Luke approached the Castellan house while conducting his standard perimeter check.
As standard protocol he moved through the blind spots of the streetlights, eyes scanning the roofline for the tell-tale shimmer of a lurking Dracaena or the heavy silhouette of a rooftop Cyclops. His new haul of literature, specifically The Nymph's Midnight Run, was tucked securely under his arm, a weight more precious to him than gold.
Zero hostile signatures detected within a fifty-meter radius. Ambient noise is normal. But there is a scent of…. something else.
He paused at the front door. A visitor, Luke thought, his hand instinctively hovering near the bronze dagger in his pocket. And not the kind that pops into yellow dust.
He slipped inside, moving like a shadow across the hardwood. Usually, the house was a cacophony of May's whispers or the frantic pacing of a woman trapped in a fragmented vision. But tonight, there was an eerie silence, broken only by a soft, melodic humming from the kitchen.
Luke rounded the corner, his guard up, only to freeze.
May Castellan was standing at the stove, stirring a pot. Her hair was brushed, her eyes were clear devoid of that milky green prophetic glow, and she looked... stable. More than stable, she looked present.
"You're home late, Luke," she said, her voice steady and warm. She didn't look up, but she smiled, a real smile that didn't fracture at the edges. "I was starting to think you'd found a particularly long road to walk today."
Luke felt a strange, cold prickle in his chest. In his first life, the only thing more dangerous than an enemy you could see was a sudden change in a teammate's baseline behavior.
"Mom?" he asked, his voice cautious. "What's going on? You seem... different."
"He came by, Luke," she whispered, and for once, the mention of him didn't trigger a seizure. She pointed toward the kitchen table. "He couldn't stay, he's very busy, you know, but he wanted to see you. He left some things. For your journey."
Luke turned his gaze to the table. Laid out on the worn wood was a leather rollup. He stepped forward, putting his bag of books down on a chair. He ran a calloused finger over a leather roll-up. Unrolling it, he found spools of high-tensile wire that shimmered with a golden hue, alongside specialized triggers and heavy shrapnel bits.
Celestial Bronze wire, Luke realized, his heart skipping a beat. He'd spent months scavenging mundane hardware store wire; this was like being handed chakra-grade steel.
Next to the wire sat a small velvet pouch. Luke opened it to find a set of lockpicks made of a dark, looking steel with mother-of-pearl handles.
His eyes flickered to the most absurd item on the table: a pair of high-top sneakers. As he looked at them, a pair of small, white downy wings sprouted from the heels, gave a quick, energetic flutter, and then tucked themselves back into the canvas as if they were shy.
Flying shoes, he thought, a flat, deadpan expression crossing his face. Maa, the logistics of a mid-air dogfight while trying to protect a bag of limited-edition manga are going to be a nightmare.
Finally, there was the letter. Thick vellum, sealed with a wax stamp depicting two entwined serpents.
Luke didn't open the letter immediately. He stood there, the bag of smut books still clutched in his hand, feeling a tidal wave of complex, irritating emotions.
He was nine years old. He had been a soldier, a captain, and a leader of men. He had spent this life resenting Hermes for leaving his mother to rot in a sea of visions. And yet, looking at the trap-making kit, specifically the Celestial Bronze wire, he felt a traitorous surge of professional respect.
He knows, Luke realized, his eyes narrowing. He's been watching my training sessions. He knows I prefer wires to direct confrontation. This isn't just a gift; it's an acknowledgment of my combat style.
"He was so proud of you, Luke," May said, finally turning to look at him. There was a lingering sadness in her eyes, but it was a human sadness, not a divine curse that was seeing something not there. "But he said it's time."
Luke reached out, his small fingers brushing the vellum of the letter. He could feel the power radiating from it, a lingering warmth that felt like a hand on his shoulder. He felt a heavy, complicated knot form in his chest. In his first life, Hatake Sakumo had left him a legacy of a white blade and a shattered reputation. In this life, his father was a god who sent care packages instead of showing up for dinner. It was the same isolation, just wrapped in more expensive packaging.
He looked at May, who was watching him with a heartbreakingly lucid tenderness. He knew this clarity was a gift from Hermes, a temporary reprieve before the visions reclaimed her.
"He said it's time, Luke," May repeated softly. "He said your scent is becoming too loud."
