A WAVE OF GUARDS caught him at the entrance, attacking head-on with forced impulses. Christopher defended. His sword swung through the air, cutting through their hands, their heads. He didn't know what had happened to his body in just a split second, but he liked it.
His grip on the weapon felt as light as a feather. His energy was sublime, almost as if it flowed from an endless source. An interface would often appear in front of his face after defeating a guard, displaying the same message:
[YOU HAVE DEFEATED AN ENEMY]
[YOU HAVE DEFEATED AN ENEMY]
As he scurried through the caves, he passed the cell rooms, past the dying faces of the other imprisoned demigods. He was only a wee bit close to the red lake when conscience struck him in the deepest part of his chest—where he thought his heart had been shattered by an arrow.
These prisoners—no, demigods—were also like him. Trapped. Imprisoned. Confined from a normal, liberal life. If anything, they needed to be free. They needed to be reminded of when they could live without being questioned.
Even if it meant getting killed in the end.
He turned back and approached the first cell in sight. With a slash of his sword, the lock came undone.
"Go, run if you still want to live!" he said to the prisoners, then moved on to the next. He did this until he was sure he had unlocked the entire prison.
"Stop them!" Christopher heard a voice shout as he, alongside the rest of the demigods, headed toward the blood lake. The lake earned its name because of its intense crimson color, stained with the blood of the arena's victims.
This was where they disposed of the dead bodies of demigods. The lake was piled with corpses—decayed, mangled, and floating freely on the surface.
The stench of the place could make anyone lose their appetite for a whole week, but Christopher was used to it. After all, he'd been around dead bodies for so long that he now found comfort—instead of dismay—in their horrible smell.
And what mattered most now was crossing the river. Around him, he could see other demigods dragging their feet through the muddied red water, clamoring to reach the shore.
Just a few feet, he thought. Just a few feet and they would finally be safe—for a while. It would take the imperial soldiers hours… if not days, to find them in the labyrinth. Only demigods could navigate through the endless maze; it was like their brains had been encrypted with a map of the place since birth.
Daedalus's labyrinth was a demigod's territory—a place humans feared to explore.
Their only hope.
They were only starting to ascend to shore when Christopher spotted arrows dancing through the air. They landed, making sharp, piercing sounds as they impaled the few demigods lagging behind.
Cries of agony ripped through the air. Christopher grit his teeth as he watched those at the front slow down, likely frozen by fear.
"Don't look back!" he yelled. "Keep moving!"
But he betrayed his own command when he heard a little girl's cry behind him.
"Dad! Dad!!!"
When he looked back, he spotted an archer aiming at her. Instinctively, he rushed and turned her over, so the dagger pierced into his back instead. The pain forced him to wince, stifling a loud yell. But he still kept moving, the little girl wrapped delicately around his arm, sniffing through tears.
When they reached shore, the archers were far out of sight. He tried not to look at the few murdered demigods still in the water, but he could hear their souls mourning as they drifted from their bodies. The little girl still sobbed, softly calling out for her dad as she wrapped her arms tightly around Christopher. He let her stay for a little longer and planned to put her down once she felt better.
After all, he knew how to sympathize with death.
A path outstretched before them, splitting into triple—maybe dozens—of other routes. Despite how dormant a labyrinth should've been, it was still lit by lamps of Greek fire, glowing green against the brute walls of the tunnels.
"Where are you people headed?" he asked, although he hadn't thought that far ahead for himself.
"From here, we'll report back to the refuge camp," a young woman with light blonde hair and a gentle voice replied. Christopher recognized Apollo's aura in her mannerisms.
The refuge camp—a place created by the gods to keep demigods protected from the outside world. The place was shielded by magical forces like the Mist, making it impossible for humans to find.
"Are you coming with us, Sohterh?" the woman asked, and Christopher was startled by her last word.
Sohterh? It was Greek for Deliverer, which meant they already perceived him as their savior.
Please… he was anything but that.
Her question echoed in his mind again. Go to the refuge camp? No, thank you. He remembered staying there a few years ago during his early fugitive days. He'd thought he'd be safe there—until Apollo disproved that by sending him on impossible quests no newbie could survive.
How had he not seen that the gods had always been after his life—only being lenient up until now? But now that he had awakened the curse of the prophecy, he expected them to go all out at any moment.
The refuge camp was no longer a viable option.
Where then would he go?
He had to save his sister, and his only way forward was toward the Capital. He could use the labyrinth to get there, but he wasn't even recovered, much less strong enough to defeat the foe that awaited him.
He had to find shelter—somewhere to lay low for now, since the entire empire would be searching for him. Than, maybe? A city named after Thanatos, the god of death.
He should be safe there… probably? Last he checked, the city was isolated from the Empire's territory. It was one of those untouched cities—left alone purely out of fear.
And who wouldn't fear the god of death?
"I can't," he said, finally dropping the little girl. "I'm on a mission."
That was when the woman gasped, noticing the arrows still stuck in his chest—and his back.
"You're wounded—let me." Before he could argue, she had already begun to heal him with magic.
Healing magic was a skill only certain god-children could inherit, including the children of Apollo and Persephone.
Although Persephone's gift was more of life than healing.
Christopher watched as she placed one palm on his wounded chest, the other clenched around the arrow. Her eyes closed, and a bright glow appeared in her hands. Slowly, his wounds began to close.
Bit by bit, she retrieved the arrow from his chest. Although the weapon was drenched in his blood, he was surprised that his heart hadn't been clinging to it. He could still feel it thumping in his chest—unusually so.
The woman repeated the process for his back. When she finished, they were all set to depart.
"Take care of her," he finally said, patting the little girl's head. Her eyes were still teary, and she sniffled every few seconds. "If she will, she must live on to avenge her father's death."
"I'll protect her," the woman promised.
With that, Christopher turned from them and stepped into the tunnel. But just then, she called out—
"Wait...!"