Mr. Smith was a broken man, slumped in the chair, sweat dripping from his face like a leaky faucet. His body was a mess, fingers contorted in ways that made even Wade cringe—well, almost. Wade hummed "This Little Piggy" under his breath, tapping his rubber chicken in time with the melody, completely unfazed by the broken mess before him.
"Alright, alright," Smith gasped, his voice a squeaky mess, each word barely escaping through his trembling lips. Tears streamed down his face, and his eyes flickered between Wade and his mangled hands like he was trying to figure out how he could escape this nightmare. "I'll tell you. Just—just stop, please..."
Deadpool, still humming, cocked his head to the side, like a curious dog that just discovered how to eat a whole pizza. "Stop? Oh, you mean stop making you wish you'd never been born?" He tapped the rubber chicken against his chin thoughtfully. "Mmm, yeah, we'll call it 'psychological artistry,' the kind of art that you don't show your mother because it'll make her weep into her wine glass."
Smith flinched at the mention of his mother, and Wade grinned like the Cheshire Cat on a sugar high. "But hey, you're the one who's made a big mistake, buddy. So spill. Where's Francis?"
Smith stammered, barely able to form a coherent sentence. His lips trembled like he'd just seen a ghost. "He's… He's in… La Casa Roja. The Red House. It's in Lavapiés. The old district of Madrid… You'll find him there… I swear! Just—please... I can't take it anymore!"
Wade's eyes gleamed, and he tapped the rubber chicken against his lips with exaggerated thoughtfulness. "Ah, the Red House. How creative. You know what that screams to me? It screams 'I made terrible life choices' like the time I wore a green jumpsuit in a movie where I was supposed to be a badass, but instead looked like a leprechaun with a serious attitude problem."
He turned to the team as they filed into the room, each with their own brand of badassery. "Alright, folks, we've got a lead, and it's glorious. La Casa Roja. I mean, seriously—when your hideout's got a name like that, you know things are gonna get messy."
Logan entered the room, his eyes cold and calculating, scanning the area like a caged animal that had just been fed a raw steak. His claws were already out, tapping against the floor like they were impatient for action. "You really know how to break a guy, don't you?"
Wade turned slowly to face him, the rubber chicken still in hand, his grin widening. "Oh, you have no idea. I'm like a fine wine when it comes to torture. Very vintage. And very delicious." He exaggerated the last part, waving the chicken dramatically, then stopped and gave Logan a deadpan look. "I was gonna use the whole 'Death by a Thousand Paper Cuts' approach, but it felt a little... unoriginal, you know?"
Logan grunted, his eyes narrowing, but his stance never wavered. "You're insane."
"Guilty as charged," Wade chirped, twirling the chicken like he was about to pull off some fancy stunt. He blew a kiss at Mr. Smith. "Take care, Smithy. Maybe next time, don't bet your life savings on poker games with a guy who treats his hands like modern art."
Warren flapped his wings, adjusting his position in the doorway. "I don't get you, Wade. I mean, who does?"
Sofia, standing beside Warren, smirked and tilted her head to the side, her accent as thick as her smoldering gaze. "In a way, I think I do. Sometimes, a little violence does the trick. It's a beautiful thing, no? Especially with style." She shot a glance at Wade, a glint of something mischievous in her eyes. "But, you're like a tango on crack, mi amigo. You move fast, and you break things."
Deadpool's eyes widened, pretending to be affronted. "Tango? Well, if we're going to be specific, then sure. I'm the Ryan Reynolds of the tango world. I'd dance with you, but only if you promise not to step on my toes." He winked and added, "Actually, scratch that. I'm more of a 'cha-cha with a side of chaos' kind of guy, but I'll take it as a compliment!"
Alvarez, the least amused, was already halfway out the door, his shoulders relaxed but his eyes as sharp as a hawk's. "In Madrid, we don't play games, Deadpool. We handle business. If La Casa Roja is where we find Francis, then that's where we're going. I suggest you don't waste time."
Deadpool clicked his tongue, feigning disbelief. "Waste time? Moi? Never!" He tossed the rubber chicken into the air and caught it with the precision of a circus performer. "But okay, fine. Let's stop pretending like I'm not the star of this show. But hey, I'll let you have the spotlight for once, you dramatic Antonio Banderas wannabe."
