The Gamer of the Sea (PJO x DXD)

Back at Cabin Eleven, the atmosphere was loud and restless. Campers joked, wrestled, and carried the kind of mischief that seemed stamped into their faces—sharp-eyed, sly-grinned, children who looked born to bend rules. I took my spot on the floor, setting down the Minotaur horn I'd claimed earlier, more a quiet statement than a trophy. Luke, the cabin counselor, handed me a sleeping bag and a small bundle of toiletries, his tone light but edged with something harder beneath the smile. I noticed the scar along his cheek—not just an injury, but the mark of someone who had seen too much and learned too little from it.

I didn't push him for answers. Observation told me enough: bitterness tucked behind his easy manner, a history that weighed heavier than he admitted. Cabin Eleven, I realized, carried that same duality—outward laughter and chaos, but under it, a loneliness only children abandoned by their parents could understand. Hermes wasn't picky with his offspring, and that meant these kids grew up learning to take care of themselves and, when possible, each other.

When the horn blew for dinner, we fell into line by seniority, marching with the other cabins toward the pavilion. I catalogued the sights carefully: naiads gliding from the lake, satyrs falling into step, even a child stepping directly out of a tree. The world here wasn't just myth, it was alive. At the pavilion, each cabin gathered at their tables—mine overcrowded, others eerily empty. Food and drink appeared with a thought, the magic responding to intent. I tested it with ease, noting the rule, not marveling at it. At the center fire, the ritual of offering played out. Others moved almost instinctively, tossing their choicest food to the flames. When it came to me, I didn't hesitate. I offered brisket with a silent, deliberate thought: clarity, connection, and a demand for truth from the god who had abandoned me. The smoke rose fragrant, not like charred food, but like every comfort one could ever crave.

The meal ended with announcements. Capture the Flag would be held on Friday, Ares cabin still reigning champions. I ignored their noise and noted the utility: a test of skill and strategy under controlled conditions. Dionysus begrudgingly announced my arrival, misnaming me at first, which drew laughter, though I let it pass without reaction. Names didn't define power. As the night closed, we gathered at the amphitheater where Apollo's children led camp songs. The others laughed, joked, and ate s'mores around the fire. I didn't join in, but I observed. This was a family stitched together from abandonment, bonded through survival. For once, I didn't feel like an outsider—more like someone stepping into a role I'd been shaped for.

Later, I was slightly tired and Hypnos claimed me as I settled into my borrowed sleeping bag. My hand rested on the Minotaur horn.

[The Tutorial is Complete]

[Reward Granted: Profile EX]

[Player has Not Resisted Statue Effect: Sleep]

[Entering the Domain of Morpheus]

[Profile Automatically Switched: 'Percy' → 'Perseus']

———————————-

[Morning of the Next Day]

[Leaving the Domain of Morpheus]

[Profile Automatically Switched: 'Perseus'→ 'Percy']

The night before, I dreamed of Kronos. We were playing chess. Every move he made was precise, patient, and meaningful—each piece representing a person, a city, a future. I didn't need to win quickly; I only needed to observe, and I woke up understanding the kind of patience and calculation he expected.

The next few days fell into a rhythm. Mornings were Ancient Greek with Annabeth, though I barely needed the lessons—[Gamer's Mind] made the letters effortless, and I already knew almost everything about Greek myths. I focused only on the obscure genealogies, locations of temples, minor rituals that even the books skipped.

Afternoons were training. Footracing, wrestling, and lots of other skills —but compared to the other campers, I excelled in almost everything. Archery was the one exception no matter how much I tried, or trained, I couldn't get past the [Curse of Apollo]. Hell, Even Clarisse eventually stopped mocking me when she realized nothing short of skill could outmatch my reflexes, strength, and mind.

The only skill that was really random was canoeing, though it wasn't exactly heroic compared to defeating the Minotaur. I could feel the senior campers and counselors watching, trying to figure out my parentage, but they weren't having much luck. I wasn't as strong as the peak Ares kids, or as precise with a bow as Apollo's though that was obvious, and I didn't have Hephaestus-level skill with metalwork tho I was still extremely good at it due to [Item Construction], or Dionysus's touch with plants. Luke guessed I might be a Hermes kid, a jack-of-all-trades but that sounded more like educated guess than a proper evaluation. Still, in almost everything else, I was performing well above the average camper.

Camp itself settled into a rhythm I could understand. Morning fog over the beach, warm strawberry fields in the afternoon, distant sounds of monsters in the woods at night—it all had a pattern. Meals were predictable, offerings to the fire, communal chatter, routine tasks. I noticed things other campers didn't: small behavioral tics, gaps in instructors' expectations, even weak points in the obstacle courses.

