I'd taken three steps toward D-Block when my vision swam.
Four steps and my legs had felt like they were made of water.
Five steps and the world tilted sideways.
Six—
I hit the ground. Hard.
Face-first into the ground.
Couldn't get up. Couldn't move.
My arms wouldn't respond. My legs were dead weight. My entire body had just... stopped.
And finaly my stomach heaved.
I managed to turn my head just in time before I vomited.
Everything came up. The food the Hunters had given me. The water. The small piece of ambrosia. All of it expelled in violent, painful spasms that made my cracked ribs scream.
But it wasn't just physical.
It was my body rejecting what my mind had processed.
What I'd done.
I'd killed them.
James. Leo. Andrea.
People.
My age. Maybe a few years older than me.
I vomited again. Nothing left but bile and stomach acid and horror.
My hands were shaking. Not just trembling. Violent shaking like I was having a seizure. I tried to make them stop. Couldn't. They just kept shaking and shaking and shaking.
I tried to push myself up.
My arms gave out. Face hit the ground again. Tasted blood. Tasted bile. Tasted failure.
"Get up," I told myself. Voice barely a whisper.
Another wave of nausea. More vomiting. Dry heaves now. Body trying to purge something that couldn't be vomited out.
Guilt.
The smell hit me then.
Burnt flesh. Charred meat. Smoke and death and evidence.
I could smell what I'd done.
James burning from the inside. The scent of cooked meat that used to be a person. Maybe Seventeen years old. Maybe had a family. Maybe had dreams. I'd burned it all away.
My stomach heaved again. Nothing left. Just painful spasms that made my ribs crack and grind.
My armor was flickering. The Kavach unstable. Crackling in and out of existence. Golden light strobing like a dying bulb. Not from damage alone. From exhaustion. From being pushed too far for too long.
Because I was empty.
My heart was racing. Too fast. Too hard. Like it was trying to escape my ribcage. Panic attack. I knew what it was. Didn't make it any easier.
Couldn't breathe. Couldn't think.
The ringing in my ears wouldn't stop. High-pitched. Constant. Maddening.
I saw their faces.
James. Leo. Andrea.
I didn't know them. Didn't know their favorite colors or their fears or what they wanted to be when they grew up.
They were just... people.
Sixteen. Seventeen. My age. Maybe older.
And I was the reason they were dead.
James— an arrow through the chest. Watched him burn from the inside.
And I'd felt satisfied.
"No," I whimpered. "No no no no—"
Leo—headshot. Temple. Instant. He dropped like a puppet with cut strings.
Andrea—tried to run. Arrow between her shoulder blades. I heard her scream before the fire took her.
I did that.
I chose that.
I pulled the string. I released. I killed.
My breathing was wrong now. Too fast. Too shallow. Hyperventilating. Chest felt crushed. Like someone was sitting on my ribs. Like I was drowning in air.
"I killed them," I gasped to the empty chamber. To the bodies lying twenty feet away. To the universe. "I killed them. People. Just people. What gave me the right—"
My vision was darkening at the edges. Not from blood loss. Not from exhaustion.
From horror.
From the realization.
What I'd done.
I tried to stand again. Got to my knees. The world spun. Vomited again. Dry heaves. Painful. Body rejecting itself.
Fell back down.
"I killed them," I whispered through tears and bile and blood. "I ended them. Snuffed out their lives. What gave me the right? What made me the one who decides who lives and who dies?"
That was the worst part.
Not that I'd killed them.
But that for one shining moment, when they fell, when they died, when Luke's face showed horror—
I'd felt powerful.
I'd felt vindicated.
I'd felt good.
The chamber was silent except for my broken crying.
The Internal War
It started with voices in my head. My OWN voice. Spiraling.
"I killed them."
"Three people."
"Three LIVES."
"What gave me the right?"
"What made ME the arbiter? The judge? The EXECUTIONER?"
"I pulled the string. I released. I CHOSE."
"It was necessary—"
"Was it? Was it necessary?
"They were enemies—"
"They were PEOPLE. With families. With futures. With LIVES I had no right to END."
"But I DID end them."
"And now what? I just... keep going? Pretend it didn't happen? Pretend I'm not a KILLER?"
"I AM a killer."
"I am a MURDERER."
"I took three lives and part of me felt POWERFUL—"
"STOP—"
"Part of me felt VINDICATED—"
"STOP IT—"
"Part of me ENJOYED watching them DIE—"
"THAT'S NOT WHO I AM—"
"Then WHO ARE YOU?"
