Time is strange when you're being broken and rebuilt.
Days blur into weeks, weeks into months, until the only way you mark the passing of time is by the changing feel of your own body. And gods… my body changed.
At first, Tartarus' training was a waking nightmare. The boulders on my back for push-ups weren't just heavy—they were the kind of heavy that made the ground itself protest beneath me. Then he'd have me balancing more boulders—one on each hand, one on my raised knee—while I stood on a single foot in the middle of the Iguazú River. Oh, and did I mention the part where he'd pelt me with pebbles like an over-caffeinated slingshot master?
"That one almost took my eye!" I barked one day after a pebble skipped across my temple.
"Almost doesn't count," Tartarus called back from the shore, already winding up for another throw.
And then there was the waterfall meditation.
If you've never tried to empty your mind while a literal wall of water is punching you in the skull, don't. It's impossible. My first attempts ended with me sputtering, swearing, and nearly drowning. Tartarus would just smirk and say, "Again."
The cardio was the worst. Not because I couldn't handle the running or the swimming or the climbing—but because he found new ways to make it harder. Uphill runs carrying tree trunks. Swimming against the current of a flooded gorge. Climbing sheer cliffs with my hands coated in mud.
Somewhere in the middle of all that, my body started… healing.
The constant dull ache I'd lived with for centuries faded. My joints moved more smoothly. My muscles didn't strain under their own weight anymore—they thrummed. The divine trickle I'd been pulling in for months became an effortless cycle, every breath drawing power in and every exhale letting it settle deeper.
By the year mark, Tartarus didn't have to yell at me to keep my form. I did it automatically. By a year and a half, he didn't have to tell me to filter divinity—it happened as naturally as my heartbeat.
One late afternoon, with the sun throwing molten gold across the river, Tartarus circled me like a merchant inspecting a prized warhorse.
"Stand up straight," he said.
I did, and realized for the first time just how much taller I was. Twenty feet, six inches. Still shorter than him, but nowhere near the half-giant gap there'd once been. My hair now fell to my waist, black as the underworld's depths. My muscles weren't just bulk—they were carved, honed, every fiber taut with strength.
Tartarus' mouth quirked in the faintest hint of approval. "Not bad."
I arched my brow. "Not bad? You've had me carrying mountains on my back for eighteen months, and all I get is 'not bad'?"
"Don't get arrogant," he said, though I caught the amused glint in his eye. "You're ready."
"For what?"
He stepped in close, resting one massive hand on my shoulder. "To have your domains back."
My breath caught. I hadn't realized how much I'd missed them—how much of myself had been absent without them.
"Sit," he ordered.
I dropped cross-legged by the riverbank. The water's song filled my ears, the scent of the forest threading through the air.
"This will feel… sudden," Tartarus warned, crouching beside me. "Breathe. Let them settle in, don't fight it."
Then—he released the seals.
It was like a dam bursting.Power roared through me, flooding every vein, every nerve. I gasped, bracing instinctively as my skin prickled and my vision sharpened. The flow was wild at first, crashing through me like an untamed river, but slowly—slowly—it began to smooth out. To blend with the rhythm of my breathing.
And gods… it felt right.Like a missing limb had been reattached. Like a song I'd forgotten the words to was playing in my head again.
When the surge finally eased, I exhaled, tension leaving my body all at once. "So… that's it?" I asked, half-laughing. "After all this time, we're done?"
Tartarus' grin told me everything I needed to know. "Not even close."
I groaned. "Of course not."
He didn't waste time. "Typhon marches on Greece in two days."
That jolted me. "Two days? And you're only telling me now?"
"You weren't ready until today," he said simply. "And you still have one more task before then. In a month, you need to master your weapon."
I smirked. "The bident? Please. I was already good with it before you dragged me here."
Tartarus shook his head. "You were adequate. And the bident is no longer your weapon."
I frowned. "What do you mean 'no longer'? It's been my weapon since—"
"Every god," he interrupted, "is born destined for a certain weapon. When you were young, you had the potential for the bident. But you've far outgrown it. You need a new divine weapon—one that fits the god you are now."
