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Chapter 1 - Metamorphoses
🕑 Added 2025-11-27 09:08:13 +0000 UTCA/N: Just a rewrite of the first four chapters in much better quality, expect a new chapter soon! Also, posting a new Spider-Man fanfic! Check it out!
Also, surprise! Hahaha, only took um, a couple years for an upload.
My b.
Fate/Defiance (Revised)
Chapter 1 - Metamorphoses
"Icarus! Get over here!" The voice of an older man carried across the yard of a small but lavishly warded house in Athens.
“Coming!” a boy’s voice called back.
Icarus pushed himself off the ground where he had been finishing his morning exercises. Sweat clung to his brow, and he wiped it away before scrambling to his feet. He jogged toward the house, passing a stone golem that stood guard by the doorway, its carved eyes glowing faintly with mana.
Inside, he followed the familiar tug of his father’s voice, weaving through the corridors lined with wards and traps that only he could safely ignore. His father’s workshop lay in the basement, shielded by a personal bounded field that pulsed faintly against his senses.
As he descended, Icarus couldn’t help but reflect.
Five years had passed since his death in another world—a death he remembered only in fragments, foggy and indistinct. Yet here he was, reincarnated not just into another life, but into this one, a legendary fictional character—Icarus of Greek Mythology!
The boy doomed by his own arrogance. The most iconic cautionary tale of “know your limits.”
Well, he thought grimly, I’m sure as hell not going anywhere close to the sun on a pair of wax wings!
Hanging his head in complaint, Icarus briefly lamented about the misfortune of not being reborn in some generic power fantasy setting with the usual ‘harem protagonist with god-tier plot armor’ deal.
Thankfully, things weren't all bad for him, people adapt over time and Icarus just so happened to be one of them. Fortunately, he had plenty of things to distract himself with—chief among them, his eccentric father.
Shaking his head from his thoughts, Icarus continued towards the basement of his small home.
The door to the workshop parted as he stepped through, the bounded field rippling across his skin like a warm wind. The space within was vast, larger than it had any right to be, packed with tools, tables, and half-assembled devices. Golems shuffled about, their movements precise and wordless. The scent of parchment, metal, and smelted stone clung to the air.
He honestly pitied any fool who dared to trespass into this workshop, one belonging to the legendary architect of the labyrinth. Even if that had yet to happen, the blueprints of what could be were already clear.
At the center stood his father.
Daedalus.
There was no denying the man had a presence to him.
He was hunched over a steaming pot, ladle in hand, his sharp features illuminated by the glow of molten substance. His genius was already recognized throughout Athens, even before the labyrinth that would one day etch his name into eternity.
Icarus was just satisfied that his father's talent and local fame allowed them a stable income, sparing him from a more desperate lifestyle.
He suppressed a shiver running down his spine from the memories of the male brothels he had seen throughout Athens—along with some sightings of pederasty.
Icarus' eyes scanned the workshop, no matter how many times he saw it, he always found it impressive. The bounded field surrounding it was very powerful, even to the point of expanding the space inside to accommodate the various tools and projects within.
He glanced at Icarus briefly, then back to his work as he spoke, “Ah! Just in time. Quickly, grab that mold by your foot.”
Icarus stooped to pick up a thin, circular mold with a small hole at the top.
“Hurry, boy! Don’t dawdle!”
He rushed forward, holding it out, but Daedalus snapped at him. “Not to me, you dolt—on the table!”
Suppressing irritation, Icarus set it down as instructed. The automatons lumbered forward, assisting Daedalus in lifting the heavy pot and pouring its molten contents into the mold. A hiss filled the workshop as the red tinted but translucent liquid cooled, settling into a yellowish and transparent circle marbled with foggy imperfections.
Primitive glass, by the look of it. Though it had a distinctive scaled texture.
“Do you remember the purification spell I taught you?” Daedalus asked, already reaching for a brush tipped in black paint.
“…Yes,” Icarus said, bracing himself.
“Good. Cast it with me.”
Daedalus intoned, “ἀποτρέπειν!” (to ward off), his brush sweeping across the surface in measured strokes. The mana in his words coiled around the paint, sinking into the glass.
Icarus echoed, “καθαρίζω!” (purify).
