Souls and Recognition
Deep within a European mountain, surrounded by thick forests and trees that seemed to whisper ancient secrets, there was a cave. Not just any cave: anyone who had ever studied old scrolls or followed legends would recognize it.
The moment one stepped inside, the place shone with overflowing riches. Mountains of gold and jewels lay piled alongside corroded weapons and rusted armor—the remains of warriors who had dared to claim the treasure… and who had perished under the fury of its guardian.
A fearsome being, a dragon with jaws full of fangs, capable of breathing fire that reduced everything in its path to ashes. Its wings had carried it high into the skies, and its scales, harder than any steel, made it nearly impenetrable.
Now, that beast lay on the ground. Dead.
And on its back, seated with absolute calm, was a man.
The dragon's soul, still pulsing, slipped free of the corpse. It was immediately absorbed by the man, done so naturally, as if he were simply breathing. His eyes turned reptilian for a brief moment, and when he exhaled, a sigh filled with power echoed through the cave.
Miraak. The First Dragonborn.
"This was far too easy," he muttered with disdain. "The third one this week, and at most they barely reach the level of venerable dragons." His voice dripped with mockery.
He jumped down from the carcass and glanced around. The gold didn't catch his attention. What truly interested him were the minerals infused with magic, the same ones requested by a strange blacksmith who, bound by ancient treaties, could not strike down dragons himself. Miraak gathered them and tossed them into the enchanted bag he had been given, a sack with no bottom that devoured everything thrown into it.
Then he summoned a spectral sword. With the calm precision of a seasoned craftsman, he began to skin the dragon. His cuts were smooth, exact, professional. The task took hours—longer than the battle itself. He removed the hide, bones, even the flesh, which he diced into cubes before storing away.
"The brat will need more nutrients," he muttered without realizing. Once the words left his mouth, he frowned, irritated at himself for thinking of someone other than him.
On his way out, he stopped. He turned to look back at the treasure. Even if it didn't interest him, it was technically his now, and he wouldn't allow anyone to take it without his permission. He raised a hand, and dark curses spilled across the cave, wrapping around the gold, the jewels, and even the walls. Only then did he turn and leave.
Outside, three men were waiting.
The first, upon seeing him, smiled eagerly.
"Well? Did you find them? The minerals?" he asked with excitement.
Miraak tossed the raw fragments at him. The man caught them with fascination, marveling at how they glowed strangely even before being smelted.
The second man hardly paid attention. He was busy eyeing the trees, sketching plans as if already imagining projects that would use the wood.
The third remained seated, calm. When he finally stood, a hammer hung from his belt, and his aura was as restrained as it was powerful.
"Looks like you finished. Thank you. We couldn't touch them ourselves. We tried sending others but… well, I'm sure you saw what became of them. That was the last deposit of that mineral. Thanks."
Miraak only grunted a "Mmm" and began to leave.
"Wait," the blacksmith stopped him. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed Miraak a can of beer. Its name was strange, and the metal of the container seemed unlike any other.
"A gift. I brewed it myself."
Miraak looked at the can, caught it with little interest, and continued walking. Moments later, he vanished in a flash of teleportation magic.
He reappeared in the United States, right in front of the imposing Hotel Valhalla.
As he crossed the doors, a man with a white beard was waiting with a smile: Odin.
"So, you finished. Well done. You really are a machine. Are you sure you don't want to join our pantheon? We're practically from the same mythology," he said, as always trying to recruit him.
"Pass," Miraak replied calmly.
"A shame. Well, for now I don't have any missions for you. But I'm sure the other gods have already heard of your work. It's only a matter of time before you get a call. Sorry for pulling you away from your student this week." Odin's smile grew wider. "You can go back, I'll summon you when needed."
"Thor?" Miraak asked seriously.
"Right, you had something to settle with him." Odin pointed toward a side door. "That way. So they won't destroy my hotel… again."
Miraak walked in that direction with full confidence.
Meanwhile, Odin turned his gaze toward the street. Through the door, he could see a man staring at both him and Miraak with a deep frown before vanishing into thin air.
"I wonder if giant serpents might also carry dragon souls…" Odin murmured grimly. Then he sighed and turned away. He had to prepare more PowerPoint slides for his einherjar's training. Ragnarok was drawing near, and every detail mattered.