I leaned back, intrigued despite myself. "And what exactly would that be?"
He didn't answer directly. "We start with a branch. Then we'll move on to forging a sword with your own divinity. Only after that will you touch a true divine weapon."
I stared at him. "A branch? Really?"
His smirk widened. "If you can't kill with a branch, you have no business wielding a god's blade."
I couldn't tell if he was serious. But the way he looked at me… yeah, he was dead serious.
He walked to a nearby tree and snapped off a branch, twirled it once in his hand, and tossed it to me like he was throwing me a stick to fetch.
I caught it mid-air and stared at it as I twirled the branch experimentally, already knowing how this was going to end. "You know, I always thought your weapon was that kanabo you lug around like it's a walking mountain."
His grin widened. "I do prefer a metal club, yes. But all Primordials are skilled with a variety of weapons. When you've lived since before the first sunrise, you tend to… pick up a few tricks here and there."
I raised a brow. "So you know how to use a sword?"
"I know how to use anything." His voice was matter-of-fact, not boastful. "The question is—can you?"
I adjusted my grip on the branch. "Guess we're about to find out."
The first clash was humiliating.
I lunged forward with what I thought was a powerful opening strike—hips driving the motion, shoulders committed, feet set—and Tartarus barely moved. His own weapon—just a gnarled branch he'd pulled from who-knows-where—slid mine aside as though I'd swatted at him with a piece of straw. In the same fluid motion, the tip of his branch tapped my sternum.
"You're dead," he said flatly.
I stepped back, scowling. "That was fast."
"Because you were sloppy." He pointed toward my hands with a slow, deliberate jab of his weapon. "Too tight on the grip. Your knuckles are white. You'll tire yourself out before you even land a blow."
I adjusted, easing my fingers until the bident's haft rested in my palms instead of choking my grip. "Better?"
"Better," he said, though there was no praise in his voice. He began circling me, each step measured, predatory. "Feet shoulder-width apart. Knees loose. If you lock them, you're already losing. Think of the weapon as an extension of your arm—not some separate tool you're trying to control. Flow with it. Let it be you."
We clashed again.
This time I tried to loosen my wrists, to let the bident's weight guide its own arc, but Tartarus still dismantled my form like I was an overeager child with a stick. His deflections weren't even forceful—they were subtle, like brushing away dust, but every one of them shifted my weapon off-course just enough to make me miss.
"Your wrist is locking up—loosen it," he said.
Another exchange. My swing met his branch with a dull thud and slid off at a useless angle.
"Don't lead with your shoulder, lead with your hips. The shoulder follows the hips—never the other way around."
I reset my stance. I tried again. This time, I swung too far forward.
"You're overcommitting," he said, rapping my ribs with the end of his branch. "A true strike should take as little movement as possible. Small motion, maximum result."
We went on like this for what felt like hours. A dozen bouts at least. Sweat ran freely down my back, stinging my eyes. My hair clung to my neck. The bident—my bident—felt heavier with every exchange, as though it were growing disappointed in me.
"Why does it feel like you're trying to turn me into a swordsman?" I asked, panting between bouts.
"Because the principles are the same," Tartarus replied. His voice was calm, but his eyes were sharp and unforgiving. "Edge, point, or blunt—every weapon demands the same things: precision, control, and intent. You can swing all day, but without those, you'll never master it."
I clenched my jaw, focusing harder. I was done being a walking list of mistakes. This time I feinted left, twisting my hips into a sudden strike from the right. Tartarus actually shifted his footing to block it—not that I landed the blow, but it was the first real adjustment I'd forced out of him all day.
"Better," he said, and though his tone was still neutral, I caught the faintest flicker of acknowledgement in his gaze.
Then, without warning, he asked: "Tell me, Hades—what kind of god do you want to be?"
The question hit harder than his branch ever could.