"I don't KNOW anymore—"
"How do you—"
"STOP!" I screamed it. At myself. At the spiral. At the MADNESS.
The chamber echoed with it.
Then silence.
Just my ragged breathing. Just my racing heart. Just my mind BREAKING.
And then I heard it.
Three voices. Overlapping. Demanding.
"WHY?"
I froze.
Looked up.
James's body. Twenty feet away. Unmoving. Dead.
But his voice—
"WHY?" James asked. Not accusing. Not angry. Just... asking. Needing to KNOW.
Leo's voice joined. "WHY?"
My head snapped toward his body. Still. Dead. But speaking.
Andrea's voice. Soft. Confused. "WHY?"
"No," I gasped. "No, you're not—you're dead—this isn't REAL—"
"WHY?" All three voices together now. Overlapping. Echoing.
"I don't—I can't—"
"WHY did you kill us?"
"WHY did you choose US?"
"WHY?"
"WHY?"
"WHY?"
The questions came faster. Louder. RELENTLESS.
I couldn't answer. Had NO answer. What could I possibly SAY?
Because I was angry? Because they were in my way? Because I COULD?
None of those were REASONS. None of those justified ANYTHING.
"I don't know," I choked out. "I don't KNOW—"
"WHY?" they demanded. Insistent. Unyielding.
"I don't—I was—it was—"
"WHY?"
"STOP!" I screamed at the bodies. At the voices. At my own GUILT manifesting as auditory hallucinations demanding answers I didn't HAVE. "STOP STOP STOP—"
Silence.
Just bodies. Just smoke. Just the crackle of distant Greek fire.
No voices.
They were DEAD. They couldn't talk. This was just my mind BREAKING under the weight of what I'd done.
"I'm losing it," I whispered. "I'm actually losing my mind."
My vision was blurring. Not from tears now. From something else.
The edges going dark. Going SOFT.
"Dragon," I tried to say. "Have to... mission... can't..."
The world was fading.
"Can't give up... have to..."
My arms gave out completely. Face hit the stone.
"Have to..."
Darkness.
Warm. Soft. FINAL.
No, I thought distantly. Not like this. Can't end like this. Dragon needs...
But the darkness was so HEAVY.
And I was so TIRED.
So tired of fighting. Of hurting. Of CARRYING this weight.
Maybe... maybe it would be easier to just...
Let go.
The Abyss
Silence.
Just me. The bodies. The smoke.
I couldn't move.
Didn't WANT to move.
What was the point?
I'd killed them. Three people.
Ended their lives because I was ANGRY. Because Luke betrayed me. Because I couldn't control my RAGE. Because I was DESPERATE.
What gave me the right?
No answer.
WHY did I do it?
No answer.
Just silence. Just guilt. Just the WEIGHT of three lives pressing down on my chest like the world itself.
I lay there. Face against the cooling glass. Blood and bile and tears mixing on the stone.
And I started to sink.
Not physically. Mentally.
Into the dark place. The place where thoughts spiral and twist and BREAK.
You're a killer.
You're a murderer.
You ended three lives and part of you ENJOYED it.
What does that make you?
The questions came faster. Sharper. Like knives cutting into my mind.
You can't take it back.
Can't undo it.
Can't make them breathe again.
They're DEAD. Permanently. Because of YOU.
My breathing was wrong. Too fast. Too shallow. Hyperventilating again but I couldn't STOP.
You pulled the string.
You chose the targets.
You made it HURT.
MONSTER.
"I'm not—" I tried to say. Voice barely a whisper.
Then what are you?
"I'm—I was—I didn't mean—"
You DID mean it. You CHOSE it.
"No—"
YES. You felt POWERFUL when they fell. Felt VINDICATED. Felt GOOD.
"STOP—"
You can't stop. This is WHO YOU ARE now. Someone who kills. Someone who burns people alive. Someone who—
I couldn't breathe. Couldn't THINK. The spiral was pulling me down, down, DOWN into darkness and despair and HORROR at what I'd become.
My vision was going dark at the edges. Not from blood loss. From SHUTDOWN. My mind giving up. Surrendering. Letting the guilt and horror and WEIGHT crush me completely.
Just let go. Just sink. Just stop FIGHTING. It would be easier. Quieter. No more guilt. No more horror. No more—
And then—
From somewhere deep in the prison—
A ROAR.
Desperate. AGONIZED.
The dragon.
My eyes snapped open.
