(Credit Rick Riordan for PJ and Heroes of Olympus)

Chapter 9 - The Mountain of the Titans

(POV: Third-Person)

Percy's feet carried him steadily up the mountain, each step taking him deeper into the heart of the forgotten land. The higher he climbed, the more the landscape began to shift, as if the mountain was shedding layers of its past. At first, it had been nothing more than jagged rocks and rough terrain. But now, there was something more. A haunting presence lingered in the air, as though the mountain itself was trying to remember something long lost.

It started small—just a few broken columns, half-sunken into the ground, their once-imposing forms now nothing but shattered remnants. Percy paused for a moment, glancing down at the stone. He could feel the weight of history, of battles fought and lost, of a civilization that had risen to unimaginable heights, only to fall into ruin.

The deeper he ventured, the more signs of decay appeared. A crumbled archway. Fragments of ancient statues, their faces worn and eroded by time. Large, smooth stones strewn haphazardly across the ground, remnants of something grander that had once stood tall. The grandeur was still evident in the pieces that had survived. Even in their shattered state, they held an echo of their former majesty. The gods had come, defeated the Titans, and razed everything to the ground—but there was still something here, something untouched by their divine wrath.

And then, in the distance, Percy saw it.

The unmistakable shape of a vast, ruined structure loomed against the skyline. It wasn't just a building; it was a palace—a throne room, from the look of it. The architecture was undeniably Titan-like, the columns wider, more imposing than anything the gods would have built. The stone itself seemed to pulse with ancient power, even in its decayed state.

Percy's heart thudded in his chest as he approached. The atmosphere grew heavier with every step, the air thick with a sense of forgotten grandeur. His eyes traced the broken steps leading up to the palace entrance, where shattered doors lay half-open, as if inviting him in.

The throne of Kronos is in there. It had to be.

He stepped inside, his boots clicking softly on the stone floor. The initial hallway was vast, the ceiling high and vaulted, though much of it had collapsed over the centuries. Huge stone statues lined the room, some cracked and toppled over, others still standing, though their surfaces were marred by time.

The room was far more grandiose than anything he had expected. It wasn't just a crumbling, forgotten hall of Titans; it was a palace. The walls seemed to pulse with history, the air thick with ancient power and grandeur. Massive stone pillars reached up toward a vaulted ceiling, their surfaces etched with symbols that Percy couldn't quite place.

But what truly took his breath away were the walls themselves. They weren't just adorned with the remnants of time, as he had expected. No, they were covered in frescoes—grand murals that stretched across the stone, depicting scenes of battles and triumphs, the rise of the Titans, the birth of the gods, and the eventual war that had brought them all low.

The artwork was stunning, vibrant despite the age. Percy could feel the power in each brushstroke, the weight of the stories they told. His eyes scanned the paintings, drinking in every detail as they seemed to come to life before him. One mural depicted Kronos himself—titanic and imposing—standing atop Mount Othrys, reigning over the cosmos with his mighty scythe. Another showed the violent clash between the Titans and the Olympian gods, lightning and fire crackling in the air as the gods fought for their thrones. It seems that the Olympians, in an act of superiority, came to Othrys to add their own taste to the building.

But what struck Percy most was the last fresco. It was located at the far end of the hall but was clearly not an original part of the artwork, just before the massive doors that lay ahead. In this image, the Titans were depicted falling. Kronos, once a towering figure of unimaginable power, was shown in the midst of his downfall, his form crumbling as the gods struck him down. The faces of the gods—Zeus, Poseidon, Hades—were proud and unyielding. How much time changes, Percy thought to himself.

As Percy took it all in, the murals seemed to speak to him, whispering of a time long past, a time when power meant something different. The gods had fought to overthrow the Titans, yes, but the price of that victory had been immense. Power, Percy realized, was a curse. It could be wielded, but it could also consume. Kronos had once sat at the height of that power, and now—like all things—his reign had been nothing more than a fleeting moment in the grand cycle of time.

Percy's heart pounded in his chest as he stepped closer to the massive door at the end of the hallway. His fingers trembled, not just from the weight of the power he had carried for so long, but from the immense responsibility that now lay on his shoulders. He was nearing the culmination of his journey, nearing the place where everything would change.

