The Gamer of the Sea (PJO x DXD)

(Comment on the paragraph if I make a mistake)

The field trip to the Metropolitan Museum of Art should have been dull. It was a typical Yancy Academy excursion: thirty-something kids crammed onto a yellow school bus, groaning under the weight of required learning. Most of the kids didn't care about Greek and Roman history. I did—enough to notice the details that most would overlook.

Grover sat next to me, trying to dodge Nancy Bobofit's sandwich missiles. He wasn't exactly built for fights, and she knew it. But even from my seat, I could see him calculating, weighing every movement, ready to react if something went wrong.

[Observe]

Name: Grover Underwood

Race: Satyr

Level: 16

Class: Protector, Seeker of Pan

HP: 420 | MP: 610

Visible Stats:

STR – 14

VIT – 18

AGI – 22

INT – 20

LUCK – 21

CHA – 21

Skills: Nature's Blessing (C), Forest Stride (D), Empathy Link Creation (B), Reed Pipes (D), Tracking Instinct (C), Protector's Oath ©

Backstory:

Grover Underwood was born in the wild foothills of the satyr clans, but unlike the prankster satyrs of his kin, he carried a gentleness and sense of responsibility that set him apart. From a young age, he dreamed of finding Pan—the fading god of the wild—and restoring his presence in the world.

After that, Grover first became a Protector, tasked with guiding children of the gods, such as Percy Jackson, safely to Camp Half-Blood. His early assignments ended in tragedy, the death of Thalia Grace, inexperience cost him charges, leaving scars of guilt that never fully healed. Determined not to fail again, he trained rigorously, mastering old satyr magics, learning monster lore, and dedicating himself to safeguarding those who could not protect themselves.

——————————

He may have looked awkward to the human eye, but I knew better. Every flinch, every glance, every subtle twitch of his ears was him scanning for danger. That kind of awareness doesn't come from books—it comes from experience. And Grover had plenty of it.

Mr. Brunner led the tour, gliding along in his motorized wheelchair, pointing out carvings and artifacts, weaving stories of gods and titans. My eyes drifted over the steles, the black-and-orange pottery, the marble statues. Every detail told a story. I didn't just see a column; I saw the hand that carved it, the ritual behind its creation, the history it tried to preserve.

Beside me, Grover shuffled nervously. "It's okay," he muttered when Nancy's peanut-butter-and-ketchup projectile smacked his hair. I offered him a faint grin. Some people are impossible to calm; Grover wasn't one of them.

Then, Mrs. Dodds appeared, her black leather jacket cutting a sharp silhouette. She always seemed to notice me first, always waiting to pounce. I kept my eyes forward. No need to give her a reason.

As we gathered around a thirteen-foot-tall stone stele, I caught the carving of a young girl and the symbols etched into its base. My brain didn't just recognize the imagery—it cataloged the context, the timeline, and the divine symbolism embedded in each stroke.

I nudged Grover slightly. "Kronos, eating his kids?" I whispered.

He nodded, eyes wide. "Yup."

"That's… gruesome."

He shrugged. "We learn to live with worse."

I smirked.

Mr. Brunner parked his wheelchair at the base of the stele, eyes scanning the carvings like he could see every thread of history woven into stone. The rest of the class chattered, oblivious.

"Mr. Jackson," he said, calm but commanding, "perhaps you can tell us what this picture represents?"

I studied the stele: Kronos looming, swallowing his children, the gods small and vulnerable, yet full of latent potential. Patterns jumped out at me—not just the story, but the motives, the stakes, the ripple effects across time.

"That's Kronos devouring his children," I said. "At a glance, it's grotesque. But if you break it down… it's a lesson in strategy and human—or divine—behavior. Kronos feared losing power, so he acted preemptively. His children had potential he couldn't control. Yet preemptive strikes, no matter how logical, create vulnerabilities. Zeus survived because his mother acted strategically—hiding him, creating contingencies. Later, the gods leveraged both weaknesses and alliances to defeat Kronos and scatter him to Tartarus. The lesson isn't just 'don't eat your kids.' It's understanding threats, anticipating outcomes, and recognizing that intelligence and cunning can outlast raw power."

