Moving day was awkward.
While the rest of the campers were doing their morning chores, Percy and I were packing our bags in the Hermes cabin.
"Well," Luke said, leaning against the doorframe. "It was nice knowing you guys. Try not to let the power go to your heads."
He looked at me specifically. His eyes were unreadable. "Zeus and Poseidon. Under one roof? That's a powder keg."
"I'll try not to electrocute him," I promised, hoisting my duffel bag.
I walked across the green to Cabin One.
Up close, it was even more intimidating. The marble columns were cold to the touch. The bronze doors were so heavy I had to use actual effort to push them open—a feat that would have given a normal human a hernia.
Inside, it was a mausoleum.
There was no furniture, just a massive statue of Zeus in the center—twenty feet tall, staring down at me with judgmental eyes. The "bed" was a niche in the wall with a mattress that felt like it was stuffed with clouds (literally, it was oddly fluffy and damp).
The air smelled like rain and ozone. It was quiet. Too quiet.
"Home sweet home," I muttered, my voice echoing off the marble walls. "Just me and the ego of the King of the Gods."
I threw my bag into a corner. I hated it. It felt like a prison cell designed by an architect who hated comfort.
The Spar (Power Scaling)To burn off the creepy vibe, I went to the arena. I needed to test my new limits.
I found a group of Ares kids practicing. Clarisse wasn't there, but her brothers were.
"Hey!" I shouted. "Who wants to go?"
They looked at me. Since the lightning bolt incident, people were terrified.
"I'm not using the hammer," I promised, holding up my bare hands. "Hand-to-hand. All of you."
There were four of them. They looked at each other, shrugged, and charged.
This is where the difference between human and demigod became terrifyingly clear.
The first kid, Mark, threw a punch. To a mortal, it would have been a blur. To me? It looked like he was moving through molasses.
I didn't just dodge; I flowed. My brain was processing the fight faster than they could think.
I caught Mark's fist. I didn't squeeze; I just stopped it. The kinetic energy traveled up his arm. He gasped.
I pivoted and threw him. I didn't use technique; I used torque. I flung him twenty feet across the arena. He hit a pile of hay bales with enough force to explode them into dust.
The other three jumped me.
One tackled my waist. I didn't budge. It felt like a toddler trying to tackle a tree. I grabbed him by the back of his armor and lifted him one-handed—all 180 pounds of him—and tossed him onto his brother.
Thud. Crack.
"Too slow!" I yelled, feeling the static build under my skin. "Hit harder!"
The last one managed to land a kick to my ribs. It felt like being hit with a baseball bat. It hurt, but my bones were denser than concrete. I didn't break; I just grunted.
I spun and delivered a roundhouse kick. I pulled the power back at the last second, just tapping his chest plate. Even so, the impact lifted him off his feet and sent him skidding ten yards back, carving a trench in the dirt.
I stood there, panting, steam literally rising from my shoulders.
I'm a weapon, I realized. I'm not just a kid who hits the gym. I'm biological artillery.
The ProphecyThat night, the summons came.
Grover found me eating dinner alone at the Zeus table (which was just me, looking lonely).
"Mr. D wants you in the Big House," Grover said, looking nervous. "And Percy. And Annabeth."
We gathered in the rec room. Chiron looked grim. Mr. D looked bored.
"So," Chiron began. "The Oracle."
Percy had just come from the attic. He looked shaken. He'd gotten the prophecy.
"Tell us," Chiron said.
Percy took a breath. "I shall go west, and face the god who has turned. I shall find what was stolen, and see it safely returned."
"Standard stuff," I noted, leaning against the ping-pong table. "Go west. Find the bolt. Easy."
"There's more," Percy said, his voice trembling. "I shall be betrayed by one who calls me a friend. And I shall fail to save what matters most, in the end."
Silence filled the room.
"Betrayal," Chiron sighed. "It is always betrayal."
"Okay," I said, clapping my hands. "Grim. Dark. Love it. When do we leave?"
Chiron turned to me. "We?"
"Yeah. The quest."
"Valerius," Chiron said gently. "A quest is limited to three companions. Three is a sacred number. Percy must go. Grover must guide him. And Annabeth has volunteered to navigate."
"Three?" I laughed. It was a harsh, dry sound. "You're sending a Satyr who eats furniture, a kid who's been here for three days, and... okay, Annabeth is competent. But you're missing the heavy artillery."
"Rules are rules," Mr. D said, taking a sip of Diet Coke. "The ancient laws..."
"Screw the ancient laws!" I snapped. The ping-pong table rattled. A spark of electricity arced from my elbow to the soda can, popping the tab.
"You saw the Hellhound," I argued, stepping forward. "Monsters are getting into the camp. The Pact is broken. You think Hades—or whoever stole the bolt—is going to play by the rules? If you send just them, they die."
I pointed at Percy. "He's the glass cannon. High damage, low defense. I'm the tank. I take the hits so he doesn't have to."
"It is forbidden," Chiron insisted. "A party of four invites disaster."
"Disaster is coming anyway," I countered. "Look, I'm not asking for permission. I'm telling you. I'm going."
I looked Chiron dead in the eye.
"You can either sanction it and give me a bus ticket, or I can follow them on a stolen motorcycle and cause chaos. Your call."
Chiron stared at me. He saw the stubbornness. He saw the "Fatal Flaw" of boredom and arrogance mixing into something dangerous.
He sighed, rubbing his temples. "You are your father's son. Stubborn as a mule."
He looked at Percy. "It is your quest, Percy. Do you want him?"
Percy looked at me. We weren't friends. We were rivals. I made fun of him. I stole his food.
But he also remembered the creek. He remembered me jumping in front of the Hellhound. He remembered me taking the hit.
"He's strong," Percy admitted. "And... he scares the monsters more than I do. Let him come."
"Very well," Chiron relented. "Four. But be warned, Valerius. The number four is not stable. It is the number of death in some cultures. You are tempting fate."
"Fate nodded at me on the highway," I grinned, grabbing an apple from the snack bowl. "We're on a first-name basis."
The DepartureThe next morning, we stood at the top of Half-Blood Hill.
Argus was driving the van.
I had my hammer strapped to my back in a modified guitar case I'd found in the Hermes cabin. I wore a leather jacket over my orange shirt to look less like a target.
Annabeth was checking her dagger. Grover was nervously eating an apple—core, seeds, and stem.
Percy looked at the endless highway stretching west.
"You ready for this?" Percy asked me.
"Please," I scoffed, putting on a pair of sunglasses I'd definitely stolen from the camp store. "I've been ready since I was born. Let's go punch some gods."
We piled into the van.
As we drove away, I looked back at the camp. I saw Luke standing on the hill, watching us go. He raised a hand in farewell.
I didn't wave back.
I know what you're planning, Luke, I thought. And I'm going to ruin it.
The van hit the highway, speeding toward New York City, toward the Underworld, and toward the biggest mess of my second life.
Phase One: The Bus Ride from Hell.