Chapter 1
The Divinity in Our Souls
Disclaimer: I own nothing.
This is not a story of a third-rated magus, a novice Master.
Nor is it a story of an aspiring homunculus, a gentle dragon.
Neither yet a story of gods and immortals, a tale of monsters and heroes.
This, however, is a tale of two boys.
A boy of borrowed ideal and a boy of borrowed heart.
Interlopers they are, their paths coincide.
This is a story of a boy pursuing his dream, and a story of a boy seeking purpose in his life.
A journey of the two boys fulfilling their wishes.
The heavy stench of molten rocks and wrought iron enters his nostrils, and he refrains the sudden urge to gag as he accidentally draws in a particularly ample amount of unfiltered dust.
The earth shudders as explosions rock the world. His posture holds firm and steadfast even as a violent wave of boiling air presses against his face. He barely twitches even as sparks of a nearby explosion singed off the edges of his eyebrows.
And then, deeming it too dangerous to stay in one spot too long, he moves, darting across the ruined field with powered legs.
He's pushing himself at a grueling pace and has not decelerated the slightest despite the creeping fatigue manifesting in his bones.
The countless missiles trailing behind—each instilled with the murderous intent to spill his blood—is more than enough of a motivation to demand his sore legs going.
A sudden glint of light, too fast for him to properly react. A pristine curved sword of pure silver grazed the side of his face, drawing a thin crimson line across his chin.
The cut burns as if the blade has been bathed in a pool of toxic acid. Though, he ignores it easy enough, for it is just another cut to add to the thousand marring his body.
A trivial wound like that will not shift his attention, if his focus can be so easily diverted, then he'd be already dead the moment the battle begins.
Alarms blare in his head at the distinctive noise of whistling air. No hesitation is shown as he swivels on his heels with surprising fluidity, plucking a rusted dagger from the ground before it is thrown into the course of the nearest flying spear.
He doesn't stay to see if it hits as he lunges immediately after to perform a hasty somersault. Just barely a second later, the earth shatters as gleaming heads of javelins buries themselves into it, showering his rolling form with a light layer of dust.
The world swirls as he goes along with the momentum and rolls to his feet in one smooth movement that would leave his gym teacher's jaw hanging.
Despite all the intense action, there is little time for rest, as subsequently the next moment he looks up, a dozen flashing portals greets his face, lustrous weapons all deployed and prepared to be launched at a moment's notice.
He gulps at sight, but nonetheless tenses his legs and prepares himself for another chase of death.
Not too far away, the king stands motionless while retaining a stoic expression, one that can only be seen on sculpted statues placed in museums. His lips are tightly pressed together, a conspicuous evidence that he is done toying around.
In fact, for some reason, the flippant attitude had fled the royal collector the moment the battle crossed the ten-minute mark.
With narrowed eyes, the king—Gilgamesh gestures with an index finger.
Like a coordinated army of inhuman discipline, the dense wall of a thousand steel surges forth as one, leaving shimmering trails of gold as they depart.
Shirou wastes no time and jumps back to widen the distance. His eyelids stretch marginally as adrenaline-fueled brain hastening his perceptions two-fold, prolonging the moment until the blades are at crawling speed.
His eyes jump from one blade to another in a frantic manner, running a rough appraisal on the weapons Gilgamesh had send out.
There's a reason he mentioned the king is no longer in the mood for games. The moment he decides to get into business, the air turns cold. The oppressive aura he emits seems to darken the very skies of his soul. His eyes are no more human than it is serpentine. They reek superiority.
When Gilgamesh started pulling out the big guns, he knew the kids' gloves were coming off.
That's when things get…impossibly hard.
Every single one of the blades he now tosses around is in a completely different league than the ones before. Alone, each carries enough power to bring down the entire buildings in one, falling swipe.
But together, entire city, island—entire kingdoms will perish under their combined might.
Arrogant the king of Uruk may be, but for all the power he has in his grasp and the battles he had fought through, he has a very good reason to feel that way. Undefeated throughout your whole life does that to people.
The blades crossed a quarter of the distance that separates them.
