The Son of Mischief and Moonlight

The Delphi Strawberries van rumbled down the highway, looking like it belonged in a 1970s road trip movie—if said road trip movie starred two Russian assassins, a grumpy satyr, and a telepathic nine-year-old. Inside, the chaos was palpable.

Coach Hedge, who looked like he'd been cast as the grumpy comic relief in a B-movie, was gripping the wheel like it might run away from him. "I'm just saying," he barked, waving a half-eaten stick of jerky for emphasis, "if these mutant kids spent as much time practicing hand-to-hand combat as they do throwing energy beams, the world would be a safer place. Back in my day, you solved your problems with a hoof to the gut and maybe a magical baseball bat."

Yelena, who had perfected the art of exuding "bored assassin chic," slouched in the passenger seat. "Yes, goat-man," she said dryly. "I'm sure the X-Men will rush to install a 'Hoof-to-Gut 101' class as soon as you suggest it."

"That's Coach Hedge," the satyr snapped. "And they'd be lucky to have me."

In the back, Natasha Romanoff rolled her eyes but couldn't hide a smirk. "Don't encourage him, Yelena. He doesn't need it." Next to her, Jean stared out the window, her forehead resting against the glass.

"Do you think Harry will make it to my birthday?" Jean asked, her voice barely above a whisper. It was the kind of voice that made adults exchange awkward glances because they didn't have a good answer.

Natasha leaned back, her expression softening. "If Harry said he'd be there, he'll find a way. From what I've heard around Camp, that kid's more stubborn than Fury on a mission."

Jean nodded, but the worry didn't leave her eyes. Harry was halfway around the world—or maybe halfway to another dimension, knowing his luck—training in K'un Lun. She didn't doubt his promise, but she also knew Harry's knack for getting into trouble. She sighed and tried to focus on the passing scenery instead of imagining her best friend fighting dragons or, knowing him, arguing with them.

The van finally pulled into the driveway of the Xavier Institute, which looked less like a school and more like a mansion that had won the lottery and then hired a team of architects who had watched too many sci-fi movies. Waiting on the front steps was Kitty Pryde, practically bouncing with excitement. Beside her were Remy LeBeau (smirking like he knew a secret he wasn't going to share), Rogue (trying to look unimpressed but failing), and Lance Alvers (leaning against a tree with peak apathy).

Natasha hopped out of the van first and made a beeline for Kitty. "You are not going to believe this," she said, her tone unusually animated.

Kitty's eyebrows shot up. "Please tell me you took out a Hydra. Or bought a cat. Or—wait, is it something Greek? It's always something Greek."

"I got claimed," Natasha said simply, like it was a totally normal thing to drop into a conversation.

Kitty blinked. "Claimed? Like, by a Greek god? Who?"

"Nemesis," Natasha replied, and honestly, if there had been a soundtrack playing, there'd have been a dramatic sting right there. "Goddess of revenge and balance. Makes sense, doesn't it?"

"Uh, yeah," Kitty said, a grin spreading across her face. "You? Totally tracks. Congrats! Or… condolences? I don't really know how this works."

Yelena strolled over, hands in her pockets. "I vote condolences. She's already scary. Now she's scary with divine backing."

Meanwhile, Jean was heading toward the main building when she heard the voice she'd been dreading.

"Jean!"

She froze, her shoulders tensing, and turned to see Scott Summers jogging over. At eleven years old, Scott had already mastered the art of being simultaneously awkward and way too intense. He adjusted his ruby-quartz glasses like they made him look cool and flashed a nervous smile.

"Hey, uh… you're here for your lesson, right?" he asked, rocking on his heels.

Jean resisted the urge to roll her eyes. "Yes, Scott. Same time every other week."

"Cool, cool," Scott said, his voice cracking a little. "So, um, your birthday's next week, and I was thinking maybe I could—"

"Thanks, but Harry's already coming," she cut in, her tone polite but firm. The look on Scott's face might've made her feel bad if he wasn't so… Scott.

He mumbled something about seeing her later and wandered off, leaving Jean to let out a long sigh. She glanced back at the van, where Yelena was teasing Coach Hedge and Natasha was deep in conversation with Kitty.

"Harry," Jean muttered to herself as she headed inside. "You better show up. If I have to deal with Scott again, I might just move to K'un Lun myself."

