Chapter 22 – The Boy Who Knew Too Much
The chamber was silent.
Not the kind of silence that made you feel peaceful.
No.
The kind that sat on your skin like ash, crawling up your spine like a spider wearing sandals.
Clarisse and I stood before the elder Kyklopes—the original smiths of Olympus. Towering, obsidian-skinned giants with a single eye each, pulsing with raw elemental power.
Brontes, whose eye glowed like a forge left burning too long.
Steropes, a crackle of lightning visible in every breath he took.
Arges, still and looming, like a mountain deciding whether to stand or collapse.
Clarisse straightened beside me, planting her spear in the ground like a flag. Her armor was scratched, her braid wild, but her voice was steady.
"We're not your enemies," she said. "We're children of Ares. He sent us to bring you back to Olympus."
The Kyklopes didn't respond right away.
Brontes tilted his head, exhaling steam that hissed across the cavern.
Then he spoke, voice like tectonic plates shifting.
"You carry it."
Clarisse blinked. "Carry what?"
Steropes leaned forward, sparks dancing from his breath. "The aura. The scent of Kronos. It clings to your souls like ash from a long-dead fire."
Arges' voice rumbled like thunder from the belly of the world. "Have you aligned with the Titan King?"
Clarisse froze. "No—we haven't—we're not with him. That's not who we—"
I narrowed my eyes, heart thudding in my chest.
Aura of Kronos.
I knew the Kyklopes weren't making stuff up. They felt ancient power. They could taste its residue.
And we were in Tartarus… but we weren't being flayed alive. We weren't choking on acid air. Our skin wasn't melting from obsidian storms. Our minds weren't unraveling from the pressure of being in the deepest pit of all existence.
Percy and Annabeth had suffered for weeks here in the books.
Every breath burned. Every step cost blood. Every second was survival by sheer willpower.
And we were…
...not fine. But still here.
That shouldn't have been possible.
Unless…
Unless someone had wrapped us in protection.
Someone who had access to Kronos' remaining essence.
I clenched my jaw, eyes flicking down to the coin Ares had given me.
Still glowing red. Still warm. Still pulsing.
I remembered something from the original plot.
Ares was manipulated by Kronos.
He wanted war. And Kronos fed him the dream of chaos. Of Olympian collapse.
Because if Olympus fell, war would be endless.
That was Ares' dream.
I looked at Clarisse.
She had no idea.
And I couldn't say anything—not while Tartarus itself might be listening.
Brontes leaned in closer, his eye glowing hotter. "If you are not with Kronos… why do you breathe in his prison like it is merely a cave?"
Clarisse gritted her teeth. "I don't know! Maybe because we're tougher than we look!"
I could feel the Kyklopes testing her words, testing us. The air grew hotter, the stone beneath us pulsing like a drumbeat.
And then I did something I don't do often.
I didn't joke.
I stepped forward and spoke plainly.
"We're not here for Kronos. We're here because Ares wants you out. He wants to undercut Hephaestus. He's using this to get payback. The golden net, the humiliation, all of it. He wants you back at Olympus to make him weapons that Hephaestus can't. That's the mission."
The Kyklopes stared.
Then, slowly, Brontes let out a low, seismic chuckle.
"We knew it," he rumbled. "The day would come when petty pride would call us forth again."
Steropes crossed his arms. "We've had many promises. You are not the first."
Arges leaned forward. "How do you plan to get us out? We are bound. Our essence is laced into the stone of Tartarus itself. Every breath we take feeds the prison. Our chains are made of oaths. Do you think a war god's brat with glowing chains is enough to break Olympus' chains?"
Clarisse opened her mouth, then stopped.
I didn't.
I stepped forward again, chains clicking around my forearms.
"No," I said. "Not me."
They stared.
I exhaled. Raised my arms.
"Us."
Clarisse stepped beside me. Not looking at me, but standing tall.
"Us," she echoed.
The Kyklopes didn't laugh. They just watched. Waiting.
Then—
Someone else did.
A slow, amused clap echoed from the darkness behind us.
We spun.
And out from the shadows stepped a figure dressed in armor—silver and black, sharp like storm clouds cut from iron.
Luke Castellan.
Clarisse stiffened. "You."
His smile was calm. Too calm.
"Don't mind me," Luke said, walking forward like a guy who'd just strolled out of a Starbucks. "I just came to offer… some context."
Clarisse raised her spear. "You're not supposed to be here."
Luke raised his hands. "Easy. I'm not here to fight."
The Kyklopes were watching him now, intrigued. His presence wasn't mortal. It hummed.
I frowned, stepping between him and Clarisse. There was always something wrong with Luke. I always disregard it as it was easier to ignore than care.
But I saw it now.
Luke felt off. Not just acting strange. Wrong. His words. His tone. It didn't match anything I remembered. His role in the prophecy. His betrayal. His fall.
Luke turned to the Kyklopes.
"You want to know what's really happening?" he said. "Ares isn't just working with Kronos. He's been given a seed of the Titan King's power. Every quest he sends out—every war he tries to start—it pushes the boundary. Weakens Olympus. Spreads chaos. And these two?"
He gestured at us.
"They're just pawns. Loyal little children, chasing their father's legacy like dogs fetching divine sticks."
Clarisse growled. "You're lying!"
Luke ignored her.
"Come with me," he said to the Kyklopes. "And I'll show you what Olympus never let you see. I'll give you freedom. Not servitude."
Brontes grunted. "You speak as though you lead."
Luke smiled. "Not yet."
I took a step forward.
"You're not Luke Castellan," I said.
Luke raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"
"You're something else."
He smirked. "Smart boy."
"Let me tell you all a story," he said, facing the Kyklopes again. "Once, I died. A nobody. A dreamer. A reader. I asked the stars—please, give me another shot. Let me live in the stories. Let me become something more."
His eyes burned gold now.
"And they answered."
Clarisse stepped back, horrified. "What… what are you?"
"A new god," Luke whispered. "Or I will be. But to rise, I need a throne. And to get a throne… I must destroy one."
The Kyklopes stared.
Steropes spoke first. "You seek the death of the pantheon."
Luke smiled.
"I seek evolution."
From a distance, watching the scene unfold, the air around Luke shimmered with divine coding. He wasn't just a villain.
He was a player.
A transmigrator.
Given a system—one that would grant him divinity, a pantheon, a legacy.
But only by burning the old world down.
Luke stood still, surrounded by ancient gods, confused heroes, and a prison made of time.
And in his mind, a single system window opened.
[DIVINE ASCENSION QUEST: BEGIN THE FALL OF OLYMPUS][STATUS: ONGOING]