Emerald lines ignite on the skin around his bloodshot eyes with a burst of magical energy, straining as they struggle to keep track of the wave lethal steel. A cerulean hue emanates as massive loads of od floods through the gateway and into his body. Rin Tohsaka's magic crest glows a similar color as he continues to draw from her dwindling, but nevertheless massive reserve pool.
With gnashing teeth, he watches the enemy wave approach in high velocity.
"...Trace, on."
Time crawls to a halt as all 27 magic circuits in his body are set aflame.
Judging the concept of creation…
Hypothesizing the basic structure…
Sound is nothing but a buzzing static as a rush of concentrated energy is directed to his eyes.
Along with pain comes change. Colorful hues of the world fade to white and black not unlike an outdated 50's movies. Shapes sharpened, vision clears as though a hazy cloud of mist is dispersed, lines become more pronounced than ever and suddenly it's as if he's seeing the world for the first time.
Certainly, it is almost unbelievable seeing how much improvement he has reached in just one weeks' time. As he is now, the employment of structural analysis comes easy as breathing, whereas just weeks before, he'd flounder to even perform the first starting three steps of analyzation and the simplest reinforcement on a metal rod.
While it might not be on par with Archer, his sharply improved proficiency in tracing would've surely made him raise an eyebrow in mild surprise.
The blades are half-way through the distance when in-depth scans on numerous swords are performed in quick succession. In record time, each and every single blade his eyes can perceive is thoroughly dissected.
…Duplicating the composition material…
…Imitating the skill of its making…
A thunderstorm savagely brews, almost strong enough to wrench his shirt apart, but the loose piece of durable cotton holds on admirably. The surrounding air sizzles with burnt ozone as a bright flash silhouette the outline of his figure. The glow permeated his surroundings blue, originated from his shuddering frame.
…Sympathizing with the experience of its growth…
At this point of the procedure, his mind is in overdrive. Because it is hard to maintain such incredible concentration, he molds his od as quick as he possibly can before he loses focus.
…Reproducing the accumulated years—
Magical energies are given vague shapes, materialized in thin air with a but not quite there yet. With a drawn breath, he instills his unique essence of steel into the fizzling images hovering above his head.
Wind picks up and wraps him in a tight cyclone.
—Excelling every manufacturing process…
And then it is done. Cackling electricity leaps from his skin as he solidifies his incomplete projections into corporal forms with a final step. Hovering in the sky, colors flush into the skeletal constructions of materialized od, making every single one of them distinct from the others.
…Possession experience, assimilation complete.
A formation of blades massive enough to dwarf mountains is brought into the world.
…Production, complete.
Time resumes its course. Weapons that was once moving at snail's pace accelerates midflight.
He raises his arm and splays his fingers.
"Release freeze...Successive fire!"
His army of blades shoots forward, leaving a column of displaced air and blue streaks in its wake.
A second later, a deafening clap of thunder shudders the earth, blowing dust and dirt away with an explosion that threatens to tear his Marble apart.
Assorted katanas ever known to human history cross with sabers whose names are buried layers under the ever-running stream of time.
Crooked axes whose edge have never seen the shine of the sun meet with heavy war hammers whose blunted metal have never tasted the rich flavor of blood.
Silver arrows forged by scarred palms of master blacksmiths collide with poisoned darts conjured by delicate hands of forest elves.
Twirling spears famed for its ability to slice through toughest steel clashes against jabbing halberds known for its capability to penetrate through hardest shields.
Grinding steel. Shrieking metal. Over the demented roars of explosions, of identical weapons of different origins competing for dominance, it is total and utter chaos.
A crude weapon flies pass him. A twisted long sword forged ages ago, specifically created to inflict damnable curses on unfortunate souls, once grasped by the blood-soaked hands of sinners.
A delicate sidearm buried its blade in the dirt next to his shoe. A charmed dagger crafted with the sole objective to bestow divine blessings on faithful saints who once swore to defend the innocents, a holy construction once possessed by an archangel.
He ducks a spinning slab of sharp steel overhead. A blackened broadsword tainted by the blood of hundreds, but nonetheless delivers nothing but fair judgment to the guilty evildoers, its plain pommel once held in gauntlets of an apathetic executor of France.
