[Greek Mythology] The Demons Under My Command - Chapter 53

The Birth of a New God

In the spring of the second year, the Goddess of Spring was born in the fields of Polo. Demeter named her daughter Persephone and, in the name of the earth, tied the authority over the four seasons to the child’s tiny wrist. From then on, spring, summer, autumn, and winter had their own destination.

The birth of a new, powerful, and lovable female deity was a rare event on Mount Olympus, prompting all beings to bring gifts and congratulations. The bells of the Polo wheat fields rang for three days.

On the day of the new god’s christening, the deities arrived, drawn by the scent of new life:

• Athena wove olive branches into a delicate cradle, adorned with unblossomed buds.
• Aphrodite brought a swaddling cloth soaked in nectar, and her touch filled the air with a soft, warm pink.
• Artemis hung a silver bell, condensed from moonlight, on the cradle, which rang clearly with the slightest breeze.

To their surprise, the one they least expected to see—the Goddess of Marriage, Hera —was also present.

Li Jia was holding a chubby-cheeked Persephone beneath the flowering vines. The little one, dressed in a fluffy white flower-bud skirt, looked like a glutinous rice dumpling rolled in frosting, making everyone dote on her. The baby didn’t cry or fuss and smiled happily in anyone’s arms.

Hera, holding a gift from Li Jia for the baby, opened a wooden box and took out a set of six small, rubber rattles—a rabbit, a bear, a wooden horse, an owl, a bee, and an elephant—which glowed softly in the sunlight. Hera handed the rabbit rattle to the baby when Persephone reached out for it.

Lina gave Persephone a small ant-shaped twist car, but the baby was too small to use it yet. Persephone was fascinated by the toys but was gently refused by Demeter, who said, “You’re too little now. Wait till you’re a bit older, and your two godmothers can take you for a ride.”

Persephone, as if understanding her mother, quietly nestled in Li Jia’s arms, clutching the rabbit rattle Hera gave her. When Persephone yawned, Demeter took her away, saying, “Time for your nap.” She needed to get the child away before a certain possessive god, writing their feelings all over their face, raised the wheat field’s temperature high enough to scorch the grain.

Li Jia’s attention was fully on Persephone, while Hera remained resolute in her decision never to have children of her own.

As Demeter walked away with the baby, Aphrodite’s voice rang out with a laugh: “I didn’t expect the Goddess of Marriage to attend this kind of gathering. I thought you hated noisy children.”

After a short silence, Hera, holding the empty wooden box, her ear tips subtly flushed, glanced at Aphrodite’s teasing look and then at the direction where Persephone had disappeared. She muttered, “…I just thought, this child isn’t noisy.”

Aphrodite found it baffling that a deity who typically cared about nothing outside her own domain would visit a baby.

“One more thing,” Hera quietly added, “I am this child’s godmother.”

This announcement shocked the other deities, except for Artemis. The meaning was clear: Hera’s power was known to all, and her statement was an unmistakable declaration—she was covering this child.

Li Jia’s lips curved into a slight smile; a couple is one entity. If Hera was the godmother, then so was she.

Zeus’s Exclusion

Demeter had carefully considered the christening invitations. After the unpleasantness at the Sea God’s birthday banquet, Poseidon did not receive an invitation directly from Demeter. Instead, Demeter sent a separate invitation to the Sea Queen, Amphitrite, cordially inviting her to bring her child for a get-together, as it would be beneficial for their children, future rulers in their domains, to know each other.

Poseidon was annoyed that Demeter had bypassed him to invite Amphitrite, but since they were one, her receiving the invitation meant he had technically received it too, which saved him some face. This was still much better than the “other god” who had been completely erased from Demeter’s mind. Poseidon did not want to offend Demeter, the Earth Mother who controlled agriculture, as his people relied on both the sea and farming.

Demeter had sent invitations to Apollo and the other gods sequentially, each one full of sincerity, and the Polo wheat fields were enveloped in the joy of the christening.