The door was a massive thing, ancient and imposing. It was carved with intricate designs—symbols of time, of destruction, of power. Percy could feel its presence, like it was waiting for him, calling him forward. He wasn't sure why, but something told him that behind that door lay the final truth he had come here to find. It wasn't just about ridding himself of Kronos' soul. It wasn't just about finding strength. It was about understanding what had happened here, what the gods had destroyed, and what the Titans had once been.

Taking a deep breath, Percy approached the door. His heart raced as he pushed against it. The door creaked and groaned, as if reluctant to open, but it gave way with a low, mournful sound. Beyond it lay the heart of Mount Othrys—its throne room, its true seat of power. And Percy knew, without a doubt, that whatever lay beyond this door would change everything.

He stepped inside.

As entered the room, immediately a thick, suffocating darkness enveloped him. The only light was a faint, dim glow from the outside world, filtering through the long hallway from where Percy came from. It was as if the mountain itself had swallowed the light, leaving nothing but shadows in its wake.

He walked cautiously, his boots making soft echoes against the stone floor. The air inside was heavy with the scent of old dust and decay, a far cry from the sterile air of the outside world. It felt oppressive, as if the room itself was holding its breath, waiting for him to do something.

Percy inhaled deeply. The air was colder here, filled with a dampness that seemed to seep into his very bones. His heart raced, but his feet moved of their own accord, drawn deeper into the room. He could sense that this place was ancient—older than the gods themselves, perhaps—and it carried with it the weight of countless ages, of empires that had risen and fallen long before his time.

As his eyes adjusted to the gloom, he began to make out faint shapes in the darkness. There were towering columns along the walls, their stone surfaces rough and pitted with age. The shadows twisted and writhed around them, as though the room itself was alive. Despite the decay, there was still a sense of grandeur here, a sense that this had once been a place of unimaginable power.

The room was vast, much larger than he had anticipated. Unlike the grand circular design of the Olympian throne room, this space was arranged in a straight line, with rows of thrones stretching out before him. Each throne was monumental, carved from dark stone, and adorned with symbols of the Titans—ancient and foreboding. Some were cracked and weathered with age, while others seemed almost pristine, untouched by time's ravages. The thrones were arranged in neat rows, each one belonging to a different Titan, Percy assumed, though the names of their former owners were lost to time.

The air in the room seemed to pulse with an eerie energy, and as Percy moved further into the throne room, he felt an unsettling weight pressing down on him. He knew the thrones represented power—power that had once ruled the cosmos. But as his eyes traced each seat, something about them felt... empty. The grandeur of the room was undeniably impressive, but it was all too clear that it was a place of loss. The Titans, once mighty and unchallenged, had fallen.

At the far end of the line of thrones, Percy's gaze was drawn to the largest seat of all. It was more elaborate, more imposing than any of the others, and it seemed to draw the very air toward it, like a magnetic force. Percy could sense it even from this distance—the seat was far more than just a throne. It was the heart of Othrys. The center of the Titans' influence. The throne of Kronos himself.

The nearer he drew to the throne, the more the room seemed to hum with an energy that vibrated through the floor and into his bones. He could feel the weight of history in the air, the tension of countless years of war, betrayal, and conquest. It was as if the throne had been waiting for someone—someone like him—to come.

But for now, the throne stood empty.

As he drew closer to the throne of Kronos, the room seemed to shift around him. The murals on the walls appeared to come to life, their images flickering like flames—Kronos battling Gaia, the gods rising against the Titans, the fall of the ancient empire. But something else began to emerge in the images as well: Percy himself, standing tall before the throne, as though he had always been a part of this cycle, this endless struggle for power. It was almost as if the very room had been anticipating him.

The closer he got, the stronger the pull toward the throne became. It was as if the room itself was beckoning him, urging him to take the seat, to claim the power that had once been Kronos'. But Percy didn't feel the same thirst for domination that the Titans had. He wasn't here to rule. He wasn't here to claim victory for himself. He had come to understand, to find a way to control the power that had slowly been consuming him.