Alvarez, clearly not amused, shot Wade a look that could melt steel. "One more joke, and I'll make sure the only thing left of you is your head."
Deadpool clutched his heart dramatically. "Oh, you wound me, my friend. Antonio Banderas as a tough guy? I'm so in love with this character. In fact, if this was a movie, I'd want to be in it. I'd be the guy who talks too much, shoots the bad guys, and maybe—just maybe—saves the day. Except, you know, minus the saving part." He leaned in, his voice lowering conspiratorially. "Look, if I was making this movie, you'd be the villain. But don't worry, you've got a certain charm, like a villain from the 90s. Not the 'classic' 90s, but the 'we were too cool for our own good' 90s."
Sofia rolled her eyes, though the corners of her lips twitched as if trying not to smile. "You never stop, do you, Deadpool?"
Wade put a hand on his chest, feigning surprise. "Of course not, darling. I'm a show-stopper! You know, you're like the Penélope Cruz of action movies. Beautiful, talented, and likely to kill me if I ever flirt with you." He winked dramatically, then leaned back in mock contemplation. "Actually, scratch that. I've seen your body of work, and I'm way too scared to even try. I value my organs, thank you very much."
Sofia smirked, playing along. "Well, I'm not the one with a rubber chicken for a weapon, am I?"
Wade grinned. "No, but if you had one, I'd be on the floor, trembling in fear. The power of a rubber chicken is real, mi amiga. Real. Now, let's go! Time's a-ticking, and I'm about to make 'La Casa Roja' look like La Casa de Dying."
Logan sighed, his patience clearly wearing thin. "Let's move."
And with that, the team filed out, through the narrow, bustling streets of Madrid. As they passed through the vibrant district of Lavapiés, the old-world charm of the area clashed with the ominous feeling that weighed heavily in the air.
But one thing was certain: with Deadpool leading the charge, there was no way this was going to be anything but chaos.
"Oh, and by the way," Wade mused as they neared the building, "if you see me surrounded by bad guys, I call dibs on first dibs. Not just on killing, but also on any dramatic monologues." He paused, his voice serious for a split second. "You guys are good, but you're not Deadpool good."
—
Deadpool stopped mid-stride, turning his head to the side like a curious puppy. His eyes twinkled with mischief, a grin stretching wide across his face, as if he was about to make an announcement no one had been prepared for.
He cleared his throat dramatically. "Alright, alright, enough with the tension, folks. You're about to follow these fine folks as they waltz through the gritty streets of Lavapiés to track down an insane criminal, right? But I gotta say—there's a way cooler, more important story going on right now. And by 'cooler,' I mean way more 'mythologically complex and likely to end in an explosion of both emotional and literal proportions.'" Wade paused, his eyes darting to the reader, leaning in as though he was telling them a secret.
"Now, I know you've been following all this Deadpool nonsense—sword fights, rubber chickens, the usual shenanigans—but trust me, you do not want to miss out on this little gem of a story that's currently unfolding. And by 'this,' I mean the tale of one Harry Lokison, son of Loki, God of Mischief, and Artemis, Goddess of the Hunt. I know, right? The kid's got all the family drama. Think your mom arguing with your dad about where to go for dinner is bad? Try navigating the chaos of two gods as parents. You got all the snarky, prank-loving Loki charm and a dash of Artemis's 'don't mess with me, I'll shoot you with an arrow' attitude. Sounds fun, huh? I promise you—it's one wild ride."
Deadpool paused, waiting for dramatic effect, as the team around him exchanged looks of complete confusion. Logan's brow furrowed deeper than the lines on a wrinkled old map, while Alvarez adjusted his sunglasses, clearly perplexed by the entire spectacle.
"Anyway, while you're busy catching up with Harry," Wade continued, snapping his fingers as if activating a portal to another dimension, "we're heading into La Casa Roja. You know, the Red House. What could go wrong? Oh, and don't worry. The chaos? Yeah, it's just beginning. But take your time with Harry's story. Trust me, you'll need it. The kid's got layers. And by 'layers,' I mean massive amounts of family baggageand divine destiny. And believe me when I tell you—there's a lot to unpack there."
