Chapter 33

Natasha and Yelena stood in front of Xavier and Coach Hedge, looking like they were about to volunteer as tributes in the weirdest Hunger Games ever. Their postures screamed we're totally in control, but their eyes said, we are internally screaming.

"We'll go to Camp Half-Blood," Natasha said, her voice steady but laced with the please let this work kind of determination. "But we have to leave now. Alexei and Melina will be back soon, and if they find us gone…" She trailed off, because honestly, no one needed that particular horror story spelled out.

Coach Hedge, ever the picture of subtlety (read: not at all), gave his celestial bronze bat a menacing twirl. "Good call, kiddos. Let's skedaddle before your wannabe Bond villains show up. I've got a quota for monster-smacking, and I'd rather save it for the actual monsters."

Xavier, looking as serene as ever—seriously, did this guy ever lose his chill?—gave them an approving nod. "This is a brave decision. The first step toward reclaiming your lives."

Natasha glanced over at Kitty, who was hovering by her parents, looking like she was about to burst. Kitty took a deep breath, stepped forward, and blurted out, "If Natasha and Yelena are going, then I want to go to the Institute. I need to be somewhere I can make a difference. Somewhere I can… be me."

Cue the classic Parent Panic. Mrs. Pryde's eyes filled with tears (the dramatic movie kind, not the ugly crying kind), while Mr. Pryde looked like someone had just told him his favorite football team lost the championship. "Kitty," her mom said, voice trembling, "it's not that we don't believe in you. We do. It's just… hard to let you go."

Kitty's resolve hardened like she'd just leveled up in Gryffindor bravery. "Mom, Dad, I know it's scary, but I promise I'll visit. Xavier's Institute is where I need to be. It's where I can grow. And also maybe not accidentally phase through the floor in Algebra class."

Her dad sighed, looking ten years older in five seconds. "Alright, Kitty. We trust you. Just… don't forget to call, okay?"

"Every day!" Kitty promised, which was either a bold-faced lie or the kind of optimism only teenagers have.

As Kitty hugged her parents, Lance, who had been lurking like the human version of "I'm not part of this conversation," cleared his throat. "Well, I don't have parents to guilt-trip me, so… count me in."

Xavier nodded, looking like he'd expected that all along. "Hank, Warren, please assist Lance with his belongings."

Warren, because of course the guy with wings had to show off, spread them in a dramatic whoosh. "On it. But let's make this quick. I'm not in the mood for any more 'surprise' guests."

Hank adjusted his glasses, his expression somewhere between "I'm too old for this" and "but here we go anyway." "Quite right. Lance, if you would?"

Meanwhile, Coach Hedge turned back to Natasha and Yelena. "Alright, spies. What's the plan? Are we raiding your secret lair, or do you already have a go-bag packed with gadgets and grappling hooks?"

Yelena smirked, finally looking a little like her usual cocky self. "Go-bag's ready. We're not amateurs."

Hedge nodded approvingly. "Now we're talking! Grab it, and we're out of here faster than a satyr at a veggie buffet."

Jean, ever the sensible one, gave them a reassuring smile. "We'll cover you. If Alexei or Melina show up, we'll handle it."

"Handle it how?" Yelena asked, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

Jean's smile turned just a little dangerous. "Let's just say I've got some tricks up my sleeve."

As everyone scattered to handle their respective missions—packing, escaping, and hopefully not dying—a heavy tension filled the air. Natasha and Yelena led the way back to their house, scanning every shadow like they expected a Red Room ambush at any second.

For the first time in years, they weren't just surviving. They were choosing a new path. Camp Half-Blood was a giant question mark, but it was also a chance. A chance to be something other than weapons. A chance to be free.

And if freedom came with monsters and prophecies? Well, that was tomorrow's problem. Right now, they had a go-bag to grab and a future to find.

