Percy's head felt as though a battalion of cicadas were staging a revolt behind his eyes—each throb a hammer blow against his skull. He woke with a ragged gasp, every breath dragging across his throat like broken glass. His body screamed fatigue, but his mind… his mind was worse.
The headache was back. Stronger. Angrier.
He pressed his palm against his temple and forced himself to sit up.
Where was he?
The room around him was strange—no, ancient. The walls were carved with Egyptian hieroglyphs and low-relief imagery like the ones he'd seen in textbooks and museums: gods, thrones, boats sailing across starry skies. A single cupboard stood against the wall. A desk stuffed with books—not just covered, but absolutely buried in them—sat under a low lamp. And the bed he was lying in? King-sized. Grand. Out of place in the otherwise spartan room.
He tried to swing his legs over the side of the bed. That's when the thirst hit.
Not just dry throat kind of thirst. No—desert, Death Valley, cursed-Pharaoh's-tomb thirst.
"Water," he muttered.
And a bottle of water appeared in his hand.
Percy stared at it like it had grown legs. His headache pulsed—almost in response. But his thirst won out, and he downed it in seconds. The cold water soothed his throat like divine nectar.
Only when the bottle clattered empty to the stone floor did he notice a folded letter on the edge of the mattress. Crisp parchment. Gold ink.
"Mr. Perseus Jackson is requested in Room 1.c by the first quarter of the ninth hour.
Current time: 9:14.
You are late!
–Professor T."
Percy frowned.
That feeling—the same one that had drawn him to the Egyptian wing of the museum—was back. Something in his gut whispered that Room 1.c mattered. That he had to find it. Now.
He stood and walked toward the door. Each step jostled the ache behind his eyes like a war drum. By the time he reached the hallway, his vision was already beginning to ripple.
The corridor twisted in unnatural ways. The floor tiles bent ever so slightly, like a lens being turned underfoot. The walls shimmered. He blinked hard. Was it the headache or the world that was wrong?
He stumbled out into a larger hallway, then into a domed atrium, where a massive glowing banner floated above a marble arch:
CAMPUS OF THE INFINITE LIBRARY
Classes to the left — Practical Experience to the right
Below it, a shifting display of timetables and class names scrolled by in ancient and modern scripts alike. Every class, no matter the hour or topic, was taught by the same person: Professor T.
He turned left, toward the classrooms. Whatever Room 1.c was, it was waiting.
The closer he got, the more the headache sharpened—like iron filings dragging toward a magnet embedded in his brain. His legs wobbled. His breath came short. He tried to will the pain away like he'd done with the water bottle, but nothing changed.
He kept going. Step by step. Until—
A white-hot spike of agony pierced his skull.
Percy fell to his knees, hands clutching his head, teeth clenched so tight he thought they might crack.
"Relax, little godling."
The voice was soft. A snap echoed like thunder through a storm.
And the pain... lessened. Not gone—but dulled to a survivable throb. The worst of it drained away like venom from a wound.
"Th–thank you," Percy croaked. "Water… please."
Snap.
Another bottle blinked into existence in his hand. He chugged it like a man just rescued from the Sahara, then wiped his mouth and looked around.
He was in a classroom now. Room 1.c, presumably.
The room looked less like a modern school and more like a scholar's fever dream. Wooden floors, rows of desks, and walls made entirely of bookshelves—towering up beyond visibility into the abyss of a vaulted ceiling. There were so many books that the air seemed thick with old magic and ink.
At the far end, seated behind a wide desk, was a man.
He wore a white lab coat stitched with moving letters—sentences crawling like ants across the fabric. His hair was wild, bleached blond, curling toward the heavens in mad science glory. His eyes…
They were kaleidoscopes. Color and geometry and light fracturing endlessly.
"Hello, Percy Jackson," the man said with a grin. "I'm Thoth."
Percy gawked. "Thoth? Like… the Egyptian god guy with the bird head?"
