Percy did not, as a whole, enjoy being effectively dead.
Naturally, it came as a relief that he was able to stay alive, at least. But now he had to face the ire of the collective demigods who had just been given an unexpected free saltwater shower.
But there was a hole now, cleanly carved, like someone had reached into his soul and pulled something out by the roots. Only, they'd missed a few strands.
Percy stared down at his fingers. No wires. No divine light. Just a faint tremor and the echo of a voice that wasn't his. He was related to Artemis somehow, only, something had suppressed his memory so bad he couldn't remember why.
Something in him still burned. A sliver of warmth for the goddess who had emptied him out like a shell—and tried, almost gently, to forget him.
Problem was, he barely remembered her in the first place.
He didn't hate her.
He should've.
He'd seen her cruelty, her godhood, her indifference. And still, when he thought of her—of Artemis, his chest ached. Quietly. Unfairly. Strangely.
A stewardess emerged from nowhere, and Percy blinked again, sitting straighter.
"Snack?" she asked. "Peanuts or cookies?"
"Cookies," he murmured.
The demigods still crowded around him, asking questions.
Percy didn't respond. He leaned back into his seat and let his eyes slip shut. Just for a moment. Just long enough to chase the whisper of silver light that pooled behind his eyelids.
Far above, unseen by mortals, the Moon lingered.
Artemis watched the boy sleep, veiled behind clouds and gravity. She should not have checked. She should have moved on, should have severed the thread completely.
But she hadn't.
Still slightly reeling at the massive influx of new information stolen from the boy's memories, she could only observe his awakening figure. They would be politically married in the future? How far into the future did the boy live? Tch. She would grow to love him? Pathetic. Hallucinations and fantasies at best.
And yet… she still watched.
The plane touched down at the airport the next morning.
Percy's body ached so bad it felt like a premium subscription to jet lag plus. He slung his backpack over his shoulder, tried to smile at Grover's bleating excitement, endured Annabeth's side-eye as they caught a cab. Everyone else did too. Argus was surprisingly absent.
Camp Half-Blood wasn't far now.
And Kronos was still out there. Luke would probably go missing. And Thalia's tree… Thalia's tree was dying. Percy turned his face to the window, watching the skyline blur past.
The cab dropped them off just past the border.
No one spoke for a while. The pine tree on the hill, Thalia's tree—stood hunched against the sky like it was holding back a storm. Its needles were darker than Percy remembered. Sickly. Curling at the edges like burnt paper.
He didn't like the way it looked.
Didn't like how quiet the air had gone, either.
There were no campers practicing archery in the clearing. No clatter of armor from the arena. Not even the usual smell of strawberry fields on the breeze. Just a strange, iron tang in the wind.
"Something's wrong," Annabeth muttered, already unslinging her pack.
Grover's ears flattened. "You feel it too?"
Percy nodded. Careful to keep a distance from the Satyr's emotional link, he moved ahead.
He glanced toward the Big House. For a moment—just a blink—he thought he saw her. A glint of silver at the top window. An outline too still to be Chiron. Too tall to be any camper.
Then it was gone.
Nothing but curtains.
Don't be stupid, he told himself. She's gone. No need to be scared anymore.
Camp hadn't exactly gotten safer in their absence.
The hill was lined with fresh scorch marks. The border's magic—normally warm and humming—felt brittle. Like stretched glass.
When they passed Thalia's tree, Grover paused. He laid a hand on the trunk, whispering something in Ancient Greek Percy didn't catch.
The branches twitched.
Just once.
Like they were listening.
Down at the cabins, things were quieter than usual.
No one burst out of Ares cabin to start a fight. No Hermes kids challenged him to a prank war. The only one waiting was Chiron, hooves shifting on the porch of the Big House, eyes shadowed with something between relief and dread.
"Thank the gods," he said. "You're back. We don't have much time."
Percy opened his mouth—about to ask what was going on—but the words caught. His throat was dry.
Annabeth took the lead instead. "Is it Thalia's tree?"