—

Harry sat cross-legged in the middle of a dusty old training hall in K'un Lun, surrounded by his friends, who looked less like a group of seasoned warriors and more like a dysfunctional squad of demigods on a field trip. The walls vibrated with the energy of martial arts practice, but right now, Harry was more concerned about how he was going to get a day off from Lei Kung—because, you know, asking a literal immortal warrior monk for a day off is totally casual, right?

"So," Luke said, narrowing his eyes at Harry like he was trying to decipher a riddle that probably didn't make sense, "you're telling us that Sun Wukong—the Monkey King himself—has been popping into your dreams to train you? Like, secretly training you? And you almost beat Lei Kung?"

Harry flashed a grin that was just a little too self-satisfied. "Yep, that's the one. Almost had him. If it weren't for his 'Hammer of Endless Patience'—which, by the way, is just him waiting for me to give up from exhaustion—I would've totally taken him down."

Annabeth raised an eyebrow, glancing from Harry to the others, clearly trying to process this new information. "So let me get this straight," she said, her voice deadpan. "You've been trained by the actual Monkey King and almost beat one of the most feared martial artists in the world… and now you're asking how to get permission to leave and attend a birthday party?"

Harry shrugged. "Seems like a reasonable question to me. You guys want to go to Jean's birthday party, right? It's basically a party of the century. Who wouldn't want to go?"

"I mean, we could just sneak out, right?" Clarisse said with a devilish grin, leaning forward. "I'm sure Lei Kung would appreciate a little surprise birthday party crashers. What could possibly go wrong?"

"Oh, I don't know," Travis chimed in, adjusting his hat, "maybe everything?" He shot a look at Harry. "They do know when you're sneaking around, right? Like, these monks are basically ninja-magic-guardian-people. You don't just slip past them without getting caught."

"Yeah," Connor added, "and they really don't do days off. I think they're allergic to fun."

Silena, who had been quietly toying with the hem of her sleeve, spoke up. "The real question is: how do we convince Lei Kung to let you take a break? Or should we just ask for forgiveness after? I mean, Wukong's advice wasn't exactly subtle. 'It's easier to ask for forgiveness than permission,' she said. But this—this is Lei Kung we're talking about."

"Exactly," Harry said, "which is why I'm taking a calculated risk. Besides, what's the worst that could happen? I'm asking for permission to attend a party, not to go fight a war or start a rebellion. Okay, maybe it's close to the rebellion part, but who's counting?"

There was a collective sigh around the circle. Thalia crossed her arms and leaned back, looking like she was trying to figure out if Harry had finally lost it. "I don't know, Harry. I mean, Lei Kung is scary. He doesn't exactly hand out 'days off' like candy, even if we did do good last Tuesday."

Harry shot her a wink. "Yeah, that's the thing, right? We did do good, and still no one's offering you a free pizza or a nap."

"Maybe you could, you know, 'talk' to Lei Kung the way you talk to people," Annabeth suggested with a raised brow. "You do have a way with words."

Harry snorted. "You mean charm them into submission? It's not like that works on everyone—well, not unless you count those unfortunate moments when I... accidentally charm them into a hug or a dance." He winked. "That might be more awkward than convincing a monk to let me leave."

Clarisse rolled her eyes. "Okay, but seriously, Harry, if you try your charm on Lei Kung, I'm going to be so embarrassed for you."

"I wouldn't say I'm relying on charm, but—" Harry started, only to be interrupted by a loud shout from Charles, who was sitting off to the side, clearly intrigued by the whole 'training with Sun Wukong' thing.

"Harry, just sneak out like a normal person! Who needs permission? Seriously. I'm not saying I'm a fan of breaking the rules, but if you don't get caught, who's going to know?"

"Yeah, because getting caught by Lei Kung would just be fantastic," Luke muttered, rolling his eyes. "What's the worst that could happen? Oh, right. Him getting all kung-fu serious on us. But hey, at least you can always blame Charles, right? He's the one suggesting the sneak-out plan."

Charles looked unbothered. "I'm cool with that. I take full responsibility. No worries."

"You guys are terrible," Harry muttered, half-grinning. "But seriously, I think I can pull this off. I've been trained by the Monkey King—how hard could it be to convince Lei Kung to give me a break for one day? Besides, what's the worst that could happen? I get banned from the temple for a week? Please."