(POV: Percy Jackson)

As I approached the throne of Kronos, my steps slowed. The power radiating from it was undeniable, and the closer I got, the more I could feel the weight of history pressing down on me. This throne, unlike the others, was grander—carved from dark stone with intricate patterns running along its arms and back. The carvings depicted scenes of war and conquest, with Titans battling primordial forces, striking down gods, and reshaping the very fabric of time. There were swirling representations of hours, moments frozen in time, and faces—some familiar, some lost to the ages.

I circled the throne slowly, my hand just barely grazing the cold stone as I took in every detail. The carvings seemed almost alive, shifting and moving as if they were trying to tell a story. I could see Kronos in his prime, towering above the other Titans, a god of destruction and time. The power that had once been his—immense, infinite—seemed to reverberate through the room, vibrating in the air itself.

The stone under my fingertips was smooth, but the longer I touched it, the more it seemed to pulse. The power contained within the throne hummed, like an ancient machine slowly waking from a long slumber. I could almost feel the whispers of the past brushing against my skin, the echoes of all those who had sat upon it, wielding the power of time, bending reality to their will.

I continued my circle, my mind racing. I knew the history of Kronos—the tale of how the Titan had once ruled over the heavens, only to be overthrown by his own children. The gods had defeated Kronos and bound him in Tartarus, but the throne—this throne—remained, a silent reminder of what had been.

As I stared at the throne, its dark power seeming to pulse with each beat of my heart, I understood. To ascend, to gain the strength necessary to defeat Gaia, to stop the giants, to save everything I held dear… I would have to leave behind my humanity. My heart clenched at the thought, but somewhere deep inside, I knew it was the only way. Being a demigod, being a human, wouldn't be powerful enough to withstand the power I would be undertaking. I would sacrifice my skin, my body, and maybe even my soul - in order to save the world.

I could do it. I had to do it. For everyone. For Annabeth. For the world. My sacrifice, though it would tear me apart, was the key to everything. The fate of the world hung in the balance, and I had to make the hardest decision of my life.

With a deep breath, I stepped forward, my resolve hardening like the stone of the throne beneath my feet. I didn't know what would happen after this—didn't know what kind of person I would become. But one thing was certain: I couldn't let the world fall. Not again. Not while I still had breath in my body.

"I'll do it," I whispered, though the words felt like they were being ripped from my soul.

As I made my choice, the whispers in my head seemed to quiet, the power of the throne fading, as if the mountain itself was waiting for me to take the final step. The darkness that had once surrounded me seemed to recede, and for a moment, I felt a strange peace wash over me. I wasn't sure what was coming next, but for the first time in a long while, I knew exactly what I had to do.

And with that, I took a seat on the throne of Kronos.

The silence shattered like glass. A deafening roar filled my mind, a cacophony of voices that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. It was the soul of Kronos, alive and furious, its tendrils of rage lashing against the fragile boundary of my being. The power of the throne, of Kronos himself, surged up around me like a tidal wave, dragging me into the depths of a storm that had no beginning or end.

I felt as if my very soul were being torn apart. My body convulsed, muscles locking up in spasms of unbearable pain. The throne beneath me felt like an inferno, burning me from the inside out as the force of Kronos' ancient wrath collided violently with my own. The pain was unlike anything I had ever known—it was as though time itself was twisting around me, warping and snapping like a broken piece of glass. Every moment in my life, every battle, every joy, every loss—all of it flashed before my eyes, faster than I could process. It was as if the entirety of my existence was being pulled through the maelstrom of Kronos' chaotic influence.

But it wasn't just the pain—it was the overwhelming presence of Kronos. I could feel my mind slipping, the titan's ancient consciousness trying to force its way into my thoughts. It was as if Kronos were trying to erase me, to overwrite everything that made me who I was. I could hear the titan's voice—louder now, a thunderous growl in the back of my mind.

You are nothing, Kronos whispered. You are merely a vessel, a child of the gods. You will break beneath the weight of time.

My mind was assaulted with visions of Kronos' rise, his defeat, and now his vengeance. I could feel the titan's hunger, the unrelenting desire to reclaim his power, to escape the prison of Tartarus. My own memories flickered and faded in the wake of that overwhelming presence, like flames extinguished by a flood. I saw my childhood, Annabeth's smile, the battles I'd fought, the promises I'd made—all of it slipping away, lost to time.

