Athens — April 6th, 1896Alley behind the villa — Moments after the kiss
The alley still echoed with the memory of their kiss. Her breath clung to his lips. Her fingers had only just uncurled from his shoulders.
But now—
"There! That alley!"
Steel boots clattered against the cobblestones, echoing like distant drums. Russian voices rang with sharp, unmistakable panic.
Arthas turned before Xania could.
Three men in black-and-gold uniforms stormed into view, sabres drawn, long coats fluttering behind them like cloaks of judgment. Their faces were twisted not with hatred—but rage. The kind of rage only summoned when a noble girl is found collapsed, disheveled, and held by a half-naked stranger.
And then—she collapsed.
Not from pain. Not from harm.
But from shock.
From the weight of everything: the kiss, the heat, the rawness of it all.
Her knees gave out. Her lips parted in a gasp. Her body folded gently, knees thudding against stone, hands bracing awkwardly.
To Arthas, it was a moment of fear.
To the guards—
It looked like assault.
"He struck her!" "Get him away from her!" "FIRE!"
The first guard—a tall, bearded officer named Vasili—lunged without hesitation. His sabre came flashing forward, aimed square at Arthas's chest.
Arthas moved.
Not fast.
Not panicked.
Just right.
He stepped inward instead of away, hand rising to meet the descending blade. His fingers closed around the steel mid-swing. There was a shriek of metal against calloused palm.
Vasili's eyes widened in disbelief.
Arthas squeezed.
There was a sickening crack as the guard's wrist snapped—an unnatural angle, a gasp of pain. The sabre fell to the ground with a sharp metallic clatter.
Vasili stumbled backward, clutching his ruined arm.
Arthas stepped forward, reached with his other hand, and ripped the man's rifle from his shoulder like pulling a twig from a branch. He flipped it, reversed the grip, and slammed the butt into Vasili's chest.
The impact made a sound like a door being kicked off its hinges.
Vasili flew back, hit the alley wall, and dropped like a sack of bricks.
A second guard—Dmitri, the squad's commander—already had his Nagant revolver raised. His eyes were locked on the massive, half-naked man now towering over his downed comrade.
He fired.
The crack echoed off stone.
The bullet struck Arthas high in the shoulder.
He staggered—but only slightly.
Blood sprayed. He hissed through his teeth.
But he did not fall.
[SYSTEM RESPONSE]
[SYSTEM ALERT: Damage Detected.]Paladin Class – Level 1Durability: Enhanced HumanHP: 94% – Regenerating.Wound sealed: 3%, 4%, 5%...
Light shimmered beneath the skin, closing the wound even as blood still ran.
Dmitri blinked. Lowered the gun. Just for a second.
He survived that…? He's not even wearing armor—
Too late.
Arthas's face changed.
No longer dazed. No longer stunned by the world.
He was angry.
He exploded forward, faster than any man in boots could track. Three strides—barefoot over stone—and he was on him.
He slapped the revolver aside, knocked it clattering across the alley.
Then he grabbed Dmitri by the front of his coat and lifted him off the ground like a doll.
The man's boots dangled. His eyes bulged.
And then—Arthas slammed him against the wall.
Stone cracked. Plaster rained down. Dmitri sagged, gasping for air, stunned but not dead.
The third soldier—Sergei, youngest, newest—raised his sabre halfway. But he froze.
Because he saw Xania.
Still on the ground.
Eyes wide.
Not in terror.
In awe.
And he saw her lips move, soft and barely audible:
"Don't hurt him…"
Sergei looked back at Arthas.
And saw his eyes—blue, glowing faintly, rimmed with ancient sadness and divine wrath.
He lowered his weapon.
"Moy bog…" he whispered. "My God…"
Arthas turned his gaze from the guards and dropped to one knee beside Xania.
She looked up at him—shaking, breathless, disheveled, lips still red from the kiss.
He didn't ask.
He didn't hesitate.
