Marcus Chen was having the worst day of his life, which was saying something because he'd once accidentally sent a scathing critique of his professor's published novel to his professor instead of his best friend, and that professor had been in charge of his final grade.
But no, this was definitively worse.
It had started, as most terrible days do, with the internet. Specifically, with Marcus making the catastrophically poor decision to check Twitter—he refused to call it X, he would die on that hill, apparently literally—while walking across the street to his favorite coffee shop.
He'd been in the middle of typing a particularly passionate response to some absolute heathen who had dared to suggest that the new Percy Jackson books were "just as good as the originals, actually, and anyone who disagrees is just blinded by nostalgia."
Nostalgia? NOSTALGIA?
Marcus had been eleven years old when he'd first picked up The Lightning Thief, and it had fundamentally altered the chemistry of his brain. He had learned about Greek mythology because of those books. He had developed his sense of humor because of those books. He had, embarrassingly enough, attempted to hold his breath underwater for an concerningly long time because of those books, convinced that if he just believed hard enough, he might discover he was a secret son of Poseidon.
He was twenty-six now, working a dead-end data entry job, living in a apartment that could generously be described as "cozy" and more accurately described as "a closet with plumbing," and the Percy Jackson series was still the literary equivalent of a warm blanket and a cup of hot chocolate on a rainy day.
The new books, however? The new books were the literary equivalent of someone promising you that warm blanket and hot chocolate, only to hand you a damp towel and lukewarm tap water while insisting it was exactly the same thing, why are you complaining, you're just being difficult.
Marcus had opinions about the new books. Lengthy, detailed, extensively footnoted opinions that he had shared on Reddit, Tumblr, Twitter, and in a twenty-three page Google Doc that he had passive-aggressively titled "A Comprehensive Analysis of Everything Wrong With The Trials of Apollo and Beyond, With Specific Attention to Character Assassination, Tonal Inconsistency, and the Apparent Belief That References Count as Character Development."
He was not, perhaps, handling his disappointment in a healthy manner.
Which brought him back to the present moment, standing in the middle of a crosswalk, typing furiously with both thumbs while a bus barreled toward him at roughly forty miles per hour.
The last thing Marcus saw before impact was his own half-finished tweet: "Actually the new books are objectively worse and I will provide RECEIPTS. First of all, the characterization of Per—"
He never got to finish that thought.
The bus hit him with the kind of definitive finality that really doesn't leave room for interpretation, and Marcus Chen—lover of the original Percy Jackson books, hater of everything that came after The Last Olympian, and owner of some truly unfortunate last words—died instantly.
Death, Marcus discovered, was surprisingly administrative.
He had expected, if he'd expected anything at all, something a bit more dramatic. Pearly gates, maybe, or a river of souls, or at least a nice bright light and some deceased relatives telling him it wasn't his time yet.
Instead, he found himself standing in what appeared to be a cosmic DMV, surrounded by an infinite expanse of grayish-white nothing, facing a desk behind which sat a being of indeterminate form that kept shifting every time Marcus tried to look directly at it.
"Marcus Chen," the being said, in a voice that somehow sounded like every voice Marcus had ever heard, all layered on top of each other. "Cause of death: bus-related impact while engaging in social media discourse. Really?"
"I was making a point," Marcus said defensively.
"You were making a Twitter post."
"A valid Twitter post."
The being sighed, which was impressive given that Marcus wasn't entirely sure it had lungs. Or a mouth. Or a consistent physical form.
"Right. Well, regardless of the circumstances, you're dead now, and we need to process you." The being shuffled some papers that hadn't existed a moment ago. "Let's see here... you've got a fairly standard soul, no major karmic debts, led a generally unremarkable life—"
"Hey!"
"—with no significant achievements or contributions to the advancement of human civilization."
Marcus wanted to argue, but he couldn't actually think of a counterpoint. He had led a pretty unremarkable life. His greatest accomplishment was probably that Google Doc, and somehow he didn't think "wrote a very long document complaining about books" was going to impress the cosmic bureaucracy.
"However," the being continued, "there is one... irregularity."
"Irregularity?"
"You appear to have attracted the attention of... well. Quite a lot of entities, actually."
Marcus blinked. "I'm sorry, what?"
"It seems your passionate devotion to a particular fictional property has resonated across multiple dimensional frequencies, creating a kind of... echo effect. Various powerful beings have taken notice, and they've submitted a petition."
"A petition for what?"
The being looked at him—or at least, oriented itself in his general direction in a way that suggested it was looking at him—with something that might have been pity, or might have been cosmic indigestion.
"For you to be reincarnated into the world you loved so much," the being said. "Specifically, into the Percy Jackson universe, at the beginning of the first book's timeline."
Marcus's heart, or whatever passed for a heart in his current metaphysical state, stopped.
"You're joking."
"I am a manifestation of universal processing. I don't joke."
"But—that's—that's insane. That's every fanfic I never wrote. That's every daydream I had when I was supposed to be paying attention in meetings. That's—" Marcus stopped, suddenly suspicious. "Wait. What's the catch?"
"Catch?"
"There's always a catch. In every reincarnation story, there's a catch. Do I lose my memories? Do I have to fight some cosmic evil? Am I going to be reborn as a monster? What's the deal?"