Luke reached for the letter, his fingers steady despite the storm of irritation and longing in his gut.
Luke broke the seal.
The vellum was warm, nearly vibrating against his skin. He unfolded the paper, his eyes, quickly scanned the elegant, flowing script written in Ancient Greek.
To my son, Loukas,
I have watched you in the alleys of Westport. Your use of gravity and wire is... inventive. It seems you have inherited more than just my speed; you have the soul of a pioneer, or perhaps a very efficient thief. Either way, I am proud. You move through the world with a grace that even the gods might envy.
Do not worry for May. I have woven wards into the foundations of this house, a sensory veil that even the most determined monsters cannot pierce directly. Here, she is safe from the things that hunt you. But you are a traveler by blood, Luke. You cannot stay in the shadows forever.
Your scent is becoming a beacon. It is the price of your power. The stronger you become, the more the world will try to claim you. Even the wards will begin to fray under the weight of your presence if you linger too long. It is time to find your own road.
Go to the eastern tip of Long Island. Look for the scent of strawberries. There is a sanctuary there for those like you. A camp where you might find more than just survival.
Safe travels, Luke. The road is always open to you.
— H.
Loukas stared at the letter for a long minute, his expression unreadable.
The "pride" mentioned in the letter felt like a kunai to the ribs. It was the same distant, abstract validation he'd received from the Third Hokage when he was a young Jonin, a pat on the head from a man who wouldn't be there to watch his back when the blood started spilling.
"Wards," Loukas murmured, glancing at the corners of the kitchen ceiling. He could sense it now, a thin, golden lattice of energy that hummed in a frequency just out of reach. It was a high-level spatial barrier. So, the old man isn't completely useless. He's turned this house into a safe zone. But if I stay, I become the lightning rod that shorts out the circuit.
He looked back at his mother. She was still humming, her eyes focused on the cookies. For a brief window, his father had granted her peace so she could say goodbye.
There was a mix of annoyance at being monitored by a divine father who didn't pay child support, mixed with a begrudging relief that his mother wouldn't be eaten by a Cyclops the moment he left.
"He wants me to go to the camp," Luke said aloud, his voice flat.
May stopped stirring. She turned, her face illuminated by the stove light, looking heartbreakingly beautiful and, for the first time in so long, truly sane. "I know, Loukas. You were never meant to be a secret. You are a Castellan. We were always meant to run toward the horizon, not hide from it."
Luke felt the weight of his new books in the bag beside him. He felt the celestial bronze wire in the roll-up. He felt the legacy of two worlds pressing down on his nine-year-old shoulders.
"Maa, how troublesome," he sighed, the ghost of a silver-haired jōnin appearing behind his eyes. "I finally find a bookstore with a decent selection of culture, and now I have to go on a cross-state hike."
He began to mentally pack. He'd need the traps, the lockpicks, the bronze dagger, and every single volume of The Nymph's Midnight Run.
He looked at the winged sneakers again. They were twitching on the table, the tiny wings fluttering with an impatient, nervous energy.
"And I suppose I'll have to learn how to fly," he muttered. "The things I do for a quiet place to read."
The packing process quick. Luke didn't bother with a change of clothes, fabric was replaceable, but tools were not.
He unrolled the leather kit on the floor, securing the Celestial Bronze wire and the specialized triggers with practiced ease. The lockpicks went into a hidden sleeve in his denim overalls. The bronze dagger was sheathed at his lower back, tucked beneath the hem of his shirt. Finally, he addressed the most critical part of his inventory: the books.
He found an old, sturdy canvas backpack in the hall closet. He lined the bottom with a thin layer of foam, protection for his "sacred texts", and carefully stacked his latest acquisitions inside. The Midnight Run he decided would be his reading material as he travelled.
Weight distribution is Sub-optimal, Luke noted, tightening the straps. But the morale boost provided by high-quality literature outweighs the caloric cost of the extra three pounds.
Finally, he pulled a mask out from his drawer. I think its time for a return old friend.
He turned back to the kitchen. The temporary clarity in May's eyes was already beginning to flicker, like a candle reaching the end of its wick. The green, misty glow of the prophecy was beginning to swirl at the edges of her pupils.