He wiggled his fingers in the air as if weaving an intricate tapestry. "So while we march forward into what could only be described as 'the worst idea ever,' you dive back into that glorious mess of Greek and Norse mythology. Trust me, Harry Lokison is about to take you on a journey that'll make your head spin. In the meantime, I'll make sure to keep things entertaining here. You know, with the inevitable violence and catchphrases that come with me in the lead role."
Wade shot the reader a wink. "Now, don't say I never did anything for you. Go, go, catch up on Harry's epic, and remember—when you come back to us, things will be even more insane than before. I promise."
With that, Deadpool turned back to his crew, who were still processing his strange monologue. Logan, always the serious one, shot him a pointed look, his voice low and gravelly, the way only Hugh Jackman's version of Logan could pull off. "You done talking to your imaginary friends, Wade? We have a job to do."
Wade shot him a thumbs-up, his grin unyielding. "Oh, I'm done. I'm just giving the readers a little breather. They deserve it, don't you think?"
Logan let out a frustrated growl but didn't waste any more time on Deadpool. He was used to this by now—what he wasn't used to, however, was the steady stream of "look at me, I'm charming" coming from Alvarez. The man could probably charm a snake into offering him its venom. And yet, despite Alvarez's smooth moves, he couldn't quite shake the weird aura of self-assuredness Wade constantly exuded.
Alvarez, still dressed like he just stepped off the set of a '90s action flick, was already on the move, his voice deep and soothing as he addressed the group. "Mi amigo, sometimes I wonder if you will ever be a serious person. But I suppose we have no time for jokes. We are going to La Casa Roja to finish this. To end this story, yes?"
Wade grinned at him. "Oh, you have no idea. But it's always time for jokes, my Banderas-inspired friend. You really do talk like him, you know? That sultry voice of yours could talk someone into signing over their soul without even knowing it."
Alvarez gave Wade an almost pitying glance but didn't rise to the bait. "You need more than words for that, amigo. Trust me."
Wade snapped his fingers in mock defeat. "Damn it, you're right. Guess I'll need to find someone else to talk into giving me a villa in Marbella." He winked at Sofia. "Unless, of course, Penelope here wants to help me out with that. I mean, if anyone can talk their way into a real Spanish getaway, it's you, right?"
Sofia rolled her eyes, but there was a faint smile playing on her lips as she responded in that soft, almost hypnotic voice that only Penélope Cruz could deliver. "You talk too much, Wade. You should learn to listen more. Maybe then you will see how much danger we are about to face."
Deadpool dramatically threw a hand to his chest, feigning heartbreak. "Sofia! I thought we were kindred spirits! You break my heart. But you're right, of course. Danger's my middle name." He paused. "Well, actually, it's Winston—but I really wanted to make it sound cooler."
Sofia's smile widened, her eyes flashing with something mischievous. "Maybe next time, Wade, I'll break your heart for real."
Wade looked genuinely intrigued, his head cocking to the side. "Ooh, I like that. But for now, let's just focus on the inevitable chaos coming up. After all, we've got real business to attend to. Namely, finding and killing a supervillain, but let's not forget about my spectacular comic relief, okay?"
Logan sighed audibly, his claws retracting with a faint snikt. "Let's move out. We're wasting time."
"Right!" Wade said enthusiastically, twirling around dramatically, as if making a grand entrance. "I guess now it's time for the fun stuff. Strap in, folks. And to the reader—you better come back soon. I'll save you a seat for the next round of crazy." He gave a little finger-gun motion and winked. "See you soon... maybe. Hopefully."
With that, the group fell into formation, making their way through the crowded streets of Lavapiés. Madrid, in all its chaotic beauty, served as a backdrop to what would undoubtedly be another wild, dangerous mission—but not before the readers got to experience the chaos that was Harry Lokison.
—
The moment they stepped out of the shadows, Harry couldn't help but grin. The crisp, mountain air of K'un Lun greeted him like an old friend—one who always demanded respect but was never without its charm. The city, nestled between towering peaks, was a mix of serenity and danger, as if the very stones underfoot held centuries of secrets. He didn't have to look around to know his demigod friends were feeling it too—the gravity of the place. Even Clarisse, usually itching for a fight, seemed to pause for a moment, her eyes scanning the ancient city as if it might spring to life and swallow her whole.