The being consulted its papers again. "No catch that I can see. You'll retain your memories, be reborn as a human, and exist within the world as a demigod with a currently unspecified divine parent. Standard procedure for this kind of petition, really."
"Currently unspecified?"
"These things get sorted out on arrival. Something about dramatic timing and narrative satisfaction." The being waved a hand—or appendage, or conceptual representation of a hand—dismissively. "The petitioning entities were quite insistent that you be given a 'fair chance' at experiencing the world you love, whatever that means."
Marcus's mind was racing. He was going to be reincarnated into the Percy Jackson universe. The original Percy Jackson universe, before everything went wrong. He was going to exist in a world where the magic was real and the gods were petty and the monsters were terrifying and everything was exactly as it should be.
"I'll do it," he said, before the being could say anything else. "Whatever I need to sign, whoever I need to thank, I'm in. One hundred percent. No hesitation."
"Very well." The being stamped something on a paper Marcus couldn't read. "A word of warning, though."
"Yeah?"
"The entities who petitioned for your reincarnation were quite... enthusiastic. I would suggest paying attention to any unusual occurrences once you arrive. There may be more going on than you initially realize."
Marcus nodded, barely listening. He was going to the Percy Jackson universe. He was going to be a demigod. He was going to experience everything he'd loved about those books firsthand, before the series went off the rails, before the characters became shadows of themselves, before everything got ruined by—
"Oh," he said, suddenly struck by a horrible thought. "Wait. If I'm being reborn, does that mean I have to be a baby? Because I really don't want to spend years as a drooling infant just waiting for the plot to start."
"The petition specified that you would arrive at an age-appropriate time for the narrative," the being said. "You'll be eleven years old, the same age as the protagonist when the first book begins."
"Oh thank gods."
"You'll understand why that phrase is ironic shortly," the being muttered, but Marcus was too excited to process the comment.
"So how does this work? Do I just close my eyes and wish really hard, or—"
The being snapped its fingers—or produced a sound similar to a snap through means that definitely did not involve fingers—and Marcus Chen ceased to exist in the cosmic DMV.
Consciousness returned slowly, like a sunrise Marcus wasn't entirely prepared for.
The first thing he became aware of was that he was lying on something soft—a bed, his drowsy brain supplied—and that he was very, very small. His hands, when he lifted them experimentally, were the hands of a child, and his body felt entirely different from the one he'd occupied for twenty-six years.
The second thing he became aware of was that he remembered everything.
His name was still Marcus Chen. He was still the person who had died arguing about books on Twitter. He still had all twenty-six years of memories, opinions, and intimate knowledge of the Percy Jackson series stored in his newly eleven-year-old brain.
He was also, he realized as he looked around the small, cluttered room he'd awakened in, very definitely not in his old life anymore.
The room was in an apartment building, based on the thin walls and the sounds of neighbors moving around, but it wasn't like any apartment Marcus had lived in. The furniture was worn but well-cared-for, the walls were covered with postcards from places Marcus didn't recognize, and there was a distinct lack of any technology more advanced than a digital alarm clock.
The alarm clock read 7:32 AM, and the date—Marcus had to squint to see it—was June 1st, 2005.
Marcus sat bolt upright in bed, his heart pounding.
The Lightning Thief took place in the summer of 2005, starting in June when Percy was on the field trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art. If it was June 1st, that meant the events of the book were about to begin, that Percy was probably still at Yancy Academy, that everything was about to kick off, and Marcus was here for it.
"Oh my gods," he whispered, and then laughed at himself, because that phrase had a very different meaning now. "Oh my actual, literal, genuinely existing gods."
He scrambled out of bed—his child-body was surprisingly uncoordinated, and he nearly face-planted on the worn carpet—and started exploring the room with the frantic energy of someone who has just discovered they're living in their favorite book.
There were clues everywhere, once he started looking. A drawer full of clothes in his size. A backpack with notebooks and school supplies. A framed photo on the desk of a woman who looked vaguely East Asian, smiling at the camera with her arm around an uncomfortable-looking man whose face was somehow blurred, as if the camera hadn't been able to focus on him properly.
The woman, Marcus realized with a jolt, must be his mother in this world. And the blurred man...
"My divine parent," Marcus breathed. "That's why the face is blurred. Mortal cameras can't capture gods properly."
He picked up the photo, studying it intently. The blur made it impossible to determine which god it might be—no helpful tridents or lightning bolts visible in the distortion—but Marcus found he didn't particularly care. He was a demigod. An actual, genuine demigod, with an actual, genuine godly parent, and he was in the Percy Jackson universe at the exact right time to experience the original, unspoiled story.
This was the best thing that had ever happened to him. This was better than the time he'd found a first edition of The Lightning Thief at a garage sale for two dollars. This was better than the time Rick Riordan had liked one of his tweets about the original series. This was better than anything.
"Marcus!" a voice called from elsewhere in the apartment. "Breakfast is ready! You're going to be late for school!"
Marcus set down the photo and took a deep breath. Right. He had a life here, apparently. A mother, a school, a whole existence that he was going to have to navigate while secretly being a fully adult person in a child's body with complete knowledge of the next five years of major mythological events.
