The night embraced Alexios like an old friend as he slipped from his quarters, moving with silent grace toward his discovered training ground. Moonlight filtered through ancient olive branches, casting dappled silver patterns across the secluded clearing. Perfect conditions for what he had planned.
"Refresher course," he murmured to himself, placing his borrowed texts carefully aside. "Polish what already exists rather than learn anew."
Indeed, the library's offerings had sparked not new knowledge but old memories—combat techniques, energy manipulation, divine theory he had mastered centuries ago in his original timeline. The fundamentals hadn't changed, despite temporal displacement and the Academy's evolution. Some knowledge transcended even time itself.
He began with basic movements—except there was nothing truly basic about them.
His body flowed through combat forms with liquid precision, each stance bleeding into the next without hesitation or wasted motion.
No mortal martial system contained these sequences; they were divine combat patterns, designed for beings who could move faster than human eyes could track, strike harder than mortal physics should allow.
"Stance of Ascending Thunder," he named as he shifted weight to his forward leg, arms positioned to channel energy upward. "Crouching Tiger's Revenge." A low sweep that defied gravity, his body horizontal to the ground yet supported by seemingly nothing. "Olympian Eagle Strike." A leaping attack pattern that carried him fifteen feet into the air before landing without sound.
As his muscles warmed, memory accelerated his movements. Forms that young godlings might spend months mastering flowed from him with the easy familiarity of one revisiting beloved poetry. His physical shell, strengthened by divine catalysts and rigorous training, responded with increasing enthusiasm to these remembered patterns—as though the body itself recognized its true potential.
"Time to add power," he decided, his breathing perfectly controlled despite the complex exertion.
Pink lightning crackled to life around his fists—subtle at first, then with growing intensity as he channeled more divine essence into each movement, illuminated the clearing with rose-tinted brilliance.
Alexios accelerated further, targeting imaginary opponents with devastating combination attacks. A diagonal slash that left afterimages in the air. A palm strike that compressed air into visible shock waves. A spinning kick that generated a momentary whirlwind of electrified particles.
"Flow into defense," he instructed himself, transitioning seamlessly into protective sequences.
His lightning formed briefly into a shield of pure energy, capable of absorbing incoming attacks. Then it extended into a dome of protection that rippled with complex patterns—not merely blocking but potentially reflecting hostile energy back toward its source.
Finally, it compressed into a skintight aura that enhanced both defense and mobility simultaneously.
Throughout these progressively complex manifestations, Alexios maintained perfect control—the mark of true mastery. No excess energy escaped his practice area.
No flares of power radiated beyond his carefully established perimeter. The display remained impressive yet contained, powerful yet disciplined.
"Now the advanced forms," he whispered, a hint of genuine excitement coloring his tone.
He launched into combat sequences that few Academy students would witness, much less master, during their entire education. Techniques reserved for fully realized immortals preparing for cosmic conflicts.
Movements that bent local reality through sheer precision of execution.
His body blurred as he accelerated beyond normal perception. Afterimages trailed his movements, not merely visual illusions but partial manifestations of potential timelines—his connection to the Forbidden Time artifact subtly influencing his combat style. In one sequence, three versions of Alexios appeared to strike simultaneously from different angles before merging back into a unified form.
Pink lightning evolved from simple energy into complex constructs—momentary weapons formed of pure power, geometric shields of impossible configuration, even briefly animated serpents of electricity that coiled protectively around his limbs before dissipating back into raw essence.
Throughout the display, his expression remained one of focused serenity.
This wasn't experimentation but recollection—muscle memory from another existence reasserting itself through dedicated practice. The joy of a master musician returning to an instrument after long absence.
"Still not complete," he acknowledged during a momentary pause, "but progress nonetheless."
He concluded with the most challenging sequence—a kata so complex it appeared to violate fundamental laws of movement. His body twisted in configurations that should have been physically impossible, energy flowing through channels that mortal anatomists had never mapped.
The culmination involved a single perfect moment of absolute stillness in which all motion ceased yet potential energy reached its absolute maximum—the divine equivalent of drawing back a bowstring to full extension.