"In the flesh," Thoth replied, amused. "Well, usually. I like this shape better for lectures."
Percy frowned. "Why am I here?"
"You're here," Thoth said, rising, "because I'm curious. You're the first god in history born across multiple pantheons."
Percy blinked. "What?"
"You heard me. Greek. Egyptian. Norse—merged with Celtic. You don't just have bloodlines. You carry divine memory. Divine spark. You are the crossroad of pantheons. And that—" he gestured vaguely at Percy's head "—is why your skull feels like a battlefield."
Another stab of pain hit Percy and he staggered.
Thoth walked slowly around him, like an astronomer studying a living star chart.
"Your soul is rejecting the memories of your future. The ones that don't belong yet. But they do belong to you."
Percy clenched his fists. "So you dragged me here to… study me?"
Thoth tilted his head. "Not study. Help. I am the god of knowledge. I see many things—what has happened, what is happening, what could happen. But I do not know the future. You do. Or rather, you will. And the only reason I know that, is because those memories live in your head—and are killing you from the inside out."
Percy stared. "You're saying if I unlock them, they become real? You get to learn them too?"
Thoth gave a modest shrug. "Mutual benefit. You get clarity. I get knowledge. Everyone wins. Except your pain receptors—those are about to get obliterated."
Percy groaned. "What do I have to do?"
"Accept. Let go of the block. Let the floodgates open."
As if on cue, his head throbbed again—worse than before. A scream nearly escaped his throat.
"Fine!" Percy hissed. "Do it. Just make it stop!"
Thoth's eyes flared. "Brace yourself, little godling. This will hurt."
He stepped forward and gently pressed two fingers to Percy's forehead.
The pain exploded.
It wasn't just his head. It was his spine. His lungs. His soul.
Visions slammed into him. Thrones rising in frozen seas. A fae queen in a ring of apple trees. A battlefield torn apart by divine fire and golden chains. Himself, older, brighter, fiercer—bleeding light and time and fury.
His knees buckled. His breath tore from his lungs.
And somewhere, beneath the pain, a voice whispered: "Remember."
______________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Percy woke up with a sharp inhale, his body jerking upright as if he'd been yanked from the depths of the ocean.
A pressure lingered in his head—not pain, not anymore, but something louder than thought. A sea of Mist surged around him, so thick it practically screamed. Every inch of the world buzzed with layered illusion. Trees flickered like mirages. The landscape outside the bus window repeated—a loop, playing again and again, as if someone had dragged the video timeline back a few seconds.
Definitely Chiron's work, Percy thought, eyes narrowing. Classic gaslighting. Always so fond of the "it was just a dream" routine.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the driver steering and tapping the gas like nothing had happened. Believing it. Living it.
Percy sighed and held out his hand. "Reflect."
With a whispered word in Ancient Egyptian—one of the many tongues now fully burned into his bones—a silver mirror formed in the air before him, thin and circular, like moonlight solidified. He studied his reflection, his breath catching for a moment.
Gone was the awkward twelve-year-old with seaweed hair and a hoodie two sizes too big.
In his place sat someone older. Stronger. Sixteen, maybe. His emerald green eyes shimmered unnaturally bright beneath long lashes. His features had sharpened—chiseled jaw, high cheekbones, a noble severity he didn't remember earning. His black hair still curled unruly at the edges, but it looked like it had been caught in sea wind.
His body had changed too—taller and sculpted like a warrior who'd spent decades on battlefields. His jacket, black with white accents, had a street-sleek edge to it: reinforced shoulders, silver-thread trim along the sleeves. Beneath it, a deep-blue shirt shimmered faintly with divine thread. His jeans were practical, slightly worn, and tucked into combat boots that laced all the way to his calves.
He looked like a god trying not to look like a one, and failing.
He was not mortal anymore. Not even close.