"This place gives me the creeps," Travis muttered, looking up at the looming walls of the Temple of the Iron Fist. "I mean, I know we're all heroes and all, but… you know, dragons? Immortal ones?"
"Just focus on the test, Travis," Harry said, his voice light but his smile twitching. "How bad could it be? I've fought plenty of giant snakes, big bad monsters, and weird, dimension-hopping villains. What's one giant dragon going to do that I haven't already done before?" He clapped his hands together like this was all some grand adventure. "Plus, you guys have my back. What's a dragon compared to all this muscle?"
"Don't make me laugh, Harry," Clarisse grunted, her hand instinctively brushing the hilt of her sword. "That thing's no joke. Shou-Lao is the embodiment of K'un Lun's power. You're not exactly fighting a monster here. You're fighting an ancient force of nature."
"Yeah, yeah, I get it," Harry said, rolling his eyes. "But you guys know me, right? I've got this. I'll defeat the dragon, claim its heart, and maybe even get a cool dragon scale for my collection. Could make a nice necklace, don't you think?"
"You're insufferable," Silena shot back, but the hint of a grin crept across her face. "Just don't get yourself roasted, okay?"
"Okay, okay, I hear you," Harry said, feigning exasperation. "But if I die, can I at least get a cool death scene? Maybe one with a few dramatic last words?"
"You're not going to die," Annabeth said, stepping forward and giving him a reassuring smile, her usual calm confidence shining through. "You've trained for this. You're ready."
Harry's friends all looked at him like they knew he could do it—but there was that edge of nervousness, too. After all, this was Shou-Lao. The immortal dragon that no one had ever defeated without paying a price. Even the legendary heroes of K'un Lun had faltered before it.
Before Harry could make another joke, a familiar figure emerged from the temple's shadow—Lei-Kung, the Thunderer himself. His presence commanded attention, like the mountains themselves respected him. His weathered face was a mask of ancient wisdom, but his eyes were sharp, piercing right through the group as if measuring each one of them.
"Ah, Harry Lokison," Lei-Kung's deep voice rumbled, rich with power and history. "I see you've brought your friends with you." He gave a nod to each of them, acknowledging their bravery and shared journey. But his gaze landed on Harry with a quiet intensity. "You've come far, but now, the final trial awaits."
Harry straightened. This was it. The moment he had known would come but had avoided thinking too much about. The final test. The one that had loomed over his entire time in K'un Lun.
"You know what is at stake, Harry," Lei-Kung continued, his voice as firm as stone. "To earn the mantle of the Iron Fist, you must defeat Shou-Lao. Only one who is worthy can claim the Heart of the Dragon."
Harry's stomach did a little flip. He had known this moment would come. He'd trained for it, and now, it was here. Fighting dragons wasn't exactly on his daily to-do list, but hey, he was a demigod. He could handle this, right?
"Right," Harry said, taking a deep breath and forcing the nerves down. "No problem. I've got this in the bag."
"No," Annabeth said firmly, stepping up to him. "This is not about whether you can do it. We believe in you. You've trained for this. And we're with you, every step of the way."
Luke, ever the charming rebel, gave Harry a nod. "Yeah, no one deserves it more than you. You've got this, man."
Harry looked at all of them. They were his family, his friends. And no matter how big the dragon was, no matter how impossible the task seemed, he wasn't alone. They were with him, in spirit if not in body, ready to fight with him—even if they had to face a dragon from another dimension.
With one final glance at his friends, Harry turned toward the Temple of the Iron Fist. The doors creaked open, revealing a cavernous space. The air inside was thick with incense and the distant hum of ancient magic. Shou-Lao's presence was almost palpable, like a pulse beating through the very stone. Harry could feel it in his bones, that eerie, ancient power.
"Step forward, Harry," Lei-Kung said, his voice like thunder in the distance. "The trial is yours to face."
Taking one last breath, Harry squared his shoulders and stepped forward, his boots clicking softly against the stone floor. The doors closed behind him with a final, echoing thud. He was alone now, but not truly.
"You've got this," Thalia's words echoed in his mind, the sincerity in her voice cutting through the air.
"Let's see what you've got, Shou-Lao," Harry muttered under his breath.