If he could count on Miraak's help—the man who could alter fates—then perhaps even the end of the world could change.
At the reception desk, a valkyrie watched the door Miraak had entered. The frame trembled, and from within came a roar of clashing blows and excited laughter.
—
Clank.
Percy stood by the river, surrounded by more than five campers attacking him without pause. His black sword moved with fluidity, like a natural extension of his body. He blocked, deflected, countered… each movement was precise, versatile, and despite the pressure, he seemed to have everything under control.
Chiron and the director watched from a nearby mound. Even other campers had stopped to look, surprised by how Percy dominated the fight. It looked as if even if ten more joined in, the outcome wouldn't change much.
"What do you think?" the director asked with a serious look.
"He couldn't have learned that on his own," Chiron replied, equally serious. "Even if he inherited it, it's too much. Someone has been training him… someone professional. And Percy is holding back."
It was obvious. He defended himself without using the true edge of his sword, as if he knew that with a single cut he could destroy any enemy weapon.
A thrust came directly at his head. Percy merely tilted his neck, dodging calmly, and with the blunt side of his sword struck his attacker across the face. The boy collapsed to the ground, nose bleeding.
From the side, Clarisse—daughter of Ares, god of war—charged with her spear. Percy ducked, letting the tip pass over him, and at the same time raised his sword to block another strike. Then he turned and delivered a brutal kick to the chest of the attacker, sending her flying across the sand.
Clarisse's fury ignited at seeing her companions fall. She began to move her spear faster, with lethal precision, aiming directly at Percy's vital points.
He slid to the side and raised his knee, knocking the spear upward. The imbalance was enough: Percy spun and landed a kick that hurled Clarisse several meters away, though she managed to use the shaft of her weapon as a shield at the last second.
Percy's movements weren't limited to his sword. Every muscle in his body responded with total control, as if all of him had been forged for combat. After all, Miraak had trained him for this long before teaching him to wield a blade.
"Fools, surround him!" Clarisse shouted angrily. Her allies hesitated. They had seen Percy's superhuman strength, and none wanted to be the next to test it.
Finally, with a roar, they rushed in to encircle him. Percy was sweating now, but he didn't yield. Ever since Annabeth had put him in the vanguard—or rather, as a distraction—he hadn't stopped receiving attacks. And of course, Percy knew this was all Clarisse's revenge for what happened in the bathrooms, when he had used the toilet water against her.
"Being popular isn't as fun as I thought," Percy muttered with self-mockery, deflecting three consecutive attacks. A kick to the chest of one, then a jump and a double kick to two more, and suddenly… he felt it.
Clarisse's spear shot straight toward his face. Percy raised his free hand and caught it just before it reached him.
A spark of electricity surged through his arm. The spear lit up, electrocuting his hand. Percy released it immediately, and the tip kept going, aiming at his left eye. He shifted to the side, irritated now, and for the first time wielded in earnest the sword his master had given him.
With a downward slash, he cut the spear as if it were butter. The other campers attacked him all at once, and Percy spun, slicing their weapons apart one by one as though they were dry branches.
His next move was a Spartan kick, this time charged with anger. Clarisse, still in shock at seeing the spear her father had given her destroyed, had no time to react. The blow launched her across several trees before she hit the ground unconscious, probably with broken bones.
"Oh, damn…" Percy froze, realizing he had gone too far. He had assumed the other demigods were as resistant as he was… but they weren't.
The remaining opponents glanced at their broken weapons, then at the unconscious Clarisse… and dropped their arms, raising their hands in surrender just as Percy's team arrived with the captured flag.
Yes. This had only been a game of "capture the flag" at Camp Half-Blood. A game with real weapons, real blows, almost deadly… but a game nonetheless.
Clarisse's allies quickly ran to her, carrying her on a stretcher toward the infirmary.
Meanwhile, Percy's teammates surrounded him with cries of triumph. They lifted him onto their shoulders, celebrating that thanks to him they had won the match. Percy had held off most of the enemy forces on his own, taking all the pressure.
Annabeth, smiling, pointed at the river. Percy and the others understood instantly. With joy, they all jumped into the water with him, celebrating their victory.
That was when they saw it.
The reflection on the surface rose into the air: a shining trident.
The son of Poseidon had been recognized.
Percy Jackson.