He could handle this. He was a grown man. He had read so many isekai manga and reincarnation fanfics that he was practically an expert in this exact scenario.
"Coming, Mom!" he called back, and the word felt strange and wonderful in his mouth.
He had a mom again.
His mother's name, Marcus learned over breakfast, was Linda Chen, and she was quite possibly the most wonderful person Marcus had ever met.
She was a nurse at a local hospital, working long hours to support them both, and she had the kind of warm, gentle presence that made Marcus immediately understand why a god had been attracted to her. She fussed over him with the casual efficiency of someone who had been doing it for eleven years, making sure he ate his eggs and toast, reminding him about his homework, asking about his plans for the day.
Marcus, for his part, answered on autopilot while internally screaming with joy.
He was eating breakfast with his mom. His divine-parent-having, mythologically-significant, living-in-the-Percy-Jackson-universe mom. This was objectively the best breakfast he had ever eaten, even though it was just scrambled eggs and slightly burnt toast.
"You seem distracted this morning," Linda observed, watching him with the keen eyes of a mother who knew her child better than he knew himself. "Everything okay?"
"Just excited for summer," Marcus said, which was technically true. "School's almost over, right?"
"Three more weeks," Linda confirmed. "And then we'll see about getting you into that summer camp your father recommended."
Marcus's fork froze halfway to his mouth.
"Summer camp?"
"You remember, honey. I told you about it last month. Your father said it would be good for you, help you develop your... gifts." Linda's expression flickered with something complicated—worry, maybe, or hope. "He said you'd be safe there."
Camp Half-Blood. She was talking about Camp Half-Blood.
Marcus was going to Camp Half-Blood.
He was going to see the Big House and the strawberry fields and the climbing wall with the lava. He was going to meet Chiron and Mr. D and the Stoll brothers and Clarisse and Luke and Annabeth and—
And Percy. He was going to meet Percy Jackson.
"That sounds great, Mom," Marcus managed, trying to keep his voice even despite the fact that he was internally vibrating at a frequency that should not have been possible for human beings. "I'm really looking forward to it."
Linda smiled, and there was relief in her eyes. "I'm glad, sweetheart. I know things have been... difficult. But your father assured me this would help."
Marcus nodded, not trusting himself to speak without screaming about how amazing everything was.
His godly father had arranged for him to go to Camp Half-Blood. His godly father, whoever he was, was apparently in contact with his mortal mother and was taking an active interest in his life. That was more than most demigods got, based on the books.
Maybe he wouldn't be that powerful—probably wouldn't be, honestly, since he clearly wasn't one of the Big Three kids given that his father had apparently been visiting—but that was fine. Marcus didn't need to be powerful. He just needed to be there, to experience the world he loved, to see it all unfold in real time.
He finished his breakfast, kissed his mom goodbye, and headed out to face his new life with a spring in his step and a song in his heart.
He was completely unaware that, on Mount Olympus, his arrival had sparked a phenomenon that would soon spiral entirely out of control.
MOUNT OLYMPUS, THE SAME MORNING
"I'm just saying," Apollo said, leaning back in his throne with the casual arrogance of someone who knew exactly how good-looking he was, "the kid has excellent taste."
"He liked my books," Athena said, in a tone that suggested she was trying very hard not to show how pleased she was. "The ones about ancient Greek literature. He wrote a paper on the influence of Homeric tradition on modern narrative structure. In his previous life, I mean."
"He also had very strong opinions about the importance of archery in classical warfare," Apollo added. "Cited my role in the Trojan War specifically. Called me 'underappreciated.'"
"He's a reincarnate from another world," Hermes pointed out, from where he was lounging on his throne and simultaneously checking about fifteen different magical communication devices. "He read fiction about us. It doesn't count."
"It absolutely counts," Apollo said. "He loved us. Or at least, he loved the versions of us in those books. Same difference."
"The versions of us in those books," Hera said icily, "portrayed me as a jealous, petty woman who spent most of her time tormenting the children of my husband's affairs."
There was a long, uncomfortable silence.
"...I mean," Apollo said carefully, "that's not entirely inaccurate—"
"Finish that sentence and I will turn you into a peacock for the next century."
Apollo wisely shut his mouth.
"The point," Athena continued, steering the conversation back to slightly less dangerous territory, "is that this mortal—former mortal—has arrived in our world with extensive knowledge of future events. That makes him potentially valuable. Or potentially dangerous."
"He knows about the prophecy," Poseidon rumbled, his trident tapping against the floor of the throne room with a rhythm like waves against rocks. "About my son."
"He knows about all of it," Zeus said, and there was something in his voice that was almost thoughtful, which was concerning because Zeus being thoughtful usually preceded something exploding. "The books from his world covered events that haven't happened yet. The Lightning Thief. The Sea of Monsters. The Titan's Curse. The Battle of the Labyrinth. The Last Olympian."
"We could just kill him," Ares suggested, because Ares's solution to everything was violence. "Problem solved."
"He's a child," Artemis said flatly.
"So? Children die all the time. Circle of life and all that."
"If you make one more suggestion about killing children, I will fill you with so many arrows that you will resemble a pincushion, and I will enjoy every moment of it."
