The Son of Mischief and Moonlight

Piotr stood tall, his massive form casting a protective shadow over the group. His presence alone was a reassuring force, and when he spoke, his deep, accented voice carried a gravity that silenced the oppressive buzz of the fluorescent lights above.

"You should meet the others," he said, gesturing to the surrounding cages. "We are all trapped here, but together, we are stronger. Together, we endure."

Jubilee scoffed, rolling her eyes as she leaned against her cage bars. "Wow, Colossus, that was so motivational. Did you get that from one of those inspirational posters? 'Teamwork makes the dream work' or something?" She smirked, her tone dripping with sarcasm but her eyes warm with amusement.

Piotr ignored her, as he often did, and pointed toward the cage directly across from his. "That is my sister, Illyana. She is…" He hesitated, as if searching for the right word. "Resilient."

Illyana Rasputina stepped closer to the bars, her icy blue eyes fixed on Kurt with an unsettling intensity. She couldn't have been older than eight, her slight frame wrapped in a tattered, oversized shirt that only made her look smaller. Her long, uneven blonde hair fell in jagged strands around her face, framing a sharp, almost otherworldly beauty that didn't match her age.

"Illyana Nikolaievna Rasputina," she introduced herself with a tone that was far too cold and mature for a girl her age. Her Russian accent was thick, each syllable deliberate. "And who are you supposed to be? A demon from some carnival?"

Kurt blinked, startled by the bluntness of her question. "I—uh—I'm Kurt Wagner. But I assure you, I'm no demon." His tail curled around his ankle nervously.

Illyana's lips twitched into something that could have been a smirk—or perhaps just a flicker of amusement. "We will see," she said cryptically, stepping back into the shadows of her cage.

Sharing Illyana's cage were three other girls, each as unique as the next. The first, a wiry girl with fiery red hair and piercing green eyes, approached the bars cautiously. Her features were sharp, almost wolfish, and there was a feral quality to the way she moved.

"Rahne Sinclair," she said softly, her Scottish brogue rolling off her tongue like a hymn. Her voice was gentle, almost apologetic, but there was steel behind it. "Dinnae let my size fool ye. I've claws tae match my bark, and my bark's nae quiet."

Kurt offered a tentative smile. "I'll keep that in mind."

From the opposite side of the cage, a blonde girl with an easy grin and chewing gum snapped a bubble noisily, breaking the tension. "Tabitha Smith's the name," she drawled, her voice thick with a casual American accent. "But most people just call me Boom-Boom." She flashed a grin that practically screamed trouble. "And yeah, it's exactly what you think it means. I make things go boom."

Kurt glanced at Jubilee, who gave him a knowing nod. "Don't let her fool you," Jubilee added. "She's always looking for an excuse to blow stuff up."

"Not true," Tabitha retorted with mock indignation. "I don't need an excuse. It's just fun."

The last girl in the cage was taller than the others, with straw-colored hair and a calm, steady demeanor. She stood with her hands clasped around the bars, her blue eyes meeting Kurt's with quiet determination.

"Paige Guthrie," she said, her Southern drawl soft but firm. "Ain't much else to say, 'cept I don't scare easy. Not anymore." Her voice carried the weight of someone who'd seen more than they should have.

Kurt gave a small nod. "It's nice to meet you all, though… I wish it were under better circumstances."

Piotr gestured to the next cage over, where a boy around Paige's age leaned against the bars with a cocky grin. His brown hair was tousled, and his posture was relaxed, but there was a spark of determination in his eyes.

"That's my brother, Sam Guthrie," Paige said before Piotr could.

Sam tipped an imaginary hat to Kurt. "Sam Guthrie, but everyone calls me Cannonball. Mostly 'cause, well…" He chuckled, his accent thicker than Paige's. "When I get movin', I'm pretty much unstoppable. Least, that's the idea."

In the same cage, two brothers stood side by side, their features strikingly similar. Both had dark hair and sharp, chiseled features, though their demeanors were worlds apart.

"James Proudstar," the older one said, his deep voice carrying a calm authority. "And this is my younger brother, John."

John, however, wasn't as polite. His dark eyes narrowed as he looked Kurt up and down. "What's with the tail?" he asked, his tone mocking. "You some kind of circus act?"

