Pantheon Academy: School of the Demigods
Had Apollo taken his part-time job a little too seriously, or was this strange disturbance truly something to stress over for days?
His golden, pearl-like eyes scanned the topographic map spread across his cluttered desk. His brow furrowed as he searched desperately for something—anything. A clue. A warning. A way out.
His fingers pinched the bridge of his nose, trying to ease the growing pressure in his head. He was a god. The god of prophecy, no less. And yet, not even he had seen this coming.
The monsters hadn't just reappeared—they'd reawakened. Beasts of ancient nightmares, things that even the bravest demigods only whispered about. He'd believed them long buried, locked away by time and divine decree.
These weren't your everyday freaks of nature. No, these were the originals—Typhon's first experiments. Monsters so terrifying they helped him nearly tear Olympus to the ground during the Titanomachy.
The gods had sealed them away in a desperate battle and lulled themselves into believing they were gone forever.
But now, something had stirred them awake.
And the worst part? Apollo had no clue what it was.
He leaned back in his chair, eyes still fixed on the map though his thoughts were far, far away.
Regret simmered beneath his cool exterior. If only he'd listened to Hera's advice and kept his shiny god-nose out of mortal affairs, maybe he'd be out surfing on sunbeams right now instead of playing principal to a school full of hormonal demigods.
But no—Zeus had decided this punishment fit the crime. One hundred years of service to Pantheon Academy or forfeit godhood. Talk about overkill.
"The oracle hasn't come down from the mountain in days," said a voice that pulled Apollo back to the now.
He turned slightly to face Rhoecus, his right-hand centaur. The guy was built like a mythical tank—broad-shouldered, hulking arms, sleek black horse lower-half. It was no mystery why he was the academy's combat instructor.
"I don't blame her," Apollo replied, exhaling. "Even I didn't see this coming. It feels like something's actively working against the threads of fate."
The Oracle of Delphi, a divine relic of prophecy itself. Apollo had stolen it, of course. He hadn't exactly asked permission. But hey, gods would be gods.
He'd hidden it within the academy, on the peak of the nearby Mount Delphi—a name he'd proudly slapped on it himself.
"We need to act fast," he continued, sitting up straighter. "Send our top students to Corinth. If these monsters get loose in the mortal world, it'll be chaos."
"How many?"
"Seven. Seven demigods and a pocket full of prophecy. Should be enough to contain them."
Apollo brushed his fingers through his golden hair, frustrated beyond belief. How had he ended up planning battle strategies? That was Athena's gig, not his. He was about sunshine and poetry, not freaking war.
Rhoecus nodded. "Alright. But who leads the team?"
Before Apollo could answer, the door burst open.
A boy stumbled in, walking like his legs had been attached by someone with terrible measurement skills. He wore a proud, slightly cocky expression despite the awkward gait.
"I will," said the boy, clenching his fists. "I'll lead the quest."
Apollo groaned. "Victor Dreadmoore. You're alive."
"I am—"
"I didn't say you could come in," Apollo interrupted flatly, slumping back onto his desk.
"But this is important."
"Yeah, more reason why you shouldn't be here. Get out!"
Victor didn't budge. Instead, he fished something out of his pocket and placed it carefully on Apollo's desk. A silver necklace, its emerald pendant shimmering unnaturally.
Apollo's gaze flicked to it, then away.
"Oh, great. The lost trinket of Aphrodite. Took you long enough."
Victor bristled. "You knew where it was the whole time. You sent me into that death trap on purpose."
"And what, you expect a thank-you?"
Rhoecus stepped in, tension growing. "Victor, chill."
Apollo rubbed his temples. As if his day wasn't already a dumpster fire.
"So? You brought it back. Want me to bake you a cookie?"
"I think I've earned the right to lead this quest," Victor said, standing tall.
"You think that because you didn't die? Cute."
Rhoecus moved toward Victor, about to escort him out, but Apollo waved him off, laughing dryly.
"Let's get real, Victor. You're the weakest kid in this whole school. You're a walking disappointment. And now, you think playing fetch earns you a leadership role?"
Victor yanked himself free from Rhoecus' grip. "Then I invoke the Power Chamber."
Silence fell.
Even Apollo straightened up, his smirk dropping.
"You what?"
Rhoecus took a sharp breath. "Victor, don't be stupid."
The Power Chamber was no joke. Hestia had created it as a way to judge the strength of gods and demigods. Safe for deities, yes. But for half-bloods? Using it came with curses—some minor, others... not.
"Do you even know what you're asking for, kid?" Apollo asked, his voice low. "If you're still unawakened, the chamber's curse could break you. You remember last time, don't you?"
Victor did. He remembered vividly.
His power level had read zero.
And then came the talking sword. A cursed blade that had chased him across campus, slicing through walls, whispering sweet threats in ancient tongues. He'd barely survived.
"I don't care what happened last time," Victor shot back. "If my power level reads higher than whoever you choose, then I lead the quest."
Apollo leaned in, amused again. "And who decides that rule, exactly?"
"It's not a rule. It's an offer."
Rhoecus tightened his grip on Victor again, trying to drag him back. "That's enough for one night."
"No, wait." Apollo raised his hand slowly. "I accept."
Both Victor and Rhoecus froze.
"What?" the centaur snapped.
Apollo's gaze had shifted, sharp now, calculating. Victor's confidence wasn't baseless—and that was dangerous. If he had truly awakened, then things were far worse than they appeared.
Because Victor Dreadmoore wasn't just any demigod.
He was the boy of the prophecy.
And he wasn't supposed to awaken.
Not ever.