It is a full-out war between two opposing sides, and the scale of it is monumental. So great of a battle that it is regretful it will never be recorded in history nor seen by a third pair of eyes. Neither side is willing to give ground, for it may very decide the outcome of the combat.
But of course, both sides are not equal in power. One is a boy of the modern age and the other is a hero of old. In the end, one side must give under the other's preceding strength.
Fragile projections break against the originals. Lesser copies splinter themselves against their identical twin. Conceptual weapons of one's imagination shattered against conceptual weapons of one's collection.
A spear pierces his defense after drilling through a hail of arrows. He sees it immediately because of his enhanced awareness. He swiftly picks up an erected sword by its handle and bats away the heavy projectile with an exerted grunt.
It's to be expected, because in terms of their quality, the originals will always prevail against inferior imitations of imperfect constructions, especially with how little time he was given to trace them, they are far from reaching full capacity.
But thankfully, despite his copies' overt lower frailty, they still manage to stave off their originals at expense of their immutable demise.
Divine steel drill into the tough soil, its advance only halted after it is buried shaft-deep into the dirt.
Demonic blades deflected skyward, a mere streak of black as they poke holes in puffy clouds drifting above.
Mortal weapons of immense power yaw off course, flying off into far distance with a howl of distorted wind. A mile away, the landscape alters as they gouge massive trenches across the plains of his soul.
Even the lowliest blade has the power to make an impact, insignificant it may be.
Furthermore, the battle takes place in his soul, the home-field advantage is at his side. Even as fragments of his pathetic creations litter the barren field, but the intensity of his attack is not dampened.
His creation.
His soul.
And hence, he rules.
In his world of unlimited blades, there is never an end to ammunition. It will not—cannot run out of weapons long as he has the reserve to spare. Without a doubt, he is sure the sheer amount of steel is enough to darken the sky with their number.
Even as hundreds of broken swords fall to the earth, tides of bastardized blades lift themselves off ground as though bearing their own will, joining their brethren into heightening the ferocity of his assault.
Hundreds feet away from his position, flawless steel takes to the skies when the king gives a nonverbal command.
Likewise, he responds in kind. With a violent wave of his hand, he reciprocates by commanding another wave of his unending army of counterfeit to rise.
Like an unending cycle, the two separate armies of opposing sides meet with a deafening thunderclap.
From then, the process repeats.
Somewhere else, in another world far away, a mirror universe somehow manages to retain the era of Age of Gods until current days.
Hovering high above skies and deep into the stormy clouds of United States of America, to mortal's obliviousness, the gods rule the world on Olympus through indirect and influential methods.
Gods are immortals of incredible power and authority, capable of feats mortals can only dream of. But even all-powerful beings are not permitted indulgence. Direct intervention to mortal matters, for one, is strictly forbidden via Ancient laws. All they are allowed is to subtly nurture the world by push humanity towards the direction they want.
Major events that had occurred throughout history were the results of divine interference, examples are as such: The World Wars, the Industrial Revolution, the Dark Age, the French and American Revolution and so on.
Countless incidents, no matter how insignificant, it is undeniable that gods must have a hand in it.
Yet, repulsive it may sound to people with a set of ethics, it cannot be refuted that it is through the gods' influence that humanity and its civilizations gain sufficient momentum to advance past hardships and obstacles.
They whispered instructions into the ears of world leaders and affluential politicians; plant seeds of inspiration into minds of innovators to prompt evolvement; sway brave soldiers with courageous words to become honored martyrs for the sake of their country.
And in the end, their actions bear fruit. Till this date, they manage to survive without fading out of existence, succeeding where their counterparts fail in infinite other alternative universes.
Even until now as we speak, immortals wear their disguises and blends with the population. Gods roam the earth among countless humans for pure curiosity. They breathe the same air as mortal inhale, bathe under the same sunlight and shared its same warmth as we all do.
Yes, regardless of how slight and unlikely the chances are, it does happen.
It is in this world, the Age of Gods has yet to see the end of its days, and the legacies of legendary heroes continue onward.
Somewhere far away from human civilization, beyond skyscrapers and cities, out the shores and distant into the horizons, over and across the calm sea tides of Atlantic, sits a mystic island isolated from the rest of the world.
