[Third person POV]

Bianca and Nico stood atop the highest hill overlooking Camp Half-Blood, their eyes wide as they took in the chaos below. But they weren’t alone. Bianca had her hands gripping Percy’s shoulders supporting him as they had traveled through shadows, while Nico sat perched high on Tyson’s broad shoulders, his fingers tightly wrapped around his head for balance.

The moment they emerged from the shadows, a torrent of rain immediately drenched them. The storm, conjured by Thalia’s powerful vortex, cloaked the camp and surrounding battlefield in sheets of wind and water, turning the once lush grassland into a war-torn field of mud and fury.

And yet, despite the biting cold and the howling storm, the four of them froze in place, captivated by the scene before them. They silently drank in the unfolding battle, awestruck by the raw intensity and sheer scale of it all. Greek warriors of shimmering white light fought side-by-side with the demigods, lending their swords and shields to push back the monstrous tide. Massive automatons, towering beasts of bronze and fury, rampaged through the mud as demigods weaved between them, striking with precision and desperation.

But Percy Jackson wasn’t watching the battle like the others. His gaze had already zeroed in on one person, and one person only—Clarisse La Rue.

It didn’t take him long to spot her. Even amidst the chaos, she stood out like a bonfire in the dark. Clad in an intimidating suit of enchanted armor, Clarisse looked every bit the daughter of Ares. Her shield gleamed under the gray sky, and in her other hand she wielded a formidable spear—both weapons forged with care and power.

The armor, spear, and shield were crafted from the salvaged remains of the drakon they had slain together on their first quest—every scale, tooth, and bone repurposed and reforged by Lucian’s masterful hands.

Clarisse had commissioned the armor using her share of the spoils, and Percy, though never admitting it out loud, had offered his own portion to help craft her the shield and spear. He claimed it was practical, that she needed it more than he did—but everyone knew better.

A proud smile tugged at Percy’s lips as he watched her.

Down below, Clarisse stood tall and defiant in front of a group of wounded and terrified demigods from Aphrodite’s cabin. Her shield was braced at her front as a fire-breathing mechanical bull charged directly at her, steam hissing from its metal joints and flames licking its maw.

Rather than retreat, Clarisse roared and met the beast head-on. She slammed her shield into its face with a thunderous impact. For a moment, the shield pulsed with a fiery glow—and then detonated in a fiery explosion that sent the bull sprawling backward with a metallic screech. Without hesitating, Clarisse leapt onto its chest, drove her spear straight into its abdomen, and tore out its glowing, sputtering core with a savage twist.

Still standing atop her defeated enemy, Clarisse’s eyes darted to the side where a young son of Hephaestus cowered with his back turned, frozen in fear. Another mechanical monstrosity was bearing down on him with lethal speed.

Clarisse didn’t even blink.

With a war cry, she hurled her shield like a discus. It spun through the rain with a high-pitched whistle, slammed into the creature’s head, and knocked it back, sending it skidding through the mud in a spray of earth and sparks. The shield ricocheted off the beast and flew back toward her, landing perfectly on her arm. Before the beast could recover, a blinding thunderbolt cracked through the sky and blasted it apart, courtesy of Thalia, who stood like a storm goddess in the distance, channeling the wrath of the heavens.

Percy chuckled, shaking his head in disbelief and admiration. “Honestly, who am I even worried about here?” he muttered, his voice carrying a mix of pride and affection.

“Yeah, yeah, you can admire your girlfriend all you want later,” Bianca snapped, drawing her bow and already beginning her descent down the hill. “Right now, we’ve got a war to win. Let’s move!”

With a laugh, Percy pulled out his trident, its prongs gleaming with energy. He turned to Tyson, who stood tall and eager beside him.

“Once this is over,” Percy said, his voice calm but charged with anticipation, “I’ve got someone I want you to meet. For now, just stay close and follow my lead.”

Tyson nodded solemnly, and together, they charged into the fray.

…

“Does he truly believe he can hide? All is visible under the light of the sun,” Lucian muttered, his eyes narrowing as he turned his gaze toward the camp, prepared to shift his attention to the battle below.

But then—he felt it.

A disturbance in the air, like a ripple through reality itself. The energy signature he had been tracking suddenly shifted, as if it had been plucked from one location and hurled through space. His head snapped toward the hill where Bianca, Percy, and the others had stood only moments before.

There, standing at the summit, was Luke Castellan.

Lucian’s expression darkened.

Luke stood tall, drenched in rain but unmoved by the storm around him. He held something above his head—something jagged and cruelly symbolic. In his hand was the broken head of Lucian’s statue, the very same that once stood proudly in the center of Camp Half-Blood as a symbol of protection and hope.

