Chapter 158: The Heroes of the Light Empire Faces the Greek Kings

"Shall we begin?" Agamemnon asked, his deep voice resonating within the tent, eyes narrowing with impatience.

Nestor, the eldest and wisest of the gathered kings, glanced around the tent with a furrowed brow. "Achilles is not here yet," he observed.

The air inside the tent thickened. Everyone present knew they were waiting for the most formidable force in their ranks, the man whose very name was a promise of destruction on the battlefield: Achilles. Yet, in this crucial hour, the hero was conspicuously absent.

Agamemnon's face twisted with contempt, his lips curling into a sneer. "I don't care," he spat. "Let's start without him."

His dismissal was sharp, almost venomous. Agamemnon had always loathed Achilles, that much was clear to everyone. To him, Achilles was insufferable—arrogant, insolent, a warrior who dared to defy the 'king of kings' without the slightest regard for his authority.

Achilles had never bowed to Agamemnon, never recognized his superiority, and that was an unforgivable sin in the eyes of the Mycenaean ruler.

But Achilles had never cared for the politics of kings or the egos of men like Agamemnon. He was there for one reason alone: to fight. Glory and battle were his only pursuits, not the petty quarrels of Agamemnon or his brother, Menelaus, who had lost his wife in the most pathetic manner imaginable. Achilles had no respect for such men.

"What of the Heroes?" Odysseus asked suddenly, a wry smile dancing on his lips as he leaned forward/

"Heroes?" Agamemnon raised an eyebrow, his voice dripping with skepticism.

Nestor was quick to clarify, "He speaks of the Heroes from the Empire of Light."

At this, Agamemnon let out a short, derisive chuckle, filled with scorn. "Those children? Heroes?" His voice thickened with mockery. "The very idea is laughable. They have no place in the company of real men, men who've spilled blood on the battlefield. The only reason I haven't sent them packing is because they came recommended by the goddess Hera herself.

Otherwise, I'd have had their ships burned and left them to swim back to that weak, pathetic Empire of Light."

"That's rather harsh, King Agamemnon," came a sudden, melodic voice, soft yet brimming with an undeniable power.

The kings turned, and all eyes shifted to the entrance of the tent. Standing there was a woman of such beauty that the air itself seemed to still in her presence. Her long, shimmering blue hair fell gracefully past her shoulders, and her golden eyes glowed with an ethereal light behind a delicate pair of glasses.

Her lips curled into a gentle smile, but there was something dangerous beneath that serene expression, something that made even seasoned warriors shift uneasily.

In unison, the kings straightened, their gazes instinctively drawn to her. Agamemnon, for all his arrogance, felt a sliver of wariness. She was not particularly strong in appearance—no armor adorned her, no weapon hung at her side—but something about her aura demanded respect, if not outright fear.

"Our Heroes are more reliable than you may think, King Agamemnon," the woman said, her voice as light as a breeze, yet it cut through the air like a blade.

Agamemnon's eyes narrowed. "And who might you be?" he asked, his voice low, though the coldness in his tone was unmistakable.

Jason Spencer, unaware of the tension brewing in the room, merely smiled. "Oh?" he said, turning his gaze to the older Jason. "You must be the great Hero Jason, the one who conquered the Golden Fleece. It's truly an honor to meet you in person."

Jason Spencer's tone was genuine, a reflection of the admiration he had for the myths he had once heard about on Earth. His words were meant to open a friendly conversation, to pay respect to the legendary hero who shared his name. After all, standing before a figure of such ancient renown should have been a moment of camaraderie, not conflict.

But the smile on Jason Spencer's face only deepened the storm brewing in the Greek hero's chest. Silence fell thick and heavy in the tent. Every king present knew the truth—Jason of Greece had not truly 'conquered' the Golden Fleece. It had been snatched from his grasp in a humiliating defeat by an enemy from Tenebria, a failure that had haunted him ever since.

For many, it had been a source of mockery, a stain on his legacy.

And now, this boy, this other Jason, was unknowingly treading on old wounds.

From Jason of Greece's perspective, this was no innocent remark. He heard only scorn, mockery laced beneath the polite words. His pride screamed at the affront. How dare this foreigner, this so-called Hero from the Empire of Light, speak to him with such gall?

"You bastard..." Jason of Greece growled, his eyes darkening with a murderous glint. He took a step toward Jason Spencer, fists tightening, his rage barely held in check.

Jason Spencer's smile faltered, confusion clouding his features. He hadn't expected such a hostile reaction, and for a moment, he wondered what he had done to deserve such ire.

Sensing the dangerous shift in the atmosphere, Odysseus quickly raised his hand, his calm voice cutting through the rising tension. "Let's all settle down," he urged, stepping forward in a bid to restore order. "There's no need for violence. We're all here for the same purpose, after all."

But even as Odysseus spoke, there was a flicker of amusement in the eyes of some—especially Ajax, who was barely containing his laughter. Diomedes, seated nearby, smirked as well, clearly entertained by the growing tension between the two Jasons.

During that brief but charged silence, the flap of the tent stirred once more, drawing the attention of everyone inside. The air shifted, and as the figure stepped in, it felt as though time itself slowed in reverence to her presence. Every gaze was immediately captured, and all eyes turned toward the newcomer.

Aisha Nakano.

She moved with a quiet grace, her long, raven-black hair cascading down her back like a silken waterfall. The dark locks framed her face, accentuating the striking contrast with her flawless, porcelain skin. Her eyes were a deep brown so dark they seemed almost black. Those eyes, calm held the gaze of everyone in the tent.

Her attire was as remarkable as her presence—a beautifully crafted black dress armor that hugged her figure with both elegance and strength. Every curve of the armor was sleek, a blend of form and function that made her appear as if she were both a goddess of war and beauty incarnate.

For a long moment, silence reigned as the kings of Greece, men who had fought and commanded armies, found themselves breathless at the sight of her. Even Agamemnon, who ruled as the king of kings and bore little tolerance for distractions, could not hide the flicker of awe that passed through his features.

Even Menelaus who had once laid claim to the most beautiful woman in the world, Helen of Troy, found himself captivated by the new arrival. Though in his heart he knew that Helen's beauty was unrivaled, there was something about this woman, Aisha, that stirred a different kind of admiration in him. Where Helen was a beacon of light and perfection, Aisha was the embodiment of mystery and shadow.

Her black hair, her half-Asian features, and her armor—everything about her whispered of a beauty not bound by the expectations of the world but carved from a different, darker allure.

Aisha stood at the entrance of the tent for a brief moment, surveying the gathered kings and heroes with a calm, discerning gaze.