OF COURSE the dragon's dying ROAR was what snapped me out of my guilt spiral. Not self-reflection. Not inner strength. Not some profound realization.
Just a really well-timed roar from a tortured reptile.
Classic Aditya luck.
The scream came again. Louder now. Closer? No. Just... more URGENT. More desperate. More PAIN.
The dragon was dying.
While I lay here drowning in guilt. While I let the weight crush me. While I GAVE UP.
The dragon was DYING.
No.
The thought was small. Distant. But THERE.
No. Can't stop. Have to—have to move. Have to—
Another scream. This one weaker. Fading.
Running out of time.
Get up.
I couldn't.
GET UP.
My body wouldn't respond. Too broken. Too tired. Too CRUSHED under the weight.
If you give up now, they died for NOTHING. The dragon dies for NOTHING. Everything you did—the fighting, the killing—all of it for NOTHING.
Another scream.
MOVE.
My hand twitched.
Just a finger. Just one finger curling against the stone.
Move. MOVE. MOVE.
Another twitch. My palm. Pressing down.
The dragon screamed again. The sound wet. Desperate.
It needs you. Whatever you are. Whatever you've BECOME. That dragon needs you RIGHT NOW.
I pushed.
My arm screamed in protest. My ribs ground against each other. My entire body was PAIN.
But I pushed.
Got to one elbow.
Keep going.
The other elbow.
Keep going.
Hands beneath me. Pushing. Shaking. Barely holding.
Keep. Going.
To my knees. The world spun. Tilted. Wrong.
But I was KNEELING.
Stand.
I couldn't.
STAND.
One foot on the ground. Then the other. Legs shaking like they were made of water and regret.
Pushed up.
STOOD.
Swaying. Barely upright. Vision swimming. Everything PAIN.
But standing.
The dragon screamed.
And I started moving.
One step. Then another. Slow. Stumbling. Wrong.
But MOVING.
Not because I'd forgiven myself. Not because the guilt was gone. Not because I'd found some answer or peace or UNDERSTANDING.
But because the dragon was dying.
And I'd already killed three people today.
I wasn't going to the reason for another death.
The Inventory
"Okay," I gasped. "Inventory. Take stock. Then dragon."
Physical Inventory:
HEAD:
Concussion: Definitely.
Ringing in ears: Constant.
Vision: Blurry.
Assessment: 3/10. Functional but barely.
TORSO:
Ribs: Cracked. Maybe broken. Three? Four? Lost count.
Breathing: Painful. Shallow. Functional.
Assessment: 2/10. Every breath hurts.
ARMS:
Left shoulder: Dislocated. Popped it back in earlier. Still screaming.
Right forearm: Deep cut. Still bleeding a litle.
Hands: Shaking. Can barely grip.
Assessment: 4/10. Can hold sword if I ignore the pain.
LEGS:
Left knee: Bad. Really bad. Nearly gave out twice.
Right thigh: Grazed by spear. Shallow. Overall: Wobbly. Unreliable.
Assessment: 4/10. Can walk.
ARMOR:
Kavach: Spider-webbed with cracks. One good hit and it shatters.
Assessment: 1/10. Better than nothing. Not by much.
MENTAL STATE:
[ERROR: Cannot compute. System experiencing critical failure.]
Assessment: Don't think about it. Just move.
OVERALL COMBAT READINESS: 2.8/10
Recommendation: Lie down and die. Actual Plan: Keep moving anyway.
The bodies were still there. Behind me.
I couldn't think about them.
Not yet.
Dragon first.
I walked Swaying. Used my sword as a crutch.
"Right," I said to the empty chamber. "Time to save a dragon."
The dragon screamed. Weaker..
Walking Past Them
The path to D-Block by cursed fate led through the gathering area so I had to turn around and walk .
Past them.
My legs nearly gave out.
Don't look.
I could see shapes. Peripherally. Bodies that used to be people.
Don't look don't look DON'T LOOK.
My mind was barely holding together. If I looked—if I really SAW—
I wouldn't get back up.
Keep moving. Eyes forward.
Twenty feet to my left. I could smell it. Burnt flesh. Silence where breathing should be.
Eyes. Forward.
Peripheral vision catching shapes. An arm. Armor.
I forced my eyes straight ahead. Locked on the D-Block doors.
If you look, you'll stop. If you stop, you'll break. The dragon will die.
One foot in front of the other. Mechanical. Not thinking. Not FEELING.
Just moving.
Don't look—
A sound escaped my throat. Half sob. Half whimper.