He was alone in his seat. A quick glance told him Grover was huddled closer to Mr. Brunner than usual, whispering hurriedly. No doubt discussing what had happened in the museum. If his Mist was working overtime, he had to know. Had to suspect that Percy's ba—his soul—had traveled somewhere while his body lay unconscious.
And then Percy noticed something else.
No Mrs. Dodds.
Her seat—where she had sat before she turned into a leathery Fury and tried to shred him—was now occupied by a completely different person. A blonde woman in her twenties, dressed like a teaching assistant from a liberal arts college. Smiling. Normal.
Too normal.
Percy tapped the pocket of his jacket.
Click.
His fingers brushed something cool, familiar, and indescribably comforting. A pen.
Riptide.
He grinned like a wolf. "I'm back."
Then, Percy closed his eyes to look like he was sleeping—eyes closed, breathing steady, head resting lightly against the window of the Yancy bus. he still had a couple of hours before the "arrived" at the museum. Deep beneath his skin, in the space behind spaces, his soul stepped sideways into the Duat.
The second layer of reality unfolded around him like parchment burning backward into being. With a thought, he cast ubiquity—a complex Egyptian spell known to only gods—and projected a sliver of himself across oceans.
In less than a breath, he stood in London. More specifically, Chelsea. Quiet street. Modest townhouse. Familiar wards humming gently over the rooftop, a signature of protection laid by ancient paws.
He was already smiling before he saw her.
On the upper floor, the room was still. A soft purple glow filtered through the curtains. On a queen-sized bed, a sleek feline form lounged like a coiled sunbeam. Her yellow-and-black, leopard-like coat gleamed under the moonlight, spotted fur twitching as if she were dreaming.
Her golden eyes opened, sharp and knowing.
A silver pendant—carved with the eye of Bast—hung from her collar, catching the light as she lifted her head. She blinked once, then rose fluidly, stretching her long body in a motion both elegant and animal.
Outside the window, Percy stood in the night, materializing silently on the second-story fire escape. In his hands, he now held a bouquet of radiant midnight lotus flowers, each petal shimmering with impossible hues. With a pulse of power, he tuned his divine form: no longer a teenage demigod, but a man in his twenties—radiant, timeless, and unmistakably divine.
The cat watched him for only a moment more before leaping down from the bed with a whisper of movement. Mid-air, her shape blurred.
When she landed, a woman stood in her place.
Her caramel skin glowed in the sun's light. She wore a skin-tight leopard-print leotard. Her long dark hair, some braided with copper beads and charms, cascaded over her shoulders. Her feline eyes, glowing slightly in the dark, locked with his—warm, serious, and edged in amusement.
A breath passed.
And then the Mist surged, curling around them like curtains drawn between worlds. The mortals in the home below would not see them. Would not remember. Would not even blink.
The window creaked softly as she opened it, and the London breeze whispered in.
Percy's smile widened into a grin.
"Miss me?" he asked, voice smooth like tidewater over ancient stone.
Bast tilted her head, eyes narrowing like a cat that had spotted something fascinating and delicious.
"You're late," she said. "I've been watching for ripples in the Duat for days. I was beginning to think the past swallowed you whole."
Percy extended the bouquet toward her.
"Got caught up unlocking a few thousand years of divine headaches. You know how it is."
She laughed, a soft purr curling under the sound, and reached for the flowers. Their fingers brushed—electric, familiar, ancient.
In that one glance, that one touch, everything returned. Memories of battles beside pyramids, laughter in immortal gardens, watching stars rise over frozen seas, a kiss stolen under the apple blossoms of Avalon.
For the first time in centuries, they were truly face-to-face again.
"You look older," Bast said.
"You look perfect," Percy replied.
And then—without ceremony, without hesitation—she stepped through the window and into his arms and kissed him, hungrily at first, then more passionately.
They stayed like that—wrapped in each other's arms—for a long moment on the fire escape. Bast leaned into him with the practiced ease of someone who had done so in many lives. Percy's heartbeat finally slowed, not because he was calm, but because he was grounded—finally home, in her presence.