It's just a dragon, Harry thought to himself. It can't be that bad.
And with that, the trial began.
—
The air inside the Temple of the Iron Fist was thick with the scent of burning incense, the faint hum of ancient power vibrating through the ground beneath Harry's boots. The immense cavern seemed to swallow sound, as if even the echoes were hesitant to disturb the silence. Harry stood at the threshold, his eyes narrowing as they adjusted to the dim, flickering light. His friends' words were still fresh in his mind, but the weight of the moment had a way of settling in—this wasn't just some random monster to defeat. This was Shou-Lao.
And Harry Lokison, godling with a tendency to bite off more than he could chew, wasn't about to let something like an ancient, fire-breathing, immortal dragon keep him from finishing what he'd started.
"Alright, big guy," Harry muttered to himself, stepping into the heart of the temple, his boots echoing in the cavernous space. "You and me, let's dance. I promise, I'm an excellent dancer. A little more… cha-cha-cha than battle stance, but who's counting?"
The shadows in the temple stirred, and Harry felt a low rumble in the air that sent a shiver down his spine. He wasn't stupid. He'd heard the stories about Shou-Lao, the immortal dragon that guarded K'un Lun's power. He knew that the dragon wasn't just a physical threat; he was a manifestation of K'un Lun's very essence, the embodiment of its strength. A trial. One that Harry was determined to pass.
Then, with a sound like the cracking of ancient stone, a massive form emerged from the shadows.
Shou-Lao, the great dragon, unfurled his enormous wings, sending a gust of air that nearly knocked Harry off his feet. His scales shimmered like burnished bronze, and his eyes glowed with a fiery, ancient wisdom. The dragon's long, serpentine body coiled around the temple, and Harry couldn't help but chuckle nervously. If there was one thing he knew about himself, it was that he never backed down from a challenge. Especially when it involved massive, terrifying, potentially apocalyptic dragons.
"Hello, Shou-Lao," Harry said brightly, giving the dragon an exaggerated wave. "Nice to see you again. How's the whole 'being an immortal dragon' thing treating you? Still getting the best spots at parties?"
The dragon's deep, rumbling voice filled the temple, sending tremors through the air as it spoke. "The Trickster. The Godling who walks between worlds. I've seen you before, boy. You do not take this trial lightly."
Harry shrugged nonchalantly, though his heart was pounding in his chest. "Oh, you know me. Always taking things lightly. Seriously, though, can we skip the whole intense stare-down thing and get to the part where I kick your tail and save the day? I've got a schedule to keep, and frankly, this whole ancient dragon deal is kind of messing with my vibe."
Shou-Lao's massive head tilted, his eyes narrowing in amusement. "Your bravado does not fool me, child. I foresee you may be the one to defeat me—but know this, I will not make it easy for you."
Harry grinned, that same cheeky grin he wore when facing down a horde of monsters, or a hostile god, or basically anyone who looked at him funny. "Don't worry, I wouldn't have it any other way. Besides, easy is boring. Who wants easy when you can have a dragon fight? It's practically a spectator sport."
With that, the ground beneath Harry's feet suddenly trembled, and before he could react, Shou-Lao released a deafening roar that shook the temple's very foundations. Fire erupted from his maw, a wave of scorching heat that sent Harry skidding backward. The flames licked the air like hungry vipers, but Harry's feet were already moving, shifting his weight as he dove to the side.
"Okay, not gonna lie, I really wasn't expecting that," Harry muttered to himself, narrowly dodging the blast. "Could've warned me you were a flame-throwing dragon, you know."
Shou-Lao's voice boomed in response. "And you are more clever than you look, godling. But cleverness alone will not save you."
Harry didn't need to be told twice. The dragon had barely finished speaking before Harry was on his feet, moving with the swiftness of a predator. He leapt into the air, his legs propelling him higher as he summoned the power of his divine heritage. His body shimmered, taking on the fluid grace of Artemis' hunters and the unpredictable speed of Loki's tricks. As his form twisted in mid-air, his hands summoned a storm of energy—a twisting, crackling bolt of thunder wrapped in shimmering light.
"Let's see how you like a little shock and awe," Harry called, sending the bolt of lightning surging toward the dragon's chest.
