Summary: Percy's a famous immortal huntsman who travels the world searching constantly for adventures. He's mischievous, a loner, and his wicked sarcasm causes the twelve Olympians quite the headache. But then the world falls into chaos. A death threat made by the devil himself hangs over the entire world and the gods discover they need the elusive hunter to save their hides more than ever. Can Percy do it or will he fall among the fallen?

A/N: I got this idea from various places. The first one being the "Battle of Thermopylae", a famous battle between the Greeks and the Persians, that happened in 480 B.C. Considering the summary, it's safe to say it's an AU and that Percy clearly is going to be a badass.

Chapter One: Prologue

Quote: He only earns his freedom and his life who takes them every day by storm.

-Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

2,492 years ago…

480 B.C.

The afternoon air was thick with mist and screams, blood and war cries, gleaming blades and piercing arrows. So much blood had already been spilled that in places the river ran red. Trees with emerald leaves had crimson tears staining their crumbling foliage and rocks wept as they were splattered with death.

One man with twin blades stood on a boulder overlooking the battle. His piercing eyes, dark aqua with a ring of sapphire blue near the edge of his iris, watched as his faithful men fell to the conniving Persians as they shot arrows, spears, and wicked daggers laced with poison.

He was of average height with a lithe body that hid the muscles lurking underneath. His pale skin was flawless, completely lacking the battle scars and tattoos of his comrades. He kept his dark hair shaggy and made sure it was just the right length to hide his striking eyes from anyone who dared stare straight at them. And on his dazzling face he wore a smirk. It shone with arrogance, self-confidence, and it held wisdom that made regular humans feel inferior.

He was the greatest warrior the Greek empire had ever seen, and today's battle only strengthened his legendary reputation.

A desperate Persian that got through a wave of his men lunged at him with a spear dripping green liquid. But the commander simply spun: The blade in his right hand smashing the spear to pieces, the tip of his left piercing the lone warrior through the torso.

He smirked and his aqua eyes flashed. A black cape adorned his body and it swam with the wind as it blew through the area smelling of death. The end hung in tatters, almost seemingly dissolving as the breeze nuzzled against it, and it radiated a sense of power that put the land's king to shame.

The man fell to the ground by his feet.

A quartet of swordsmen surrounded him, rushed at him with their menacing blades shining under the watchful sun and their shields held protectively against their armored bodies. He leaped at one of the men, ducked under his flailing sword, and crashed into his shield that bent under the commander's strength.

Behind him, the Persian's colleagues slammed into each other, crashing to the ground with little to no grace.

It was a moment's work to strike them down. He aimed for the knees of the first, punctured the stomach of the second and claimed the third with a double-thrust of his twin swords, and the fourth fell when he swung his arm forward and let a hidden dagger sing through the dank air.

The commander's hands and arms were drenched in his enemies' foul blood. He sheathed both swords and took a moment to flex his stiff fists—the bones cracking loud enough to be heard over the battle field—and wipe them on the dead man's tunic that lay by his feet.

There was a wound on his forearm, a deep cut that bled crimson tears. He couldn't recall receiving it and he personally didn't care. With one step back, he was covered by a large tree's shadow and the slice, after being surrounded by a dark light that pulsed, healed up instantly.

The air around him shifted.

From the east came a low rumbling. The commander didn't waste any time looking around—he knew what it was. His hands snapped out in front of his body, palms facing the approaching cloud, and a wall of semi-opaque soul self surrounded him in a dome.

Moments later the bright sky darkened. Like rain from the depths of Hell, thousands of arrows rushed from the sky and brought down ally and enemy alike. Blood splattered and covered the muddy ground with a few hundred more losses.

Covered by the ebony wall, the commander only smirked. Only a desperate leader would order his archers to fire this early in a battle.

As the last of the arrows thudded to the ground and became lifeless, he grabbed his swords and began to run. His steel-toed boots thudded against the littered ground. Some sweat ran down the side of his face, but, as it dripped to the bloody dirt below, his smirk only grew and the arrogant aura swirling around him increased tenfold.

The commander leaped over bodies, skirted around shattered and burning chariots, and—without slowing—slaughtered every Persian in his path.

Somewhere to the east he knew the Persian General was watching. And he was sure the man was praying to the war god Ares that he would be struck down before he got too close.

