Victor had a system now, didn't he?
He stood inside the grand altar room, watching Apollo chant in fluent, ancient Greek. The sun god's incantations echoed off the marble walls as divine energy pulsed through the air.
The room was huge, the ceiling lost in shadows, lit only by golden braziers flickering with celestial fire.
Every demigod in the academy had shown up, their faces alight with curiosity. Among them stood Aria Eilfred, daughter of Ares, decked in crimson armor and radiating intimidation like a walking war banner. She didn't need to flex—her reputation did that for her.
Her DR Tier was Divine-Bound, and her power level? A solid 53.
Was Victor nervous? Sure. Who wouldn't be? He'd spent months trying not to die in this war-prep academy of half-gods, barely scraping through the insane assignments Apollo dumped on him. Everyone else had abilities—he had sarcasm and luck. Bad luck. And it wasn't a theory anymore; it was practically doctrine.
But now, something had changed.
He wasn't just surviving—he'd unlocked his bloodline. A real one. The system had confirmed it. He could feel it, flowing through his veins like molten resolve.
His limbs felt stronger, his senses sharper, and his confidence? Off the charts. He was buzzing with energy, ready to show everyone—especially Aria—that he wasn't some useless background character.
He was a demigod. A son of Hades. A rare one, at that.
And not just any demigod—he had a system. He'd awakened it on a quest that should've killed him. No one else in the academy had done that. If fantasy stories were anything to go by, that made him special. Chosen.
He was ready to show off. Big time.
"Victor Dreadmoore," Apollo's voice thundered like sunlight slamming into the earth. It yanked Victor out of his thoughts.
He blinked and looked up at the golden-haired god. "Ascend."
Victor felt his stomach churn. He didn't dare glance at Aria, but he could already imagine the smirk on her face.
She thought she'd already won. That after today, she'd lead the upcoming divine quest while he'd be left to clean the stables or worse.
Not today.
Victor walked forward, each step on the polished floor clanging like a battle drum in his chest. This was it. The room was silent, the air charged. Everyone's eyes were on him. Finally.
At the top of the short staircase was the power chamber, glowing with divine language—swirling letters that shifted between Greek, Latin, and something entirely unknown.
It looked like a massive bronze cauldron suspended by chains forged from starlight, carved with runes that pulsed in rhythm with his heartbeat.
Apollo stood just behind him, arms folded.
"You know how this works," the god said. "Place your palm on the platform. If the chamber brims with aura, you're awakened—and cursed. If it doesn't, you're not awakened—and still cursed. Simple."
Victor swallowed, throat dry. His eyes stayed locked on the chamber.
"I'm going to give you one last chance to walk away," Apollo added, his tone suddenly colder. "Because if this goes badly, it won't just be embarrassment—you'll add stupidity to your legend."
Victor didn't respond. He took a breath and stepped forward. He knew what he felt. He'd seen the dark throne. He'd accepted the voice's offer. He had a system. This wasn't delusion.
He placed his left palm on the glowing bronze platform.
The moment his skin touched the metal, the ancient letters lit up, flickering like dying embers. The chamber began to hum, but there was no aura, no surge, no divine pressure flooding the room. Just a dull light. Fading.
He looked up, waiting for the explosion of power. Waiting for the sky to split open and scream, "He's the one!"
Nothing happened.
Apollo walked forward slowly. His voice was cold, cruelly composed.
"And Victor Dreadmoore's new power level reads…"
He paused, milking the silence.
"Zero."
The room broke.
Laughter erupted like a dam had burst. A few demigods cackled. Some snorted. Others didn't even try to hide their mockery.
Victor stood frozen, ears ringing, his hand still on the cold bronze. It didn't make sense. This wasn't supposed to happen.
"I… I need another try," he said, turning to Apollo, desperation leaking into his voice.
Apollo raised a brow. "Are you suggesting that this chamber—handcrafted by divine blacksmiths and blessed by the Fates—is wrong?"
"I'm saying I know what I felt. I was awakened. I saw it. It wasn't a dream."
Apollo began descending the stairs. "You're done for today."
Victor followed. "Please. Just one more time."
"No." Apollo's tone cut like a blade. "You've had your chance. Go back to your cabin."
"You don't understand—"
"Listen, child." Apollo stopped and turned. His eyes glowed gold, radiating judgment. "I'm allergic to bullshit. And you reek of it. Whatever fantasy you're writing in your head, I suggest you delete the draft. You're not the chosen one. You're not the main character. You're just a stubborn boy with delusions."
Victor's hands clenched into fists. He didn't flinch.
Apollo exhaled slowly. "Aria Eilfred will lead the quest. You, on the other hand, are quarantined. One month. No interaction. No training. No leaving the campus perimeter."
Victor's breath caught. "You… you can't do that."
"I just did." Apollo didn't even turn around this time. "You're cursed with misfortune, Victor Dreadmoore. Embrace it."
Victor took a step forward, rage boiling.
A firm hand gripped his arm.
"Stop," a deep voice said.
Victor turned to see Rhoecus, the academy's centaur instructor, tall and calm as always. His expression was unreadable.
"You've already made him angry," Rhoecus warned. "Pushing further will only make it worse."
Victor yanked his arm free. "I don't care. I'm not staying here to be treated like some pathetic joke."
"Where are you going?" Rhoecus asked.
Victor didn't even look back. "Anywhere but here. Don't follow me."
He stormed down the hall, boots echoing against the tiles. The laughter still haunted him, swirling in his skull like a curse.
.
.
.
Author's Note; You've read this far, there's no dropping now.