I screamed, but no sound came. The titan's power was too strong, and I could feel my sense of self unraveling. My humanity was fighting back, but the battle was slipping from my grasp. I could feel my own essence, the very thing that made me Percy Jackson, being chipped away, piece by piece.

The world around me swirled into madness—time fractured and bent in every direction. I could see flashes of the past and glimpses of the future. I saw the gods, my friends, even Annabeth, all of them blurring, becoming nothing more than fleeting images in the torrent of chaos. I struggled against it, grasping for something—anything—that could anchor me. But there was nothing. No ground to stand on, no tether to hold me. Just the infinite pull of Kronos' power.

The titan roared again, a primal, guttural sound that echoed in my ears. This world will fall, and I will rise again. You cannot stop me. You cannot even remember who you are!

And in that moment, I felt the cold hand of doubt clench around my heart. Was it true? Could I really hold on? Was I strong enough to fight the titan inside me, to retain what made me Percy Jackson, or was I doomed to become something else entirely?

But then, amidst the swirling chaos, I felt a flicker. A spark of something. It wasn't my strength, or even my willpower—it was a memory. A feeling. It was Annabeth's face, her voice in my mind, a whispered promise that we would always fight together, no matter the odds. Her words cut through the chaos, clear and steady.

We'll figure it out, Percy. We always do.

For a fleeting moment, I was back in that quiet moment on the Argo II, laughing with Annabeth, feeling the weight of the world but knowing we could face it together. That memory, that feeling of connection, grounded me like a lifeline. It wasn't much, but it was enough.

The chaos roared louder, but I fought it back. My mind burned, but I fought. I clung to the small slivers of myself that remained, refusing to let Kronos consume me entirely. I wouldn't let the titan win. Not like this.

With every ounce of willpower I could muster, I clenched my fists, gripping the arms of the throne with a strength that surprised me. I refused to let go of myself. I would not lose this fight.

And then, through the maelstrom, I heard a voice. It was mine. Stronger than it had been before.

I am Percy Jackson. Retriever of the Master Bolt, Sailor of the Sea of Monsters, Bearer of the Titan's Curse, Traverser of the Labyrinth, Fighter in the Battle of the Labyrinth, Bearer of the Curse of Achilles, Leader of the Battle of the New York, Demigod of the Great Prophecy, Member of the Seven, Former Praetor of the Twelfth Legion, Survivor of Tartarus, and Hero of Olympus.

The words echoed, growing louder until they drowned out Kronos' fury. My soul steadied, my memories returning like a floodgate opening, washing over me with overwhelming clarity. The weight of the titan's power faltered just for a second. I used that moment to push back, to regain control of my body and mind.

I wouldn't let Kronos win. I wouldn't become a shadow of the titan, a puppet of time.

With a final, defiant scream, I wrenched myself free. The titan's presence cracked and splintered, fracturing like shattered glass. My soul surged with power—my own power, not Kronos'—and for the first time since sitting upon the throne, I felt truly alive.

The chaos in my mind began to settle, and I stood tall once more, my body trembling, but my will stronger than ever. I had faced the titan, faced the darkness that had threatened to consume me, and had come out the other side.

But it had come at a cost.

I gasped, my chest heaving as my mind reeled. The world around me, which had been a blur of chaos only moments before, suddenly came into sharp focus. I wasn't Percy Jackson anymore. That much was clear. The power coursing through me—the titan's essence—had altered me. I wasn't human, nor was I Kronos. I was something else.

Perseus. I once bore the name of the demigod who killed Medusa and saved Andromeda, and now I own that name in my own right.

My blood no longer flowed red, no longer a simple, mortal symbol of life. It flowed with golden ichor, the very essence of gods and titans, the fluid that had once pulsed through the veins of the ancient ones, those who had shaped the universe. My senses were magnified, my connection to the world stretching out farther than I could have imagined. I felt time itself, the ebb and flow of past, present, and future swirling around me like a vast, infinite ocean. Every movement of the world was felt in my bones. Every heartbeat, every whisper of change, every breath taken in the world above—it was all real to me now.

