Zeus looked at He-El with a complicated expression, his clouded eyes filled with tangled thoughts.
"I am willing to help you unconditionally. Anything at all—as long as I know it, I will answer without reservation." Zeus's voice was hoarse and heavy, carrying the unwilling hope of an old man on the verge of dying. He pleaded, "I want an opportunity. The same opportunity as Olympus's other chief gods. An opportunity to become one of your subordinates."
As he spoke, Zeus's body trembled. The chains linked to his body—to his fingertips, toes, ribs, and more—brought him endless agony. With painful, twisted hope, he spoke heavily.
There was no room for negotiation now. As a prisoner, Zeus was not asking He-El to spare him. He only wanted hope—an opportunity.
Perhaps this was the last time he would see He-El. Perhaps he would never have another chance to see him again.
He was so humble that he no longer resembled a King of Gods. He was more like an immobilized old man about to die, unable even to breathe one final mouthful of free air—painful, helpless, lost, heartbroken.
He suffered because he had never tried breathing the air of freedom.
The King of Gods of old had been immensely proud. With lightning in hand, he ruled the Divine Realm. Few forces in the entire universe could truly stand alongside the Olympian Pantheon, and no cosmic power dared look down on Zeus.
But now, he sagged like a decrepit old man. The skin stretched over his bones was folded in wrinkles, his life hung by a thread, and he no longer possessed the proud bearing with which he had once regarded He-El as a mere junior.
And Zeus sincerely wanted an opportunity.
Even the proud posture of the King of Gods engraved into his