Shou-Lao didn't flinch. Instead, he inhaled deeply, his massive chest swelling with power, before releasing a bolt of energy so pure and devastating that it rivaled Harry's lightning. The two forces collided in mid-air, creating a blinding flash of light that sent shockwaves through the temple.
"You do have a spark in you," the dragon said, amusement now evident in his voice. "But you will need more than that to defeat me, child. Your strength is your greatest asset—but your recklessness is what will be your downfall."
Harry landed gracefully, barely feeling the ground beneath him as his body adapted, shifting into a stance that was part battle-ready, part casual. He couldn't help but flash the dragon a grin.
"Recklessness? Who, me? I'm a model of restraint," Harry said, flashing a thumbs-up. "I just like to wing it—no pun intended, of course."
Shou-Lao's eyes burned with intensity, and for a moment, Harry could have sworn the dragon was actually chuckling at him. "Your words are sharp, godling. But your actions will define you."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "Well, I do pride myself on my actions—mostly the heroic, dragon-defeating kind, of course. You know, the ones where I save the day and look good doing it?"
Shou-Lao's massive tail lashed out, a blur of motion too fast for Harry to fully track. The blow sent Harry crashing into the stone wall of the temple with a force that rattled his bones. For a moment, the world went black. When his vision cleared, he was sprawled on the cold, unforgiving stone, his ears ringing from the impact.
"Okay, okay, I get it," Harry muttered, his voice rough but not broken. "You want to make it hard. Fine by me."
He stood up, brushing off the dust and debris as he squared his shoulders, the hint of a grin returning to his face. He wasn't done yet.
"You want a fight? You've got one," he said, feeling the pulse of divine energy coursing through him. "Let's see if you can keep up."
—
The golden halls of Olympus hummed with anticipation, the air charged with the collective energy of gods and huntresses alike. In the vast Throne Room, marble and gold intertwined with vines of eternal ivy, casting shifting patterns of light across the gods' thrones. At the center of the grand space, an ethereal screen, suspended mid-air by Hephaestus' ingenuity, flickered with the fiery battle unfolding between Harry and Shou-Lao. The ancient dragon's roars reverberated through the divine chamber, met with murmurs of approval, worry, and, in some cases, idle commentary.
Artemis stood at the forefront, her presence commanding even among her divine peers. Silver armor gleamed like moonlight, her braided auburn hair cascading down her back, framed by an aura of quiet intensity. Her silver eyes remained fixed on the screen, unblinking as Harry dodged a thunderous strike of Shou-Lao's tail. Her posture was stiff, like a bowstring pulled taut, the weight of her concern betraying the goddess' usual air of stoic calm.
"Why does he insist on dancing so close to death?" Artemis muttered, her tone low but laced with a sharp edge that hinted at a storm brewing beneath her composed exterior. "He knows better than this. Or at least, he should."
Her twin, Apollo, leaned casually against a nearby column, golden light spilling over his sun-kissed features. His toga was immaculately styled—because of course it was—and his hands rested lazily on his ornate bow. Despite his relaxed demeanor, his brilliant blue eyes glimmered with a rare seriousness as they followed the fight.
"Maybe he does it to keep things interesting?" Apollo quipped, grinning as he glanced toward his sister. "You've gotta admit, he's got a flair for the dramatic. Just look at that roll—perfect form, I'd give it a nine out of ten. Docking a point for the lack of artistic flourish."
Artemis shot him a glare sharp enough to cut celestial bronze. "If he doesn't make it through this, I'm holding you personally responsible."
Apollo raised his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, alright, keep your quiver on. He'll be fine. He's tougher than you give him credit for, sis."
Further back in the room, Phoebe stood with arms crossed, her blonde hair pinned into a practical braid. Her piercing blue eyes glared at the screen, every movement of Harry's scrutinized as if her judgment alone could alter the outcome. "He's reckless," she declared, her voice clipped. "How many times have I told him not to overextend? And yet here he is, charging headfirst into a dragon. A dragon, Lady Artemis."
Zoe Nightshade, her dark curls spilling over her shoulders like waves of midnight, stood beside her. Clad in her traditional silver hunting garb, she held a certain calm, though her arms were crossed in subtle disapproval. "This is not surprising. He has always been reckless. Male pride," she added, her lilting accent carrying disdain as if the very phrase tasted sour. "I told him to train harder before every trial, but he said, 'Don't worry, Zoe, I've got this.' He does not have this."