Luke looked directly up at Lucian, meeting his eyes through the sheets of rain. A wicked smirk twisted across his face.

Then, with deliberate mockery, he clenched his fingers around the head and crushed it into fragments. Stone shards fell like hail around him, lost in the muddy earth.

Lucian didn’t blink.

He vanished in a pulse of radiant light and reappeared instantly in front of Luke, mere inches away—his arrival marked by a burst of heat and light. The two demigods now stood face-to-face, the storm swirling around them like nature itself was holding its breath.

“Ah, Lucian!” Luke said with exaggerated cheer. “So good to see you again. You look… different. Did you grow taller?”

Lucian gave no response, only a calm, unreadable smile. Despite the rain hammering down around them, Lucian’s body remained dry, untouched. Steam rose in wisps from his shoulders and arms, the water evaporating before it could land. The heat radiating from him was palpable.

“What’s wrong?” Luke teased. “Speechless? Surprised I managed to break through your little ward?”

Lucian yawned and casually scratched his ear with his pinky. “Hm?”

“Oh,” he said with feigned realization, “you were talking to me.”

He looked Luke in the eye, his expression blank and unamused.

“If you’re going to speak,” Lucian said, his voice cold and sharp as glass, “you might want to take Kronos’ dick out of your mouth so I can understand you better.”

Luke’s jaw clenched. His teeth ground together in fury. “You really are a master at getting under people’s skin.”

Lucian let out a low, amused chuckle. “I mean, what did you expect? We both know you didn’t break my ward. You’re not nearly that clever.”

He began to levitate, rising a few feet off the ground, his arms folded as he looked down at Luke with amused disdain.

“Oh, Luke,” he said, voice dripping with mockery, “in this grand game of chess, pawns only move when the player commands them.”

Lucian’s eyes glowed faintly as his voice dropped to a whisper of contempt. “Pawns are the weakest pieces on the board. They exist only to be sacrificed. So for you to act like a king? It’s laughable. There is nothing more pathetic than a pawn who doesn’t know its place.”

—

Elsewhere on the battlefield, Annabeth’s breath hitched as she caught sight of Luke on the hill—her former friend, now enemy—shattering the statue head of Lucian as if it were nothing. Her grip tightened around her weapon, rage flooding her chest.

When Lucian appeared, she was prepared to stand at his side and strike Luke down. But something stopped her—a cold shiver crawled down her spine. A horrible feeling, deep in her gut.

She turned her head toward the camp.

Something was wrong.

Her brows drew together with worry, and she felt a sharp pang of dread pierce her chest. One thought echoed in her mind: What did Luke do inside the camp?

Without hesitation, Annabeth barked an order, “Nox! Take my position. I need to check something out.”

Nox, who had been nearby, nodded without question. “Say no more, Mother. Go.”

He summoned several clones of himself to support the defensive line in her absence.

Annabeth unfurled her wings and took flight, cutting low over the ground like a hawk in pursuit. As she neared the heart of the camp, her worst fears began to manifest.

Smoke curled up from several buildings, their frames broken or caved in. Trees had been scorched, their branches blackened and crisp. The fires had been extinguished, but the damage was clear. Destruction lingered in the air like a ghost.

Then she heard it—sobbing.

Voices. Cries. The unmistakable sound of children in pain.

She dove toward the source, her heart racing.

“Lady Hestia! Please be okay!” a child cried.

Annabeth landed hard, her wings folding behind her as she skidded through the mud toward the center of camp—and what she saw made her blood run cold.

There, lying curled up on the ground, was Hestia.

The goddess of the hearth.

Her small frame trembled as she clutched her chest. Her skin was pale and slick with sweat, but it was the dark veins crawling beneath her skin—like tendrils of shadowy poison—that horrified Annabeth most. It was like watching death spread through living flame.

“Lady Hestia!” Annabeth screamed, sliding to her knees beside her.

She reached out, but a sudden force yanked her back—Aerarius.

Hestia’s voice came out ragged and weak. “Don’t… touch me…”

She was shaking violently, her breath shallow. “For your safety… please… stay away…”

Annabeth looked on in horror. “What happened to you?! What did Luke do?!”

The children nearby were crying, their tears lost in the rain. Their faces were pale, eyes wide with fear and helplessness.

“Lady Hestia protected us when Luke attacked the camp!” one girl sobbed.

“She shielded us… but he—he…”

“He poisoned the hearth…” Hestia rasped, interrupting them. Her voice cracked as she coughed, the sound wet and painful. “He used the miasma… from Tartarus…”

Annabeth’s eyes widened in horror as she realized the gravity of what had been done.

Luke hadn’t just attacked the camp.

He had attacked its very soul.

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep