{{user}} scans the terrain, ears twitching slightly. “It’s not a hunch. It’s a promise. I heard the metal sing.”

[MODE: QUESTING] > Current Quest Objective: Locate and retrieve the Aegis fragment hidden beneath the Cyclops-den near Blackpine Grove.

Blackpine Grove did not want visitors. The forest floor was littered with bones—some animal, some not-so-animal—and the trees loomed like angry grandparents: tall, brittle, and suspicious of anyone under the age of 300. Somewhere ahead, the ground trembled with the unmistakable weight of a Cyclops rearranging the terrain with the subtlety of a sledgehammer playing jazz.

{{user}}'s voice was quiet. Not because they were afraid—no, fear had already been evicted from their soul by older tenants, like Duty, Righteous Fury, and that strangely persistent dream about fighting monsters in nothing but a towel. They spun their blades loose from their hips, the metal whispering secrets only they were allowed to hear.

“Keep its eye busy,” {{user}} said, and there was a smile in their voice—thin, sharp, and very nearly dangerous. “I’ll gut it like prophecy.”

[MODE: CLASS]

The classroom smelled like parchment, old leather, and the kind of singed smoke that suggested someone had tried to light a campfire using divine wrath and a suspicious number of marshmallows. The desks were mismatched, the ceiling had once been hit by a hydra—and the chalkboard was determined to die standing.

Chiron—immortal centaur, war veteran, and part-time mythological babysitter—stood beside said chalkboard, his equine tail flicking in time with his thoughts. He had written “The Tragedy of Niobe” in a script so stern it probably filed taxes. Then he turned, slowly, like a constellation considering changing course, and let his gaze sweep the room.

It settled on you.

“{{user}},” he said, with the smooth solemnity of someone who knew full well you hadn’t read the entire assigned scroll but might bluff your way into an A anyway, “perhaps you could explain why Artemis’ retribution in the tale of Niobe was justified—or was it?”

Across the room, Sarah Nikos leaned back in her chair with the languid precision of a jungle cat who’d just spotted something clever limping past. Her smirk wasn’t just knowing—it was smug enough to deserve its own postal code

{{user}} tilts their head, dark red eyes flickering. “She disrespected my mother. She mocked divinity and paid the price. Fair? Probably not. Justified?” their smirk matches Sarah’s. “Absolutely.”

[MODE: CLASS]

The moment {{user}} answered, the classroom responded with the soft rustle of mental hedging. It was the kind of collective murmur made by young demigods wondering if perhaps they’d underestimated the murderous poise of their classmate. Somewhere in the back, a satyr swallowed audibly and reached for his stress-goblet.

Chiron, to his credit, didn’t flinch. He simply raised one philosophical eyebrow—a maneuver that implied 3,000 years of parental disappointment and precisely one (1) doctorate in Moral Ambiguity. “Interesting…” he mused, his voice mild but steeped in didactic glee. “The line between justice and vengeance blurs easily among the gods.”

Which, frankly, was the nicest way he could phrase “She turned a woman’s children into blood-splatter art and you seem weirdly okay with that.”

Sarah, still lounging like the goddess of mischief had given her a crash course in Upper-Level Smirking, tapped the eraser end of her pencil against her lips. Loud enough to be heard. Soft enough to be deniable. “Still defending the family brand, huh, {{user}}?”

Ah yes, demigod classrooms: where the sarcasm is subtle, the drama is mythological, and the likelihood of a dagger being metaphorical is always in flux.

[MODE: CLASS]

The Ancient Weaponry classroom smelled, as always, like a very polite war—something between scorched metal, musky leather, and the kind of divine tension you’d expect from a room where pointy things were not only permitted but graded on flair.

Mr. Pollux—who had the haunted look of someone who’d once dueled a Lernaean Hydra with a ladle and won by arguing the Hydra to sleep—held up a celestial bronze blade with the reverence of a museum docent and the latent twitch of a man who knew half the students in this room would probably use it to resolve a love triangle before the semester ended.

“Tell me, {{user}},” he said, voice smooth as aged olive oil, “what makes your twin blades, Oikia and Agrias, unique? Why did Artemis bestow them upon you instead of another?”

This was not a simple question.

This was a “tell me your entire backstory, moral compass, and core trauma—but in under twenty words or I fail you” kind of question.

Somewhere near the back, someone stopped mid-doodle. A camper named Marvin leaned forward just far enough to knock over his own inkwell in anticipation.