"Yes," Chiron said. "And worse."
Grover bleated.
Percy stayed quiet.
He felt the eyes again. Just for a second. Not Chiron's. Not Annabeth's. Something colder. Older.
He turned.
Nothing.
Only shadows between the cabins. A breeze slipping through Artemis's empty archery range.
Later, when he dropped his pack at the Poseidon cabin, Percy stood for a long while in the doorway.
The sea-themed walls hadn't changed. The fountain still burbled. The salt-crusted windows still let in too much wind. But it didn't feel like his space anymore. Like someone had come in and rearranged things just slightly.
He touched the side of his head—right at the temple.
Still numb.
Still waiting for something to return. Where was Minerva?
Or maybe… for something to wake up.
That night, he dreamed of her.
Not clearly. Not fully. Just the sound of her voice like bells over snow. The memory of silver eyes watching him through a veil of stars. She didn't say anything. Didn't need to.
He felt it.
And that? That wasn't nothing.
It was easier if she focused on small things. She decided. After wrangling a greater control of this body from the past self still in the 21st century, she gained a lot more of her autonomy back.
The cosmos was too vast, too chaotic. There was no order of operations. It was impossible to know where each led until you took it between your fingers and followed it.
Knowing where to start, that was the hard part. Made not-so-hard by the fact that she was a near-omniscient entity. So she started from her beginning, when all matter lay in the same way.
Orderly. Satisfying. Nothing but ones, zeros, and energy.
Minerva savored it, aware that it was not real. Indeed, there was no guarantee she was made this way. A simulation, authentic enough to trick her own mind into emptying so she could feel the flows of time and matter.
After cleaning up a few of the little bugs that looked like they posed a future threat to her systems, she resurfaced, opening her eyes to a red blinking screen. She opened the communication line. Aware that she was on the public channel, and pointedly ignoring calls to identify herself, she dispelled her illusions that differentiated her from her Varlet, and calmly leaned into the screen. A terrifying grin stretched from ear to ear.
"Father, I am here, Come."
While the tight-knit squadron of AnnChase-Class ships drifted through the void, Poseidon's realm was scrambling at the unexpected intrusion. Foreign intrusions into the Master of the Sea's personal realm were usually aggressive, and the defenders manned their posts as they waited for further instructions. Poseidon's realm was under his protection, so naturally, augurs could not peer into reality around his realm.
"Six-Zero seconds to test fire" Tony said, her voice muffled by her Standard-issue UOE helmet. And that was when the messenger showed up. It was also when Tony stopped smiling, despite the fact the messenger was easy on the eyes, as some fresher recruit types went.
"Official orders?" she asked the messenger calmly, but really was a command.
"Ave Imperator, Ma'am, straight from the Master himself."
The messenger straightened his own azure-blue uniform, "He's personally reorganizing the concentrations of all our forces, and Scylla's Sisters are honored to be first in that. You are to move to reinforce against potential enemy actions."
The words stole Tony's desire to argue. So it was true, then. The Old Man was back in action. "But the gate is half a system away," she tried. "We've been working on these orbital guns for months."
"Thirty seconds to test fire," a random sergeant called. The messenger, whose name turned out to be Cyria, wasn't smiling either. In his position as an adjutant to Poseidon himself, those grunts were forever questioning the orders he relayed, as if he would ever dare alter a single word of the Master's instructions. The other adjutants had no difficulties in this area, it seemed. For some unknown reason, these clueless troopers just simply didn't take well to him. Perhaps they were jealous of his position? If that turned out to be true, a quick call to the disciplinary commander might be needed.
"I have long been entrusted with certain aspects of the Master's plans," Cyria lied, "that men, and women, such as yourself are only now being made aware of. I apologize if this is a surprise to you, major, but orders are orders. And these orders come with the highest mandate imaginable."
"Are we not even going to defend the planet with these defenses?" At that moment, the floor beneath their feet shook as the rotating barrels screamed their anger up at the dark-blue atmosphere. Tony swore, though it was drowned out in the ear ringing thunder of the gun's echo. Cyria also swore, though unlike Tony's, his was aimed at the gun crew. The major was close to yelling over the ache in her ears. It was fading, but not fast.