I could feel the history of the universe—the rise and fall of gods and titans, the wars that had shaped the heavens, the primal energy that had created everything. It all flowed through me. Every moment in time, every decision, every change, it was all intertwined with my being. And it was overwhelming.

The throne beneath me seemed to hum in response, its power still alive, still pulsing through my very core. I could feel the presence of Kronos lingering in the room, not completely gone but fractured, absorbed into my being. It was as though Kronos' essence had become a part of me, woven into the fabric of my soul.

Slowly, I stood up from the throne, the weight of the room pressing down on me as I took in the grandeur of the palace. The thrones of the titans still sat in their places, their presence lingering like ghosts of a forgotten age. The stone beneath me seemed to vibrate with an ancient energy, a reminder that this place—this mountain, this throne room—was not meant for mortals. It was a place of power, a place of creation and destruction, a place where the very fabric of time could be molded by those who controlled it.

My mind was a storm of thoughts, a maelstrom of images, memories, and feelings. The cost of this power was beyond comprehension. The sacrifice that I had made to ascend to this new form had torn me apart and remade me into something unrecognizable. I was no longer the boy who had fought in the streets of Manhattan, or the demigod who had battled the monsters of the ancient world. I was something else entirely.

A god. A titan. A creature of time.

And yet, despite the immense power coursing through me, despite the golden ichor in my veins and the endless flow of time I could feel, there was a deep, aching emptiness inside of me. A void that no amount of power could fill. The cost of my transformation had drained me of something vital, something irretrievable.

What have I become?

The question echoed in my mind, a haunting reminder of the person I had once been. And as the reality of my new form settled in, I realized with a deep, unsettling certainty that the power I now wielded came at a price far greater than I had anticipated. I could feel the pull of time, of fate, stretching out before me, but it no longer felt like my own path. It felt like something bigger, something that was not entirely in my control.

I was no longer just Percy Jackson. I am Perseus, a being of time and power, connected to the very fabric of the universe. But in that connection, in that power, I had lost something. And that loss, that emptiness, gnawed at me more than any wound ever could. As I rose from the throne, I could feel the last remnants of my humanity burning away, like smoke curling into the sky and dissipating into the ether. It wasn't just my body that had changed—it was everything. My senses were sharper, my thoughts clearer, but it all came with a sharp, cold clarity. The warmth of being human, the simple, imperfect emotions I had once carried with me, those that made me Percy Jackson, were fading, swallowed by the divine essence now coursing through me.

I could still recall my memories, every moment of my life. Annabeth's smile, the feeling of the ocean waves crashing against my feet, the warmth of a friendship that had been hard-earned and precious. I still remembered who I was, but that knowledge felt distant now, as if it belonged to someone else. A human. Someone who had been bound to the limitations of mortality. Someone who had no place here, in the realm of the divine.

My mind stretched outward, perceiving the vastness of the world with a new kind of awareness. I could feel the pulse of the earth beneath my feet, the movements of the stars, the vast, endless flow of time itself. I could see the moments of history—wars, the rise of kings, the fall of empires—as they all unfolded in a cosmic dance. The weight of it all pressed on me, not with the crushing force I might have expected, but with a calm, cold understanding. This was the power of the divine. This was what it meant to be more than human.

Time itself seemed to bend around me, as if the world was waiting for my command. Now, fully divine, I took a slow, deep breath. It was as if I had taken a step beyond the mortal realm, beyond the very fabric of existence itself. I was tethered to it, yes, but I was no longer a part of it. And the longer I stood in the throne room, the more it became clear that I was now a creature of time, not of the world. I was defined by the flow of history, by the rise and fall of civilizations, by the very essence of existence itself.

The story seems clear now. I was destined to be in this place, at this time. Prophecy spoke of a group of seven demigods that would come to challenge the rise of Gaia. But the prophets are of this world. To them I am a cypher, existing beyond their understanding and control. But I made a choice. A choice to forge my own path, to voluntarily jump into the pit of Tartarus alone, when it was destined that I would fall in with Annabeth. I broke fate, and now I am its master. I can forge my own path, break the cycle that has tormented our existence for all eternity, and bring those who challenge my will to their knees. Kronos, although a master of time, did not understand it as I do. He took it as an opportunity for control, for domination. I fell into the pit as a demigod and had my very being stripped away by the months feeling the end of a whip or the slash of a fang in the Pit. My soul was stripped of its confines by its intermingling with the soul of Kronos during those days aboard the Argo II, and now I stand an absolute master of existence to rival Gaia or the other primordials.