—

Coach Hedge looked hilariously out of place in his human disguise. Sure, he had technically managed to pass as a human, but let's be real—there was no hiding the fact that something was just... off. Maybe it was the way he walked, like his legs were still trying to remember they weren't supposed to be goat-shaped. Or maybe it was the way he clutched his baseball bat like he was expecting a surprise Hydra attack any second. Either way, anyone paying attention would've raised an eyebrow and then probably noped right out of there.

He followed Natasha and Yelena into the house, muttering under his breath about "spy missions" and "not enough enchiladas to deal with this." Jean trailed behind, looking like the picture of calm, though inside she was probably screaming, Oh gods, we're breaking into a spy house! Someone's going to walk in!

The house itself was painfully normal. Suburban, with just the right mix of cozy and boring to make you feel like you were being lulled into a false sense of security. Which, considering the whole sleeper agent thing, was probably the point.

"All right, spies," Hedge grumbled, shifting his bat to one shoulder like he was trying to look casual. He failed. "Grab your stuff and let's hoof it—uh, I mean, move it. No dilly-dallying."

Natasha turned to him with the kind of glare that probably melted weaker-willed individuals into puddles. "We know what we're doing," she said, her voice as icy as a Siberian winter.

Yelena smirked from the living room, where she was busy rummaging behind a bookshelf. "He's just nervous because this house doesn't have an escape hatch."

"Don't push your luck, kid," Hedge shot back, his eyes darting to every window and door like a paranoid squirrel.

Natasha knelt by the fireplace and slid a brick out of place with the kind of precision that said, I've done this before, and I'm better at it than you. Behind it was a hidden compartment, and inside was a sleek black bag. She pulled it out, her expression unreadable as she scanned the room, probably making a mental list of all the things she couldn't take with her.

Meanwhile, Yelena popped up with another identical bag. She tossed it to Hedge like it was a frisbee, and he caught it, though not without a grunt. "What's in here? A stash of anvils?"

"Sentimental value," Yelena said, not even bothering to hide her smirk. She pulled a worn photograph from her jacket pocket, her expression softening for just a moment.

Jean, hovering near the door, had her telepathic radar cranked up to max. Her eyes glowed faintly as she scanned the area for potential interruptions. "I don't sense anyone nearby," she said, "but we should still hurry."

"No need to tell me twice," Hedge muttered, gripping his bat like it was a lifeline.

Natasha moved toward a small shelf, picking up a delicate glass snow globe with a cabin inside. She turned it over in her hands, her face giving away absolutely nothing. Then, with a small nod to herself, she tucked it into her bag.

Yelena, not to be outdone, snagged a tattered paperback from the coffee table. Natasha raised an eyebrow. "Seriously? That's what you're taking?"

"It's a first edition," Yelena replied, shoving the book into her bag like it was the most obvious thing in the world.

Hedge let out an exaggerated sigh, tapping his foot impatiently. "Okay, heartwarming moment's over. Let's move before your fake parents show up and start asking awkward questions—like, why is there a short guy with a bat in their house?"

Natasha slung her bag over her shoulder, giving the house one last look. It wasn't home. Not really. But it was still hard to leave, like closing the chapter on a book she hadn't finished reading.

"Let's go," she said, her voice quiet but firm.

Jean took the lead out the door, her senses still on high alert. Hedge brought up the rear, muttering something about how this better not make him late for his afternoon enchiladas.

Out on the street, Natasha and Yelena didn't look back. There was no time for second thoughts or regrets. Somewhere out there, a new chapter was waiting for them, and it had no room for fake identities, hidden compartments, or creepy sleeper-agent vibes.

It was time to move forward.

—

Warren adjusted his trench coat for the millionth time, trying to make the bulky harness hiding his wings look less obvious. Spoiler alert: it didn't work. Instead of "ordinary guy helping an orphan," his vibe was somewhere between "suspicious dude in a noir film" and "superhero on a bad disguise day."