Thalia raised her hand, deadpan. "If you think that's bad, just wait until Lei Kung comes for you with a 'lesson' on 'discipline.' I've seen it, and trust me—you don't want it."

"Don't worry," Harry said, shrugging. "Wukong said he'd have my back, and if worse comes to worst, I'll use my back to get us out of there."

Clarisse leaned in with a grin. "I think we should go with the sneaky option. I'm pretty sure the monks don't know what fun looks like anyway."

"Okay," Harry said with a mock salute. "Plan is settled. We sneak out, we party, and we hope the 'I'm sorry' card works. If not... well, we'll cross that bridge when it explodes in our faces."

With that, the group went quiet for a moment, everyone mentally preparing for what was sure to be an unforgettable day at Jean's birthday party—and hoping Harry's luck held out long enough to get them there without getting flattened by Lei Kung's legendary discipline.

"Alright, everybody," Harry said, standing up and stretching dramatically. "Let's go make some plans... and maybe, just maybe, not get caught."

The group broke into laughter. Well, it wasn't perfect as plans went. But at least they were all in it together. Besides, it wasn't like anything ever went according to plan anyway.

—

At the Xavier Institute, the air practically hummed with excitement—mostly because students were either trying to push their powers to the limit or pretending to push their powers to the limit while secretly checking their hair in the reflection of the windows. Jean Grey, for example, was sitting in a corner, doing her best impression of someone who definitely knew what she was doing with her telekinesis, but she was secretly wondering if she'd ever get it right. And, okay, maybe she wasn't just focusing on moving objects around; maybe her mind was also wandering to how her hair had definitely looked better in the '80s.

Across from her sat Professor Xavier, a man with the patience of a saint and the telepathic presence of a wise, floating encyclopedia. Seriously, if there was a competition for mind-communications, Xavier would've been the champion—and he was about to make sure Jean didn't accidentally launch a stack of books into space.

"Jean," Professor Xavier's voice slid into her mind, calm but firm. "Remember, focus on the flow, not the force. Control, not strength."

Jean sighed, brushing a lock of her fiery red hair out of her face. "I know, Professor. But every time I try to focus, my mind kind of goes… everywhere. I'm like a mental hurricane, and I'm just trying to grab the rain."

"You've come a long way," Xavier said with a smile that could calm the wildest storm (or at least the one Jean had brewing in her brain). "The mind is a tricky thing, especially one as powerful as yours. Take a breath. Clear your head."

Jean did what any sensible teenager would do when told to breathe—she closed her eyes, took a deep, exaggerated breath, and pretended she was getting this whole 'calming down' thing. Slowly, she cleared her head, trying to think of nothing but the sensation of her telekinetic power. Focus, she told herself. Focus.

A small orange glow wrapped around the stack of books in front of her. It was weak—like a faint light in a dark room—but it was something. "Better," Xavier said, his tone full of pride. "Now, let's build on that."

Meanwhile, on the other side of the mansion, a very different kind of training session was underway. Natasha Romanoff and Yelena Belova were throwing knives. And by "throwing knives," I mean they were practically performing a symphony of deadly precision, tossing knives through the air like they were just juggling frisbees on a breezy day. It was borderline hypnotic—if hypnotic meant terrifying.

Remy LeBeau, aka Gambit, stood off to the side, casually leaning against the wall like someone who definitely wasn't about to challenge two of the deadliest assassins on the planet to a friendly competition. "Y'all are good," Remy said with a smirk, rubbing his chin. "But I think I could give you a run for your money with a bo staff."

Yelena raised an eyebrow, twirling a spear in her hands with the same amount of flair she probably used when picking out cereal in the grocery store. "You think you can keep up with us, Gumbo?"

"Aw, cher, I don't think I can keep up with you. I know I can," Remy said with his usual swagger. "Let's make this interesting. Friendly competition, no knives in the eye, okay?"

Kitty Pryde and Lance Alvers, who had been watching this whole thing unfold, exchanged a look. "This could get out of hand fast," Kitty muttered, biting her lip, clearly invested in what was about to happen.

Rogue, who'd been standing nearby with her arms crossed and a smirk on her face, gave Kitty a wink. "Oh, it's definitely gonna get out of hand. Remy's got some tricks up his sleeve. Not literally, though, right? Right, Remy?"