He slipped one arm beneath her knees, the other around her back, and lifted her effortlessly into his arms.
She gasped again, but this time—she didn't resist.
Her arms clung to his shoulders. Her body leaned into his chest.
And then he ran.
His bare feet struck the stone like thunder. Every stride was a beat in a new myth being written.
Behind him, the guards groaned, muttered, scrambled for balance.
But they did not follow.
They could not.
And in the distance, the roar of the stadium grew louder.
Trumpets. Flags. A crowd ready to see gods compete.
And the gods… were coming.
---
Athens — April 6th, 1896Late morning, near noonPanathenaic Stadium – Opening Day of the Olympic Games
The sun glared off the marble like polished steel. The entire stadium shimmered in heat and light, every pale stone step catching the sun's glare and reflecting it like a sea of white fire.
The roar of the crowd—alive moments ago with national pride and cheerful spectacle—suddenly rose like a crashing wave, not from celebration, but from confusion. Anticipation. Shock.
Tens of thousands sat crammed shoulder-to-shoulder in the horseshoe of white granite stands—diplomats in silk, children in school uniforms, vendors in linen aprons, soldiers standing at attention. The King of Greece, robed and flanked by his sons and foreign noblemen, narrowed his eyes behind a sunshade as he leaned forward in his seat.
Trumpets still blared. Flags still fluttered from every pillar—Germany, France, Britain, America. The judges and scribes at field level muttered in Greek and French, squinting toward the gate.
And then—the northern gate burst open.
A gust of dust. A flash of movement. A presence like a hammer through silk.
Everything stopped.
A figure sprinted through.
But he was not in uniform.Not in sandals.Not even dressed in any recognizable attire.
He was bare-chested, barefoot, sunlit like a statue come to life.Only a plain gray cloak—too small for his frame—was tied hastily around his hips. It flared behind him as he moved, more like a banner than clothing.
His skin glistened in the sun, dust clinging to muscle like fine sand over iron. His shoulders were wide. His hair—long and golden—whipped behind him like a lion's mane caught in the wind. His body moved like a trained warhorse: fluid, powerful, unfaltering.
And in his arms—
A girl.
Petite. Cloakless. Her blue dress stained with dust and disarray. One boot missing. Golden hair tumbling loose from its pins, streaming down her back. She clung to him—not out of fear, but in stunned surrender.
Romanov silk. Russian gold.
The crowd gasped. First a ripple—then a wave, cresting into a collective breathless moment.
Women leaned over railings, one hand on their chests.Men stood without realizing it.Judges dropped pens.Reporters tripped over each other as they scrambled to realign their cameras.
"Who is he?""Is he Greek?""That's a noblewoman!""Is he… carrying her?""God in Heaven…"
Arthas reached the center of the field in under thirty seconds.
He was too fast.
Not in a sprinting way—this was something else.Every stride ate the earth. His legs moved with coiled grace, like a predator that had never been leashed. The cloak whipped around his thighs. Dust curled behind his heels like a wake behind a ship.
And his breathing?Barely touched.
Calm.
Measured.
Deadly.
He ran as if the world owed him space, and the world—made room.
He did not pause at the edge. He did not hesitate at the official boundary stones or the judges waving in confusion.
He ran until he reached the exact center of the Panathenaic field—where athletes had once stood millennia before under the eyes of gods.
And there, under the blazing sun, beneath the gaze of kings, nobles, soldiers, children, and gods alike—
He stopped.
The crowd fell into stunned silence.The kind of silence that happens just before a myth is born.
Xania clung to him, her arms trembling, her face tucked into the crook of his neck.
Her chest rose and fell in short, desperate breaths, but not from the sprint.From the memory of the kiss, the power in his mouth, the strength in his arms, the certainty that he had chosen her—claimed her—and would not let go.
She could smell him again—smoke, heat, stone, and some unnamed spice that could never be bottled. Something masculine. Fierce. Entirely not of this world.