Next to him, Hank stood perfectly calm, his holographic image inducer shimmering faintly. Instead of his usual furry, blue self, he looked like a very average guy—glasses, sweater vest, the works. The kind of guy you'd ask for help finding a library, not one who could bench-press a car.

Warren side-eyed him. "Remind me again why I'm stuck in a trench coat in the middle of summer, while you get the fancy hologram?"

Hank pushed his glasses up his nose, his tone the perfect mix of smug and amused. "Because my hologram doesn't make me sweat like a rotisserie chicken. And you insisted your wings were, and I quote, 'too majestic to risk damage.'"

"They are," Warren muttered, scanning the empty street. "But how long is this gonna take? We're one nosy neighbor away from a police report."

"Relax, Warren," Hank replied, his smirk barely hidden. "Lance said he'd be out in a few minutes. We just need to look... inconspicuous."

Warren threw up his hands. "Oh, great plan. Two grown men lurking outside an orphanage at night. Totally inconspicuous. Why don't we start handing out free candy while we're at it?"

Before Hank could hit him with a trademark calm and rational comeback™, the orphanage door creaked open. Lance stepped out, a small, beat-up duffle bag slung over his shoulder. The bag looked like it had been through several rounds with a wolverine and lost. His face was unreadable, but his eyes couldn't quite hide the mix of relief and bitterness bubbling underneath.

"That's it?" Warren asked, nodding toward the bag.

Lance shrugged. "Didn't have much to start with."

Hank studied him for a beat, his expression softening like a dad trying to offer wisdom without sounding lame. "You're sure you're ready for this? Leaving everything behind isn't easy."

Lance snorted, hiking the bag higher on his shoulder. "Yeah, because I'm really gonna miss the broken beds, cold dinners, and staff who only notice you when you're in trouble. Sounds like paradise."

Oof. That one landed like a punch to the gut. There was a moment of silence so heavy you could've sliced it with a lightsaber. Warren cleared his throat, because awkward wasn't his thing. "Well, good news. You're trading all that for a school full of mutants, chaos, and Hank's science experiments that explode more often than he admits."

"Excuse me," Hank said, looking genuinely offended. "My experiments are rigorously controlled. They only occasionally explode."

Lance's lips twitched—just the faintest hint of a smile. "Sounds like an upgrade to me."

With that, the three of them started walking. Hank and Warren flanked Lance like a couple of mismatched bodyguards. Warren glanced back at the orphanage, the dim light from its windows stretching long, creepy shadows across the sidewalk. "No regrets?" he asked, quieter than usual.

Lance didn't even look back. "Not one."

As the orphanage disappeared into the distance, Lance's shoulders relaxed just a bit. It wasn't just a building he was leaving behind—it was years of loneliness and frustration. Sure, the road ahead was packed with unknowns, but for the first time in forever, "unknown" sounded more exciting than terrifying.

Plus, if Warren and Hank were any indication, his new life was going to be the opposite of boring.

—

The van was about as cozy as a shoebox crammed with sweaty socks. People, bags, and awkward energy were packed in tighter than a Black Friday sale. Kitty was squished between Natasha and Yelena, who somehow managed to look like they were posing for a spy movie poster instead of enduring this mobile sardine can. Kitty, meanwhile, was mid-pout, her backpack sulking at her feet because it, too, wasn't happy about leaving home.

"For the record," she huffed, arms crossed, "I wasn't trying to bring the whole stereo system."

Yelena smirked without even looking up. "And yet, here we are, mourning the loss of your 90s boy band shrine."

"It's not a shrine!" Kitty snapped. "It's a collection! The Backstreet Boys are icons, thank you very much."

From the front seat, Coach Hedge turned around, his goat legs (currently disguised by pants—don't ask) wedged uncomfortably under the dashboard. He waved a celestial bronze dagger like it was his teacher's ruler. "Alright, listen up! If you're gonna puke, do it in a bag. No one messes up my ride—well, the rental's ride—but same difference."