"John!" James snapped, his voice sharper now.

"It's fine," Kurt said quickly, though his tail flicked behind him in annoyance. "I get that a lot."

The final occupant of the cage was a girl with lavender skin and glowing green eyes. She sat cross-legged on the floor, her demeanor calm and serene despite the chaos around her.

"Clarice Fergusson," she said softly, her voice as smooth as a summer breeze. "But most people call me Blink. It's… nice to meet you, I suppose."

Kurt offered her a small, grateful smile, though his heart sank further with every introduction. The weight of their shared imprisonment was crushing, but there was also a sense of resilience among them—a spark of hope that hadn't yet been extinguished.

Jubilee clapped her hands together, breaking the somber mood. "Well, there you have it, blue boy. Welcome to the club. You don't have to like it, but at least you won't be lonely."

"Yeah," Tabitha added with a sly grin. "But just so you know, if you get us caught or make trouble, I will throw you under the bus. No hard feelings."

"Noted," Kurt replied dryly, though the faintest smile tugged at his lips.

Piotr's voice cut through the chatter, steady and resolute. "We may be prisoners here, but we are not broken. If we stick together, we will find a way out. One way or another."

Kurt nodded, his tail curling behind him with renewed determination. For the first time since waking up in this nightmare, he allowed himself to hope.

—

Logan's breathing steadied as the echoes of chaos in his mind ebbed into an uneasy calm. He rubbed a calloused hand over his face, the scratch of stubble grounding him as the sterile, metallic tang of the room pressed in. The quiet wasn't peaceful—it was the kind of quiet that screamed something was off.

His eyes darted around, his senses sharpening too quickly for comfort. Something wasn't right. A faint hum from the machines in the corner whispered to him, but his instincts screamed louder. Then, pain—sharp and familiar—drew his attention to his hands.

SNIKT.

The claws popped out, gleaming under the dim fluorescent light. Six blades, impossibly sharp, extended from his knuckles. Logan stared at them like they were a curse made manifest.

"Son of a bitch," he growled, his Canadian accent laced with gravel and frustration. His fists tightened, and the claws clicked together with a metallic ting. "What the hell am I?"

Before he could stew in his confusion, a calm, measured voice broke through the silence.

"You're a man trying to find his way. That much, I can tell."

Logan's head whipped around, muscles coiled like a wolf cornered by a hunter. Sitting by the window in a wheelchair was a man with a bald head that gleamed faintly under the moonlight. His posture was serene, hands resting lightly on the armrests, but something about him radiated control—a man who spoke softly but always had the last word.

"Who the hell are you?" Logan barked, claws still extended, his tone rough as sandpaper.

The man didn't flinch, didn't even blink. "My name is Charles Xavier," he said, his British accent sharp and deliberate, like every word was handpicked. "I'm here to help you."

Logan snorted, a dry, humorless sound that came out more as a growl. "Help me? Yeah, right. Lemme guess—this is the part where you give me a speech, and I magically forget I've got freakin' knives coming outta my hands?"

Xavier tilted his head slightly, the faintest hint of a smile playing on his lips. "You're not the first to be overwhelmed by their gifts. Nor will you be the last. But I assure you, Logan, you are not as lost as you feel."

Logan's claws retracted with a reluctant snikt as he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his glare sharp enough to cut through steel. "Listen, Wheels, I don't know what you think you know about me, but let me make one thing clear—I don't need your damn pity."

"It's not pity," Xavier said softly, his gaze unwavering. "It's understanding."

Logan opened his mouth to snap back, but before he could get a word out, the door swung open with a sharp creak. Heavy footsteps followed, and in walked Nick Fury, his long black trench coat swaying slightly as he moved. The man exuded authority, from the way he stood to the unflinching gaze of his single eye beneath the patch.

"Oh, great," Logan muttered under his breath, running a hand through his hair. "What is this, freakin' storytime? Who's next, Santa Claus?"

Fury ignored the jab, crossing his arms and looking at Logan like he was more trouble than he was worth. "Logan," Fury said, his voice low and gravelly, carrying just enough threat to demand attention. "I see you're as charming as they said."

Logan leaned back, crossing his arms, his lips curling into a smirk. "And you're as much of an ass as you look. Guess the rumors are true."