I froze for a moment, weapon hovering mid-guard. My instinct was to say strong, but I knew strength alone was a hollow answer. I'd seen strength fail before—seen it crumble when it mattered most. No, I wanted something deeper.
"I want to be… untouchable," I said at last, the words slow and deliberate. "The kind of god no one dares cross. Not because I'm afraid, but because it's impossible to win against me."
Tartarus tilted his head. "Invincible?"
"Not invincible. I want to be the wall that nothing can breach. The shield that can't be broken. The power that protects what I care about so completely that the thought of challenging me doesn't even cross their mind."
For the first time, Tartarus actually smiled—a small, dangerous thing. "Good. Then you'd better be ready to bleed for it. Because becoming that kind of god isn't about what you can destroy. It's about what you can endure without breaking."
We clashed again. And again. And again.
Every strike from him was a test, every block from me a question I had to answer. My arms burned. My lungs ached. But every time I picked the bident back up, my resolve hardened. Because I knew exactly what kind of god I wanted to become—and I wouldn't stop until I was him.
Tartarus' eyes lit with approval. "Then every movement you make should reflect that. No wasted motion. No gaps in your guard. Every step is either defense or offense—nothing in between."
Hours passed.
The branch became something else in my hands. Not a stick, but a line of intent—a channel for my focus, an extension of thought itself. Every swing carried purpose. Every block had weight. Tartarus' corrections grew fewer, his counters sharper. My body began to anticipate the recoil of each strike before it landed, muscles remembering what my mind no longer had to command.
But drawing inchor—that was still the wall I couldn't climb. Without it, we'd never move beyond practice swings and muscle memory.
"You're holding back," Tartarus said after another deadlock.
"I'm not."
He stepped in close, the tip of his branch pinning mine with effortless pressure. "Then why is your inchor asleep? Call it. Let it move through you. That's the lifeblood of a god's weapon."
I gritted my teeth, searching for that spark, that divine silver fire deep inside. I could feel it, coiled and ready, like a predator in the dark. But it stayed still. Silent.
"Stop forcing it," Tartarus barked. "Divinity answers to will, not to strain. Think of the god you just told me you wanted to be. Live that truth—and your divinity will answer."
I shut my eyes for half a heartbeat. The world around me fell away—no clashing wood, no sweat in my eyes, no faint drip of water from somewhere in the cavern. Just breathe. My stance. The branch in my hand.
I thought of being untouchable—not in arrogance, but in certainty. Of standing like a fortress against the tide. Of protecting what mattered so completely that the thought of challenging me became laughable.
And then—
I felt it.
A warmth blooming in my chest, slow and steady, like molten metal being poured through my veins. My pulse matched its rhythm. My skin prickled as the heat became a hum. The branch in my hands vibrated with a subtle, living energy.
Tartarus' smirk returned. "There it is."
I opened my eyes. Silver light pulsed faintly under my skin, tracing veins like moonlit rivers. The wood of the branch shimmered with thin threads of light—my inchor, alive and answering me for the first time.
"Again," Tartarus said, stepping back into his stance. "Show me what kind of god you want to be."
We clashed.
This time, the air itself seemed to bend around each strike. My swings were faster, sharper, carrying weight beyond muscle. Sparks of silver scattered where our weapons met. I pressed harder, each step forward fueled by that living current in my blood.
But inchor wasn't free. Every strike pulled more of it from me, and the cost was immediate. My lungs burned, my muscles screamed, my heart felt like it was trying to beat its way out of my ribs. Still, I pushed.
Finally, Tartarus broke the clash with a twist of his branch, sending mine spinning aside. I staggered, chest heaving. The silver light dimmed, withdrawing into me like a tide going out.
I could barely stand. My hands shook. Sweat ran in rivulets down my arms, and I realized my palms were raw. But the hum was still there, faint and steady, buried deep inside.
Tartarus studied me for a long moment, then gave a single nod. "Good. Now you know where it is. The next time you call it… make sure you're ready to hold it."
I said nothing. Words felt too small for the weight in my chest.