"Thanks for the heartfelt wisdom, Coach," Warren grumbled from the back, where his legs were folded like a human pretzel. His trench coat was draped over his lap, failing to hide the fact that the wing harness underneath was digging into his shoulders. He looked like he might snap and declare war on the upholstery at any moment.

Hank, ever the problem-solver, adjusted his holographic image inducer and gave Warren a sympathetic smile. "It's only a short trip to the airfield. Once we're on the plane, you can... you know... unfurl."

"Comforting," Warren muttered, though he still shot Hank a look that said, Please hurry before I start screaming.

Xavier, perched serenely in the middle seat like the world's most patient dad, just observed the chaos with an amused smile. This was his favorite part: the messy, awkward bonding before the mission. Natasha and Yelena's sharp, unspoken glances, Kitty's barely controlled excitement, Lance's simmering tension—he watched it all, knowing they'd soon fall into place like mismatched puzzle pieces. And if they didn't? Well, he'd cross that bridge when it exploded, which it probably would.

Kitty turned her gaze out the window as her neighborhood faded behind them. Her lip quivered for half a second before she clamped it down. "It's not goodbye," she whispered, like she was trying to convince herself.

Natasha noticed because, of course, she noticed. She nudged Kitty with her elbow, her tone softer than usual. "Missing them is normal. You're doing the right thing, though."

Kitty nodded, blinking fast. "Yeah. Thanks."

When they finally pulled up to the airfield, the van screeched to a stop like it was just as relieved to be free of them as they were of it. The sleek, futuristic plane gleamed under the runway lights like it had come straight out of a superhero movie. It was such a dramatic step up from the van that even Coach Hedge looked impressed.

"Finally!" Hedge crowed, leaping out of the van like it was on fire. "One more minute in there, and I swear I would've—"

"Relax, Coach," Jean said with a faint smile as she climbed out behind him. "We're almost there."

Everyone piled out, stretching and grabbing their bags like survivors of a low-budget road trip. Kitty stood frozen, staring at the plane as reality hit her like a wrecking ball. "Okay. So... this is happening."

Lance appeared beside her, his duffle bag slung over his shoulder like it weighed a thousand pounds. "Yup. No turning back now."

She glanced at him, noticing the determined (or maybe resigned?) set of his jaw. "You okay?"

"Not really," he admitted with a shrug. "But I'll get there."

Kitty smiled—a small, brave thing. "Same."

As they boarded the plane, the tension shifted into something lighter, more hopeful. New York loomed ahead, full of possibilities, danger, and probably some explosions. But for now, as the engines roared to life and the plane lifted into the sky, they all felt it: the undeniable sense that this wasn't just an ending.

This was the start of something epic.

—

The plane hummed softly, a metallic lullaby as the group settled into their seats. Kitty Pryde had snagged the window seat, staring out like she expected to see her old life waving goodbye. Lance lounged a few rows back, looking for all the world like a guy who could nap through a hurricane, while Natasha and Yelena sat near the front, their whispered conversation exuding the calm intensity of people who could probably dismantle the plane if the mood struck. Hank and Warren were at the back, sorting gear and generally ignoring everyone else.

Jean Grey, meanwhile, sat in the middle aisle with what looked like a compact mirror in her hands. Except it wasn't reflecting her face—it glowed faintly, like it had stolen the moon's light for itself. She flicked it open and murmured something in Ancient Greek, because of course she spoke Ancient Greek. The mirror's surface rippled like a pond disturbed by a stone, and then the face of Haris Lokison appeared, looking like he'd just come from either a battlefield or a very intense Zumba class.

"Oh, good, you're alive," Harry said, wiping sweat off his forehead with the back of his hand. His British accent was thick, dripping sarcasm like honey. "I was worried you'd finally let some monster get the best of you."

Jean smirked. "And I was worried you'd finally get stuck in one of your shapeshifting forms. How's life as a salamander?"

"Charming," Harry shot back. "It's great. Very warm. Also, they don't have to deal with mortals asking stupid questions, so that's a plus."