Her thighs ached from clenching around his waist.Her lips were swollen from the pressure of his.Her nerves burned.
But in his arms, none of that mattered.
They're all watching us…
Her eyes fluttered open.
Thousands of people stared.
And he—he looked up.
Slowly. Almost reverently.
His chin lifted. His eyes scanned the crowd.
There was no shame in him. No panic. No awareness of scandal or spectacle.
He looked like a lion standing in a marble garden, bold and beautiful and devastatingly wrong for this world.
His gaze swept the nobility, the flags, the press.
He didn't flinch.
He didn't bow.
He didn't ask permission.
He existed—and that alone was enough to command the attention of a nation.
Xania opened her mouth, voice small, breathless, private:
"Put me down…"
Her voice was barely above a whisper—breathless, unsteady, nearly lost in the vast sea of marble and bodies.
But he heard it.
He felt it.
Arthas's head turned slowly to look down at her.
Xania didn't repeat the words. She couldn't. Her voice had cracked from the weight of everything—of what she had done, of what they had become, of the thousands of eyes burning into her skin. Her arms trembled where they were still wrapped around his neck. Her legs itched to find the earth again. Her throat ached from emotion she didn't have time to name.
And yet she was not afraid.
She was exposed—hair tangled, one boot missing, bodice askew, no cloak to hide behind—but not afraid.
Because he was holding her like she was the only thing keeping the earth from splitting in two.
Still… they were all watching.And she had to choose—right now—who she was going to be.
Arthas shifted slightly. His hands—large, warm, solid—tightened under her knees and back. For one moment longer, he looked at her with something like confusion. Not weakness. But a question he couldn't yet put into words.
Then he lowered her.
Gently.
Her feet touched the ground like a dancer coming down from a lift. One, then the other.
She wobbled slightly. Her knees still trembled. Her balance was off—he had been her center, and now he was not beneath her, but beside her.
His hand stayed at her waist. A tether. A claim. A promise.
She straightened herself slowly, pressing one hand against her hip, the other smoothing her dress. The silk stuck to her back. A leaf clung to the hem. Her hair hung wild around her shoulders like something undone.
She didn't fix it.
Let them see her.
Let them see what he had touched, and who she had become.
The crowd murmured again.
Judges whispered. Foreign dignitaries leaned forward. Reporters leaned in, scratching frantic shorthand. One Greek woman gasped, pressing a hand to her heart.
"She's noble. You can see it. But look at her—bare-headed. Carried by him."
"She must have been kidnapped."
"No… look at how she touches his hand. She went willingly."
Up in the royal box, Crown Prince Constantine whispered something to his father. King George said nothing, his jaw set.
And in the silence between pulses, Xania stepped forward.
She didn't climb a dais. She didn't stand above anyone. She didn't raise her arms.
She simply walked two steps forward.
Turned to face the roaring crescent of marble and bodies.
And in perfect French, the language of diplomacy and empire, she spoke—not loudly, but with the cutting clarity of nobility that had never been taught to beg:
"Ladies and gentlemen of the world," she said, chin high, voice crystalline, "Russia's champion has arrived."
The words hung in the air like lightning not yet followed by thunder.
There was a single, breathtaking moment of silence.
And then—
Roar.
It didn't start from the nobles.
It started from the people.
Vendors. Servants. Children. Locals.
Then athletes. Then judges. Then foreign envoys.
Cheers. Applause. Some laughter. But mostly—
Awe.
They didn't know his name.
They didn't know her story.
But they saw the truth of it:
A bare-chested god had emerged from dust, carrying a noblewoman like a war prize, and now she declared him hers.
And they believed it.
She felt tears sting her eyes—but she didn't let them fall.
Instead, she turned her head just slightly, her gaze brushing his shoulder. He stood beside her, silent, still, like marble brought to life.
She could feel his hand on her waist. Not tightening. Not guiding.
Just… there.
Solid. Present. Like she belonged there.
She looked up at him.
And for the first time—
He smiled.