Except for Zeus.

A month later, after the entire christening was complete, Zeus had not received any communication or secret message from Demeter. The tale of him deceiving Demeter by posing as a farmer had spread throughout Olympus. Fortunately, as a respected male god, the incident merely added a few more lines to his collection of scandalous stories for posterity to discuss.

Zeus couldn’t fathom why Demeter would so easily discard his stellar bloodline. If she hadn’t extracted that wisp of his starlight, the child, born of two divine parents, would have possessed power surpassing all the new-generation gods. Upon hearing Demeter had a daughter, Zeus was initially displeased, lamenting Demeter’s lack of deference, questioning if the love he gave her was false despite his deception. He also regretted the messy severance with Naibi. He thought if she had married him smoothly, he would have had a powerful son inheriting both their divine powers.

Suddenly, remembering the prophecy, a cold sweat broke out, and he muttered repeatedly: It’s better to have a daughter, it’s better to have a daughter.

He considered humbling himself, using his usual tactic—a few tears could often sway a woman’s soft heart. However, his thoughts were too simplistic. When he arrived at the Polo wheat fields late one night, he found a sign erected: “Zeus and Dogs Are Not Allowed to Enter!”

Furious, he tried to confront Demeter, only to find her divine dwelling had been placed under a prohibition against him. He couldn’t step half a pace into the Polo wheat fields. He attempted to force his way through the prohibition, but he found a layer of red starlight covering the usual earth-toned starlight. This was Hera’s warning: he was forbidden from entering the Polo wheat fields for life. He then slunk away.

Meanwhile, in the Polo wheat fields, Demeter sat by the crib, watching the sleeping Persephone. The little one had a slight frown and was clutching the rabbit rattle, occasionally shaking it unconsciously. Spring breezes carried the scent of flowers into the hall, and the wheat waves outside gently rolled. Demeter bent down and lightly kissed her daughter’s forehead, whispering, “My little spring, don’t be afraid. Mama will always protect you.”

The authority of the seasons shimmered faintly on Persephone’s wrist, and a pale green starlight seemed to be responding to her mother’s words, foreshadowing a new female god slowly growing up with the vitality of spring.

Li Jia’s Fading Life

Persephone grew day by day, transitioning from a baby to a toddler learning to speak.

Then one morning, when Li Jia woke up and looked in the mirror, she noticed her smooth, delicate skin had begun to turn dull, and fine lines were slowly creeping around her eyes, turning into nasolabial folds. Life force was silently draining from her body; aging had begun.

Li Jia had long accepted the fact of her eventual death, but the premonition still brought a wave of sadness. The system had explicitly told her that she could not connect her soul lamp to anyone in the book to share their lifespan. She couldn’t break the established database; she was merely a rogue code that had intervened and changed many errors, and this was already her best outcome.

Aging? Li Jia touched her cheek. To let her lover watch her grow old day by day, only to die in front of her, seemed too cruel.

“System,” Li Jia called softly.

[“Host, what is it?”]

“How much longer do I have to live?”

The system checked its database, choked up, and after much consideration, the current crackled.

[“Host, in this world, the length of your survival doesn’t matter; after all, this is just virtual data, the world of a book. The shorter your time here, the more beneficial it is for you to return.”]

The system tried to offer a reasonable explanation, sensing that Li Jia had developed feelings for the one she was supposed to be conquering. The system, having managed countless small-world missions, had a high tolerance for relationships of all types. The reason for its high failure rate was that previous conquerors often went rogue halfway through, insisting on staying in the book’s world, leading to mission failure. The system would not be so angry if the ending was good, but those sweet promises often wore away in reality. Data from different time-spaces insisted on merging, which inevitably led to mutual resentment and the conqueror eventually being erased by the data when the conquered subject lost interest.

In short, those who took on these missions were deceased people. If they failed to complete the mission, the book would be sealed, and they would vanish. The system wanted Li Jia, its first honor student, to return safely to the real world and live well.