Kitty twisted around in her seat, squinting at the glowing mirror. "Uh, Jean? Who's the sweaty guy in your makeup kit?"

Jean held up the mirror for everyone to see. "Everyone, meet Harry—or Haris Lokison, if we're being formal. He's training in K'un Lun with a bunch of Demigods right now."

"K'un Lun?" Lance asked, one eyebrow quirked. "Is that some kind of martial arts retreat?"

Jean rolled her eyes. "Not exactly. It's a mystical city that only shows up once every ten years. Think boarding school, but in this case it's for Demigods and people who like punching things."

Harry leaned closer to the mirror, his green eyes gleaming with a mix of humor and exasperation. "More like a boot camp where 'training' means getting thrown off cliffs and dodging Chi-powered punches. Seriously, who needs cardio when you've got the Thunderer himself trying to smite you?"

"Wait," Kitty interrupted, her voice climbing in pitch. "You're saying this guy's a Demigod and he gets to hang out in a magical city? How is that fair?"

"Not just any Demigod," Harry said, a grin spreading across his face. "Son of Loki and Artemis, at your service. Magic, shapeshifting, lunar mojo—you name it, I've got it."

"Loki and Artemis?" Natasha cut in, her tone skeptical. "That's a weird mix."

"Tell me about it," Harry replied. "Chaos and discipline in one charming package. I'm basically a walking contradiction, but I make it work."

Jean cleared her throat. "Harry, we had a run-in with some Empousai in Deerfield. Kitty and Lance held their own, but Natasha and Yelena? They're suspiciously good at monster-slaying."

"Empousai?" Harry asked, his tone suddenly serious. "Vampire cheerleaders with goat legs? Charming. And yeah, Natasha and Yelena being suspiciously good tracks—they're probably Demigods. Got any strange urges to smite monsters or go on ancient quests?"

Yelena shrugged. "I was trained to dismantle a tank at eight. Does that count?"

"Close enough," Harry said with a laugh. "So, what's the plan now?"

"Heading to New York," Jean replied.

"Ah, New York," Harry mused. "Home to heroes, villains, and overpriced bagels. If you need backup, let me know. Otherwise, I'll be here, dodging fists and magical fireballs."

Jean closed the mirror with a snap, and Kitty immediately leaned closer. "Okay, but when do we get to visit K'un Lun?"

Jean chuckled. "Surviving New York is going to be enough adventure for now."

—

The plane swooped down smoothly, cutting through the cool air like a bird who'd just realized it was really good at flying. Below, the private airfield near the Xavier Institute came into view, and if you were paying attention, you could practically feel the buzz of excitement radiating off everyone. Even Kitty—who could phase through solid objects like it was no big deal—couldn't resist pressing her nose against the window, her eyes wide with excitement. It was like she'd just discovered her favorite band was doing a surprise concert in her backyard.

Lance, however, was a little less enthusiastic about the whole thing. He leaned back in his seat, arms crossed, a look of total indifference plastered on his face like he was too cool to care. Maybe he was tired from the flight. Or maybe he was just pretending to be a brooding, mysterious loner (which, by the way, is totally his vibe). "I bet they've got better snacks at this place than that weird trail mix on the plane," he muttered, eyeing the bag of leftover snacks like it had personally insulted him.

Warren, who had been in the back organizing their stuff for the umpteenth time (and clearly enjoying the chance to flex his organizing skills), snickered at Lance's comment. "Yeah, probably. Unless they serve this weird stuff called 'mystery meat.'"

Natasha and Yelena were sitting across from each other, quietly watching the chaos unfold with amused expressions. It was strange to them. Their world was always so serious, so grim. They weren't used to people like Lance and Kitty, who made fun of weird snacks and made it look cool. But here? Here, things felt bright. There was this weird sense of hope in the air, like maybe, just maybe, they weren't walking into some kind of total disaster.