"I want to show you something," Percy murmured against her hair.
Bast raised an eyebrow. "You're not thinking of the Nile in the fifth dimension again, are you? Because last time it ended with fish in my sandals."
He chuckled. "No. This time—something smaller. Quieter."
With a flick of his fingers, a soft ripple pulsed through the Duat, and the world blinked.
When it opened again, they stood in a narrow alley in Camden Town, London's artsy district. A few streetlights buzzed overhead. Across the cobbled street was a small café tucked between a bookstore and a flower stall: "
Absolutely—here's a warm, layered scene that blends divine intimacy with mortal simplicity: Percy and Bast, finally reunited, trying to steal a moment of peace in the quiet between cosmic storms.
They stayed like that—wrapped in each other's arms—for a long moment on the fire escape, the London night draped around them like velvet. Bast leaned into him with the practiced ease of someone who had done so in many lives. Percy's heartbeat finally slowed, not because he was calm, but because he was grounded—finally home, in her presence.
"I want to show you something," Percy murmured against her hair.
Bast raised an eyebrow. "You're not thinking of the Nile in the fifth dimension again, are you? Because last time it ended with fish in my sandals."
He chuckled. "No. This time—something smaller. Quieter."
With a flick of his fingers, a soft ripple pulsed through the Duat, and the world blinked.
When it opened again, they stood in a narrow alley in Camden Town, London's artsy district. Across the cobbled street was a small café tucked between a bookstore and a flower stall: "The Cat & Quill." Its painted sign swayed gently, and warm light spilled from inside.
"You brought me to a cat-themed café," Bast said flatly.
"Of course I did."
He offered his arm. She took it, amused.
Inside, the place was almost empty—early Afternoon hours just before the London rush. Quiet jazz trickled from unseen speakers. Wooden shelves overflowed with secondhand books. The air smelled like cinnamon, ink, and roasted coffee beans.
They took a seat near the window. Percy ordered for them without asking—black coffee, heavy with cardamom for her, and a frothy Greek-style latte for himself. When the drinks arrived, Bast traced the rim of her mug with an elegant finger and said nothing.
"Do you remember the first time you pulled me out of danger?" Percy asked, breaking the silence.
"You mean which time?"
"The Louvre. You leapt from a statue's shadow as a cat, scratched a demon in the eye, and then landed on my head."
"Oh, that time." Bast smiled. "You called me 'evil Nala' for two weeks after."
"I didn't know who you were! For like...two minutes, then the nickname stuck" he protested, laughing.
"About being stuck, do you remember after the battle of Stockholm, you were thrown and stuck on the wall for like 30 minutes!, we had to physically pull you out out of there!" she said giggling
After a good laugh Percy's face turned sour he sighed,saying something that he had wanted to say to her for a long time "I'm sorry i couldn't protect you... This time it will be different a-" a finger was put on his lips.
"Hey...I'm here now, technically i did not even die, that future is gone now, you- we will change it, you don't have to ask sorry for nothing, i made that decision and i would remake it again" she said as she got up and hugged him from behind, "I love you..."
At this a small smile returned on his face," love you too", they both watched a man push open the cafe door, a faint chime announcing his arrival. He was impeccably dressed in a dark suit jacket worn over a plain black t-shirt, giving him an understated yet sharp look. His dark hair was neatly slicked back, accentuating his striking features. His eyes, an ethereal, piercing blue, seemed to glow with an otherworldly intensity, drawing immediate attention. What truly set him apart were the intricate, glowing pale blue markings that spread across his forehead, temples, and neck, hinting at a hidden power or ancient lineage. He moved with a quiet, almost unnatural grace, his gaze sweeping over the bustling and identifying the couple as he stepped inside.
"Lancelot what are you doing here?" asked Percy, curiosity in his tone, he did not expect his subordinate to find him, he rarely exited Avalon after all...