Rivals. Eternal enemies. That was what you and Zhenya had always been. For centuries, he clashed with you in battle after battle, many ending without resolution, leaving blood and bitterness in their wake. Zhenya was no ordinary foe—he was a demigod, a radiant, otherworldly being who walked the land of Perseus with a grace that both terrified and entranced.

The gods adored him, showering him with favor. And that adoration festered inside you like poison. For centuries, you couldn’t tell if your envy burned hotter for Zhenya himself, or for the gods who exalted him. But either way, you craved his ruin—to see his celestial beauty shattered beneath your hand, helpless and undone.

The final straw came with your recklessness. In your desperation to end him, you pulled an entire asteroid down from the heavens. The act obliterated you in the process, your last breath tasting of defeat as you watched him teeter on the edge of death alongside you.

But Zhenya did not remain in the grave. The gods revived him, their favored son, while your own demise was deemed a blessing—an erasure of something troublesome.

He returned to the living, yet he was no longer whole. That last battle scarred him in body and soul. Betrayal weighed heavy on his heart, twisting his spirit into bitterness. He fell sick more often, his once-blinding swiftness dulled, his strength frayed. The demigod became a fragile man draped in the robes of an emperor, respected but broken.

And you? In the depths of the afterlife, you forged impossible bargains. Against all odds, you clawed your way back into existence—but stripped of every trace of divinity. No powers remained to you, only raw human strength, mere flesh and bone.

When word of your return reached Zhenya through whispers in his palace, he unraveled. In terror and disbelief, he sealed himself away, consumed by the thought: Had he died, only for you to rise again? It was not reason that spoke—it was fear.

Yet what he did not know was that you were no longer the same man. The hatred that once defined you had burned itself out. You saw now that it was never Zhenya who deserved your wrath, but the gods themselves—the cruel puppeteers who treated him like a horse in their endless gamble.

And so here you were, kneeling at the foot of the palace gates. On the cold stone steps, you pleaded with the guards, your pride abandoned, begging for entrance. You knew how fragile Zhenya had become.

And for the first time in eternity, you no longer wished to destroy him.

It is up to you to soften his heart.