"I'm just saying—"
"The child will not be killed," Zeus cut in, with the tone of someone who was used to his family's bickering and was deeply tired of it. "He has been reborn as a demigod, which makes him our responsibility. The Fates themselves approved his transfer to this world, which means he has a role to play."
"What role?" Demeter asked. "What's he supposed to do?"
"I don't know," Zeus admitted. "But the Fates were very clear that we are not to interfere with his existence in... punitive ways."
"They didn't say anything about helpful ways, though," Apollo said, perking up. "Right? We can still bless him? Gift him things? Show our appreciation for his excellent taste in literature and also his general good qualities as a person?"
"His 'excellent taste in literature' consisted primarily of a fictional series about our lives," Athena said dryly. "A series he had very strong opinions about, apparently. Particularly the later installments."
"He hated the later installments," Hermes supplied helpfully, still not looking up from his devices. "Really passionately hated them. Called them 'a betrayal of everything the original series stood for.' Wrote a twenty-three page document about it."
"How do you know that?" Athena demanded.
"I'm the god of information, among other things. I know everything that's ever been written, sent, or posted. And let me tell you, this kid? This kid had opinions. Detailed, well-argued, extensively footnoted opinions."
"Footnoted," Athena repeated, and there was a gleam in her eye that suggested Marcus had just become significantly more interesting to her.
"The point is," Apollo said, seizing back control of the conversation, "he loved us. The original us. The versions of us before whatever happened in those later books that he hated so much. Doesn't that deserve some kind of reward?"
"You just want to bless him because he called you 'underappreciated,'" Artemis said.
"And? Is that a crime?"
"It's pathetic."
"It's gratitude. Something you'd know nothing about, Miss 'I've-Never-Accepted-A-Compliment-In-My-Immortal-Life.'"
"I'm going to shoot you."
"You always say that."
"One day I'll mean it."
"ENOUGH," Zeus boomed, and actual thunder rolled through the throne room, because Zeus had never learned the meaning of the word 'subtlety.' "We are not here to bicker. We are here to decide what to do about the reincarnated mortal."
"I say we bless him," Apollo said immediately.
"You've made that clear."
"I'll bless him too," Athena said, somewhat reluctantly. "His appreciation for literature and warfare strategy is... commendable. And he was quite complimentary about my daughter in his writings."
"Which daughter?" Hermes asked.
"Annabeth. He called her 'the best character in the series' and wrote several paragraphs about the excellence of her character arc in the original five books."
"Several paragraphs?"
"With subheadings."
"I retract my earlier skepticism," Hermes said. "This kid has style. I'll throw a blessing his way too."
"This is ridiculous," Hera muttered.
"I'll bless him," Poseidon said, and everyone turned to look at him in surprise. "What? He was very supportive of my son in his writings. Called Percy 'the heart and soul of the series' and wrote an extensive defense of his character development across the original five books. That deserves acknowledgment."
"You're blessing a random demigod because he liked your son in a fictional book series," Hera said flatly.
"Yes."
"That's absurd."
"And yet."
"Fine," Hera said, throwing up her hands. "Fine! If everyone else is blessing him, I might as well too. At least he didn't write anything too terrible about me. Mostly he just seemed disappointed in my characterization and wished I'd been given more nuance."
"Did he really?" Athena asked.
"Apparently he thought I had 'potential for complexity that was never fully explored.' Which is more credit than most mortals give me, so. Fine. He gets a blessing."
"Wonderful," Zeus said, in a tone that suggested it was anything but. "Anyone else?"
"I'll bless him," Artemis said, which surprised everyone, including apparently Artemis herself. "He... was very respectful about the Hunters in his writings. And he specifically criticized a later book for 'undermining the autonomy and importance of the Hunt.' That shows good judgment."
"That's practically a marriage proposal, coming from you," Apollo said.
"I'm going to shoot you now."
"Worth it."
"I'll bless him," Hephaestus grunted, speaking for the first time. "Kid appreciated craftsmanship. Wrote about the importance of the forges in the original series. Said Beckendorf was 'criminally underutilized.'"
"I'll bless him too," Aphrodite said, which surprised no one because Aphrodite blessed attractive people on principle and apparently the kid was reasonably cute in his new body. "He had very passionate feelings about fictional relationships. That's my domain."
"He criticized several of the later-series romances as 'forced and unconvincing,'" Hermes noted.
"Exactly. He understands what makes a good love story. Blessing."
"This is getting out of hand," Hera muttered.
"I'll bless him," Demeter said. "He liked cereal."
"...what?"
"In his previous life. He ate a lot of cereal. That's close enough to grain appreciation for me."
"That's the weakest justification yet," Athena said.
"And yet I don't hear you complaining about any of the others."
"I'll bless him," Dionysus said, startling everyone because they'd half-forgotten he was there. "Kid drank Diet Coke. That's a form of grape-adjacent beverage. Close enough."
"That's not even—" Athena started, then gave up. "You know what? Fine. Whatever. Does anyone NOT want to bless this child?"
Silence.
"Ares?" Zeus prompted.
Ares grunted. "Kid appreciated battle strategy in the books. Said the fights in the original series were 'well-choreographed and tactically interesting.' That's... fine, I guess. Blessing."