Concealed by a thick layer of Mist to evade the prying eyes of mortal explorers and modern technology, the magical haven is guaranteed to never be found through normal means.
On that island lives a girl.
Her looks are vernal enough to belie her true age, a trait shared by all immortals endowed with perpetual youth and gods with adjustable age. Calypso, as a Titaness and a daughter of Atlas to boot, her beauty is said to be on par with the Olympians, angelic in a sense that will put minor goddesses to shame, as befits a child of two powerful immortals.
Despite being a goddess who prefer harmony over violence, but at times when push comes shove, she is perfectly competent of crushing lesser minor godlings using nothing but her bare hands.
Her father isn't the almighty Titan of Endurance for nothing, and naturally, being his daughter implies that she shares a fraction of his domain.
Calypso is a peaceful Titaness, but that did not stop her from assisting her father during the Titan War, for she had once cherished her family above anything the world had to offer, even if her father did have the tendency to get violent whenever she or her sisters did something displeasing to him, she loved her family too much to let that get in the way.
But obviously, in hindsight, it wasn't the wisest choice. The gods are young and far more compassionate than the titans. They were globally viewed as the better alternative. As the younger of the two generations are better supported and finer equipped, it was reasonable that they won the war.
The gods were newly crowned rulers, whereas the Titans were either sliced into bloody chunks or thrown to the deepest corners in Tartarus.
She was not spared despite her reluctance in participating in the war, but it was for that reason punishment is far docile compared to what her fellow titans are forced to go through. Eternal imprisonment is her abiding penalty, and she has been stranded on this haven for millenniums already, and will probably remain in this predicament for centuries to come for repentance.
Though it was far from the worse, it was still miserable to live this long without someone to talk to, the boredom she must endure is brutal. Cut from the modern world and without any company, to say Calypso was lonely would be a colossal understatement.
It had been far too long since she last saw the grassy plains of her homeland, far too long since she last visited a human civilization. Much had changed outside, and she had yet to witness how the world had come to be.
Today was like any other day for the past couple years—uneventful and monotonous.
Most of her time here is spent without directions and aims, and today is no different. She dawdled on the shores of her island, glancing idly up and watched absentmindedly as the Apollo's chariot began its journey down from its highest position for Artemis' night shift.
The sky was pretty, clear of clouds and full of blues—just like how it had been when she first gazed upon it as a toddler on her mother's lap.
For some reason, Calypso often associates the openness of the heavens as a symbol of unbounded freedom, a notion she has always wanted but is never given the privilege of—not as a youngling, and not as a four-thousand-years old immortal.
Because for as long as Calypso remembered, she is never given freedom, not in any sense nor form. She never got so much of a taste of it, which was likely the reason why she envied those who are given the opportunity to enter a world full of liberties, one that allows them to do what they've always wanted.
But right now, she wasn't admiring the sky for its beauty, nor begrudging for what it represents. But instead, she simply staring up at the skies, a slight smile on her lips as she reminiscent fond memories of a certain son of the seas.
Even now, the memories of her clumsy hero were still vivid. Calypso could still recall years ago, she was standing in the exact same position as she was on now.
She was looking to the clear sky, when all of a sudden, a black spot appeared in the skies, enlarging as it fell with increasing speed. It was dropping way faster than she could react. By the time she snapped out of her stupor, all she could manage was a sympathetic wince as the mass crashed woefully on the coast of her beach.
Back then, she was afraid that it was another prank pulled by the gods, all to make her life even more miserable and theirs more amusing, so it wasn't without hesitation she approached the fallen mass that was unmoving on her shallow shores.
Her worries were unfound, the moment she caught a glimpse of the mop of unruly black hair, or that tattered mess of a ruined orange shirt wrapped around the object, she realized the steaming meteor on her beach was in fact a heavily injured human being.
And that was how the Titaness Calypso first met Olympus' renowned hero, Perseus Jackson.
It was not the most ideal first meeting, she would admit, but it was definitely the most profound entrance she had witnessed a hero had made so far.
The time it took to cure the boy back to health was surprisingly quick, even by demigod standards. He was conscious five days after he landed and up on his feet by the end of the second week. Being a son of Poseidon certainly had its perks, aside from speeding up his recovery process, any form of liquid was able to wash off the scars that had marred his skin and revert it back to its usual healthy tan.