When he released that gathered potential, it manifested not as destructive force but as a perfectly controlled pulse that caused every leaf in the clearing to shudder once, simultaneously, before falling still again.
Complete control. Perfect execution. Power contained rather than flaunted.
As he completed the final form, returning to neutral stance with hands clasped before him, Alexios permitted himself a small smile of satisfaction.
"Like riding Apollo's chariot," he murmured. "Once mastered, never truly forgotten."
He stood motionless for several moments, allowing his energy to settle back into harmonic balance with his physical form. Sweat gleamed on his brow—not from exertion but from the intense concentration required to maintain such precise control while channeling significant divine power.
Above him, unnoticed among the thousand celestial eyes that always watched Olympus, Athena observed from her silver owl form perched in the highest branches.
Her ancient gaze missed nothing—not the flawless execution that spoke of centuries rather than days of practice, not the unique energy signature that combined seemingly incompatible divine lineages, not the occasional flicker of his true appearance showing through the carefully maintained illusion.
The Wisdom Goddess neither moved nor made sound, her presence concealed by millennia of perfected observation techniques.
When Alexios finally gathered his materials and departed the clearing, she remained—thoughtful, analytical, calculating probabilities with the precision that had made her Zeus's most valuable advisor through countless cosmic conflicts.
Only when the sound of his footsteps had completely faded did she transform back to her divine form, a shimmer of silver moonlight resolving into immortal perfection.
"Curiouser and curiouser," she murmured, echoing the ancient satyr librarian's assessment. Her storm-gray eyes narrowed slightly as she examined the residual energy patterns still visible to divine perception—patterns that told stories beyond what mortal senses could comprehend.
Then she too departed, leaving only moonlight and ancient olives as witnesses to what had transpired.
*
Back in his quarters, Alexios performed his nightly rituals with the same precision that characterized his combat practice. Cleansing away residual energy to minimize divine detection. Reinforcing his illusory disguise to survive the scrutiny of tomorrow's increased attention.
Checking and double-checking that both Aphrodite's pendant and the Forbidden Time artifact remained properly concealed beneath his clothing.
"Tomorrow brings the spectacle," he reminded himself, settling onto his narrow bed. "The grand arrivals, the posturing, the establishing of hierarchies."
He closed his eyes, not to sleep—his increasingly divine physiology required less mundane rest—but to organize his thoughts and prepare his strategy. Tomorrow would test his façade under much greater scrutiny.
The full complement of godlings arriving with their divine parents. Formal introductions and power displays. The elaborate ceremonial opening of the Academy term.
And somewhere among those arriving students walked his former brothers-in-arms, his once-friends, his eventual betrayers: Theseus, Perseus, Hercules. In this timeline, they would be fellow students rather than established heroes—young gods still developing their legendary status rather than the immortalized champions who had eventually turned against him.
"Different timeline," Alexios reminded himself. "Different relationships to forge. Or avoid entirely."
The prospect of encountering them—younger, unformed versions of those who had executed him in another existence—sent complicated emotions coursing through him. Would he recognize the seeds of betrayal already planted? Or would they truly be different in this altered timeline?
"Focus on the mission," he counseled himself firmly. "Vengeance requires power first. Allies or enemies come later."
Yet as false sleep gradually transformed into genuine rest, images flickered behind his closed eyelids—memories of brotherhood and friendship that had once meant everything to him. Battles fought side by side.
Celebrations shared in victory. The unshakable belief that their bonds transcended even divine politics.
Until they hadn't.
Until blades wielded by trusted hands had pierced his divine flesh.
Until friends became executioners.
Alexios's expression hardened even in sleep, pink lightning briefly crackling across his closed eyelids. Tomorrow would bring the Academy's official beginning—and with it, the next phase of his carefully orchestrated return to power.
Let gods and godlings enjoy their hierarchies and petty politics. Let them posture and preen before divine parents eager for reflected glory. Let them believe the natural order of Olympus would continue unchanging for eternity.
The instrument of their reckoning slept among them, dreaming of vengeance long delayed but never abandoned.