Yelena gave an exaggerated stretch and twirled her spear a few more times, as though deciding if she wanted to turn Remy into a human pin cushion or just have a little fun with him. "Let's see what you've got, Cajun."

Remy stepped forward, twirling his bo staff with casual grace. "Alright, here's the deal. You toss knives, I'll catch 'em. Simple as that."

Natasha's eyes narrowed. "You're really going to try to catch knives with a bo staff?"

Remy's grin widened. "Yup. It's all about timing. Never miss."

Kitty looked at Lance, eyes wide. "This is either going to be so cool or so tragic."

"Or both," Lance added dryly. "With Remy, you never really know."

Natasha and Yelena took their positions, their eyes locking in that way people do when they're about to do something that involves either extreme danger or extreme skill—or both. And then, with a synchronized precision that could probably make a metronome cry, they threw their knives.

Now, you'd think a normal person—like, I don't know, anyone who didn't have superhuman reflexes—might be a little concerned. But Remy? He was just too busy twirling his bo staff, casually knocking each knife out of the air with what looked like complete ease. Knife after knife, each intercepted in a blur of wood and skill. It was like watching a guy on a stage show, but the stage was about to catch fire.

Kitty, who had been watching with wide eyes, whispered, "Okay, maybe Remy is the real deal."

Lance crossed his arms, his gaze still on Remy. "I'm just glad he doesn't use actual knives. This could've gotten way worse."

As the last knife flew through the air, Remy's staff swirled with a flourish, catching it between the ends with a dramatic clack. He held it up with a grin that practically screamed "Who's your daddy now?"

Natasha gave him a nod of respect, the corners of her lips twitching upward. "Not bad, Gumbo. You've got some moves."

Remy tipped his hat, lowering his staff. "Told ya. Next time, we can add a couple more knives. Maybe some fire. I'm feelin' ambitious."

Yelena snorted, still twirling her spear. "We'll see if you're still standing after that."

Meanwhile, Scott Summers, AKA Cyclops, was a little distracted, staring at Jean across the mansion as she tried to calm her mind and make telekinesis look effortless. His heart might've been racing a little faster than usual, but he wasn't about to admit that. Not to anyone. Not even to himself.

"Scott," his inner voice echoed, sounding much more like Professor Xavier than his own thoughts. "Focus. Focus. There are knives flying in the other room."

Scott snapped back to reality, blinking rapidly. "Right. Focus. Knives. Got it." He quickly shoved his thoughts away from Jean's effortlessly graceful movements and back to the task at hand. Which, apparently, involved not getting hit by flying knives.

Back to Remy, who was giving a bow like he'd just finished a Broadway show. "Thank you, thank you. I'll be here all week, folks."

—

In the shimmering, surreal world of the dreamscape, Haris Lokison—shapeshifter, moon-touched hunter, and occasional trickster extraordinaire—stood facing his most unorthodox teacher yet: Sun Wukong, the Monkey King. This wasn't your typical teacher-student relationship. It was more like Harry being dragged along on the most chaotic and borderline-insane training regimen ever conceived by a cosmic prankster. A week in the real world had passed, but here? It felt like centuries, and Harry was pretty sure he was aging faster in spirit than in body.

"Alright, kid," Sun Wukong said, balancing on one leg atop a floating peach. (Because of course he was. Why stand on the ground like a normal person?) "You've been stumbling around long enough. Tonight, we go full Monkey-style Kung Fu."

Harry raised an eyebrow. "Monkey-style? You're kidding, right? That's a real thing?"

Sun Wukong grinned, baring teeth that seemed to glint mischievously in the light. "Oh, it's real, alright. It's the realest. Monkey-style isn't just about fighting, though. It's about moving like chaos itself. Fluid, unpredictable, and—most importantly—flashy as all get-out. You're not just hitting things, kid. You're putting on a show!"

A deep sigh escaped Harry's lips. Between the constant staff drills and the endless acrobatics, he was pretty sure he'd earned some downtime by now. But this was Sun Wukong. "Downtime" wasn't in his vocabulary. And flashy? Well, flashy had never been Harry's style. He was more about the whole subtle intimidation with shadowy vibes thing.

"So, basically, you want me to turn into a kung fu peacock," Harry deadpanned.