"He does have this," Artemis interrupted, her voice steely. "And you two need to stop doubting him. He's proven himself time and time again, even when the odds were stacked against him. Shou-Lao is no ordinary opponent, but Harry is no ordinary godling."
"Recklessness is no virtue," Phoebe muttered, though her posture softened ever so slightly.
Zoe inclined her head slightly, conceding the point. "If he survives, I shall personally ensure he listens to my advice next time."
Across the room, Zeus himself sat on his massive golden throne, his storm-gray eyes narrowed as he studied the battle. His voice, deep and commanding, cut through the murmurs of the gathered gods. "The boy is more than we expected," he rumbled, his gaze never leaving the screen. "The blood of Olympus runs strong in him. But strength alone will not carry him to victory."
"Strength is nothing without caution," Hera added, her regal features imperious as she regarded the screen. She adjusted the golden diadem on her brow, her tone calm yet unyielding. "He is young. Bold, yes, but boldness does not excuse foolishness."
"He's not being foolish," Artemis said sharply, her voice carrying across the chamber. "He's being brave. There's a difference."
"Bravery and foolishness often walk the same path," Athena interjected, her gray eyes sharp as steel. "But bravery tempered by strategy... that is what wins battles. Let us hope he understands this before it's too late."
Hermes, lounging in a chair he had pulled up near the screen, smirked and waved a hand dismissively. "Oh, come on, let the kid have his moment! This is better than half the shows Hephaestus tries to peddle to us. Who knew fighting a dragon could be so... dramatic?"
"Because it's real, you buffoon," Ares growled, leaning forward in his chair, his eyes gleaming with battle-lust. "Look at him—he's got fire. Literally. That's the kind of fighter I can respect."
From her seat, Hestia, ever the calming presence, smiled softly. "He has the heart of a hero," she said, her voice gentle but resolute. "And heroes often carry burdens far heavier than we realize."
Back at the screen, Harry narrowly avoided another blast of dragonfire, and Artemis couldn't help the way her fists clenched at her sides. "He will win," she said, not to anyone in particular but as if daring the universe itself to challenge her words. "Because he has to."
At that moment, Zoe placed a hand on Artemis' shoulder. "He is lucky to have you watching over him," she said softly. "Even if he does not say it, he knows it."
Artemis let out a breath she hadn't realized she was holding. "He'll make it," she murmured. Then, louder, with a commanding edge that silenced the entire Throne Room, "He's my son. And he will make it."
The gods of Olympus, some skeptical, others impressed, all turned their attention back to the screen as Harry prepared his next move. In the flickering light of the fight, Artemis stood tall, unyielding in her belief, her fierce gaze a mirror of the fire burning in her son's heart.
---
The grand hall of Asgard, with its towering columns and gleaming golden walls, thrummed with a quiet intensity as its inhabitants gathered near the shimmering projection of the Bifröst. Suspended above the gathered warriors was a crystal orb, glowing faintly with energy as it displayed the fierce battle between Harry and Shou-Lao. The clash of dragonfire and magic illuminated the orb, casting flickering shadows across the faces of gods and warriors alike.
At the far end of the hall, Odin All-Father sat upon his gilded throne, his broad shoulders cloaked in furs, his one good eye fixed on the display. Though his face was as weathered and stoic as a mountainside, there was a quiet intensity in his gaze, like a storm waiting to break. Beside him stood Frigga, her presence radiant, her expression both serene and keenly perceptive. Her hands were clasped before her, though her knuckles betrayed a subtle tension.
"The boy fights with fire," Odin said, his deep voice echoing through the hall like rolling thunder. "A spark of the Olympian bloodline, no doubt. Yet he fights without discipline." His tone was not cruel but measured, the voice of a king weighing the worth of a warrior.
Frigga's gaze never left the orb as she spoke, her voice calm yet edged with maternal warmth. "He fights with his heart, Odin. A quality often overlooked by those who wield power." She placed a gentle hand on his arm, her words carrying the weight of both wisdom and affection. "The heart can overcome obstacles the sword cannot."