And yet, it was far more than that. I feel it in the air in the very pulse of the universe—the power that had once belonged to Kronos, the King of Titans, had passed on to the gods. The powers of Zeus, Poseidon, and Hades—the control over the sky, the sea, and the underworld—weren't just gifts they'd been given. They were pieces of Kronos himself, fragments of his essence, his very nature, stolen from him. The Olympian gods hadn't forged their dominion from nothing. No, their power came from the primal forces of the universe—forces once controlled by the titans, by Kronos. And in their war against him, in their rise to godhood, they had claimed what was rightfully his. And now, they were rightfully mine.

Mine? And if they genuinely were, were also the domains of the progeny - the other Olympians, were they also mine to claim?

I walked to the middle of the throne room. I stood at its center, now mine by right and power, the place where Kronos once ruled. The silence here was suffocating, thick with the memories of ages past. The thrones, each a monument to a fallen titan, loomed like shadows from a time I had barely begun to understand. They were empty now—cold, barren, and abandoned—but still they held the echoes of ancient power. The names of the Titans were etched into the very stone, reminders of the rulers who had once shaped the earth, the seas, and the sky.

I couldn't help but trace the names with my eyes. Hyperion, the Titan of the Sun, whose light had once bathed the earth in eternal flame. Iapetus, the Titan of mortality, whose fate was forever tied to the limits of time. Oceanus, the lord of seas, whose oceans had once marked the boundaries of the world. And then there were those forgotten Titans, the lesser known, the ones who had been swallowed by time. But even their names carried weight, reminders that the world once belonged to beings far older than the gods.

I could feel the power of these thrones in my bones. The air itself vibrated with their former glory. The Titans had shaped this world, molded it into something tangible and real, but now their power was nothing more than a distant memory. The Olympians had fought to seize their dominion, to claim the skies, the seas, the underworld—but in doing so, they had stolen from the Titans. They hadn't defeated Kronos. They had fractured his power and taken it for themselves, scattering it among their own forms.

But now, I was king. I had taken Kronos' throne, and with it, the mantle of Titan Lord.

I went and sat on my throne, feeling the weight of the power that surged through me, radiating out in waves that made the very air tremble. The silence of the room deepened around me, pressing in like a living thing. The air felt thick, as if the universe itself was holding its breath, waiting for me to speak, to act. The thrones of the ancient Titans loomed around me, cold and empty, yet in their stillness, I could feel their presence, their power still clinging to this place. The room pulsed with the echoes of their reign.

"I demand your fealty!" I called out, my voice resonating through the vast space, vibrating against the stone walls. My words carried the weight of an unshakable command, a gravitas of authority pressing down on everything. There was no hesitation, no doubt in my demand. I wasn't just a king by title—I was the true king. The power of Kronos flowed through me, and with it, the authority over time, fate, and the very fabric of creation and destruction itself.

For a moment, the throne room remained still, but I felt the subtle shift in the air. Something stirred in the shadows, a stirring of power that seemed to come alive in response to my command. The essence of the Titans, once dormant, seemed to awaken, acknowledging the new ruler who had claimed the throne.

"You sit on the throne of Kronos," a deep, rumbling voice emerged from the shadows, ancient and filled with both reverence and defiance. It was the voice of a Titan—one long forgotten but never truly gone.

I narrowed my gaze, my eyes searching the darkness. "You may have been powerful once, but now you answer to me," I said, my tone calm, yet carrying the weight of divine authority. "I demand your loyalty. No more rebellion, no more defiance. You will serve me, as it was always meant to be."

Another voice joined the first, softer, yet still resonating with the weight of ancient ages. "You are not Kronos," it whispered, reverent yet laced with doubt. "You are the inheritor, the one who has risen from the ashes of the old. But power alone does not make a king."

