The golden throne shimmered beneath Percy as he sat, his cane resting lazily across his lap. The silence that followed his offer was thick, suffocating, as if the very air inside Camp Half-Blood had shifted.
Some demigods stepped back, their expressions torn between confusion and fear. Others stood frozen, waiting, watching—tempted by his words.
And then, as expected, the first voice of defiance rose.
"You're insane!" Annabeth's voice cut through the air, sharp, desperate. Her stormy-gray eyes burned with anger, but beneath it, there was something else—uncertainty. "You're talking like an enemy, Percy. The gods raised this camp to protect us!"
Percy tilted his head, his golden eyes glimmering mischievously. "Oh, Annabeth, ever the loyal strategist. Tell me, what exactly have the gods protected us from?"
His smile didn't fade, but his words carried weight.
"The Titans? We fought them ourselves. The Giants? Olympus let us burn before they decided to act."
His cane tapped against the ground.
"Luke?" His voice softened, but the mocking lilt remained. "They let him fall. Let him rot. And what about all the demigods who never made it back? The ones we buried?"
The campers shifted uncomfortably.
"How many more must die," Percy asked lightly, twirling his cane between his fingers, "before you realize we were never anything more than expendable pawns in their grand game?"
Annabeth's fists clenched. "That's not true!"
"Isn't it?"
He raised a hand, and suddenly, the air rippled. The golden fire behind him shifted, and in its flickering depths, images began to form—visions of the past.
Ethan Nakamura, bleeding out beneath Kronos' feet.
Silena Beauregard, smiling even as her life faded.
Lee Fletcher, Michael Yew, Charles Beckendorf—all of them lost.
Demigods who had fought for Olympus. Who had died for it.
And in the end?
"Honor, a name on a cabin wall, a fading memory," Percy murmured. "That is all they were given."
A silence fell.
Some campers looked away, unwilling to face the truth. Others… nodded.
Percy smiled.
"And yet, when I say there is a better way, I am the enemy?" He rested his chin against his palm. "What a cruel little world we live in."
Chapter 9: A Schism Among Demigods
Tension hung in the air.
Percy watched carefully, reading their expressions like an open book. Fear. Doubt. Curiosity.
He had spent a summer in the company of Witches. He understood human nature better than ever before. And so, he knew—this was how it began.
A fracture in the foundation of their beliefs.
A crack in their loyalty to Olympus.
And just as he predicted, the first shift happened.
"I… I think he's right."
The voice belonged to Ethan Blake, a son of Nemesis. He was young, no older than fifteen, but his face was firm, his expression set. "I fought in the wars. I bled for Olympus. And what did we get in return?"
Another voice. "Percy's never led us wrong before."
A daughter of Hermes.
More murmurs.
"Camp Jupiter has a whole empire. What do we have?"
"They never helped us when we needed them most…"
"Why should we follow gods who don't even care if we live?"
It was subtle, at first. Just words. Just whispers.
But Percy knew.
This was how revolutions began.
Chapter 10: The Gods Take Action
BOOM.
The sky split open, and the clouds darkened with divine wrath.
Lightning struck the hilltops. The air hummed with power.
And then, from the heavens, they descended.
The Olympians.
Zeus came first, his robes billowing, his eyes burning with golden fury. Behind him, Athena, cold and calculating, her gaze locked on Percy as if trying to understand him.
Poseidon appeared, but his face was neutral, unreadable.
Hades stepped from the shadows, his dark robes swirling like whispers of the underworld itself.
And at last, Hera, regal and cruel, her presence a tide of smothering authority.
"Percy Jackson." Zeus' voice shook the skies, his power crackling in the air. "You have gone too far."
Percy remained seated.
Unbothered. Unshaken.
His golden butterflies flitted through the air as he twirled his cane.
"Ah," he mused, his lips curving, "it took you long enough."
Zeus' fury intensified, divine lightning dancing in his grip.
"You speak of betrayal. You seek to turn Olympus' children against us." His voice boomed, final and absolute. "This ends now."
And for the first time in history, a god raised his weapon against a Witch.
Chapter 11: A Witch Does Not Bow
Lightning tore through the sky, a pillar of raw destruction aimed directly at Percy.
The demigods screamed, scattering, diving for cover.
But Percy?
He simply smiled.
And with the ease of a man swatting away a fly, he raised his cane—
TAP.
The lightning stopped.
The air itself froze, the world caught in a split second of rewritten reality.
Zeus' attack, an act of divine wrath, was halted mid-air, its energy shattering into golden butterflies.
And then—with a flick of his wrist—
The lightning turned.
It raced backward, reversing course, and in a single, impossible instant, Zeus' own attack struck him in the chest.
The God of the Sky staggered.
The impossible had happened.
And in the stunned silence, Percy Jackson rose from his throne.
Slowly, deliberately, he stepped forward, his cane tapping softly against the ground.
His golden eyes gleamed, filled with a power none of them understood.
"You poor, foolish gods." His voice was soft, almost gentle, but undeniable.
"You are used to being feared. You are used to your children bowing before you."
He tilted his head, his golden butterflies swarming the Olympians, tiny fragments of an untouchable force.
"But Witches do not bow."
His smile widened.
"And I… have grown tired of playing by your rules."
To Be Continued