"Exactly!" Wukong exclaimed, flipping off his peach and landing with a flourish that was somehow both ridiculous and awe-inspiring. "Now, let's see what you've learned. Show me what that battleaxe of yours can do."

Ah, yes. The battleaxe. That had been a surprise, even for Harry. When training had started, Wukong had given him a staff, the supposed "ultimate weapon" for mastering the art of combat. But somewhere along the line, the Monkey King had casually swapped it out for a battleaxe, claiming, "You've got too much raw power for a stick, kid. You're an axe guy. Trust me."

Harry had rolled with it—mostly because arguing with an immortal trickster was like trying to out-stubborn a mountain goat.

He hefted the axe now, its weight familiar in his hands. It gleamed with an otherworldly silver sheen, shifting slightly as though alive. Lunar energy from his mother, Artemis, pulsed through the blade, making it hum faintly in the dreamscape air.

"Alright, let's do this," Harry said, planting his feet and channeling his inner warrior.

The moment he moved, the world shifted. The ground beneath him seemed to spring to life, launching him forward with a speed and grace that felt almost unnatural. Harry twisted, the battleaxe a blur as it arced through the air, cutting toward Wukong, who sidestepped it effortlessly, spinning his golden staff like a whirlwind.

"Not bad, kid! But you've gotta loosen up!" Wukong called out, deflecting Harry's next strike with a flourish. "You're too stiff! Monkey-style is all about freedom. Stop thinking like a mortal warrior and start thinking like a god with a sense of humor!"

Harry narrowed his eyes. Oh, I'll show you a sense of humor, he thought.

He adjusted his stance, letting go of the rigid forms he'd been drilled in before. Instead of a direct strike, he leapt, twisting mid-air and bringing the axe down in a chaotic, almost reckless swing. The energy of the move felt wild, untamed—like a storm bottled in a single motion.

Wukong actually had to block that one, grinning like a maniac as he did. "There it is! Now you're getting it!"

Harry couldn't help but grin back, even as his lungs burned from the effort. Monkey-style was… different. It wasn't just about strength or precision. It was about adapting, moving with the rhythm of the fight, and—apparently—looking good while doing it.

As the session wore on, Harry found himself slipping deeper into the flow. His movements became more fluid, his attacks less predictable. He ducked under Wukong's spinning staff, pivoted on one foot, and launched himself into a series of flips that ended with a devastating downward strike.

"Not bad, not bad!" Wukong crowed, dodging with a backflip that defied all laws of physics. "You're almost ready for the advanced stuff. But first…"

Without warning, Wukong tossed his staff into the air, and the dreamscape exploded. Trees morphed into massive stone pillars, the ground tilted at odd angles, and gravity seemed to go on vacation. Harry barely had time to react before Wukong was on him again, this time moving twice as fast as before.

"Lesson two!" Wukong shouted. "Chaos is your best friend! Learn to thrive in it!"

Harry groaned, dodging another flurry of strikes. "Yeah, sure. Because this isn't chaotic enough already!"

But even as he complained, Harry could feel something clicking into place. The chaos wasn't just a distraction—it was an opportunity. Every tilt of the ground, every twist of the air, was something he could use.

He shifted his weight, letting the unnatural angle of the terrain propel him into a spin, his axe carving a path through the air. Wukong blocked it, but there was a flicker of surprise in his eyes—a brief acknowledgment that Harry was starting to get it.

By the time the session ended, Harry was drenched in sweat (or whatever dream-sweat counted as), but he felt… alive.

Wukong clapped him on the back, grinning ear to ear. "Not bad, kid. Not bad at all. You're still rough around the edges, but you've got potential. Keep this up, and you might just be worthy of the Monkey King's approval."

Harry rolled his eyes, though he couldn't suppress a small smile. "Yeah, because that's the ultimate goal."

Wukong just laughed, leaping onto a nearby pillar like it was the most natural thing in the world. "Get some rest, kid. Tomorrow, we step it up a notch!"

As the dreamscape began to fade, Harry couldn't help but wonder what "a notch" meant in Wukong's terms. Something told him he wasn't going to like it. But then again, when had anything in his life been normal?