Divine Words left his lips, as the world’s mana was invoked through him like a sixth sense, crawling along his skin, seeping into the glass. He could feel their respective spells coalescing together as the fog and bubbles inside faded, and the yellow tint gave way to a faint, iridescent glow. Daedalus’ painted symbol—a stark black eye—stared back at them, its pupil a void where the glow could not reach.
Icarus gazed at the glass eye as it eerily gleamed back with quiet menace.
Daedalus exhaled, inspecting it with a critical look before nodding in approval. Without a word of thanks, he waved Icarus away and returned to work.
Suppressing a sigh, Icarus left. He’d grown used to this—the dismissal, the casual disregard, the pride that tolerated no rivals.
His father having many issues was an understatement, and he was getting tired of having to often feign incompetence in order not to bring about the wrath of Daedalus' erratic and intense inferiority-superiority complexes.
Back outside, he dropped to the grass with frustration and resumed his exercises. His father’s shadow loomed large, but so did his own ambition—or, at least, motivation.
Because this wasn’t just Greece.
It was the Nasuverse.
He ran through the memories of the time he found out he wasn't just in Greek Mythology, but actually within the Greek Mythology of a fictional world, or more specifically the Nasuverse—a collection of different popular anime and games like Fate Stay/Night, Tsukihime, and Fate/Grand Order, created by the company Type-Moon or more particularly the author Kinoko Nasu, the verse's namesake.
How very… absurd.
A world of gods, monsters, and magi. A world where “mystery” governed reality, where the very air pulsed with mana thick enough to casually kill a human from modern times.
The Age of the Gods.
An era and setting as awe inspiring as it was pants shittingly terrifying. His initial reaction to this sudden predicament was a lost and confused soulful plea to go home. Or, at least, his own time period, one where he didn’t feel so utterly alone, out of place, and just uncomfortable.
One where his greatest protection against the big scary world wasn’t an unstable stranger.
In the beginning, when he first regained his memories, he had instantly given up any hope of returning to his time period. It wasn't like he could speedrun the tech tree, multiply his IQ a thousandfold, and then miraculously build a time machine…
But then his father showed him magic.
Icarus may not have ranked amongst the smartest people in the world, but he was far from the dumbest. With the help of his father's explanations of magic, he was able to piece together various context clues and infer out about ‘where’ he was reborn.
He was a bit frustrated he wasn't in any of the time periods he recognized from the series. But in the end, he decided to stay optimistic, happy to be able to identify where he was at all… as the saying goes—better the enemy you know than the one you don't.
But with this revelation, came a major shift in his thoughts and goals. As horrifying and dangerous being in the Nasuverse's version of Greek Mythology was—with phantasmal species of legend roaming throughout the land, alongside some of the most prolific and debaucherous Gods in all of mythology.[1]
It wasn't without opportunity, for Icarus had glimpsed a possibility.
The Throne of Heroes.
If he could carve a legend strong enough, he could ascend to the throne as a Heroic Spirit, his soul severed from the cycle of reincarnation—his name immortalized through generations of awe and worship.
…And Heroic Spirits could be summoned across eras—a proxy for time travel.
But, there were a few issues with this plan.
Any version of him summoned would not truly be him, just some strange rendition of him—as souls don't actually leave the Throne of Heroes when summoned. They are instead copied and then deposited into a suitable servant class.
Not to mention the sheer influence that the belief of others would burden it with—for better or worse. Who knows how much of him would remain in his servant form.
…He would have to find some kind of workaround. But it was something. Better than despair. Better than drowning in confusion and insecurity.
At the very least, he'd make sure no one could say he didn't aim high or give it his all, as he really didn't want to die—especially from drowning to death like ‘his’ original destiny… and that's only if he survived hitting the sea at terminal velocity.
Sheesh, he thought with a shiver, Now that would be a horrible one-two combo.
Panting through his sit-ups, he tugged at the collar of his toga, glancing at his body. Eight years old, yet his muscles were already sharply defined, with mana shimmered faintly beneath his skin. This was the blessing—and curse—of being born into an era steeped in mystery.
He was no longer surprised by it, after becoming desensitized over the years.
His body in this life was much stronger than his previous one, even though he was only eight years old, he estimated his current strength to be about the level of a very athletic full-grown adult from his past life.
The humans of this time period were different from their future counterparts, one of these differences was that humans of this era were accustomed to the sheer density of the Mana contained in the atmosphere.