Thursday afternoon, three days after I arrived at Camp Half-Blood, everyone from cabin eleven gathered in the circular arena for our first sword-fighting lesson. Luke was in charge, demonstrating stances and basic swings on straw-stuffed dummies dressed in Greek armor. I moved easily, reading his motions and responding almost automatically—the blade felt clumsy at first, but my body adapted before my mind even registered it.

Finding the right practice sword was tricky. Most were too heavy, too light, or awkwardly long, but I didn't let it slow me down. I adjusted my grip, managed to slightly balance the weight, and let instinct guide me. Luke nodded in approval, even if he didn't say it aloud.

When we paired up for dueling, Luke made himself my opponent. Other campers whispered about how he was supposedly the best swordsman in three hundred years, but I just smirked. I wasn't worried. I'd been trained for this for years, and I knew what my body could do before my opponent even thought about it. Every thrust, parry, and swing felt familiar. I slipped around his defenses like liquid, anticipating moves with the calm, precise timing of someone who had already calculated this battle a thousand times in my head.

[Observe]

[Luke Castellan]

Race: Demigod (Hermes)

Title: Master of Swift Blades, Acolyte of the Golden Age

Level: 88

STR: 3,200

VIT: 3,800

AGI: 5,500 (Combat Speed)

INT: 5,400

CHA: 450

LUC: 200

Skills

Instinct (A- Rank): Rapid battlefield analysis; predicts opponent's moves effectively.

Divinity (B Rank): Limited innate power from Hermes lineage; grants enhanced reflexes, awareness, and minor resistance to supernatural forces.

Backstory:

Luke Castellan was born to Hermes and the mortal May Castellan. His childhood was marked by instability due to his mother's mental struggles and Hermes' absence. He ran away at a young age, traveling and surviving with minimal guidance. During his travels, he met Thalia Grace and later Annabeth Chase, forming a close trio. Luke became a protector and mentor to the younger Annabeth while navigating constant danger. His life was shaped by loss and responsibility—most notably, Thalia's death (later transformed into a pine tree by Zeus), which fueled his bitterness toward the gods and desire to prove himself.

———————————-

The words hung in front of me—[Title: Acolyte of the Golden Age]—and something deep in my gut twisted. My instincts screamed at me to move, to drive my sword straight through Luke's throat before he could even blink. It wasn't thought, it was survival—raw and absolute. For a split second, I pictured it: steel flashing, Luke dropping, the danger gone before anyone understood why. But I forced my grip to stay tight instead of lunging. Killing him here, in front of everyone, would blow back on me harder than anything Luke could try. No… better to hold back, bite down on the impulse, and later—when I had the chance—I'd drag the truth out of Kronos himself. I needed to know what that title really meant.

By the first break, I could understand why Luke was called the best swordsman in the last 300 years, he was good. I was better. Water poured over my head snapped my senses even sharper. The awkwardness of the sword disappeared. I started calculating angles, predicting counters, and even teasing Luke with slight flourishes. "Don't get too comfortable with that title, Luke. I plan on taking it for myself," I said, letting a small grin curl at the corner of my mouth.

"Okay, everybody circle up!" Luke ordered. "If Percy doesn't mind, I want to give you a little demo."

Great, I thought. Let's all watch Percy get pounded.

The Hermes guys gathered around. They were suppressing smiles. I figured they'd been in my shoes before and couldn't wait to see how Luke used me for a punching bag.

He told everybody he was going to demonstrate a disarming technique: how to twist the enemy's blade with the flat of your own sword so that he had no choice but to drop his weapon.

"This is difficult," he stressed. "I've had it used against me. No laughing at Percy, now. Most swordsmen have to work years to master this technique."

He demonstrated the move on me in slow motion. Sure enough, the sword clattered out of my hand.

"Now in real time," he said, after I'd retrieved my weapon. "We keep sparring until one of us pulls it off. Ready, Percy?"

I nodded, and Luke came after me. Somehow, I kept him from getting a shot at the hilt of my sword. My senses opened up. I saw his attacks coming. I countered. I stepped forward and tried a thrust of my own. Luke deflected it easily, but I saw a change in his face. His eyes narrowed, and he started to press me with more force.

The sword grew heavy in my hand. The balance wasn't right. I knew it was only a matter of seconds before Luke took me down, so I figured, What the heck?

I tried the disarming maneuver.

My blade hit the base of Luke's and I twisted, putting my whole weight into a downward thrust.

Clang.