Like that bastard would help anyone. He thought with a strange sense of fondness.

Another rumble shook the sky; more arrows fell from the heavens. He took shelter behind a half-dead horse, leaning down so that the beast shielded his entire body. The stench of the animal almost blocked out the smell of blood, and the ground shook from its pain-filled roars.

The arrows fell and the dust settled down. The horse was silent and still.

The Persian General would already be planning his retreat, the commander knew. The coward would disappear through the humid jungle and lie to his king about the success of the attack.

In terms of numbers, the Persians won hands down. They we astounding warriors, highly trained and well-equipped. His own men were exceptional fighters; ready to lay down their life for their king, but the Grecian empire was vastly outnumbered and held numerous traitors that sold precious secrets and strategies.

The commander didn't know how many of his men had fallen, but he strongly suspected that nearly all seven thousand had made the journey to the underworld by now.

But he would not fall today, and neither would the Grecian empire, not to the Persians.

He broke cover and bounded towards the enemy's encampment. A frenzied cry rose from their shrinking ranks, and their archers began firing at will, no longer awaiting orders from their panicking general.

Again, this was a good sign. The commander smirked and—still sprinting—whistled a high-pitched melody that caused onrushing enemies to cringe slightly. The ground began shaking.

An arrow whipped past his face and another followed closely. He raised his left sword and knocked it out of the air and used his right to split a spear aimed for his thigh. Less than a minute later, a few nearby archers were lying on the ground in their own blood and a spearman was strewn in pieces.

A few minutes even later and he was too close to the Persians for them to use their archers at all.

A dozen or more swordsmen rushed at him at once. He ran, tensed his muscles, and then leaped over them, spinning around to fling his swords in a downward arch, taking out four men before he even touched the ground.

The Persians came at him with spears and daggers drenched in acid. He hacked everyone to pieces with fury and speed almost unimaginable. Now desperate and mindless of their own men, the archers began firing arrows with little to no aim, releasing a cloud of projectiles which he struck or shattered as they came towards him.

They launched spears and tridents and nets.

He smashed everyone faster than their mortal eyes could see.

The Persian slaves—promised freedom if they could stop the Greeks—charged at him with dull daggers and wooden clubs. He knew they were not warriors; neither bred nor trained to fight. They didn't deserve to die, not like this in the least.

He still killed them anyways.

Then a large snake burst from the dry, rocky ground. It was at least fifty feet high with dark green scales and large yellow eyes adorned with flecks of gold. Sharp fangs dripped with saliva and poison; deadly stuff that would paralyze instantly before killing minutes later.

He eyed the snake fondly. "Slay them all, Creed, every last one of them."

Screams were his answer.

He watched the basilisk mow down the Persians left and right, smirking every time he saw one urinate or vomit in fear. Men lay moaning, stranded, puddles of blood pooling around their paralyzed bodies. Then they died.

Every single one of them

Creed made his way towards the General, yellow eyes gleaming murderously. The man cowered on his golden chariot, staff shaking and rattling like a falling leaf. Sweat was making its way down his bronzed skin decorated with scars and his throat lurched with a choking gulp.

The snake loomed overhead.

"Enough, Creed, he's mine."

The General, grateful to get away from the monster, scrambled down from the chariot and stumbled his way over to the commander in semi-relief. His coal black hair shone under the bright sun and his bronze skin sparkled. He wore a long spotless white tunic and he had a simple gold band around his sweaty forehead.

"I am Firuz, first General of the royal guard of Lord Darius—"

"Kneel," The commander ordered; a smirk on his dirty face. "Kneel before the Champion of Athens and Thermopylae."

Without hesitation the Persian General dropped to his knees and lowered his head. A pathetic sight for the commander to bear witness too. Then he looked at the horses hooked to the golden chariot and jerked his head at Creed. "Kill them."

The sound of panicked whinnies and disoriented hooves that echoed around the area was deafening. Then all was silent. Firuz whimpered in fear and the commander turned his harsh glare towards the Persian.

"You are mine." He said. "You will scavenge the dead for weapons and supplies. Any Athens or Thermopylae warrior you find alive, tend his wounds. Any Persian too badly injured, you will kill."