It wasn't until the start of the second week that Perseus was finally convinced that Calypso was not affiliated with the titan's force and worked up some courage to talk about his life in the outside world, a way to vent his frustrations and worries.
And…oh dear, Perseus was truly different from all other heroes she had met, something Calypso was able to deduce three minutes into their first conversation.
Aside from being the most engaging person she'd met, unlike his past predecessors, the boy did not find boasting attractive in any way. There was no sense of pride whenever he described his past adventures and achievements, just genuine gratefulness and appreciation that he survived the mishaps.
Yes, he is infinitely humble, a quality she had not seen since forever. Quite contrary rather, he fumbled with words and ran his mouth without filtering his thoughts. He was a perfect impression of a goofy boy who could not lie his way out of trouble, a nervous teen who'd more likely bit his tongue than getting savvy with a girl.
She found it endearing, to the point her heart instantly melted whenever Perseus fumbled with his words.
And apparently, his partner, his lover, his Annabeth, was somehow attracted to this clumsiness as well.
Annabeth.
The stranded immortal pursed her lips in bitterness, slowly losing herself in the sea of memories as she nudged a seashell with her toe.
It…it was sad, really. She had wept for a whole day straight.
What she held for Perseus was not the superficial love she was fated to harbor for the heroes who had arrived her island, but something that was sincere…a truer type of love that she was confident was not intrigued by her contemptible curse.
Where she loved all the other heroes she had treated equally, she undoubtedly loved Perseus Jackson the most, and that was what had prompted her to do what she had done next.
In spite of knowing better, she offered him to stay with her, providing him with a choice to escape the outside world and the prophecy.
For millenniums since she was stranded on this island, it had only taken her a couple decades and a handful of heroes to realize that all that arrived her island could only afford a temporary stay, and are destined to leave her island when the time comes.
A cruel imprecation placed on her by the Olympians, but it hadn't stop her from offering all the same to them heroes.
But this time…just this once, she had dared to hope that this Perseus Jackson would be the first to deny fate themselves… for he was the first hero ever slipped his way past layers of barriers where hundreds had met dead ends…
Once, she had dared to hope, her eyes glistening with unshed tears and pursed lips quivering as she waited for his reply, her heart moments from bursting from building pressure as he took an eternity pondering over her proposition.
He said no.
Calypso closed her eyes as she shut away from the brewing pain in her blossom. She had prepared that to be the answer she received, but it did not make the pain any more bearable.
Time ran differently in Ogygia. Perhaps it'd only been months for him, but for her, it had been a couple years since she had last seen Perseus Jackson. Time was a fickle concept to immortals like her, years were equivalent to seconds, and decades were treated like days.
The years that she was given since then felt short, too short. Her broken heart had yet to mend, and the ache was still fresh and cutting, as though it had just been yesterday he left.
The immortal sighed, allowing herself to fall backward and landed her rear on the soft sand of her beach, unminding of how her dress fold and crease against the sandy surface.
But…she guessed it was fine. She was Calypso, she was strong. While Perseus had left a scar deeper than others, it was not the first time her heart had been broken. She had time in infinite supply, sooner or later her feelings would fade, and she would get over it.
Just like she always had.
Ping...
He opens his eyes, jaded orbs dilating as they see for the first time since eternities.
There is a disturbance in the space, a ripple spreading in the fabric of reality.
Something is happening.
The dragon stares at the empty grass plain in front of him, as though expecting something to come through.
He stares…
And stares some more…
Nothing.
No beast appears, no distortion in the space, no crest or glyphs that indicates the application of magic from outside intruders, and definitely no blonde girl in white silky dress walking her way through.
But even then, his senses tingle, foreboding and ominous in a way that is unsettling and nagging.
Something is happening.
The dragon snorts and clutches the gigantic golden orb closer to his chest, winding his scaled arms around the sacred artifact and savors its lingering warmth.
The gentle dragon closes his eyes and prepares himself for another eternity of slumbering.
Somehow though, despite knowing that none has the ability nor foolishness to trespass the Sanctuary of Beasts, it does little to quell his uneasiness.
Something is happening.
End of Chapter 1