Luke's sword rattled against the stones. The tip of my blade was an inch from his undefended chest—too close. My instincts surged, whispering for my wrist to flick higher, sharper, to drive the point straight through his throat and finish it. A clean strike, faster than thought. One moment of surrender to that urge, and Luke Castellan would be dead at my feet.

I froze, forcing my grip steady. That instinct had saved me against monsters, but here? Here it would damn me.

So I forced myself to breathe, to hold back. If I gave in—if I let that flicker of violence take over—I'd lose more than just a sparring match.

The other campers were silent.

I lowered my sword. "Um, sorry."

For a moment, Luke was too stunned to speak.

"Sorry?" His scarred face broke into a grin. "By the gods, Percy, why are you sorry? Show me that again!"

I didn't want to. The memory of that awful urge—to drive my sword straight into his throat—still clung to my wrist like a ghost. Fighting it had felt like choking back vomit: unnatural, painful, every nerve in me screaming to let instinct take over.

But Luke insisted.

This time, there was no contest. The moment our swords connected, I loosened my grip—deliberately. Better to drop my blade than risk what my instincts might try to make me do. My weapon went skidding across the floor with a clatter.

After a long pause, somebody in the audience said, "Beginner's luck?"

Luke wiped the sweat off his brow. His grin returned, but it didn't quite reach his eyes. He studied me like I'd just sprouted fangs, gaze narrowing as if he was trying to puzzle out whether I had let go on purpose. The weight of his stare pressed against me harder than his blade had.

He appraised me with an entirely new interest, the grin fading into something sharper, calculating. "Maybe," he said. "But I wonder what Percy could do with a balanced sword…"

Friday afternoon, Grover and I sat at the lake, cooling off after the climbing wall tried to roast me alive. My shirt was scorched, and my arms still stung from where the flames had kissed them. Grover, of course, had danced up the wall like he was born to it. We watched naiads weaving baskets underwater, but I could tell Grover was distracted. His hooves twitched nervously, his face pale.

When I finally asked him how things went with Mr. D, Grover gave me a weak, "Fine. Just great." His tone was too brittle to be convincing. With a little prodding, he admitted Dionysus hadn't exactly signed off on his keeper assignment. My survival—or lack of it—would decide Grover's future. If I got a quest and we both returned alive, he might earn his searcher's license. Otherwise, he was stuck.

He tried to laugh it off, but I could hear the bitterness. Basket weaving naiads had more of a future than him, at least in his mind. I wanted to reassure him, but the weight of his words clung to me. A quest. It sounded like something from another life, a myth you read about in textbooks. Yet the way Grover said it made it feel inevitable.

The conversation shifted to the cabins, and I pressed about the empty ones. Grover rattled off the basics—Artemis' honorary cabin, Hera's unused one—but his whole posture changed when we reached the last three. The Big Three. Zeus, Poseidon, Hades. I already knew the names, the myths, the outline of their story. But hearing Grover speak them aloud at camp, in this place where myths breathed, made the air feel heavier.

I listened as he explained the oath sworn on the River Styx after World War II. No more children, no more demigods to sway the fates of mortals. I didn't interrupt. I just let him talk, my mind turning over the pieces. If the Big Three Were meant to truly stopped, then why were their cabins empty but not retired? Why keep them at all, unless someone still half-expected them to be filled?

Then came Thalia's story. Grover's voice faltered as he described her stand on the hill, her sacrifice, the monsters Hades had unleashed. I kept my expression still, but inside I felt something twist. Not pity, exactly—more like recognition. The way Grover described her power, her aura, it sounded familiar. Too familiar. And the monsters… especially the hellhounds. Those belonged to Hades. Why send them after his brother's child, unless the oath itself demanded punishment? Or unless Hades wanted to make a point.

I stared at the pine tree on the hill as Grover finished. Thalia turned into a barrier, her spirit still protecting the camp. It was noble. It was tragic. And it left me with a quiet question echoing in my chest: if Hades could unleash monsters like that, then he was the one I needed to understand. Not Zeus with his thunderbolts, not Poseidon with his seas. Hades. Lord of the dead. Keeper of hellhounds.

Grover caught me thinking too long and tried to deflect. He told me not to worry, said I was probably a child of Hermes or some minor god. His words were meant to reassure me, but the way his eyes flickered told me he didn't even believe it himself. I didn't argue. I didn't need to. The more people tried to deny it, the clearer the picture became.

That night, dinner blurred into background noise. My mind was still on Thalia, on the oath, on the silent pull of the Underworld. But when the conch horn blew and the call for capture the flag rang out, I stood. A new game. A new test. Another chance to measure myself—and, maybe, a chance to see how much of the truth I was ready to face.