Firuz whimpered again. "You…you would bring us to Sparta?"

The commander's glare hardened and his smirk grew. "No. We will march to Xerxes. Your king will be executed; your vaults will be exhausted." He grabbed Firuz by the collar and sneered. "And you will salt your fields until they turn into bare deserts unable to grow anything edible."

He dropped Firuz and turned to look across the sea of his fallen comrades. "This is the price you pay for messing with Greece." The commander began walking away; his black cape blowing in the wind. "Creed, make sure he doesn't run."

And he was gone.

Firuz wasn't satisfied. "Who are you," he hollered across the lengthening distance. "At least tell me the name of my killer."

Across the distance the commander smirked.

"I'm Perseus, son of Erebus and commander of the Grecian Army."

OOooOO

"King Leonidas, the commander has returned." The king looked up from his throne and eyed the royal messenger shifting nervously at the threshold.

The royal room was vast, large enough to hold hundreds of his prized elephants. The walls were drenched in fine gold and a mural of the great twelve Olympians hung above his head in jaw dropping glory. On the ceiling were skylights that let in the evening sun and on the floor lay a rug woven from golden wool.

"Ah, so young Perseus has been successful, excellent, send him in, Eleutherios." And the nervous messenger shot off like a bullet.

Minutes later a figure clothed in black breathed through the golden doors and glided across the room silently, stopping in front of King Leonidas's throne to stare at the man with unconcealed contempt.

"I heard you've been successful," The king forced a smile to his face. "Excellent, well done my boy, well don—"

"Many men died your highness. This is a time for mourning not for praise." A smooth voice echoed around the throne room. The king narrowed his eyes slightly.

"But still, well done, we are honored to call you our champion." The king sounded anything but. "Now we've gotten reports from our rangers that waves of Egyptians are heading our way and we need you to gather your army and meet them—"

"No."

"What?"

"I said no," The voice was hard like iron. "The only reason I came today was to give you my resignation. After today, my existence will cease to be of any importance."

The king was speechless.

"Now if you excuse me, I have things to do."

And he was gone.

OOooOO

"So you're leaving, huh?"

Perseus spun around to look for the voice smirking behind him. His eyes narrowed and a nasty sneer slid across his handsome face. "What do you want, Uncle Hermes?" He barked at the god.

Said god narrowed his eyes at the immortal being in front of him. "I'm not your Uncle." But Hermes said it with a smirk and soft, mischievous eyes despite being squinted.

Perseus continued walking towards his hut near the edge of the village, knowing his 'Uncle' would follow him. "So you're really leaving?"

He looked back to see the god pouting slightly. "Where are you going to go?"

Perseus sighed and continued on. "I'm thinking about going to a jungle, the amazon jungle I think. I went there one time for King Leonidas and the place was absolutely amazing. It'll take a fortnight, but I truly think it's worth it. Freedom. That's what I want."

"Are you gonna take Creed and Blaise with you?"

He smirked. "Yeah, I'll figure out some way to sneak them onboard. They're family you know, I couldn't leave them behind if I wanted to."

Hermes just smiled as they stopped in front of a crumbling hut made of driftwood. "So I guess this is goodbye?"

Perseus turned as a bird with red feathers that rivaled a fire's landed on his shoulder. "Only for a little while. I'm sure old man Zeus will be calling me in no time. I'll see you again." He reassured.

"Just be careful, okay kid?" He ruffled Perseus's hair. "I wouldn't know what to do without my little prank buddy."

"Hey!" Percy swatted the hand away fondly. "Alright, alright, I'll take care of myself. Just stop!" And both men laughed well naturedly.

"See ya around, kid." And the god was gone in a bright flash. Perseus only smiled.

He turned around and faced the direction of the ocean. He whistled. He waited. The ground shook and soon a large snake burst from the ground and looked at his master. "Take us to the Atlantic, Creed; we have a boat to catch."

OOooOO

The Battle of Thermopylae: 7000 men lead by Sparta held out for seven days against 100,000-300,000 Persians.

Firuz: It means victorious in Persian. I thought it would be ironic since he lost.

Eleutherios: It means free in Greek. Again ironic because he's a slave.

Disclaimer: It means I don't own PJO, just this epic plot.