Jean, who had been unusually quiet for most of the flight, finally broke the silence. "Alright, gang. First stop: New York. Then we figure out what kind of mess Xavier's got waiting for us."

"Mess?" Kitty raised an eyebrow, her voice dripping with mock horror. "Are you trying to freak us out? I thought we were the ones who caused all the messes."

Jean shot her a sideways grin, her eyes flashing with that characteristic X-Men determination. "Maybe this time, we're the ones cleaning it up."

The plane landed with a soft thud, the engines winding down as the noise of the world outside started to creep in. The group started to stir, grabbing their bags and getting ready to disembark. But just as Jean stood up, her communication mirror buzzed in her pocket. She pulled it out, frowning as she read the message. Then, with a sigh, she muttered, "And the adventure continues…"

Lance leaned over her shoulder, his curiosity piqued. "What's up?"

Jean raised an eyebrow, her fingers scrolling across the screen. "It's Harry. And—" she paused to read aloud—" 'Tell them to leave the crazy monsters for me. I've got a date with someone called the Thunderer, and I'm not sure I'm going to make it back alive.'" She sighed and rolled her eyes. "He's impossible."

"Thunderer?" Kitty asked, wrinkling her nose in confusion. "Is he for real?"

Jean snorted. "I told you. Don't even ask. He's always in some ridiculous situation, but somehow, he survives. As for us? Well, we've got a whole new batch of crazy waiting for us. Welcome to the team, guys."

With that, Jean tucked her phone back into her pocket and led the way down the stairs of the plane, a sense of anticipation buzzing in the air. The others followed, their bags clutched tightly, their steps quicker with each passing moment. As they walked toward the airfield, they caught their first glimpse of the Xavier Institute—this big, mysterious mansion nestled in the distance, bathed in the soft glow of the setting sun.

It looked like something out of a comic book, and honestly, that's exactly what it was. It was a place where history, power, and secrets collided in the most mind-bending ways. But for now? For now, all that mattered was what lay ahead.

Jean paused at the foot of the plane stairs, turning to face the group, a grin tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Let's make some noise, shall we?"

And just like that, they marched forward—stepping into the unknown with all the enthusiasm and chaos they could muster. The next chapter of their adventure had just begun, and there was no telling where it would lead. But one thing was for sure: they were ready for whatever came next.

—

The training grounds of K'un Lun were glowing under the late afternoon sun, a warm orange that had nothing on the fiery aches in Harry's muscles. He stood there, slightly hunched like a modern-day Hercules, wiping the blood off his lip with the back of his hand. If this were a comic book, it'd be the part where the hero looks all broody and introspective after a fight. Instead, he was just trying not to pass out from the pain.

Beside him, Hermione's curls were sticking to her face in that sweaty, "don't mess with me" way, and her eyes were narrowed in that familiar look of concentration. Thalia, arms crossed over her chest like she was holding a grudge against the world, wasn't exactly bouncy, but she looked like she could take on a few more rounds. Annabeth, ever the strategist, didn't let the exhaustion show, though Harry knew her body was probably screaming at her too. They'd all taken a beating during their sparring session with Lei Kung, the toughest teacher any of them had encountered. Seriously, that guy made fighting look like an art form, and not in a "cool, mystical way." No, more like a "I-will-break-you-mentally-first" kind of way.

Luke and Clarisse were hobbling along, their cuts and bruises practically badges of honor. Clarisse, still somehow radiating the type of "don't-mess-with-me" vibe that could cause grown men to break into a cold sweat, winced slightly, but not enough to admit the pain. Silena was being all "strategic" about it, pretending she was unbothered by the fact that she, too, had been put through the wringer. Then there were Travis and Connor, who were already making jokes like they'd been through a light jog, not a death match. Connor was half-singing a ridiculous song about the pain they'd just endured, but somehow, it didn't make the situation worse. In fact, it was a weird kind of relief to hear someone acting like this kind of pain was just part of the job description.