"Hestia?"
Hestia, who had been quietly tending the hearth and not participating in the chaos, looked up with gentle eyes. "He valued home and family in his writings. He wrote extensively about how the camp became a home for the demigods who had nowhere else to go. I'll bless him gladly."
"So we're all in agreement, then," Zeus said, sounding like he couldn't quite believe what was happening. "Every Olympian will bless this child."
"Apparently so."
"Including you, Father?"
Zeus considered this. The mortal—former mortal—had, according to Hermes's information, been quite critical of his portrayal in the books. Called him "paranoid and tyrannical" and "a fundamentally poor leader who prioritized his own power over the safety of his family and subjects."
On the other hand, the mortal had also written, in what appeared to be a particularly passionate late-night posting, "I hate how the series makes Zeus seem incompetent. In the original myths, he was the king of the gods for a REASON. He held Olympus together for millennia. He defeated KRONOS. Give the man some CREDIT."
"...Fine," Zeus said. "I'll bless him. But only because he acknowledged my victory over Kronos."
"Wonderful," Athena said, and there was something in her voice that suggested she was already planning exactly what kind of blessing to give. "Shall we proceed?"
"Wait," Hestia said, her soft voice somehow cutting through the noise. "If we're all blessing him, shouldn't we do it at different times? All at once might be... overwhelming."
"Good point," Athena agreed. "We should spread out our blessings. Give him time to adjust between each one."
"I call first!" Apollo shouted.
"Why should you go first?"
"Because I called it. Those are the rules."
"There are no rules—"
"I CALL FIRST."
"Fine," Athena sighed. "Apollo goes first. Then we'll work out a schedule."
"I'm also adding him to my list of people to randomly assist," Hermes added. "Just little things. Lucky breaks. Found money. Convenient timing. The works."
"That seems excessive."
"He wrote nice things about me. I'm the god of reciprocity, among other things. It's only fair."
"I'm going to enhance his love life," Aphrodite declared. "Make sure he ends up with someone perfect for him."
"He's eleven."
"Eventually, obviously. I'm patient."
"I'm going to make sure his weapons never break," Hephaestus said. "And that his armor always fits perfectly. And maybe give him a few special tools. Nothing too fancy. Just enough to show appreciation."
"I'm going to send him good hunting when he's in the wilderness," Artemis said. "Not that I expect him to be in the wilderness often, but still."
"I'm going to make sure he never has a bad hangover," Dionysus said.
"He's ELEVEN."
"Eventually!"
"I'm going to ensure he always has good meals," Demeter said.
"I'm going to grant him battle prowess," Ares grunted. "Seems fair."
"I'm going to improve his strategic thinking," Athena said.
"I'm going to enhance his creativity and artistic abilities," Apollo added. "And his archery. Definitely his archery."
"I'm going to give him safe travels," Hermes said. "Everywhere he goes, the road will be smooth."
"I'm going to make sure the sea favors him," Poseidon said.
"I'm going to ensure his marriages are happy," Hera said. "If he ever has any. Which, given that he's ELEVEN—"
"We get it, Hera."
"I'm going to grant him authority," Zeus said. "Leadership abilities. Charisma. The kind of presence that makes people listen when he speaks."
"And I," Hestia said quietly, "will make sure he always has a home. Wherever he goes, whatever happens, he will never truly be alone."
The Olympians looked at each other, somewhat surprised by how quickly they'd all jumped on the blessing bandwagon.
"So," Athena said slowly, "we're all agreed? We're going to collectively bless this child with every domain we represent, give him advantages in every aspect of life, and shower him with divine favor for the crime of... writing nice things about us in another universe?"
"When you put it like that, it sounds ridiculous," Apollo said.
"It IS ridiculous."
"And yet we're doing it anyway."
"Apparently so."
There was a moment of silence.
"Should we tell him?" Hermes asked. "That we're blessing him?"
"Where's the fun in that?" Apollo grinned. "Let him figure it out on his own. If he ever does."
"That seems cruel."
"It seems HILARIOUS. Think about it—he'll just keep having amazing things happen to him both he'll have no idea why. He'll probably think he's just lucky."
"He's going to be the most blessed mortal in history and he'll have no idea," Athena said, and there was a hint of amusement in her voice despite herself. "That's... actually quite entertaining."
"See? Entertaining."
"Fine," Zeus said, in the tone of someone who had long ago given up on controlling his family. "We bless the child, we don't tell him, and we see what happens. Are we all in agreement?"
"Agreed," the Olympians chorused.
And so, without Marcus having any idea whatsoever, the entire Greek pantheon decided to collectively adopt him as their favorite mortal and bless him with every divine gift they had available.
This was going to cause problems.
But those problems were future problems, and gods had never been particularly good at thinking about consequences.
MEANWHILE, IN THE UNDERWORLD
"Father," Nico di Angelo would say, many years in the future, "you blessed a random child because he wrote nice things about you on the internet?"
"He said I was 'consistently one of the most interesting and complex characters in the series' and that my relationship with my children was 'genuinely touching when given the chance to develop,'" Hades would respond, completely unashamed. "That deserved acknowledgment."