Fury didn't miss a beat. "Cute. Keep runnin' your mouth, bub. I got all day."

Logan's smirk widened. "You keep callin' me bub, I might start thinkin' you like me."

"Trust me," Fury shot back, deadpan, "the only thing I like less than you is having to clean up your mess."

"Gentlemen," Xavier interjected, his tone firm but not raised. "Perhaps we can save the verbal sparring for later. Logan has been through enough for one evening."

Logan gestured toward Fury with a claw-less hand. "Who's this guy, anyway? Your backup choir?"

Fury stepped closer, his presence dominating the room. "Name's Nick Fury. Agent of S.H.I.E.L.D. Ever heard of it?"

"Can't say I have," Logan replied dryly. "But with a name like that, I'm guessin' subtlety ain't your strong suit."

Fury smirked faintly, though his eye stayed sharp. "Subtlety's for people who don't have to deal with guys like you tearing up my damn world. So here's the deal: Charles here thinks you're worth saving. Me? I'm still on the fence."

"Yeah?" Logan leaned forward, his voice dropping to a dangerous growl. "Well, maybe I don't give a damn what you think."

"Good," Fury said, meeting Logan's glare without flinching. "Because I don't need you to care. I need you to stop being a liability."

"Big talk for a guy who's about three seconds away from eatin' his words," Logan snarled, his claws twitching like they were begging to make an appearance.

"Enough," Xavier said sharply, his tone brooking no argument. "Both of you. This isn't a battlefield. It's a beginning."

Logan scoffed, but the edge in his posture softened slightly. He shot Xavier a skeptical glance. "You're awful optimistic, Wheels. But fine. I'll play along. What's your big plan?"

Xavier's gaze was calm, yet there was steel beneath it. "The plan, Logan, is to help you rediscover who you are. Not the weapon they made you into. The man you were always meant to be."

Logan stared at him, searching for any sign of deception. Finally, he let out a reluctant sigh. "Alright, Professor. But if this turns out to be some kinda kumbaya bull, I'm out."

Xavier smiled faintly. "Understood. One step at a time."

Fury crossed his arms again, his tone dry. "Well, this should be fun. Welcome to the circus, bub."

Logan rolled his eyes, muttering under his breath, "Yeah, a real freakin' laugh riot."

—

Xavier waited until Logan was out of earshot, pacing the hallway with a scowl that could curdle milk, before turning his wheelchair toward Fury. "Nick, may I have a moment with you? Hank and Chiron, your insights would also be valuable."

Fury raised an eyebrow but didn't object. Hank McCoy, his fur a deep indigo and his eyes bright with curiosity, nodded and moved closer. Chiron, in his mortal guise as Mr. Brunner, wheeled into position with the grace of someone who knew far more than they ever let on.

Xavier's voice was calm but carried an edge of urgency. "Nick, earlier, when you addressed Logan, you used the word 'bub.' It seemed to provoke a strong reaction from him. And the way you spoke—it was as if you recognized something familiar about him."

Fury crossed his arms, his expression unreadable. "I didn't think it would matter. Guy's a wreck, plain and simple."

"It does matter," Xavier pressed, his tone firm. "Logan is… unique. He's not just another stray with a tragic past. I suspect there's more to him than even he knows. And if you have any information that can help him—or us—it's imperative you share it."

Fury sighed, glancing at Hank and Chiron before pulling out a sleek tablet from inside his coat. "I didn't know him personally," Fury admitted, his voice low. "But when I brought this to Director Carter, she recognized him immediately. And let's just say the guy's got some history."

He tapped a few times on the screen and handed the tablet to Xavier. The image displayed was grainy but unmistakable: a group of soldiers standing shoulder to shoulder during World War II. At the center were two familiar figures—Steve Rogers in his Captain America uniform, and beside him, a man with a thick mane of hair, the same unmistakable scowl, and the very same claws. The caption read: The Howling Commandos, 1944.

"James Howlett," Fury said, his tone grim. "That was his name back then. Peggy Carter says he was one of theirs—part of the Howling Commandos. And unless that healing factor of his comes with a time machine, it means he's a hell of a lot older than he looks."

