And Pete... Pete was from Earth. From the twenty-first century. Where gladiatorial combat was a history lesson and summary execution for entertainment was generally considered a bit of a dick move.
"Yeah, no."
He crawled—actually crawled, his one good leg scrabbling in the sand—the short distance to her body. And with the last reserve of his strength, he hauled himself up onto her back and sat down.
Like she was a park bench.
Like she was a piece of furniture.
For a long, stretched-out moment, the entire colosseum seemed to buffer, as if reality itself was trying to process the sheer, magnificent audacity of the insult. He hadn't just shown mercy; he had shown contempt. He had turned a worthy opponent into an object of convenience.
And then—
Laughter.
It started in one section—a low chuckle of disbelief—and spread like a virulent plague through the stands, growing into an uproarious, delighted, disbelieving tsunami of laughter that rocked the arena.
The insult was perfect. Better than an execution, more memorable, more deeply, cuttingly humiliating. They loved it. The sheer, unmitigated balls it took to humiliate a warrior like that!
"The Boy from Beyond! The Giant-Slayer!" they roared. "He takes his rest upon his conquest! He sits on her like a throne!"
"What do you know, fool!"
Pete had no idea they found it insulting. He was completely oblivious to the cultural grenade he had just detonated. He didn't care. He was just tired. His legs hurt. His shoulder hurt. His everything hurt. And the unconscious giantess's back was the only flat, relatively stable surface in the entire arena that wasn't covered in blood-soaked sand.
So he sat there, head hanging, arms dangling at his sides, trying to catch a breath that didn't feel like shattered glass in his chest, trying to understand how his life had gone so completely, utterly, apocalyptically insane in the span of—what, an hour? Two? Time had lost all meaning.
The book. That cursed, beautiful, mysterious book.
The crash. Metal and glass and blinding, final pain.
The Underworld. Horror and nightmare made holy.
Persephone. Her naked form, burned into his memory—perfect and terrible and forbidden. Her rage. Her promise: "I WILL HUNT YOU ACROSS ETERNITY ITSELF!" Hades's vow: "I WILL FIND YOU."
And now... this. A colosseum full of giants. Powers he didn't understand. A fight he'd somehow, impossibly, survived.
Pete sighed, the weight of everything crashing down on him like a physical burden.
How long is this day going to be?
The crowd continued to cheer, their voices blending into a single sustained roar of approval that shook the very foundations of the world.
And then—
It happened.
The air changed. It felt… colder. Tenser. The manic joy of the crowd curdled into something else—anticipation, wary respect, a sudden hush of deference. The cheering faltered, not all at once, but in waves, as sections of the crowd fell silent, their attention drawn to a single point.
Pete felt it, too—a prickle on the back of his neck, a shift in the atmosphere, the sudden, oppressive weight of a new and powerful presence.
He looked up slowly, following the collective gaze of the giants.
At the far end of the arena, in the most ornate viewing box, where silk canopies and cushioned thrones marked the pinnacle of status and wealth, a figure stood.
A giantess.
Even from hundreds of feet away, Pete could see she was different from the others. Taller, maybe thirteen feet of pure, unshakeable authority? Her bearing was studied and deliberate—shoulders back, chin raised, every move conveying a lifetime of being unquestionably obeyed.
Her hair was an architectural marvel, woven through with delicate golden ornaments that caught the light like tiny suns. Her robes were not merely sewn; they were draped—sumptuous, deep purple silk edged with intricate silver embroidery that marked wealth not just as a display, but as a birthright.
Jewelry adoned her throat and wrists—not gaudy, but understated, expensive things that whispered of old power and older money.
But it was her presence that made Pete's stomach knot into a cold, hard lump. She carried herself like someone who didn't just command respect; she demanded it as her due. She was looking directly at him, her gaze a physical thing, assessing, calculating, and deeply, profoundly interested.
Her lips curved into a slight, almost imperceptible smile.
It wasn't a smile of warmth. It wasn't a smile of amusement.
It was a smile of acquisition. It was the look a collector gives a rare, priceless, and slightly dangerous piece she has just decided she must have.
The giantess raised one hand—a casual, almost lazy gesture—and beckoned to him with a single, elegant finger.
Come here.
The entire colosseum held its breath. Tens of thousands of giants, frozen, waiting to see what the mortal would do. Waiting to see if he understood what that simple gesture meant.
Pete sat on the unconscious gladiator's back, bleeding from multiple wounds, exhausted beyond all human comprehension, his body held together by little more than adrenaline and sheer, unyielding stubbornness.
He looked at the giantess in her viewing box. At her robes of imperial purple. At her beckoning finger.
At the smile that promised complications he didn't have the energy, the strength, or the sanity to deal with.
He sighed again, long and deep and full of a soul-weary resignation that came from the very core of his being.
How long is this goddamn day going to be?