—

The training grounds of K'un-Lun were exactly the kind of place you'd expect if ancient martial arts legends decided to throw a party and didn't skimp on the budget. Sweeping courtyards of polished stone stretched out beneath jagged mountain peaks that seemed to pierce the clouds. Waterfalls cascaded into pools so clear you could see your reflection—and probably your bad life choices, too. Statues of warriors from centuries past lined the edges, each carved with an intensity that practically screamed, You're not ready for this.

Haris Lokison stood amidst his friends, all of them decked out in training robes that somehow made them look less like legendary demigods and more like extras in a kung fu movie. He surveyed the grounds with his usual mix of awe and smirking confidence. This wasn't his first mystical rodeo, but even he had to admit K'un-Lun was a vibe.

"Nice place," Harry said, cracking his knuckles as he took it all in. "All it's missing is a smoothie bar."

Thalia Grace, forever the queen of sarcasm, raised an eyebrow. "Yeah, because what this place really needs is kale smoothies and yoga mats."

Connor Stoll, never one to miss a comedic beat, leaned over to his twin, Travis. "Imagine the Yelp review: 'Came for the chi training, stayed for the soul-crushing humiliation.' Five stars."

Their banter was cut short by the arrival of Yu-Ti, the hooded and ever-serious leader of K'un-Lun, who somehow managed to glide across the stone floor like he was on wheels. Behind him loomed Lei Kung the Thunderer, who looked like he could snap a mountain in half just by glaring at it. Spoiler alert: he probably could.

"Today," Yu-Ti intoned, his voice dripping with gravitas, "you will begin the process of channeling your chi. Few succeed. Many fail."

"Fail how?" Hermione asked, always the practical one.

Lei Kung's voice was a growl that could probably make a lion rethink its choices. "By lacking focus. By lacking discipline. By—"

"Blowing themselves up," Harry added helpfully, grinning.

The Thunderer's gaze locked onto Harry like a heat-seeking missile. "Do not mock the ancient ways, child of two realms."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Harry replied, all wide-eyed innocence. He conveniently left out the part where he'd already spent what felt like centuries training with Sun Wukong, the Monkey King. Wukong's idea of "beginner lessons" had involved running up waterfalls while dodging flaming boulders. By comparison, this was a casual stroll through a zen garden.

Training began, and predictably, Harry's friends handled it like the demigod rock stars they were. Annabeth moved with surgical precision, Thalia brought her signature storm-fueled ferocity, and Clarisse... well, she punched a training dummy so hard it probably filed a workers' comp claim. Even Connor and Travis managed to not set anything on fire, which was a minor miracle in itself.

Then there was Harry.

From the moment he stepped up to the training dummies, it was clear he wasn't just keeping pace—he was leagues ahead. While most students were struggling to summon a flicker of chi, Harry's hands glowed with golden energy, crackling like contained lightning. With a single strike, he split a stone dummy clean in half, sending chunks flying in every direction.

Thalia let out a low whistle. "Okay, hotshot. What's your secret? Did Loki give you cheat codes or something?"

"Just raw talent," Harry replied, winking. He didn't mention the countless nights spent sparring with Wukong or the fact that his mother's Lunar Synchronous magic practically supercharged him during the waxing moon. Details, details.

Yu-Ti and Lei Kung exchanged looks that screamed What is this kid, and should we be worried?

"This level of skill is... unprecedented," Yu-Ti murmured, stroking his beard like it might hold the answers. "Even among the greatest warriors of K'un-Lun."

Hermione crossed her arms, clearly unimpressed. "You might as well get used to that. Harry has a habit of breaking records. And rules."

"Especially rules," Travis added. "He's basically a walking loophole."

Even Harry's friends—who were progressing faster than any normal students—found themselves in awe. Annabeth muttered something about statistical improbabilities, while Luke Castellan, usually the most composed of the group, openly stared as Harry executed a series of moves so fluid and precise they looked like they belonged in a martial arts movie.

"Ready for the next challenge?" Harry asked, turning to Lei Kung with a grin that was equal parts charming and infuriating.

Lei Kung's expression didn't budge. "You have much to learn before you face Shou-Lao the Undying."

Harry flexed his fingers, letting golden sparks dance across his palms. "No rush. But just for the record, if Shou-Lao's scared, he can always call it a day."

From the back of the group, Brunhilde muttered, "You realize he's going to get us all killed, right?"

Thalia smirked. "Maybe. But it'll be one heck of a show."