The class was silent. Even Grover looked like he'd missed half the layers.

Mr. Brunner's eyes glinted, as if he could see the gears turning in my head. "And, Percy, why does this matter?"

I tilted my head, tracing invisible lines from myth to reality. "Because stories encode survival strategies. History and myth show consequences—how fear, greed, and foresight shape outcomes. Recognizing patterns, assessing risks, predicting moves… that's how you survive monsters, gods, and the unexpected. Instinct alone isn't enough; knowledge and reasoning amplify it. Anticipation beats reaction."

Brunner nodded, satisfied. "Exactly. Instinct alone carries you so far; knowledge refines it. Remember that. And Percy, never underestimate the value of seeing what others don't."

I grinned faintly, already cataloging every detail, every potential thread. Somewhere deep down, I felt the pulse of something bigger waiting—something far more dangerous than a classroom question.

———————————-

The class gathered on the front steps of the museum, watching the stream of foot traffic down Fifth Avenue. Overhead, a storm brewed, clouds blacker than anything I'd ever seen over the city. Maybe it was global warming—New York had been acting weird all winter. Snow, flooding, lightning strikes; I wouldn't have been surprised if a hurricane had been headed straight for Manhattan.

Nobody else seemed to notice. Some of the guys were pelting pigeons with Lunchables crackers. Nancy Bobofit tried to pickpocket a tourist, and Mrs. Dodds didn't see a thing.

Grover and I sat on the edge of the fountain, keeping to ourselves. He asked quietly, "Detention?"

"Nah. Not from Brunner," I said. "I just wish he'd lay off me sometimes. I mean—I'm not a genius."

He didn't reply at first. Then, almost shyly, he asked, "Can I have your apple?"

I handed it over. He bit into it, eyes briefly closing as he savored the small sweetness.

I watched the cabs stream down Fifth Avenue and thought of Mom's apartment a few blocks uptown. I hadn't seen her since Christmas. I wanted to jump into a taxi, run home, get her hug—and her disappointment. I'd be back at Yancy in no time, sixth school in six years, probably kicked out again.

Mr. Brunner parked at the base of the handicapped ramp, reading a paperback under his red umbrella. He ate celery, completely absorbed.

Nancy Bobofit appeared in front of us, smirking with her friends, dumping her half-eaten lunch in Grover's lap.

"Oops," she said. Freckles orange as if spray-painted with liquid Cheetos. I gritted my teeth. "Seriously?" I muttered under my breath.

The counselor's voice echoed in my mind: Count to ten, get control of your temper. Yeah, right. A wave of irritation slammed through me. My hands twitched.

[Hydrokinesis(A-) Activated]

I didn't even consciously think about it. My fingers flexed, and the fountain seemed to respond. Water leapt and arched toward Nancy like it had its own agenda, wrapping around her legs and yanking her off balance. She squealed, flailing as the water pulled her into the fountain with a splash that soaked her and her friends.

"Whoa! Did you see that?" whispered one of the kids. "The water—like it grabbed her—"

Mrs. Dodds appeared almost instantly. She crouched beside the fountain, checking Nancy with the efficiency of someone who'd clearly done this before. "Is she okay? We'll get her a new shirt from the gift shop," she said in a tight, controlled voice. Then she turned her blazing eyes on me.

There it was the triumphant fire. The kind of fire that said: I've been waiting for this moment all semester.

"Now, honey—" she started.

"I know," I said, a little too casually, shrugging. "A month of erasing workbooks, right?"

Wrong move.

"Come with me," she snapped.

"Wait!" Grover yelped. "It was me. I pushed her!"

I stared. Grover my Protector, idiot Satyr—trying to take the fall. Mrs. Dodds glared at him so hard his whiskery chin trembled.

"I don't think so, Mr. Underwood," she said.

"But—"

"You—will stay—here."

Grover looked at me desperately.

"It's okay, man," I muttered. "Thanks for trying."

"Honey," Mrs. Dodds barked, "now."

Nancy smirked. I gave her my deluxe I'll-kill-you-later stare, but Mrs. Dodds had already vanished. One second she was at the fountain, the next she was at the museum entrance, gesturing impatiently. My brain clicked over: She can move faster than any human should. Not normal. Definitely not normal.