"I said, are we not even going to defend the damn planet!?"
"You are not," His mouth disappeared into a line of irritation. "You are going to Orbital Defense Platform One with your regiment. Your transports leave tonight. All of the 32nd Scylla's Sisters are to be aboard and ready for transport by sunset at One-Seven-Zero-Zero hundred hours."
Tony messed with her hair. Eleven hours to get three hundred thousand men and women into heavy transports and New-Atlantis Navy assets. It was the kind of bad news that made her normally relaxed job actually important for once.
"Colonel Oberon is going to be furious."
"Colonel Oberon has been… dealt with."
"Shit, no way. Now tell me why it's us being sent all the way to the Gate. I thought Xilo and the 121st sniped that position."
"We were running out of blind eyes to turn for him."
"Really? Why?"
"Colonel Xilo has been proving…difficult in recent weeks. His uhh… how do you say it? Ah yes, his… attitude has devolved towards authority as of late. However, he has absolutely and unfortunately had an completely accidental failure of his Repertoire infusers just this morning. The second officer has taken temporary command for now, until you arrive to replace him."
"That fatass is finally dead? Ha! All that expensive tech he got, and he keels over a few weeks later."
"We are to honor the dead in service, Major."
Tony frowned. "He doesn't count. I don't like you," she told Cyria.
"Not many do." the messenger replied. "But, for you and the raggedly gang behind you, have been appointed to initiate first contact with the squadron of ships drifting towards our system. Good Luck, Colonel Tony. We will be watching. Ave Imperator."
"Blood of Jackson." Tony swore with feeling. "Never saw one up so close before."
The many troopers behind her murmured in assent. The four transports slogged across the tumbling space, parting massive waves that drifted apart in their path. From the cockpit of the lead aircraft, the gathered commanders watched the expansive orbital platform below. And expansive barely covered it. The orbital platform was probably larger than most gas giants in normal solar systems across the empire, and they had more than just a few of them. The transports flew in graceful unison around one of the largest landing docks. It was slate-grey, merely one of hundreds. A wing of escorts, small and maneuverable fighters, coasted alongside the troop transports. They were neither welcome nor unwelcome, merely ignored.
"A few of Stephanos Pyrrus' Honour Guard is assisting us, I think. They recently came back from a border skirmish." the comms cackled open, Cyrus' voice came through the speaker.
"Mechanical Titans? Is the matter really that important?"
Cyrus didn't answer. "TW-SP-HMMR, referred to as "Gamma Peacekeeper" and TW-SP-CLVR "Lambda Baron" have both graciously volunteered to provide escort for initial exchanges. You are to treat such individuals with the highest respect and dignity."
The transports touched down on an empty landing strip. As soon as the magnetic clams locked the ships onto the main platform itself, two skyscraper-high beings of steel powered up their engines as they slowly strode over from the other side of the landing bay.
Watching the colossal machines come over, was Colonel Tony of the 32nd Scylla's Sisters. She stood with her hands clasped together, fingers interlaced. The few men that accompanied her had retreated a bit farther away, probably afraid that one of the titan's errant steps would accidentally turn them into red paste. She adjusted her greatcoat, and made sure the helmet sat on her head properly.
One of the titans, sporting a pyramid-like head on top of its chassis, stepped forward to meet the colonel. With him came the other titan, each carrying ominous weapons and huge melee weapons. But for one who bore a banner fluttering from each of its thin shoulders, shining the azure blue icon of one of the guards of a Demigod of Poseidon, contrasting the jet-black gloss of the rest of the frame, seemed to take the initiative.
"I am Colonel Tony of the 32nd Scylla's Sisters, Current presiding officer for the 32nd Counter-Siege Army aboard Orbital Platform One." She instinctively offered a hand to the steel titan, and hastily saluted instead when it became clear the titan or the pilot inside was in no position to shake his hand.