But that conversation was years away. At the moment, Hades was simply watching the events on Olympus unfold through one of his many scrying pools, a rare smile on his face.
"So they're all blessing him," he murmured to himself. "Every single one of them. How delightfully excessive."
He considered his options. He wasn't an Olympian—hadn't been invited to their ridiculous meeting, as usual—but that didn't mean he couldn't participate in his own way.
The child had written nice things about him. Really nice things, actually. Had called him "unfairly villainized by the narrative" and "a victim of Olympian prejudice who deserved better." Had praised his relationship with his children as "one of the few examples of genuine character growth in the later series."
Hades had been around for millennia. He had seen mortals live and die, had judged souls beyond counting, had grown accustomed to being feared and hated and blamed for things that weren't his fault.
No one had ever called him "unfairly villainized" before.
No one had ever said he "deserved better."
"Well," Hades said, making a decision, "if everyone else is blessing him, I might as well join in. It would be rude not to."
He extended his power, reaching out across the distance between the Underworld and the mortal world, and placed his own blessing on the unsuspecting child.
The blessing of Hades: the ability to sense death, to speak with ghosts, to walk unseen in shadows, and—because Hades was feeling generous—an absolute immunity to being killed by any creature of the Underworld.
"There," he said, satisfied. "Now he's properly blessed."
Somewhere in the depths of Tartarus, something stirred.
TARTARUS, THE SAME MOMENT
The Primordials didn't usually pay attention to the affairs of the gods. They were ancient beyond ancient, beings of fundamental concept rather than personality, and the squabbling of the Olympians was less than nothing to them.
But Chaos, the first and greatest of them all, had noticed something interesting.
A soul had arrived in this universe from somewhere else. Somewhere outside. Beyond the boundaries of creation. Beyond even the void that Chaos had once been.
That was... unprecedented.
And now the Olympians were blessing this soul. All of them. Pouring divine power into a mortal vessel that had originated from beyond the boundaries of existence itself.
Chaos was curious. Chaos was rarely curious anymore, having existed since before curiosity was a concept, but this was new. This was different. This was interesting.
"An outsider," Chaos murmured, in a voice that was felt rather than heard, that echoed through the foundations of reality itself. "A stranger from beyond the veil. How... novel."
Deep in the pit of Tartarus, the other Primordials stirred. Gaea, sleeping beneath the earth, dreamed of the newcomer and found herself... intrigued. Ouranous, scattered across the sky, turned a fraction of his eternal attention toward the mortal world. Nyx, in her palace of darkness, raised an eyebrow that was made of condensed shadow. Erebus, her consort, did the same.
Pontus, the primordial sea, rippled with interest. Chronos—not the Titan, but the Primordial of time itself—found the outsider's timeline fascinating, branching and weaving in ways that defied normal causality. Ananke, necessity itself, felt the weight of destiny settling around the newcomer like a cloak.
And Tartarus, the pit itself given form, looked upon the mortal who carried knowledge from beyond and felt something it hadn't felt in eons:
Amusement.
"The Olympians are blessing him," Nyx observed, her voice like the rustle of shadows at the edge of sleep. "How quaint."
"They're pouring power into a vessel from outside creation," Erebus replied. "Do they have any idea what they're doing?"
"Almost certainly not. The Olympians rarely think about consequences."
"Should we... do something?"
Nyx considered this. "The child wrote favorably about darkness in his previous life. Called the nighttime scenes in his beloved books 'atmospheric and evocative.' That's practically a prayer, by mortal standards."
"So you'll bless him?"
"A small blessing. Nothing too dramatic. Just... an affinity for the dark. The ability to see in absolute blackness. Perhaps the comfort of shadows when he's afraid."
"I'll add my own," Erebus decided. "Something complementary. A blessing of concealment. The power to fade into darkness when he wishes to be unseen."
"How generous of you."
"He said nice things about atmospheric darkness. I'm a simple being. I appreciate appreciation."
Across the breadth of Tartarus, the Primordials began—one by one—to add their own blessings to the pile.
Pontus blessed him with the favor of the deeps, the ability to survive pressures that would crush ordinary mortals, the friendship of the ancient things that lived where light had never reached.
Gaea, even in her sleep, blessed him with the strength of the earth, the ability to draw power from the ground beneath his feet, the instinctive knowledge of every cave and tunnel and hidden place in the world.
Ouranous blessed him with the favor of the heavens, the ability to breathe at any altitude, the comfort of open skies, and an instinctive knowledge of navigation by the stars.
Chronos, being the Primordial of time, blessed him with perfect timing—not control over time, nothing so dramatic, but an unerring sense of when to act and when to wait, the ability to always arrive at exactly the right moment.
Ananke blessed him with the favor of fate itself, not the power to change destiny, but the assurance that his destiny would be worth having, that his story would matter.
Tartarus, the pit that held the worst of the worst, blessed him with the inability to be consumed by darkness—no matter how deep he fell, no matter how terrible the void, he would always find his way back to the light.
And Chaos, ancient beyond ancient, first and greatest of all, watched its fellow Primordials shower this insignificant mortal with power and found itself... wanting to participate.