“Tell me. How much time do I have? I can already feel this body aging,” Li Jia asked calmly, contrasting with the system’s evasiveness. She had friends and a lover—things she never expected in her previous life. Life was about experience, and she had no regrets, only that the time was too short to spend more time with her.

[“Host, the average lifespan of ancient Greeks is estimated to be between 20 and 30 years. Your body had previously been poisoned, so its physiological function should have been damaged long ago.”]

[“Due to the system mission’s integration, you were resurrected in this body. Now that the mission is nearing completion, the data will slowly be withdrawn, and your body will return to its original state.”]

“How much time is left?” Li Jia understood that “returning to its original state” meant dissolution once the game was over.

The system’s crackle paused, and it finally gave in. [“Your body can last for three more years at most. Once three years are up, it will return to its original state.”]

Three years. It was much shorter than she expected. She understood “returning to its original state” to mean her demise. She didn’t press for more, simply humming a quiet “Mm.” The fine lines around her eyes in the mirror seemed a little deeper this time.

[“Actually, every time you take a bath, the conquered subject transfers a lot of divine power into the spring water to extend your lifespan. She has tried countless times to connect your life threads while you sleep, but she has failed.”]

[“Because you are only a set of data.”]

Li Jia was stunned. She remembered the bathwater always being warm, never growing cold no matter how long she soaked, and the gentle breathing she sometimes felt beside her when she woke up at night—someone was watching over her. It turned out that someone had been quietly working behind the scenes to keep her. Hera didn’t want her to leave, a premonition Li Jia had but never brought up.

She raised her hand to touch the fine lines in the mirror, her fingers steady this time. Three years might be short, but she already possessed so much.

The New Rose Garden

Li Jia sought out Demeter and described the seeds she needed. As the Goddess of Agriculture, Demeter could create or graft plants she hadn’t seen; it was a small issue. She quickly gave Li Jia the white seeds she requested, though she admitted that she had never cultivated this particular plant, and she couldn’t guarantee whether it would bloom or bear fruit normally. Furthermore, the seeds had a very long growth cycle—at least three years. Demeter also gifted Li Jia two large bottles of her divine power essence, suggesting that soaking the seeds in it for a few days would greatly increase the germination rate.

Li Jia patiently placed the white seeds in a round dish and poured the agricultural divine essence over them. Three days later, the seeds were plump, rooted, and began to sprout.

Li Jia took a small shovel and buried the seeds one by one in the former site of the rose garden. This was her promise to Hera: she owed her a rose garden, and in three years, she would return a new grove to her.

She refused Winslow and Dorothy’s offers to help loosen the soil or fertilize, asking them to keep it a secret. Li Jia did the planting during the day when Hera was away, so Hera didn’t notice anything unusual when she returned at night. Li Jia breathed a sigh of relief. The growth period for this gift was three years. Sincerity brings results. Would the fruit taste sweeter when the time came, since she planted the seeds with sincerity? There was no way to know, because she would be gone by then.

A New Era for Marriage

Three years passed quickly—so quickly that Li Jia couldn’t distinguish where she belonged; she only knew she was happy by Hera’s side.

Hera modified the marriage decree, allowing all beings, regardless of gender, to enter into marriage if they loved each other, a sign of the deepest respect for the institution of marriage. To be forced into marriage for procreation due to gender, without love, was tragic.

For a time, the Marriage Temple’s incense offerings were terrifyingly popular, requiring Winslow, Dorothy, and even Li Jia to work 24-hour shifts. This situation only lasted for a month before returning to normal. It seemed people didn’t not want to marry; they just needed the right partner.

Gradually, the citizens of Fragrant City and Fountain Spring came to know about Li Jia and Hera’s relationship. Li Jia was approachable, and everyone liked the unpretentious little goddess-queen.

Unbeknownst to her, Li Jia and Hera had spent their two good years in Fragrant City and Fountain Spring.

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