Odin hummed, a sound that could have been agreement or mere contemplation. "Perhaps. But heart alone will not slay a dragon."
On the other side of the hall, Loki leaned casually against one of the massive pillars, his sharp features lit by the ethereal glow of the projection. Dressed in his usual emerald and gold, he appeared at ease, but his piercing green eyes betrayed his sharp focus on the unfolding fight. A smirk tugged at the corners of his lips, his amusement barely veiling the pride that gleamed in his gaze.
"Heart, sword, or sheer madness—whatever he's using, it's entertaining," Loki quipped, his voice smooth and layered with mischief. "The boy certainly inherited my flair for theatrics." His smirk deepened as Harry narrowly evaded a fiery blast, the orb flaring brightly in response. "Though, if he keeps this up, he may just singe that ridiculous hair of his."
Thor, standing nearby with his arms crossed, let out a booming laugh, his golden hair gleaming under the Asgardian light. Clad in his full armor, Mjölnir hanging loosely at his side, he looked every inch the god of thunder. "Ha! His hair may singe, but his spirit will not falter!" Thor declared, his voice filled with the unshakable confidence of one who had never considered defeat. "The boy fights as his mother would—unyielding, determined, and with the strength of a true warrior!"
Sif, standing at Thor's right, cast him a sidelong glance, her dark eyes betraying a mixture of admiration and skepticism. "Strength alone is not enough," she said, her voice firm and steady. Her raven-black hair was tied back, and her silver armor glinted with battle-earned scratches. "Shou-Lao is not a foe to be taken lightly. This is a battle of wits as much as might, and recklessness could be his undoing."
"Recklessness?" Loki interjected, his tone laced with mock offense as he turned to Sif. "Recklessness is just another word for courage, wouldn't you agree?" His smirk widened as Sif shot him a glare that could have turned him to stone.
"Recklessness is a fool's courage," Sif shot back. "I'd think even you would know that, Loki."
Loki placed a hand over his chest in mock hurt. "Oh, Sif, you wound me."
Volstagg's booming laugh broke through the tension, the large, bearded warrior clapping his hands together as he watched Harry deliver a particularly deft blow to Shou-Lao. "Now, that is the kind of fight I like to see!" Volstagg declared, his voice echoing through the hall. "The boy has spirit! Reminds me of myself in my younger days!"
Fandral, leaning casually against his sword, raised an eyebrow. "Spirit is all well and good, Volstagg, but it won't mean much if he gets himself roasted alive. Though I must admit," he added, his lips curving into a roguish grin, "the boy's got style."
Hogun, standing silently beside them, gave a small nod, his expression stoic as ever. "Style won't win this fight. Skill will."
From his vantage point near the Bifröst, Heimdall stood tall and silent, his golden armor gleaming like molten sunlight. His amber eyes, glowing faintly with his all-seeing power, remained fixed on the orb as he spoke, his voice deep and resonant. "The child of Asgard and Olympus fights not just with his skill, but with his soul. He is driven by more than the desire to win—he fights for those he loves, for the future he hopes to protect. That is his true strength."
Frigga's lips curved into a faint smile at Heimdall's words, though her gaze remained intent on the battle. "Well said, Heimdall. The boy fights for more than himself, and that is why he will endure."
Odin let out a long breath, his expression unreadable as he continued to watch Harry's movements. "Let us hope his endurance does not come at too high a cost. Even the strongest flame can be extinguished if it burns too brightly."
Thor grinned, slamming a fist against his chest. "Nonsense, Father! The boy is destined for greatness—I can feel it in my bones! He'll emerge victorious, just as I would!"
Sif rolled her eyes but said nothing, her focus returning to the orb as Harry dodged another strike with inhuman speed. Loki, meanwhile, tilted his head, his smirk fading into something more contemplative as he watched his son—his son—stand his ground against a foe of unimaginable power.
"Victory is within his grasp," Loki murmured, almost to himself. "But only if he remembers who he is."
The hall fell into a tense silence as the gods and warriors of Asgard turned their full attention back to the orb, the flickering light reflecting in their eyes. In that moment, the hall of Asgard and the battlefield of K'un-Lun felt as if they were one, the fates of gods and mortals intertwined.
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