If someone of the modern era traveled back in time without specialized protection, their bodies would simply implode from being exposed to such highly concentrated amounts of mana.
It was the Age of the Gods after all, and humanity had not fully separated from the 'World' or Gaia. Mankind was still not truly the planet's dominant species for some time.
Nature had yet to realize that it had created something separate from itself.
Icarus thought of an example he had once overheard from some of Athens’ physicians. Here, instead of the brain being the organ that dictates everything about how we perceive the outside world, something like emotion would be widely considered to originate from the liver—and that would technically be correct.
Because the human body was not something definitively known, this allowed it to be steeped in 'mystery.’
Mystery, a sliver of power that comes in many shapes and forms—originating straight from the Root, and in which all supernatural abilities are sourced from.
Here, belief shaped truth. Organs governed emotions, curses struck like arrows, and superstition carried weight. Spells and artifacts weren’t crude tricks, but masterpieces brimming with the World’s power.
The planet’s texture of reality was a whimsical fantasy land governed by the Gods and their monsters, not men. And as such, followed the laws of mystery—not physics.
Superstitions instead of facts… and the more mysterious, the more potent.
Icarus simplified this in his mind by thinking of a spell here as the personal masterpiece created by a renowned artisan, the reason that masterpiece is so valuable is because of how rare and difficult it was to create.
While in contrast, something similar made during the modern era could be easily mass-produced and obtained anywhere, causing it to lose that unique value.
And the World took notice of that.
This not only gives the magic of this time a large boost in strength, but it also applies to everything currently in existence, elevating them with that additional value of their 'mystery.'
That sliver of conceptual power not only grants humans of this age greater power and strength, but even resistance to those with a lower form of mystery, causing the magecraft of the future to have a diminished effect on humans and beings of the past.
He grinned faintly, chest burning from exertion. Opportunity thrived here. If he played his cards right, he could seize it.
All of these variables together allowed him a much larger opportunity for growth, with the potential to even elevate himself to the position of a God.
While it would be immensely difficult to actually do such a thing, he would still have a much easier time pursuing his aims and gathering power during this era in comparison to other ones.
He was mostly just glad he was not born even earlier, when the Age of the Gods had not even begun to stagnate and the influence of human belief was negligible, so much so that even 'laws' such as gravity were undeterminable.
As his muscles started to ache too much to continue, Icarus finished his workout and started to busy himself until eventually evening fell, and Daedalus finally emerged from his workshop.
Icarus, curiosity gnawing, seized his chance.
“Father,” he asked, masking eagerness with reverence, “That creation earlier—it seemed another great invention. What was it?”
Flattery worked. Daedalus’ eyes lit with pride. “That, my son, was an apotropaic artifact—an amulet to ward off curses and the evil eye.”
Icarus feigned awe but listened keenly. In Athens, the evil eye was feared—a glance that could bring sickness or ruin. It was a common superstition throughout all of Greece, that a malevolent glare, usually given to a person when one is unaware, could cause things such as illness, injury, or misfortune.
He bit down his instinctive reaction of disbelief. Here, with belief shaping reality, such superstition wasn’t mere paranoia—it was truth.
Daedalus went on, chin lifted. “The material was isinglass, a type of transparent substance obtained after being processed from the bladder of a fish. I heated it into a mold, purified it with your help, and painted it with blessed ink. Thus it gains strength against misfortune.”
“Why did it glow after I purified it?” Icarus pressed on, internally enamored with his explanation.
A thin smile. “Because that bladder came from a fish blessed by Poseidon. Raw, it still bore impurities—hence why I needed you. But once cleansed, the divine trace revealed itself. That glow reflects curses as a mirror does light.”
Icarus’ eyes narrowed in admiration—and calculation. “And the eye you painted?”
“The eye declares what is warded against. It also warns malice that it is being watched. As for the paint—it was blessed through sacrifice to the Rich One. Black animals to the Lord of the Underworld himself. Only Hades’ mark can drive away what festers in shadow.”
“…Wow.” This time, his awe was genuine.
This world was alien, perilous, and strange. Yet it brimmed with wonder.
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Glossary
[1] Phantasmal Species
The common term used to refer to all non-human creatures that are found in legends and fantasy.