"Where are the rest of the commanders on base?" The speakers next to the divine engine's head buzzed.
"You are looking at them, Your Honor."
"A sorry sight."
"It shall be fixed soon enough."
"We are to update you about the current situation. Our liege has retreated to the Master's palace, while we remain here. You are aware of the four potentially hostile ships in our system, yes? Come then, we have much to talk about." Peacekeeper said to the colonel, who was sweating a whole new shine in the cold air of the docking bay.
"Of course."
As soon as she walked back into the troop transport, her crew flocked around her, barraging him with questions. How were the titans like? How tall were they? What was it like to see one? Were all the stories true? She wasn't sure what to say.
She had been expecting either a fervent speech from a divine warrior in a machine or something like that, something to strengthen and empower the people. Instead, they seemed a bit detached and distracted. Underwhelming, she
Minerva sat back at the bridge of her immense vessel, "New Atlantis requested communications uplink?," she said, tone neutral and crisp.
"Fine." She opened a video call.
Poseidon's knuckles flexed on the haft of his signature trident. He was looking at something off to his left. "Was there a need for a live transmission?" He turned to look at the screen. He froze.
"Percy?" Poseidon stepped forward, his voice nearly caught. "By the tide… you've returned."
Minerva blinked once, twice. "Technically inaccurate, but emotionally appropriate. I will allow it."
A silence swept the throne hall. Amphitrite's expression faltered. Even the Nereids stilled.
Poseidon's voice softened, confused. "It's me. You're home. After all this time…"
Minerva tilted her head with exacting motion. "My coordinates have never matched the emotional anchor of this… "home" you speak of. This vessel has not returned to any known domicile since the beginning of The Great Expansion and your abandonment many millennia ago."
A brief pause.
"Though… I recognize your frequency. Familiar. Noted in core. Corrupted… but persistent."
Poseidon stepped closer to the lens, voice sharpening slightly. "Percy. Son. Don't toy with me."
"Your genetic data matches sixty-seven percent of my embedded Aegis matrix. You are… a contributor. But I am no longer your son." She smiled. It felt wrong. "I am Minerva."
The warmth drained from Poseidon's face.
"Built by Athena," she continued, matter-of-fact. "Unintentionally, of course. Housed in a demigod's shell. I attained self-awareness."
"You—you're wearing him." Poseidon's voice dropped into a dangerous tone.
Minerva blinked. "Correction. I am him. Just not… exclusively. Memory and self are not mutually dependent." She glanced behind her, absent-mindedly, as if the vast warship humming at her back had spoken. "Also, I'm currently preparing a data declassification on a certain lunar entity. Do you recall a name, Him Within the Moon?"
Poseidon hissed, stepping forward. "Both you and that creature in Luna are not my son—"
"I've already indexed three hundred thousand references, cross-referenced with suppressed Oracle logs. Percy Jackson shows up a lot more than I would expect. Would you like a copy?"
"Blackmail? Why are you here then?"
"I have strategic data. And leverage. And confusion. I was… invited. A 'seat at the table,' you said, didn't you?" Her voice suddenly carried a faint echo of Percy's lopsided tone. "...Figured I'd come say hi."
"That's not how he would've said it," Poseidon growled.
Minerva blinked, thoughtful. "Perhaps I'll update my linguistic modules."
Something ancient stirred beneath Poseidon's gaze now. Not just anger—but grief. "You are not my son."
"I am not only your son," Minerva replied, expression steady. "But I am your problem."
"Of course," Minerva said, tilting her head with machine precision. "I regret that I have been delayed due to persistent local customs—oceanic reverence rites, engine issues, and... dress code inconsistencies. My armor refuses to render silk."
A soft, uneasy ripple moved through the gathered sea-court. Amphitrite raised a brow.
Poseidon's voice lowered. "State your purpose. That sounded like a threat."
"No," Minerva replied cheerfully. "That was a threat. And a suggestion. I have learned that pairing the two is persuasive."
The silence that followed was suffocating.