Hank leaned in, his claws gently gripping the tablet as he studied the image. "Fascinating," he murmured. "If his healing factor is as robust as it appears, it's not out of the question that it has slowed—or even halted—his aging process."

Chiron stroked his beard thoughtfully. "That would make him not just a soldier, but a living archive of history. A man who has seen war, peace, and everything in between. And yet, his mind…" He hesitated, his gaze sharpening. "It's fractured, as if something—or someone—tore his identity apart."

Xavier nodded, his expression somber. "Which means we're not dealing with a simple case of amnesia. Logan is carrying the weight of multiple lifetimes. It's no wonder his anger and confusion feel… boundless."

Fury crossed his arms again. "Here's the thing, though. Peggy didn't just remember him. She said he was dangerous even back then—fierce, almost feral. He was a damn good ally, but if you got on his bad side, you'd regret it."

"That aligns with what we've seen," Hank said. "But it doesn't explain why his memories seem so fragmented—or why he was left in such a state when we found him."

Xavier's voice softened, but his resolve was unshakable. "Logan is not a monster, Nick. He's a man. A man who has been used, broken, and left to fend for himself. If we can help him reclaim even a piece of who he was, we may be able to help him find peace."

Fury snorted, though there was less derision in it than usual. "Peace? With claws like those? Good luck, Professor."

Chiron shifted slightly, his tone calm but firm. "Everyone deserves a chance at redemption, Fury. Even those who've lost themselves."

The room fell silent for a moment as the weight of Logan's past—and his potential future—hung heavy in the air. Finally, Fury spoke, his voice quieter than before. "Just make sure you know what you're doing, Xavier. Guys like him? They're not heroes. They're weapons. And weapons have a way of hurting people, whether they mean to or not."

Xavier's gaze was steady as he replied. "Perhaps. But I believe Logan can be more than what they made him. And I won't stop until he sees that for himself."

Fury didn't respond, but the flicker of doubt in his eye suggested he wasn't entirely unconvinced. Hank handed the tablet back, and as Fury turned to leave, Xavier glanced at Chiron.

"Chiron, you once trained heroes who were more than the sum of their burdens. Tell me—do you see that in Logan?"

The centaur-turned-teacher smiled faintly, his eyes twinkling with something ancient and wise. "Oh, Charles," he said softly, "Logan isn't just a man. He's a survivor. And sometimes, that's exactly what heroes are made of."

—

Xavier glanced at Chiron, his fingers tapping lightly on the armrest of his wheelchair. The question that had been simmering in his mind now needed to be addressed—whether or not they should reveal the truth to Logan. The truth about his past, about his unaging body, and about the burden of his history that he seemed to have forgotten, lost, or buried under layers of pain and confusion.

Chiron's thoughtful expression never faltered as he looked at Xavier, his wise eyes searching the room, considering the weight of the decision. "Charles, you've always believed in the power of truth. But sometimes, the burden of that truth is more than a person can carry."

Xavier nodded, his gaze distant. "I know. But Logan isn't a man who will ever stop seeking the truth, even if it means tearing himself apart in the process. If we withhold this from him… we might only be delaying the inevitable."

Chiron tilted his head slightly, his voice steady. "That may be true, but we also know that not every truth heals. Some truths can scar deeper than any wound he's ever suffered. What happens when he learns that he's not just a soldier, not just a weapon, but a man who's lived through generations, through wars and pain that none of us can truly understand?"

Xavier sighed, the weight of those words pressing on his chest. "I've seen men and women break under the burden of knowing too much. But Logan is different. He's already carried this burden for longer than we know. I think he deserves to know what he's truly capable of—who he really is—before it's too late."

Chiron remained silent for a moment, then said, "You know him better than anyone. If anyone can help him face the reality of his past, it's you. But I must ask—are you prepared for what that might do to him? To us?"

Xavier's expression hardened, a quiet resolve settling in his bones. "I've never been afraid of the truth, Chiron. It's never been the easy path, but it's always been the right one. Logan is more than the claws. He's more than the rage. He's a man who needs to find peace with himself—whether that peace comes in the form of remembering his past, or in choosing to live a new life. I can't make that decision for him, but I can give him the tools to make it himself."

The centaur nodded slowly, his eyes reflecting the ancient wisdom that had guided him through countless battles. "Then I trust you, Charles. But remember, you're not just guiding him to a truth. You're asking him to accept a life that may be far different from the one he thought he had."