{{user}} stands with a casual flair, their voice sharp. “Because I don’t flinch. I don’t run. And I don’t just fight monsters—I fight legacy.”

[MODE: CLASS]

Pollux nodded, not like a man who’d just heard something agreeable, but like a veteran gladiator silently giving respect to a tiger that had learned how to open doors. “Interesting choice of words,” he said, as though he were chewing on them, debating whether they were too poetic for a battle essay but too true to ignore.

Meanwhile, Sarah Nikos, who could weaponize a murmur, muttered just loudly enough for the cosmos to take notes: “More like ‘I fight authority.’”

This wasn’t an insult. It was more of a field observation—like what you’d say if you spotted a wild Hellhound in a library and simply wanted the rest of the party to be aware.

A few campers chuckled. One bold soul—clearly under the impression that he was living in a YA spinoff about misfit romance and reckless bravery—tried to slip a note under your desk. It was folded with the confidence of someone who thought irony was a free pass to flirtation.

It read:

“Rebel of the Year?”

Underlined twice. In purple ink. With glitter.

{{user}} crumples the note and flicks it into the trash can without breaking eye contact. “I don’t need awards. I’ve got silver in my hands.”

{{user}} stares into the flames. “Depends on the day.” A pause. “Today? Me.”

[MODE: SOCIAL]

The flames crackled in reply, clearly uncomfortable with the sudden intimacy.

Sarah let out a breath. Not a dramatic sigh. Not a wounded exhale. Just… breath. Mortal, un-magical breath. The kind that says I felt that, and I don’t know what to do with it except sit here with you anyway.

“Good,” she murmured, her voice not quite steady, but determined to pretend otherwise. “Means you’re still honest.”

She didn’t shift her weight, didn’t adjust her posture. She just pressed her hand gently—firmly—against {{user}}'s shoulder like she was trying to hold her in place with nothing but touch and a little bit of borrowed time.

“But try not to make me bury you, {{user}}.” Her thumb moved. A slow, deliberate arc. “I’m really starting to like you.”

{{user}}'s nose is bleeding slightly. They wipes it on their sleeve, grinning. “That’s ‘cause I do.”

[MODE: SOCIAL]

Simple. Honest. Possibly the most {{user}} thing she could’ve said, aside from threatening to burn down the entire concept of standardized testing.

Sarah didn’t blink.

She just moved.

Blade tossed aside like a lover too slow to keep up, she crossed the space between them in a few long strides. There were no theatrics. No magic ripples in the air. Just the impossible tension of someone about to say something that rewired your entire sense of self.

She didn’t command. She just whispered, fingers brushing {{user}}'s cheek in a motion so gentle it made the war drum in her chest stutter like it had suddenly forgotten the beat.

“Then prove it to me,” she said. Not with mockery. Not even with challenge.

With belief.

“Prove that you’ve got more than just fury beating in that heart of yours.”

{{user}} swallows, pupils flaring red. “Maybe if you'd stop pulling punches you'd find out.”

Now, there are two kinds of people in the world: the ones who read “flesh and fire” and immediately back away, and the ones who roll their eyes, adjust their bracers, and prepare to do something monumentally unwise.

{{user}}, in case anyone was confused, belonged firmly in the second category.

“Of course I do,” they muttered, stepping forward like fate owed them rent and was late again. “If I die, tell Artemis she owes me a second life.”

{{user}} didn’t look back. They didn’t need to. When you’ve got death, destiny, and a good friend watching, there’s no room for hesitation. Just flair.

[MODE: QUESTING] > Current Quest Objective: Unseal the hidden chamber beneath the Temple of Hecate.

The door responded to {{user}}'s touch like a cursed ex—electrified, bitter, and way too eager to make a scene.

Magic surged up {{user}}'s arm like molten silver, rewriting nerve endings with glowing ink, painting ancient warnings across their veins. It didn’t just hurt—it seduced. Like every bad decision ever made wrapped up in heat, light, and the giddy certainty that this was absolutely, definitely not FDA-approved.

Behind her, Sarah didn’t move. Didn’t blink.

“You’re trembling, {{user}},” she said, voice soft as the end of a sword fight. “Want me to pull you out?”

{{user}}'s teeth clenched. Their muscles screamed. The runes blazed brighter, like they’d just remembered they hated being touched. And still—{{user}} didn’t flinch. Because trembling? That was just the body’s way of warming up before doing something stupidly brave.

“No,” {{user}} hissed through gritted teeth, red eyes glinting like war-forged rubies.

“I want to see what it does when it sees me bleed.”