Because I WANTED to look. Part of me needed to.
NO.
Not now. Not yet.
Maybe later. Maybe never.
But not now.
Eyes forward.
Past the first body. Didn't look. Kept walking.
Eyes forward.
Past the second. Hands shaking. Didn't look.
Eyes forward.
Past the third. Tears streaming. Didn't look.
Just kept walking.
Eyes locked on the D-Block doors.
I'm sorry. But I can't—I can't look. Can't break. Not yet.
Twenty steps. Fifteen. Ten.
My vision blurring from the EFFORT of not looking back.
Five steps.
I'll come back. Maybe. When I can.
Knew I was lying.
Two steps.
I'm sorry.
One step.
I reached the doors.
Didn't look back.
Couldn't.
Put my hand on the door. Pushed.
Left them behind.
The dragon screamed.
I stepped through.
Perses
The chamber was massive. Cathedral-like.
In the center—
The dragon.
Chained. Broken. Thirty feet of dull red scales scarred with TORTURE. One wing riddled with celestial bronze hooks. Chains burning at neck and limbs.
Its eyes—gods, its eyes.
Still aware. Still INTELLIGENT. Still fighting.
But dying.
Greek fire burns covered its body. Festering. The smell was HORRIFIC.
And standing beside it—
A Titan.
NINE feet tall. Armored in black bronze. Wild dark hair. Eyes broken yet glowing sickly yellow. An eight-foot halberd rested against his shoulder, blade chipped yet sharp.
His smile was too wide. Too many teeth. Like something had broken in his face.
"Perses," I whispered.
The Titan's head SNAPPED toward me.
He laughed—a sound like boulders shattering.
"The BOY knows my name!" His voice shifted, mocking mine. "'Perses!'" High-pitched. Cruel. "How DELIGHTFUL!"
He spun, halberd swinging wide.
"Luke SAID you were strong. I said no, But look!" He gestured wildly. "You're HERE! ALIVE! After fighting through MY fortress!"
His tone shifted—dark, bitter, wounded.
"Though you DID destroy my dock. My entrance. My STORAGE." The halberd slammed into stone. "Do you know how long it took to collect that Greek fire? WEEKS of WORK."
Back to theatrical, voice climbing.
"But that's FINE because you look RUINED. Barely STANDING. Covered in blood and guilt. Eyes all dead and empty."
He giggled. The sound WRONG from a nine-foot Titan.
"You killed my demigods, didn't you? I can SMELL it. Death and guilt and 'oh no, what have I DONE?'" He mimicked crying. "So tragic. The golden boy became a KILLER."
Expression shifted—sudden rage.
"Those were MINE! Luke PROMISED me soldiers and you just MURDERED them!"
Back to manic.
"But the SCREAMING was probably excellent! Did they BEG? Did they CRY?"
I stared at this fractured THING. Shattered by Tartarus. Never healed right.
"Was it worth it?" Perses asked, mock-philosophical. "All that fighting? All that DYING?" Arms spread wide. "The dragon's still CHAINED. Still DYING. And you're about to join it."
I laughed.
Broken. Hollow. Wrong.
But I laughed.
Perses stopped. His smile faltered.
"What's so FUNNY?"
"You. Asking if it was worth it." I took a step forward. Swaying. Barely upright. "Three people are dead because of me. I'm fourteen and I'm a killer."
Another step.
"But that dragon is still ALIVE. Still breathing. Still FIGHTING."
I raised my greatsword. Hand shaking.
"So yeah, Titan. It was worth it."
Perses's smile disappeared.
His eyes narrowed. Yellow glow intensifying.
"You DARE—" Voice dropping to a growl. "You DARE mock ME?"
He grabbed his halberd. Eight feet of death.
"I am PERSES. Titan of DESTRUCTION. I was FEARED before your world EXISTED—"
"You're a broken thing," I interrupted. "Shattered in Tartarus. Put back together WRONG. Torturing dragons because it's the only thing you can still CONTROL."
Perses's face twisted. Rage. Humiliation. MADNESS.
"I'm going to ENJOY breaking you. Piece. By. PIECE."
"Probably."
And then I did something that Chiron would absolutely use as a teaching example. Probably in a class called "Tactical Stupidity 101" or "Creative Ways to Die Young."
Broken ribs: Check.
Nearly Shattered armor: Check.
Mental breakdown: Check.
Nine-foot Titan with three thousand years of combat experience: Check.
I charged.
END OF CHAPTER 20