Xavier looked down at his hands, the weight of his decisions resting heavily on his shoulders. "I know. But perhaps, for once, he can stop running. Perhaps he can start finding his way home."

Chiron's lips curved slightly, as if he understood more than Xavier had let on. "Home is a dangerous place to return to. It can be where we find ourselves... and where we lose everything."

Xavier nodded, the weight of the conversation not lost on him. "And yet, sometimes it's the only way forward."

After a moment of silence, Xavier met Chiron's gaze again. "Do you think we should tell him now? Or wait until he's more... receptive?"

Chiron chuckled softly, the sound rich with the knowledge of centuries. "The truth will come when he's ready for it. You can't force a man to face his past before he's ready. But you've already made the first step, Charles. By showing him there's a way forward—by showing him he's not alone."

Xavier smiled faintly, though there was a touch of sadness in his expression. "Then we wait. We let Logan decide when he's ready to know the full extent of what he is."

Chiron placed a hand gently on Xavier's shoulder. "And when he does? Make sure he knows that whatever path he chooses, there are those who will walk it beside him."

Xavier's eyes softened, a flicker of gratitude shining through. "Thank you, Chiron. I don't know where this journey will take us, but I won't walk it alone. None of us will."

As the conversation drifted into silence, the two men understood the gravity of the road ahead. Logan might not be ready to face the truth of his past yet, but in time, he would need to. Xavier would be there when that moment arrived, ready to help him make sense of the fragments of his life—and maybe, just maybe, help him find the peace that had eluded him for so long.

—

The silence of the room was broken by the distant, faint squeak of wheels rolling down the hallway. Logan's head snapped up, his senses immediately on edge. The antiseptic scent of the medical wing clung to his nostrils, but his focus shifted to the group entering the room.

Xavier led the way, his calm demeanor intact, but it was the trio trailing behind him that drew Logan's attention. First was Hank McCoy—Beast, as Logan vaguely remembered Xavier calling him earlier. The guy was tall, broad, and covered in blue fur, wearing a white lab coat as if that made him any less conspicuous. Then there was an older man in a wheelchair, his tweed jacket and calm, scholarly expression giving off an unsettling air of patience. And finally, a short, stocky man with the look of a middle-aged gym teacher who'd seen one too many dodgeball games gone wrong. His whistle swung ominously around his neck, and his scowl could have scared off a charging rhino.

Logan let out a low growl as they approached, his claws itching to come out again. "Great," he muttered, crossing his arms. "What is this, the freakin' intervention brigade?"

Hank smirked as he set a tablet on the nearby table. "We thought you'd appreciate the diversity."

"Diversity, huh?" Logan shot back, eyeing Hank's fur. "Yeah, you're real subtle, Blue."

"Better than your charming personality," Hank quipped, his grin sharp.

Logan's lips curled into a wolfish smirk, but his eyes darted to the older man. "And who's this? Professor Xavier's dad?"

The man in the tweed jacket chuckled softly, rolling forward. His wheelchair didn't creak like Xavier's; it moved with an eerie smoothness. "My name is Chiron," he said, his voice calm, measured, and somehow ancient. "I'm a counselor here, among other things. And this," he gestured to the stocky man with the whistle, "is Coach Hedge."

Coach Hedge stepped forward, arms crossed, looking Logan up and down with a glare that could blister paint. "What's up, bub? You got somethin' to say about my height? Go ahead. Make my day."

Logan's brows lifted, and his smirk widened. "Didn't know they were letting middle-school gym teachers join the circus."

"Funny," Hedge shot back, his voice sharp as a whip. "Didn't know they were letting grumpy Canadian lumberjacks into Xavier's cuddly mutant daycare."

Logan's smirk turned into a full grin. "You got a mouth on you, Shortstack."

"And you got claws," Hedge snapped, stepping closer. "But don't think for a second I'm afraid of you, Wolverine. I've taken down things with bigger egos and worse breath."

Logan let out a low, amused chuckle, leaning back in his chair. "This guy's got some fight in him. I like it."

"Enough," Xavier said firmly, though his tone remained calm. "Logan, they're here because we have something important to discuss. Not because I thought you needed sparring partners."