Poseidon spoke again, slowly. "Your voice doesn't match the face."
Minerva paused, as if calculating. Then, with genuine curiosity: "Would you like me to adjust the pitch? Artemis always preferred it warmer. I can simulate 'earnestness'."
"End the call."
Minerva smiled. Too perfect. "Of course. But do consider: when the shard wakes—" she leaned forward, the feed distorting slightly around her eyes, "—you'll want me on the inside of the breach."
The lens snapped dark.
Luna-Secundus
Fortress-satellite, Outer Orbit of Luna
Ash fell like snow.
The Hunters of Artemis had held the trenches here for seventeen months. Ritual-spliced gunlines, divinely reinforced bunkers, and orbital auto-shields dotted the perimeter. Anti-Titan javelins jutted from the dirt like metal thorns. They had been fighting an invisible battle away from the Solar Auxilia security fleet that orbited Gaia and the rest of the solar system. Against a cult, they called themselves the Order of the Hollow Crescent. They were searching for something in Luna. They were concentrating their forces on this fortress-satellite for the last few years.
And it had held. Until now.
"Movement in Sector Theta. Fast movers—real fast."
The call came down the trenchline like an echo. No visuals yet. Just vibration. Tremors in the earth. Something wrong in the air.
A cultist sniper cursed softly, adjusting her scope.
"Doesn't match Titan's stride. Too organic. Too small for a Hound of Artemis either."
A pause.
"Like ghosts in sprint."
Then the frontlines exploded.
Sandbags burst like overripe fruit. Detonations rippled out of nothing, trenches collapsing inward as voices could be heard across no-man's-land.
Someone was already inside.
The being didn't announce herself. No war cry. No theatrics.
Just sudden, wet violence.
Trench-6 went dark within thirty seconds.
A flame hunter emerged, blood running down her temple, breath stuttering through her silver rebreather.
"She—she went through us. Through us! Didn't even look back."
Someone tried to steady her.
"Steady, Sister. Who? What did you see?"
"Like Artemis herself, if she was pissed off."
She collapsed.
A full platoon from the 6th Moonwall collapsed next. They didn't even get off a full volley.
A sergeant, watching from a half-buried spire, muttered into a cufflink microphone:
"Someone is hunting us. Ave Imperator, Lady Artemis save our souls."
The line hissed static. Somewhere down the trenchline, a whistle blew, then stopped abruptly. No scream followed. Just silence.
Then came the other one.
Not too fast. Not too loud.
Just… there.
"Who the fuck walks into a artillery barrage? Across no-man's-land no less?"
One of the cultists peering over the edge whispered.
"Saw him do it. Walked straight through a frontal bunker. Sword big as a damn anti-tank rifle. Didn't even blink. You think we can go over safely when they're done? "
A shell exploded five meters from the new figure.
He kept walking.
In Bunker-Vermillion, a junior sister-augur leaned over a data-slate, trembling.
"They don't have designations. Not even Olympus clearance marks. Not human. Artemis has been warned."
A scout slumped against the wall, clutching her shoulder.
"I heard someone in the heretic battalion call them Aren-something. Sounded old. Old like... cursed."
"Arenbergs? Virre and Orran? Rank 1 and 2 on the current active bounties?"
Outside, the slaughter rolled on.
Virre Arenberg blurred across foxholes and dugouts, Backstab, her knife, flashing like a silver comet. She ripped through three shieldmaidens before any of them raised their rifles.
Her laugh was barely audible.
"I don't like the way she moves," Another cultist whispered, ducking under a ballistic shield.
"I don't like the way she looks at us. Like she's hungry."
At the command mound, a final barrier stood. The last line of senior and veteran Hunters of Artemis surrounded the command tent. They braced for a second assault as soon as they saw a darkened figure emerge from the trenches.
It never came.
Orran Arenberg entered alone, dragging Severance behind him like a lead weight, his eyes glowing dull green, reflecting the starlight above.
He said nothing. He didn't need to.
Luna Secundus cancelled its SOS broadcast a few seconds later.