I leaned forward, my expression hardening, the air around me crackling with energy. "Power is all that matters now. The gods have forgotten the true nature of the universe—the true rulers of time. I am the rightful heir to Kronos' throne. I control time. I control my destiny. And I will reshape the world in my image."

As my words filled the room, the thrones themselves seemed to tremble, as if the ancient forces were weighing my words, assessing my resolve. The silence that followed felt heavy, the kind of silence that precedes great decisions. Then, a single, resounding voice echoed throughout the throne room, shaking the very foundation of the chamber.

"We will follow you," it declared, the finality in its tone unmistakable. "For you are the King of Titans, the one who commands the power of time itself. We bow to no one, but we bow to you."

A small smile tugged at the corner of my lips. They had given their fealty, not because of Kronos, but because of me. I had earned it. The silence that had once been oppressive now felt like a triumphant affirmation. I was no longer a demigod, no longer just Percy Jackson. I was Perseus, the King of Titans, master of time and all that existed within it.

I rose from the throne, the power surging through me, flowing like a tidal wave. The Titans had pledged their loyalty, but the next step awaited. The gods, the demigods—everyone who had once stood against us—would have to accept this new reality. I was their ruler now, and the world would bend to my will. The age of the Olympian gods was over. A new reign, my reign, had begun.

The stone beneath my feet trembled, and I stamped my foot with authority. The very air seemed to shift in response, the weight of my command pressing down on the room. Then, one by one, figures began to appear. They emerged from the shadows, materializing in the empty seats that had once held the mighty Titans. At first, their forms were ethereal, like wisps of smoke, but as they solidified, they became towering figures—ancient beings of immeasurable power. The Titans banished to Tartarus and those lost to time appeared on their thrones.

These were the Titans, the true rulers of existence, now bound to me by my ascension. But not all were pleased to bend their will to me. Each Titan took their seat, the air growing heavier with their collective gaze. They were the first beings to shape the world, the ones who had once ruled with Kronos. And now, they acknowledged me as their king—but not all did so willingly.

Hyperion, the Titan of the Sun, sat with a regal air, his golden skin glowing faintly, like the sun itself was focused on me. His eyes burned with the intensity of the solar flame, but they were filled with disdain. He had always been a proud and stubborn Titan, one who resented the power of Kronos being taken from him. His gaze was cold, his body rigid, and though he bowed his head, I could feel the silent rebellion that lingered in him, the refusal to fully submit. He had no love for me—no respect for what I had become—but his hatred was swallowed by the overwhelming force of my will.

Oceanus, the Titan of the Seas, exuded a presence that seemed ancient beyond comprehension. His vast form filled the space, the room stretching to contain the weight of the oceans themselves. But beneath the wisdom that flowed from him like an endless tide, I sensed an unwillingness to completely accept my reign. His eyes were filled with the weariness of ages, and I could feel the weight of his resignation. He had fought the rise of Kronos once, only to watch him fall. Now, the tides had shifted, and Oceanus had no choice but to follow the new king.

Iapetus, or as I called him Bob, the Titan of Mortality, appeared in his seat and looked at me with both admiration and respect, for he had sacrificed himself for me and now I call upon him as a loyal servant.

Other Titans appeared too, their expressions a mix of wariness, resignation, and begrudging respect. Each one had their own thoughts on my ascension, their own feelings about bowing to a new king. But none dared openly defy me.

I stood before them, my eyes unwavering. I had summoned them, and they had come—not because of Kronos, but because of me. They recognized my power, even if they resented it. They had seen my rise, felt the force of my will, and now, they followed me, whether they liked it or not.

"This is my kingdom now," I declared, my voice ringing with the authority of the ages. "You will serve me. And together, we will reshape the world, as it was always meant to be."

The Titans nodded in unison, though some did so reluctantly, their gazes still filled with resentment. But they had no choice. Their loyalty was given, forced though it may have been. The very air shimmered with their power, and the new reign, forged in silence and respect, settled over the room.

I turned to face the future. With the Titans by my side, even those who begrudgingly submitted, there was no force in existence that could challenge me. Although Gaia and the Olympians may not realize it yet, a new age has begun.