"Yeah? So what's the big deal?" Logan asked, still eyeing Hedge with amusement. "You drag me outta my self-pity party just to introduce me to Tweed and the Angry Smurf?"

Chiron rolled closer, his expression softening. "It's about answers, Logan. Answers to what was done to you—and to what you can do now."

Logan's smirk faded slightly, suspicion darkening his features. "Go on."

Hank tapped the tablet, pulling up a schematic of a facility labeled Three Mile Island. The blueprint rotated on the screen, showing fortified walls and dense forest surrounding the compound.

"This is where we believe the answers lie," Xavier said quietly. "It's a covert facility run by a man named William Stryker."

The name hit Logan like a freight train, triggering a faint, unwelcome flicker of memory. His hands twitched, claws threatening to pop out again. "Stryker," he said, the name rolling off his tongue like venom. "What about him?"

"He's experimenting on mutants," Hank said grimly. "Weaponizing them. Torturing them. And he's holding children there, Logan. Innocent kids who don't have the strength to fight back."

"Kids," Logan repeated, his jaw tightening. "And you want me to what? Bust in there and play hero? I ain't that guy."

Chiron leaned forward, his eyes steady and piercing. "You're the only one who understands what they're going through. You've been where they are—lost, broken, used. If anyone can help them, it's you."

Logan's claws extended with a sharp SNIKT, the sound slicing through the room. He didn't move, but his whole body was taut, coiled with tension. "And what happens if I go there and it's just another dead end? Another reminder that I'm some kind of freak?"

"Then you'll still have done something that matters," Xavier said firmly. "You'll have given those children a chance. A chance you never had."

Coach Hedge snorted. "Or you could just sit here and whine about it. Up to you."

Logan's head snapped toward Hedge, his claws gleaming dangerously. "Careful, Goatman. You're about two seconds away from seein' what these claws can do."

Hedge didn't flinch. "Bring it, tough guy. I've been kicked by centaurs, bitten by drakons, and headbutted by minotaurs. You don't scare me."

Logan actually laughed at that, a rough, dry sound that almost sounded genuine. "You're a crazy little bastard, you know that?"

Hedge grinned, his teeth sharp. "Takes one to know one."

Hank cleared his throat. "As entertaining as this is, perhaps we could focus on the mission?"

Logan turned back to the blueprint, his expression hardening. "Fine. I'll go. But don't expect me to hold hands and sing campfire songs with you lot."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Hedge muttered.

Xavier smiled faintly. "One step at a time, Logan. That's all we ask."

Logan glanced at Chiron, then Hedge, then finally at the blueprint. He didn't say it, but something about their determination—and the thought of those kids—made his decision easier. "Alright, Wheels. Let's see what Stryker's got waiting for me."

Coach Hedge smirked. "Now we're talkin'. Just don't slow me down."

Logan rolled his eyes. "Yeah, this is gonna be a freakin' blast."

—

Two weeks. Fourteen days. Three hundred and thirty-six hours. But who was counting? Certainly not Harry. Okay, maybe he was. But in his defense, when you're stuck helping monks scrub centuries' worth of grime off temple floors and you're not allowed to talk, counting is basically a survival tactic.

So there they stood, Harry Lokison and his merry band of demigod misfits—Hermione, Annabeth, Thalia, Luke, Travis, Connor, Silena, Clarisse, Charles Beckendorf, and Brunhilde the Valkyrie—lined up like delinquents at detention, staring down Lei Kung the Thunderer. If the guy had any sense of humor, it was buried somewhere deep beneath layers of stern disapproval and maybe a few thousand squats.

Lei Kung's piercing gaze scanned the group, his expression that special brand of neutral that adults used when they wanted to make you sweat. "Two weeks of punishment," he began, pacing like a general surveying his troops. "Two weeks of silence, labor, and reflection. Tell me, what have you learned?"

Harry didn't say anything, mostly because he was busy willing the Stoll brothers not to say something stupid.

Predictably, Hermione was the first to speak. Because of course she was. "We learned humility, Master Lei Kung," she said, her voice steady. "That every task, no matter how small, contributes to the whole."

Lei Kung nodded, looking mildly impressed. Harry knew better. That was Lei Kung's default expression. The guy could probably watch a dragon tap-dance and still look like he was deciding whether or not to give it a B-minus.