Why? It couldn't say. Perhaps because the mortal was an outsider, like Chaos had once been, before creation existed. Perhaps because curiosity was a novel sensation after all these eons. Perhaps because watching the Olympians and the Primordials alike pour blessings into a single mortal was genuinely entertaining, and Chaos appreciated entertainment.
Whatever the reason, Chaos reached out—carefully, gently, using only the tiniest fraction of its infinite power—and blessed the mortal child with potential.
Not strength. Not speed. Not any specific ability.
Just... potential. The ability to grow, to adapt, to become more than he was. An unlimited ceiling on his development, where other mortals had natural limits.
"There," Chaos said, satisfied. "Now things will be interesting."
The Primordials settled back into their eternal slumber, their momentary curiosity satisfied, completely unaware that they had just made an eleven-year-old boy more blessed than any mortal in the history of creation.
THE NEXT WORLD OVER
The Norse gods had been paying attention too.
They weren't supposed to—the Greek world and the Norse world operated on different frequencies, metaphysically speaking—but Odin All-Father had a habit of sticking his nose into other pantheons' business, and he had noticed the unusual soul entering the Greek world.
"Interesting," he murmured, watching through his ravens' eyes. "An outsider. A traveler from beyond the boundaries."
"Father?" Thor asked, confused as always.
"Never mind, my son. I'm simply... observing."
Odin observed the Olympians blessing the child. He observed the Primordials adding their own gifts to the pile. He observed Hades, petty as always, sneaking in his own contribution.
And he thought to himself: why should the Greeks have all the fun?
"The child will face trials," Odin said to himself. "Trials that require wisdom, and courage, and perseverance. The Greeks will give him power—they always do, they're so dramatic—but I can give him something else."
He reached across the dimensional barrier—technically a violation of several ancient treaties, but Odin had never been one for rules—and placed his own blessing on the child.
Wisdom. The ability to see the truth of things. The knowledge of when to fight and when to retreat. The understanding that sometimes the greatest victory came from knowing when not to fight at all.
"There," Odin said. "A gift from across the void. Use it well, young traveler."
"Father," Thor said, "did you just bless a Greek demigod?"
"I did no such thing."
"I watched you do it."
"Then you must have been mistaken."
"Father—"
"The All-Father does not bless Greek demigods. That would be a violation of the Treaty of Divine Separation. I would never do such a thing."
"But—"
"NEVER."
Thor, wisely, let the matter drop.
But he couldn't help noticing, over the following days, that several other Norse gods had suddenly taken an interest in the Greek world. Freya was observed staring into a scrying pool, murmuring something about "good cheekbones" and "romantic potential." Heimdall mentioned something about "watching the boy" during one of his reports. Even Loki—never a good sign—was spotted giggling to himself while reading what appeared to be a scroll of information about the Greek pantheon's newest blessing recipient.
The Greek demigod was accumulating patrons at a rate that should have been impossible.
He, of course, had no idea.
BACK IN NEW YORK, THREE WEEKS LATER
Marcus Chen was having a very normal day.
Well, "normal" was relative. He was an eleven-year-old with the memories of a twenty-six-year-old, living in a world he'd thought was fictional, counting down the days until he could go to Camp Half-Blood and experience the events of his favorite book series firsthand.
But apart from that, totally normal.
He was walking home from school—his last day, finally—when he noticed something strange.
There was a dog following him.
Not just any dog. A massive black dog, the size of a small horse, with fur that seemed to absorb light and eyes that gleamed like embers.
A hellhound.
Marcus's heart should have been racing. He should have been terrified. Hellhounds were dangerous monsters, capable of tearing demigods apart with their claws and teeth.
Instead, he felt... calm.
Weirdly calm.
Unnaturally calm.
"Hey there," Marcus said, because apparently he had lost all sense of self-preservation somewhere between his old life and this one. "You're a big fella, aren't you?"
The hellhound tilted its head, looking at him with an expression that was almost confused.
"You're supposed to be running," it growled, in a voice like grinding rocks. "Why aren't you running?"
"I don't know," Marcus admitted. "I probably should be. You're pretty terrifying."
"I am?"
"Objectively, yes. You're a monster from the pit of Tartarus. I should be screaming and running for my life."
"Then why aren't you?"
Marcus considered this. "I genuinely have no idea. I just... don't feel scared. Is that weird?"
The hellhound sat down, its massive head tilting to the other side. "This has never happened before. I always make people scream. It's my thing."
"Sorry to disappoint you?"
"This is very confusing."
"For both of us, honestly."
They stared at each other for a long moment. The hellhound was clearly trying to figure out why its natural terror-inducing presence wasn't working, and Marcus was trying to figure out why he felt so completely at ease in the presence of what should have been a mortal threat.
(He was, of course, completely unaware that Hades' blessing had granted him immunity to being killed by creatures of the Underworld, and Tartarus's blessing had ensured he could never be consumed by darkness. Between the two, a single hellhound was about as threatening to him as a particularly aggressive kitten.)
"Well," the hellhound said eventually, "this is awkward. I was supposed to eat you."
"That seems rude."
"Nothing personal. Someone hired me."
"Who?"
"I don't know. Anonymous job. Just showed up in my territory with your scent and a bag of treats."
"Someone is trying to assassinate me with dog treats?"
"Premium dog treats. The expensive kind."