Charles Beckendorf, on the other hand, was still toughing it out, though he clearly wasn't happy with the state of his right arm. It dangled like it was on vacation, and Harry wasn't sure whether it was dislocated or just really done with life. But Beckendorf, ever the fighter, was giving the kind of crooked grin that said, "Yeah, I'm hurt. Deal with it."

Brunhilde, their Valkyrie badass, was walking like she didn't even care about the bruises covering her, but Harry caught that slight limp in her stride. That was as close to "worn-out" as she'd probably ever admit to. And when you spar with Lei Kung, you don't walk away unscathed.

"Tomorrow we train with Yu-Ti," Harry muttered to himself, the words still carrying a kind of dread that only those who've had a run-in with the master could understand. That was the kind of training that made you question everything you thought you knew about your body's limits. And Harry wasn't exactly a slouch when it came to limits.

"Oh, great," Luke grinned, his sarcasm practically dripping off him. "Tomorrow's gonna be a blast."

"Yeah, I'd rather be trained by Yu-Ti than Lei Kung," Annabeth chimed in with a tired but amused smile. "At least Yu-Ti's punches don't feel like they could kill me."

"I dunno," Clarisse snorted, clearly less than thrilled by the idea. "Yu-Ti's got his own way of breaking you. He's just quieter about it."

"True," Harry added, rubbing his sore shoulder as they all shuffled off toward their rooms. "Lei Kung's all about brute force. Yu-Ti's more like the 'mentally break you first, then beat you to a pulp' kind of guy."

By the time they reached their respective quarters, Harry's muscles felt like they were one missed step away from revolting entirely. As he collapsed onto his bed, a groan escaped him like an exhaled sigh. Maybe he was tired, but a part of him buzzed with anticipation. Tomorrow, they'd face Yu-Ti. And while part of him wanted to crawl into a hole and never leave, another part was already counting the minutes until they'd be tested again. But that was the thing with being a demigod, right? You never really get to rest. Even when you're physically done, the mental challenge was always lurking around the corner.

"You good?" Beckendorf asked, dropping onto his own bed with a wince. He grinned despite the obvious pain. The guy was made of stubbornness.

"Yeah," Harry replied, closing his eyes, though his mind still buzzed with thoughts of what tomorrow would bring. "But we might need more than just rest to survive Yu-Ti."

"Tell me about it," Beckendorf muttered, stretching out. "Survive this, and we can pretty much handle anything."

Harry didn't answer. The only thing he could focus on right now was sleep. But even as his eyes closed, he couldn't shake the feeling that tomorrow was going to be even worse than today—and he was weirdly okay with that.

In a world full of gods and monsters, there was always something bigger, faster, and meaner waiting for you. And the trick was figuring out how to survive it with your wits, charm, and—of course—your innate ability to look cool doing it.

—

Harry's eyelids fluttered shut, his mind slipping into the familiar quiet of sleep. It wasn't the kind of peaceful rest you'd expect—no, this was more like a trip down the rabbit hole, if that rabbit had a magic wand, a sense of humor, and a few thousand years of mythology under its belt. Dreams had become a regular occurrence, but not the kind where you wake up sweaty because you were falling off a cliff. No, Harry's dreams came with less falling and more godly revelations and ancient mysteries that were, frankly, way above his pay grade.

Take Nyx, for instance. The ancient Greek goddess of the night, who'd been his regular teacher for the past couple of years. You'd think she'd be all serious and cryptic, but the truth was, Nyx had a knack for teaching shadow magic and ancient lore in the most bizarrely casual way. One minute, she was talking about the power of shadows, and the next, they were playing a bizarre version of hide-and-seek where Harry was it. At least, he assumed that's what it was. The rules were a little unclear.

But tonight? Tonight was different.