"Luke?" she whispered, her voice thinning. The humming had stopped. "The road... it's getting dark. Are you ready?"
Luke stepped forward and, in a rare display of vulnerability, took her hand. It was cold. "The wards are set, Mom. You'll be safe here. No monsters can get through the door."
But you're not safe if I stay here, he thought. I'm am the one bringing them to your doorstep.
"You have your father's eyes," May said, her gaze drifting toward the window, where the first stars were beginning to pierce the Connecticut twilight. "Don't let them go out, Luke. Keep walking until you find the light."
The green mist surged then, fully claiming her gaze. She gasped, her body stiffening as she looked past him, staring at a future he couldn't see. "The titan... the golden coffin... the son who falls...broken paths"
Luke didn't flinch. He'd seen enough shattered minds in the Torture and Interrogation department of Konoha to know when a person was no longer there. He leaned in and kissed her forehead, a final, silent apology for being the beacon that made her home a target.
"Goodbye mom," he whispered.
He stepped away, put on his half mask, grabbed the winged sneakers from the table, and walked out the front door without looking back.
He sat on the porch steps and laced up the high-tops. The moment the double-knots were tied, the sneakers vibrated. The tiny wings sprouted with an audible fwhip, flapping with the frantic energy of a hummingbird.
"Maa, let's see how this works," Luke muttered. He stood up and gave a test hop.
The shoes caught the air, dragging him five feet upward before he could even compensate for the shift in his center of gravity. He flailed for a second, his silver hair a mess, before his shinobi instincts took over. He adjusted his core and found the balance.
He wasn't flying yet, he was hovering, bobbing in the air like a buoy in a rough sea.
"Unstable, but high utility for aerial movement," he concluded, his face returning to its habitual mask of boredom.
He floated toward the edge of the property, where the faint golden shimmer of the wards met the dark, untamed woods. He landed lightly on his feet, the wings on his shoes folding back into the canvas with a soft rustle.
He sensed the escort before he saw him.
A shadow moved behind an oak tree. It wasn't the heavy, predatory gait of a Cyclops or the slithering drag of a Dracaena. It was lighter, nervous, rhythmic, and smelling faintly of goat cheese and tin cans.
"You can come out," Luke said, not even turning his head. "I know you've been eating the grass near the fence for the last twenty minutes. It's bad for your digestion."
There was a startled bleat, and a boy, no older than sixteen in appearance, with curly hair and a wispy goatee, stumbled out of the brush. He was wearing an oversized t-shirt and baggy jeans that hid the fact that his legs bent the wrong way.
"You... you're Loukas Castellan?" the satyr stammered, clutching a set of reed pipes as if they were a weapon. His eyes wide, he stared at the silver-haired nine-year-old with a half mask, who was radiating enough killing intent to make a Hellhound reconsider its life choices. "I'm Millard. I was sent to... well, I was sent to bring you to Camp Half-Blood. But the monsters in the woods... they're all gone."
Loukas looked at the satyr, his eye-smile returning. "They aren't gone, Millard. They're just neutralized. I needed the practice. And I prefer Luke.."
Millard gulped, his Adam's apple bobbing. "Right. Neutralized. Of course. Well, Louka— I mean Luke, the trip to Long Island is dangerous. We have to be stealthy. We have to—"
"I'm traveling alone," Luke interrupted, shifting the weight of his backpack, and his smut, comfortably. "But since you're here, you can give me the coordinates. I'd hate to get lost and accidentally end up in New Jersey. I hear the literature there is subpar."
The satyr blinked, looking completely out of his depth. "Alone? But you're nine! And you have... are those flying shoes? Where did you get.."
"A gift from a distant relative," Luke said, already beginning to walk past him into the dark. "Now, Millard, if you want to be useful, try not to bleat. I've heard that monsters enjoy mutton."
As Luke vanished into the trees, Millard scrambled to follow, wondering if he had just found a demigod or a very small, very polite demon.
___________________________________________________________
Luke POV: Luke glanced back at the struggling satyr and sighed. "Honestly, if this is the level of protection the gods provide, I'm seriously disappointed. At least Celestial Bronze wire doesn't try to eat the scenery when it gets nervous."
AAAnd our masked troll is off to Camp Half-Blood. Earlier than PJO Canon
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