(Credit Rick Riordan for PJ and Heroes of Olympus)Chapter 3 - The Pit
(POV: Percy Jackson)
When people dream of the idea of darkness, of death, of terror, they think of Tartarus. The very idea of it chills you to the bone. But for those born here, for the creatures of Tartarus - The Pit was their true terror. To them, it wasn't just a place of torment; it was a place of humiliation. Monsters fought there, not just for survival, but for the twisted glory of the greater entities that called the depths of Tartarus home. The rich, dark abyss was like their Colosseum. Only the strongest fought for their sickening entertainment, and even then, it was a fight that was as much about breaking you as it was about defeating you. For some, the end was the only escape from the nightmare.
I first heard about The Pit from monsters while they passed by, their voices low and rumbling in the dark. It wasn't much at first—just a few offhand remarks, like whispers in the wind. "They say it's worse than the worst nightmares," one growled at another. "A place where even the strongest are crushed." I didn't think much of it then. I should've.
A monster unlike I had ever seen before opened the door to my cell. "Soon, little hero," it rasped, drool pooling at the corners of its twisted mouth. "Soon, we'll see how long you last in The Pit." I didn't know what it was, but I could guess. Monsters in Tartarus didn't need much to entertain themselves. Fighting pits were probably as close as they got to a good Netflix binge.
I was forced out of the cell in chains and walked up what felt like miles of stairs. This complex I was in was gigantic, and I realized that this was no ordinary jail. They opened a door and I was greeted to the outside world, or as outside as Tartarus could offer. And then I saw it - the Pit.
The first time I laid eyes on The Pit was nothing like I expected. Standing at the edge of that darkened arena, I could almost taste the rot in the air. The walls loomed above me like jagged teeth, the stone slick with some black, oily substance I couldn't quite name. There was no light, just a thick, oppressive darkness that seemed to crawl under your skin.
The monsters who'd spoken of it were right. This wasn't just an arena. This was hell on earth—a place built to break you down, body and soul. You fought not only for your life but for the twisted amusement of the monsters who watched from above. The creatures in Tartarus who didn't need to lift a finger, who fed off the suffering of others. In The Pit, there was no escape. No mercy.
Every inch of it seemed designed to grind you down. The ground beneath me shifted constantly, turning into obstacles, jagged rocks, or thick, viscous mud that would suck at your feet, slowing you down. The pain was constant. It wasn't just physical—it was in the air itself, in the very walls that seemed to lean in on you, suffocating you.
But The Pit was about more than just fighting. It was about breaking you. It was designed to destroy hope. To make you question everything you thought you knew about yourself. Every time I thought I'd found something within me to hold on to, The Pit would take it away. The chains, the tortures, the endless cycle of despair—everything about it was meant to wear you down.
It was like a Roman coliseum, but far worse. The stands were packed with monsters of every kind—Cyclopes, empousai, dracaenae, and creatures I couldn't even name. Their glowing eyes watched me with hungry anticipation.
In the center of the pit, the ground was slick with blood and viscous black goo. Bones littered the surface, some human, some…not.
"Welcome to the Pit, Perseus Jackson," Kronos announced, his voice booming from a throne carved into the wall above. "Let's see if you're as entertaining as your reputation suggests."
They unchained me and shoved me into the pit, throwing Riptide at my feet. My fingers closed around the hilt automatically, but my grip was shaky. My body was still weak from the torture, my muscles screaming in protest as I forced myself to stand.
Across the arena, the gates opened with a deafening groan.
A creature emerged—ten feet tall, covered in scales that shimmered like oil. Its eyes glowed red, and its maw was filled with jagged teeth. I recognized it immediately. A drakon.
My heart sank. Even at full strength, a drakon was a challenge. In my current state? This was suicide.
The crowd roared as the drakon charged, its claws tearing into the ground. I barely had time to roll out of the way, my body protesting every movement.
I slashed at its side as it passed, but the blade barely scratched its scales. The drakon turned with a roar, its tail whipping toward me. I threw myself to the ground, narrowly avoiding the strike, but the force of it knocked the air out of my lungs.
I stumbled to my feet, gasping, and forced myself to focus. I couldn't overpower it, not like this. I had to outthink it.
The drakon lunged again, its jaws snapping shut inches from my head. I dove to the side, rolling through the muck, and slashed at its leg. This time, I hit a weak spot, and the drakon howled in pain, black ichor spilling onto the ground.
The crowd roared with delight.
Roars . Clangs of my sword against the drakon scales. I felt myself losing energy - this damned place threatened to claim me and my sanity. The fight felt like it lasted hours, but somehow, I won. Barely. I stood over the drakon's corpse, my body trembling, blood dripping from countless wounds.
The crowd erupted into cheers, but Kronos only smirked.
"Well done," he said, his voice cutting through the noise like a blade. "But this is only the beginning, Percy Jackson. This place will be your new home."
I wanted to scream, to throw Riptide at his smug face, but I didn't have the strength. Two ogres grabbed me, dragging me back to the black water bath to be "healed" again.
I wasn't sure how much more I could take.
If I thought Tartarus couldn't get any worse, Kronos proved me wrong. Every day—if I could still call it a day—was the same horrifying cycle.
It always started in the throne room. The monsters dragged me in, chains biting into my wrists and ankles, and dumped me in front of Kronos' twisted throne. His golden eyes gleamed with sadistic glee as he leaned forward, ready to play his part in my personal nightmare.
"You're persistent, I'll give you that," he would say, his voice a mix of mockery and malice. "But how long can you hold out, Perseus? How long before you beg me for mercy?"
I never gave him the satisfaction. I gritted my teeth, clenched my fists, and kept my mouth shut, even as his monsters went to work.
They always brought me to the edge of death—whips, claws, blades, acid. Each session was designed to break something in me, whether it was my body or my spirit. But they never let me die.
Once they were done, they dragged me back to the black water. Its water healed my wounds, knitting torn flesh and broken bones, but it didn't restore my strength. If anything, it left me weaker, as if the river fed on my will to live.
Then came the Pit.
Every time I stepped into that arena, the crowd roared with bloodlust. Monsters packed the stands, screeching and growling as they bet on how long I'd last or how gruesome my death would be.
The creatures they sent after me were stronger and deadlier each day. Drakons, giants, hellhounds, empousai—I fought them all. My body moved on instinct, muscle memory guiding me when my mind couldn't keep up.
The monsters in the crowd didn't just want to see me fight; they wanted to see me suffer. They jeered and howled every time I stumbled, their laughter ringing in my ears whenever a claw or fang tore into my flesh.
I killed. I survived. But each victory felt hollow.
Kronos watched it all from his throne, his smirk never fading.
After a particularly brutal fight—two cyclopes at once—I collapsed in the pit, my body trembling. I'd barely managed to kill them both, but not before one of them broke my arm and the other left a gash across my chest.
The crowd cheered as the ogres dragged me out of the pit. My vision blurred as they threw me into the black river again. The icy burn of the water was familiar now, but no less agonizing.
When they pulled me out, my body was whole again, but I felt emptier than ever.
"You're holding on by a thread," Kronos said later, watching as I slumped in chains at his feet. "Soon, that thread will snap. And then you'll see the truth, Percy Jackson. You'll see that all your struggles have been for nothing."
I wanted to argue, to tell him he was wrong, but I couldn't find the words.
I don't know how many days—or weeks—this went on. My body moved on autopilot, my mind retreating into itself. I clung to memories of Annabeth, Grover, and my mom, replaying them in my head like a mantra.
But even those started to fade.
Tartarus was winning. Kronos was winning.
And I didn't know how much longer I could keep fighting.