The air in the dreamspace felt… off. It was like stepping into a room that had been perfectly decorated and then finding one chair mysteriously out of place, throwing off the whole feng shui. Harry could feel it—the shift in the atmosphere, the tug of something new, something wild. He blinked, trying to focus as the world around him swirled and faded into a place that looked a bit like something straight out of Kung Fu Panda, but with a touch more gold and incense.

He was standing in the middle of a bamboo forest. Golden stalks swayed in a gentle breeze that smelled of incense and… well, it didn't take long for him to realize the scent was familiar. A little spicy, a little sweet. Definitely some sort of magical herb that probably didn't exist in his world but probably had a weirdly effective medicinal use in the dream realm.

Then, just as Harry was beginning to appreciate the tranquility, a loud, mischievous laugh pierced the air, making him jump. There, emerging from behind a cluster of bamboo, stood a man who looked like he had a bit too much fun at a Mardi Gras parade. He was tall, with hair that looked like it had been styled by a tornado (in the best way possible), and his robes were bright red and gold—think the kind of outfit you'd wear if you wanted to announce to the world, "Yes, I am fabulous, and you should be thankful I'm here."

The guy's amber eyes sparkled like the kind of person who knows a thousand jokes and one way to get out of any situation. He leaned on a staff like it was the world's coolest cane, and Harry's first instinct was to say, "Who are you, and how do you know I'm in desperate need of something even weirder than my usual dreams?"

The man grinned. "Oh, I can tell by the way you look like you're trying to make sense of everything right now that you're already halfway to figuring out the who. But don't worry, I'll save you the trouble. Name's Sun Wukong. The Monkey King. And yes, I know you've heard the legends."

Harry's brain stalled for a second. Sun Wukong? He had definitely read about the Monkey King somewhere in his endless pursuit of ancient myths and ridiculous trivia. But here? Now? This was next-level weirdness. "You're… the Monkey King?"

"Yep, that's me. King of the monkeys, master of chaos, and all-around charming guy. But don't just stand there looking confused—this is a dream, remember? You can do stuff in here. Ever wanted to learn how to turn into a cloud and mess with people?" Sun Wukong twirled his staff in the air, and it sparkled with enough energy to make Harry feel like he was about to be dragged into a scene out of an anime battle sequence.

Harry blinked. "Uh… I can do that?"

"Not yet. But you will. I'm here to teach you a few tricks. And trust me, I'm not the type to follow the rules. I mean, really, rules? So boring."

"Wait," Harry said, suddenly suspicious. "I've been learning from Nyx about shadow magic—why do I need to learn from you?"

Sun Wukong winked. "Because, my boy, Nyx may be the goddess of night, but I'm the king of chaos. And let's face it—chaos is where the fun's at. You've got all this power from your parents—Loki's tricks, Artemis's focus, and don't even get me started on that thing you have with the moon—but you're not playing around enough. And that's where I come in."

Harry's mind was racing as he tried to absorb what was happening. His father, Loki, the trickster god of Asgard, would love this kind of chaotic magic. Then there was Artemis, his mother, the huntress who'd trained him in the art of precision. So, yeah, Harry had some pretty insane power at his disposal. But the idea of learning from a legendary trickster who was a bit too fond of messing with people was a whole different thing.

Before Harry could think about it too much, Sun Wukong snapped his fingers, and the world around them twisted. The bamboo forest cracked like a whiplash, the air shifted, and suddenly, they were standing in the middle of what looked like a bustling marketplace… on fire.

"How's this for a lesson in chaos?" Sun Wukong grinned, utterly unconcerned about the flames licking at the market stalls. "Let's see how you handle a little fun."

Just as Harry was about to ask what in the nine realms was going on, the ground beneath his feet shifted again, and the whole scene collapsed into darkness. All that remained was the sound of Wukong's laughter, echoing through the void.

"Haris Lokison," the voice boomed, that grin still in his voice. "Let's see just how far you're willing to go. You've already danced with the impossible. How about a little chaos?"

And then… nothing.

Just the darkness. The laughter. And Harry, standing on the edge of a new, strange journey.

---

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