"Ah. That makes it better, somehow."
The hellhound shuffled its massive paws, looking uncomfortable. "Look, you seem like a nice kid. You're taking this very well. But I have a reputation to maintain, so I really should try to eat you at least once."
"If you feel like you have to," Marcus said, still feeling that strange, impossible calm.
The hellhound lunged.
Or tried to.
Its massive form got about halfway to Marcus before it just... stopped. Frozen in mid-air, its jaws inches from his throat.
"What," the hellhound said, "is happening."
"I don't know," Marcus said, genuinely baffled. "Did you trip on something?"
"I can't MOVE."
"That's weird."
"This is very weird!"
"Should I... help?"
"HOW?"
Marcus reached out—again, no idea why, his body was just moving on autopilot—and touched the hellhound's forehead. There was a flash of something, a warmth in his chest, and suddenly the hellhound was on the ground, looking up at him with an expression of complete shock.
"You," it breathed. "What ARE you?"
"I'm Marcus. I'm eleven. I like Greek mythology and I died arguing about books on the internet."
"You smell like... everything. Like every god at once. Like the sun and the moon and the earth and the sky and the sea and the VOID BEYOND CREATION. What ARE you?"
"I'm going to be honest with you," Marcus said, "I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."
The hellhound scrambled backward, its massive form suddenly looking much less threatening. "I'm not eating you. I'm not going NEAR you. You're wrong. You're weird. You're probably going to destroy the world or save it or SOMETHING, and I want no part of it."
"That seems like an overreaction."
"I'm LEAVING."
The hellhound dissolved into shadows, fleeing into the darkness between buildings, leaving Marcus standing alone on the sidewalk, completely confused.
"Huh," he said. "That was weird."
He continued walking home, putting the encounter out of his mind. Probably just a random monster event. Those happened to demigods all the time, right? Nothing to worry about.
(On Olympus, twelve gods simultaneously breathed sighs of relief as their blessings protected their favorite mortal from his first monster attack. None of them had realized how invested they'd become until the moment of danger had passed.)
(In the Underworld, Hades made a note to investigate who had sent the hellhound. Someone was trying to kill his blessed child, and that simply would not do.)
(In Tartarus, the Primordials chuckled to themselves as their own protections activated, holding the hellhound frozen in space until the boy could safely touch it and accidentally banish its murderous intent entirely.)
(In Asgard, Odin nodded approvingly as the wisdom he'd granted guided the boy through the encounter with preternatural calm.)
(In a dozen other pantheons across the world, gods who had been sneaking their own blessings to the increasingly ridiculous child watched with interest.)
Marcus, of course, noticed none of this.
He was too busy thinking about Camp Half-Blood.
Three days later, Marcus was on a bus heading upstate, his single duffel bag of belongings clutched in his lap, watching the New York countryside roll by outside the window.
His mom had cried when she dropped him off, hugging him tightly and making him promise to write, to stay safe, to remember that she loved him. His godly father—whoever he was—had apparently arranged everything, from the paperwork to the transportation to the spot at camp that was waiting for him.
Marcus still didn't know which god was his parent, and he found he didn't particularly care. He was going to Camp Half-Blood. He was going to see everything he'd read about come to life. He was going to exist in a world where the magic was real and the monsters were dangerous and the gods actually paid attention to their children.
Well. He amended that thought. The gods paid attention to their important children. The ones with prophecies and quests and destinies.
Marcus was not that kid. He was just a random demigod, reincarnated from another world, with a lot of knowledge about future events but probably no special powers or abilities.
He'd be background noise at best. A camper who showed up for meals and training and campfires, who watched the real heroes do their thing from a safe distance, who maybe got a few fun experiences but wasn't actually important to the narrative.
And honestly? He was okay with that. He didn't need to be the hero. He just needed to be here, in this world he loved, experiencing it from the inside.
The bus crested a hill, and Marcus saw it.
Camp Half-Blood.
It looked exactly like he'd always imagined. The strawberry fields, the Big House on the hill, the cabins arranged in a horseshoe pattern, the climbing wall that was definitely on fire, the Long Island Sound glittering in the distance.
It was real. It was all real. And he was here.
Marcus pressed his face against the window like a child—which, technically, he was—and watched as the bus pulled up to the boundary line.
He was so focused on the view that he didn't notice the way the driver's eyes widened when they looked at him. Didn't notice the way the other passengers—all demigods being delivered for the summer—unconsciously shifted away from him, as if instinct warned them he was somehow different.
Didn't notice the way the very air seemed to brighten when he stepped off the bus, as if the sun itself was happy to see him.
Didn't notice the way the ground welcomed him, the trees leaned slightly toward him, the wind ruffled his hair in greeting.
Didn't notice the way the camp's magical barriers flexed and strengthened at his presence, recognizing someone who had been blessed by the Primordial of protection itself.
Marcus Chen walked into Camp Half-Blood, the most blessed mortal in history, completely oblivious to the unprecedented divine favor he carried.
He was just happy to be here.
And somewhere, on Olympus and in the Underworld and in the depths of Tartarus and across the dimensional boundaries, countless gods watched their favorite mortal arrive at his destination and smiled.
This was going to be fun.