I followed, catching glimpses of Grover's pale face. Mr. Brunner, buried in his book under a red umbrella, didn't notice anything. Good. I wanted it that way.

The hallway was empty when I reached the Greek and Roman gallery. Mrs. Dodds stood before a marble frieze, arms crossed, making a low, guttural noise. I felt my pulse spike. She wasn't human. I already knew it.

"You've been giving us problems, honey," she said.

I raised an eyebrow, leaning slightly on the edge of the frieze. "Problems? Me? I've barely started causing trouble. You might be getting ahead of yourself."

Her glare didn't waver.

"Seriously, though," I continued, voice casual, "if this is about that little fountain incident… I'd call it water therapy. Very effective. Highly recommended."

She took a step closer. "Did you really think you would get away with it?"

I shrugged, one hand in my pocket, the other casually fiddling with the corner of my jacket. "Honestly? I figured if anyone could blame the pigeons, it'd be you. You always did have a way of blaming the innocent."

Her nostrils flared. "Tell me the truth, Percy Jackson, or—"

I interrupted, smirking. "Or… what? You'll teach me another lesson in creative bookkeeping? Because I have to say, that whole erase-a-thon last month? Classic."

Thunder shook the building. "We are not fools, Percy Jackson," she hissed. "It was only a matter of time before we found you out. Confess, and you will suffer less pain."

My mind raced through probabilities, outcomes, and contingencies. This wasn't about punishment—it was about testing me.

So I did the most reasonable thing I could think of: I gave her the finger.

"Your time is up," she hissed.

Her eyes flared. Fingers stretched into talons. Wings erupted from her back. She lunged.

Mr. Brunner came wheeling through the doorway like some kind of medieval knight in a motorized chariot. "What ho, Percy!" he shouted, tossing a pen through the air.

Mrs. Dodds lunged at me. With a smile, I dodged as talons sliced the air next to my ear. Reflex kicked in, and I snatched the pen—but as soon as it hit my hand, it transformed. Bronze glinted in the light; it wasn't a pen anymore. It was a bronze medium length xiphos.

Mrs. Dodds spun, eyes glowing red, jaw tight with rage. "Die, honey!" she hissed, launching herself straight at me.

The bronze blade cut through her shoulder like water through silk. Hisss! Her form collapsed, disintegrating into yellow dust that smelled like sulfur. Her screech echoed for a heartbeat before vanishing, leaving me alone in the gallery.

A ballpoint pen—or what looked like one—was clutched in my hand.

Mr. Brunner? Gone. Anyone else? Gone.

I shook my head. "Yeah… either I'm hallucinating or I need serious therapy."

I stepped outside. Rain was slicking the steps. Grover sat by the fountain, a museum map over his head like a tent. Nancy Bobofit, dripping wet from her earlier fountain plunge, grumbled to her friends.

When she noticed me, she snarked, "I hope Mrs. Kerr whipped your butt."

"Who?" I asked, frowning.

"Our teacher. Duh!" she replied, rolling her eyes.

Right. No Mrs.Kerr existed.

I turned to Grover. "Where's Dodds?"

He blinked. "Who?" He paused, wouldn't meet my eyes. I started thinking he was messing with me.

"Not funny, man. This is serious."

Thunder cracked overhead.

I spotted Mr. Brunner under his red umbrella, reading as if nothing had happened. I walked over.

He looked up, mildly distracted. "Ah, that would be my pen. Please bring your own writing utensil in the future, Mr. Jackson."

I gripped the bronze sword, still warm from the fight, and smirked. "Nah, I think I'll hang onto this for a while."

Mr. Brunner froze, then tilted his head slightly. "Percy… is that truly wise?"

"Don't 'Percy' me," I said, spinning the pen lightly in my hand. "Tell me, is it really wise to leave a student alone to fight a monster?"

He studied me, eyes narrowing slightly, and in his mind I could almost hear the thought: The way he looks at me… reminds me of Kronos.

Finally, he let out a quiet sigh. "Touché, Percy. Touché."