead the way! Let’s go back and see what kind of circus Hera has managed to cook up this time!”
With those words, he marched out of the courtyard with an incredibly grand, dignified stride, looking less like a captured runaway and more like a triumphantly returning conqueror.
But just before crossing the threshold, Zeus abruptly halted his steps. He turned his head, flashing a sharp, mischievous wink at the blonde man standing beneath the shadow of the grapevines.
Using only his lips, he mouthed a silent message:
“Wait for me. I‘m going to run away again very soon.”
Standing beneath the warm afternoon sun, Cronus watched that streak of brilliant golden light pierce through the heavens. He shook his head with a helpless sigh, but a sweet, unshakeable smile remained deeply etched onto his lips. He sat back down on his stone bench and picked up his fig, the air around him still carrying the faint, wildly electric warmth left behind by the young God-King‘s lightning.