And that was the thing about Harry. Whether he was cracking jokes, mastering ancient techniques, or casually redefining what it meant to be a hero, he always had a way of making even the most impossible situations feel like an adventure. Sure, he was a walking disaster waiting to happen, but he was their disaster—and they wouldn't have it any other way.

—

In Asgard, the great golden halls of Valaskjalf shimmered under the eternal glow of the Bifrost. At the highest peak of the palace, Loki, the God of Mischief, reclined on a throne he wasn't supposed to be sitting on. It wasn't technically his throne, but Odin was on one of his famous "You kids figure it out" naps, and Loki figured it wasn't not his throne either.

Perks of ambiguity.

In front of him, the all-seeing Heimdall stood stoic as ever, his orange eyes glowing faintly. He looked like he had just been dragged out of a very important job to answer an absolutely unimportant question. Because, well, he had.

"What's my son up to now?" Loki asked, swirling a goblet of Asgardian wine like he was a concerned PTA parent asking about report cards. His tone was casual, but Heimdall knew better. Loki wasn't casual about anything, especially not when it came to Harry.

Heimdall sighed. It was a long-suffering sigh that suggested he hadn't been adequately compensated for this nonsense. "Haris Lokison," he began, because even Heimdall couldn't bring himself to just call him "Harry," "is currently training in K'un-Lun. He has already shattered three dummies, mastered basic chi manipulation, and, as of five minutes ago, made an entire courtyard of mortal warriors feel deeply inadequate."

Loki grinned, all teeth and mischief. "That's my boy. Already making mortals question their worth. Carrying on the family tradition."

"It is... unusual," Heimdall admitted, his voice carefully neutral. "Most who train in K'un-Lun take years to achieve what he has done in hours."

"Well, of course," Loki said, waving a hand. "He's my son. And Artemis'. And technically Aphrodite threw in some charm magic just to spice things up. He's basically a walking cheat code."

Heimdall's eyes narrowed. "If you are so confident in his abilities, why do you insist on these constant updates? I have other realms to monitor, Loki. The Nine Worlds do not guard themselves."

"Oh, don't be dramatic," Loki said, brushing off the remark. "You're always staring at something. I'm just giving you more entertaining material. Wouldn't you rather watch my son break records than, I don't know, stare at dwarves forging another golden trinket?"

Heimdall didn't dignify that with a response, which Loki took as a win.

"And besides," Loki continued, leaning forward, "I need to make sure those Huntresses of Artemis haven't turned my boy into a humorless buzzkill. One can only spend so much time in the company of mortals before one starts... adopting their manners." He shuddered dramatically.

"From what I have observed, Haris does not lack for humor," Heimdall replied dryly. "Though his sense of decorum is... questionable."

"Perfect!" Loki said, clapping his hands. "Decorum is for people who lack imagination. Now, tell me—has he done anything particularly mischievous yet? Stolen an artifact? Swapped someone's chi potion for goat's milk? Anything worthy of the Lokison name?"

Heimdall hesitated. "He... suggested Shou-Lao the Undying might consider retiring early."

Loki burst out laughing, the sound echoing through the hall. "Oh, that's rich! Threatening an immortal dragon before breakfast. Artemis is going to hate that." He paused, then grinned even wider. "I love that."

"If there is nothing further," Heimdall said, clearly done with this conversation, "I will return to my post."

"Wait, wait," Loki said, holding up a hand. "One more thing. How's his form? Is he keeping his elbows in when he throws a punch? Artemis was very specific about that."

Heimdall's gaze narrowed. "Loki."

"Fine, fine," Loki said, leaning back with a theatrical sigh. "Go back to your omniscient peeping. I'll just sit here and worry about whether my child is eating enough. Do they even have proper food in K'un-Lun?"

Heimdall turned without a word and marched out of the hall, leaving Loki alone with his thoughts—and his wine.

Loki took a sip, his grin never fading. Sure, he trusted Harry to handle himself (mostly). But what kind of parent would he be if he didn't hover just a little? It wasn't helicopter parenting, he told himself. It was strategic oversight. A totally different thing.

And if Harry accidentally set off a celestial-level incident in K'un-Lun? Well, Loki would just call that a bonding experience.

---

Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!

I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!

If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!

Click the link below to join the conversation:

https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd

Can't wait to see you there!

If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:

https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007

Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s

Thank you for your support!