The next morning, the adrenaline had faded, and the boredom had set in.
Camp life was structured. Strict. Boring.
Breakfast at eight. Inspection at nine. Archery at ten.
I failed Archery immediately. I pulled the bowstring back too hard and snapped the bow in half. Chiron politely asked me to stop touching the equipment.
By the time we got to the Arena for sword practice, I was itching to hit something that wouldn't break.
The Arena was an amphitheater with dirt floors and straw dummies. Luke Castellan was waiting for us. He looked annoying competent, tossing a sword from hand to hand like it was a toy.
"Alright, cupcakes," Luke called out to the Hermes cabin. "Pair up. Basic disarming techniques. Try not to stab your partner."
I stood there, arms crossed. "I don't have a sword."
Luke looked at me. He smirked. "Right. The strongman. Let's find you something."
The Weapon SelectionWe walked over to the weapon racks. There were hundreds of swords—bronze, iron, steel.
"You need balance," Luke said, handing me a standard Greek xiphos. "Try this."
I took it. It felt like a toothpick.
"Too light," I said, swinging it. I accidentally clipped a wooden rack, slicing a chunk off the corner. "It feels like I'm swinging a feather."
Luke frowned. He handed me a Kopis—a curved hacking blade.
"Better," I muttered. "But the handle is too small. My hands are too big."
"You're picky for a newbie," Luke noted. He went to the back of the rack and pulled out something heavier. It was a claymore—a two-handed greatsword.
I grabbed it with one hand. It was heavy, definitely, but the balance was off. It was clumsy.
"No," I said, putting it back. "I don't need a sword. I need... impact."
I looked around the rack. In the corner, dusty and neglected, was a War Hammer.
It wasn't huge like a cartoon hammer. It was a solid block of celestial bronze on a three-foot haft, with a spike on the back. It looked brutal. Efficient.
I picked it up.
The weight was perfect. It forced me to use my shoulder and my hips. It wasn't a finesse weapon; it was a "door opener."
"A hammer?" Luke raised an eyebrow. "That's slow. If you miss, you're open."
"I don't plan on missing," I said, giving it a test swing. The air whooshed with a satisfying heavy sound.
"Alright, Thor," Luke laughed. "Let's see if you can use it. Spar with me."
The Reality CheckThe cabin went quiet. Everyone wanted to see the new guy fight the best swordsman in camp.
I walked into the center of the ring. I felt confident. I was faster than them. Stronger than them. I had memories of watching MMA fights in my old life.
Luke stood opposite me. He held his sword, Backbiter, low and loose. He looked relaxed. Too relaxed.
"Ready?" Luke asked.
"Born ready," I grinned.
I charged.
I used my speed. I closed the gap instantly and swung the hammer in a horizontal arc, aiming for his ribs. If it connected, it would have cracked a rib, armor or not.
But Luke wasn't there.
He didn't block. He didn't panic. He just... stepped.
He pivoted on his back foot, letting my hammer whistle past his chest by an inch. My momentum carried me forward, off-balance.
WHACK.
Luke tapped the flat of his blade against my butt.
"Dead," Luke said casually.
The campers laughed. My face heated up.
"Lucky dodge," I growled.
I spun around and swung again, this time an overhead smash.
Luke stepped inside my guard. He used the hilt of his sword to hook my hammer's handle, deflecting it into the dirt. In the same motion, he swept my legs.
I hit the ground hard. Dust puffed up around me. The tip of Luke's sword was hovering over my throat before I could even blink.
"Dead again," Luke said, smiling down at me. "You're strong, Valerius. You're terrifyingly strong. But you telegraph everything. You wind up like a pitcher."
I stared up at him. The humiliation burned, but something else burned hotter: Respect.
This wasn't a movie. In the movies, the hero picks up a sword and is instantly a master. In reality, Luke had years of training. He understood leverage, footwork, and timing.
I wasn't the main character yet. I was just a guy with a big hammer.
I swatted his sword away and sat up. "Okay. You made your point."
Luke offered me a hand. I took it, and he hauled me up.
"Strength gets you into the fight," Luke said quietly, so only I could hear. "Skill gets you out of it. You want to survive the real world? Learn to use your feet, not just your arms."
"Teach me," I said.
Luke's smile widened. It was the smile of a predator who just found a promising cub. "Be here at dawn. Before breakfast. We'll fix that footwork."
The SpectatorI walked back to the sidelines, dusting myself off.
Percy was standing there, watching. He looked intimidated.
"You okay?" Percy asked. "He destroyed you."
"He's good," I admitted, rubbing my bruised ego. "Better than I thought."
"I don't want to fight him," Percy said, looking at the sword in his own hand like it was a venomous snake.
"You won't have to," I said, patting Percy on the shoulder. "Luke's on our team. For now."
I looked back at Luke. He was sparring with two Hermes kids at once, laughing.
He's the traitor, I reminded myself. He's going to try to kill us.
But as I watched him move, I realized something terrifying. If I had to fight Luke Castellan to the death right now... I would lose.
I gripped my hammer tighter.
I need to level up, I thought. Fast.
"Friday," I muttered. "Capture the Flag. That's where I show them what a tank can do."