Then it was Clarisse's turn. She stepped forward, her arms crossed and her expression screaming don't mess with me. "We learned not to piss off a martial arts master," she said bluntly.

Somewhere in the back, Connor snickered. Thalia rolled her eyes so hard Harry was worried she might sprain something.

Lei Kung's eyebrow twitched. "A... practical lesson," he said, voice dry as the desert.

Annabeth stepped up next, cool and collected as always. "We learned patience," she said, her tone as sharp as the daggers she kept tucked in her boots. "And that sometimes, silence teaches you more than words ever could."

"Spoken like a true daughter of Athena," Lei Kung said. His gaze shifted to Harry, who was still pretending to be invisible. Spoiler alert: it wasn't working.

"And you, Harry Lokison?" Lei Kung asked, his tone heavy with expectation. "What did you learn?"

Harry stepped forward, straightening under Lei Kung's scrutinizing gaze. He could feel the weight of his friends' eyes on him, waiting for him to say something clever—or at least not totally embarrassing. "I learned that even when you're stripped of everything—your words, your powers, your freedom—you can still make a difference," Harry said, his voice calm but firm. "Sometimes, it's the little things that matter. The quiet things."

For a second—a split second—Harry thought he saw the faintest flicker of a smile on Lei Kung's face. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking.

"Well said," Lei Kung replied. "You show promise, young trickster."

Harry felt a surge of pride, but he tried to play it cool. After all, he had a reputation to maintain.

Before Lei Kung could deliver one of his legendary "life is suffering" speeches, Brunhilde stepped forward, her Valkyrie armor gleaming in the sunlight. She was grinning, which was mildly terrifying because Brunhilde didn't grin unless someone was about to lose a fight. "If I may, Master Lei Kung," she said, her voice tinged with amusement, "these younglings managed to survive two weeks of silence and hard labor without killing each other. That alone is a miracle worth celebrating."

The monks murmured in agreement. Even Lei Kung looked like he might agree, though he would probably never admit it.

"Very well," Lei Kung said, his tone softening. "Your punishment is complete. But remember—discipline and humility are not learned in a day, nor even in two weeks. These lessons must guide you as you continue your training."

The group collectively exhaled, relief flooding the courtyard like a wave. Harry caught a glimpse of Connor whispering to Travis, probably planning their next prank. Hermione was already muttering about meditation techniques, while Clarisse stretched like she was ready to punch something—or someone.

As the group dispersed, Harry lingered, catching Lei Kung's gaze one last time. "What's next, Master?" he asked, his voice steady.

Lei Kung's expression softened—just barely. "Now, young warriors, we prepare for the trials ahead. The enemies of K'un-Lun grow bolder. And so must you."

Harry nodded, a spark of excitement igniting in his chest. Trials? Enemies? Sounded like just another day for Harry Lokison and his demigod crew.

As he turned to join his friends, Harry couldn't help but grin. Because let's be honest—if trouble was coming, he was more than ready to meet it.

---

Hey fellow fanfic enthusiasts!

I hope you're enjoying the fanfiction so far! I'd love to hear your thoughts on it. Whether you loved it, hated it, or have some constructive criticism, your feedback is super important to me. Feel free to drop a comment or send me a message with your thoughts. Can't wait to hear from you!

If you're passionate about fanfiction and love discussing stories, characters, and plot twists, then you're in the right place! I've created a Discord server dedicated to diving deep into the world of fanfiction, especially my own stories. Whether you're a reader, a writer, or just someone who enjoys a good tale, I welcome you to join us for lively discussions, feedback sessions, and maybe even some sneak peeks into upcoming chapters, along with artwork related to the stories. Let's nerd out together over our favorite fandoms and explore the endless possibilities of storytelling!

Click the link below to join the conversation:

https://discord.com/invite/HHHwRsB6wd

Can't wait to see you there!

If you appreciate my work and want to support me, consider buying me a cup of coffee. Your support helps me keep writing and bringing more stories to you. You can do so via PayPal here:

https://www.paypal.me/VikrantUtekar007

Or through my Buy Me a Coffee page:

https://www.buymeacoffee.com/vikired001s

Thank you for your support!