Among mortals, there was one who walked with pride, his heart filled with longing. His name was Phaethon, the son of Helios, the god who carried the sun across the sky.
Though born of a divine father, Phaethon was raised among mortals. He grew up hearing whispers behind his back.
"If you are the son of Helios, why do you not shine?"
"Why does the Sun God not claim you?"
"Are you truly his son, or is your mother a liar?"
Phaethon's heart burned with the need to prove himself. He traveled far and wide until he reached his father's palace, a grand structure of blazing gold and celestial fire, standing at the edge of the world.
He knelt before Helios, eyes fierce.
"Father, grant me a sign! Let the world know I am your son!"
Helios, moved by his son's plea, swore upon the River Styx, an unbreakable oath, that he would grant his son one request.
And so Phaethon asked for the impossible.
"Let me ride your chariot and guide the sun across the sky."
Helios' eyes darkened. He tried to dissuade his son, warning him that even Zeus himself could not tame the celestial horses.
"Even the gods would burn if they came too close to the chariot," he warned.
But Phaethon refused to back down.
Bound by his oath, Helios had no choice but to hand his son the reins.
As soon as Phaethon took the reins, the divine horses—Aethon, Pyrois, Phlegon, and Eous—felt the inexperience of their new rider.
They bucked and reared, sensing his hesitation.
Phaethon tried to pull them back, but his hands lacked his father's strength.
The chariot soared too high—the world froze.
Ice spread over rivers, fields turned to wastelands, and crops withered.
Then the chariot plunged too low—the world burned.
Forests erupted in flames. Rivers boiled, turning to steam. Great cities crumbled as the very ground split open, swallowing their people.
The Ethiopians' skin was turned dark by the scorching heat. The Sahara became a barren desert, its once-green lands reduced to endless sand.
Even the great world tree, whose last branch had been hidden away by Hephaestus, began to burn at its roots.
The cries of mortals reached Olympus.
From his throne, Zeus saw the world in ruin.
He could not allow the destruction to continue.
Raising his mighty thunderbolt, Zeus cast it down.
The lightning pierced Phaethon's chest, and the boy fell like a shooting star, crashing into the great river Eridanus.
But even with Phaethon dead, the world remained broken.
The skies were dark with smoke, the earth cracked and scarred, and nearly all of humanity had perished.
Only two remained—a husband and wife, Pyrrha and Deucalion.
They were the children of Titan blood, protected by Epimetheus, who had long watched over them.
As they gazed at the ruined world, they pleaded to the gods for guidance.
Then, a divine voice spoke:
"Go to the temple of Themis."
There, in the sacred temple of the goddess of prophecy and fate, they found a riddle carved into stone:
"Cast behind you the bones of your mother, and from them, your kind shall be reborn."
At first, they were confused.
But then Pyrrha understood—the "mother" in the riddle was not their mortal mothers, but Gaia, the Earth itself.
And so, they took stones, the bones of the earth, and cast them over their shoulders.
Where Deucalion's stones fell, men arose, their bodies strong and unyielding.
Where Pyrrha's stones fell, women were born, their hearts filled with resilience.
This was the birth of the new race—the Bronze Race.
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And so The Age of Bronze arrive