Mount Etna was cold at night.
The kind of cold that sank into your bones and made you wonder if you were still alive. The air was thin too, almost nonexistent, like the mountain was trying to choke the life out of anyone foolish enough to scale its height.
But none of that mattered to Victor. Not tonight. Not with the moon hanging so big and bold in the sky, looking down like it knew all the secrets he was trying to hide.
It was a beautiful moon, really. Full, glowing, casting its soft silver light over the endless stretch of azure. A poet would call it romantic. A dreamer would call it a sign.
Victor, though? He called it a joke. A cruel apology from the universe for the rainstorm it dumped on him the night before. And just like any apology that came too late, he wasn't interested in accepting it.
Not until he got what he came for.
His body was starting to betray him. His knees rattled like rusty gears, spasms of pain shooting through them like sharp wires.
His feet were numb. His blood had given up trying to flow properly, like even it was done with him.
Breathing had become a chore, each breath scraped out of his chest like he was dragging air through a needle's eye. His arms bled from where he had cut himself with a sharp rock—not out of madness, but desperation. The pain reminded him that he was still alive, still here.
Still holding on.
He missed the sun. Not because it was warm and cozy, but because it made the world feel real. As if it were telling him, "Hey, this isn't where you die. Not yet."
Even the vultures were better company than the cold. Their screeches had a strange rhythm to them. A rhythm that said, "We're hungry, but we're not eating you. Not yet." And in a twisted way, that kept him going.
But hope? Hope was slipping. Pan, the god of the wild, had already told him the truth. No help was coming. Not from him. Not from any other god. Hades had made sure of that.
So why was he still here? Still waiting like some idiot in a myth? Did he actually think Pan would disobey the Lord of the Dead just for him?
Then he heard it—footsteps.
His eyes fluttered open. Maybe it was just the vultures shifting again, or maybe... maybe this was it. His heart dared to rise, hope clawing its way back up from the abyss.
A figure emerged through the moonlight, draped in white, blurred like a mirage. He blinked hard, trying to make sense of what he was seeing.
"Pan?" he croaked, his voice barely a whisper. The rock fell from his hand. "I knew you wouldn't abandon me."
"They have abandoned you," came the reply.
A girl's voice. Soft. Too soft.
Victor flinched. That wasn't Pan. That was someone else. Something else. He scrambled to pick up another rock, his fingers trembling like leaves in a storm.
"Who are you?" he demanded.
No answer.
Only pain.
A sharp, slicing pain ripped through his chest. He didn't even see the attack coming. One second he was holding a rock, the next his chest was tearing open, his blood painting the jagged ground beneath him.
He screamed, or tried to. All that came out was a strained groan, like his throat had forgotten how to be loud.
The figure stepped closer. Not Pan. Definitely not. Pan smelled like earth and vines, like nature on a warm spring day. This one? This one smelled like flowers—sweet, fragile, and oddly out of place.
She knelt in front of him, smiling. A girl. Her eyes were hidden behind a black blindfold, her hair a soft, glowing white that shimmered silver under the moonlight.
"Your light is interesting," she said, voice curious, playful. "It glows even brighter in the dark. Perfect."
Then, without warning, she grabbed his chin and kissed him.
Victor froze.
He expected coldness, maybe even venom. But what he felt was fire. Pure, soul-searing fire. It spread from his lips to his chest, then to his head. His thoughts scattered like ash in the wind. The world spun.
And just like that, he was gone.
The cold of Mount Etna vanished. The biting air replaced by suffocating heat. Smoke curled around him, thick and endless. He wasn't falling. He wasn't flying. He was... floating. Existing in some void that made no sense.
Then his feet touched something solid.
A throne room.
But not just any throne room. This one was carved from darkness itself. It felt ancient, forgotten. The throne at its center was jagged and massive, made to house a king long erased from memory. An inscription at its base glowed faintly:
EREBUS, THE BANISHED RULER OF DARKNESS — WHOSE REIGN WAS FORGOTTEN.
Victor swallowed. "Where am I?"
From the nothingness, a massive hand emerged. Made of shadow, it stretched toward him like it was reaching through time and space.
He didn't run. There was nowhere to run to. He just stood there, watching. The hand paused. And then, before he could even flinch, it plunged into his chest.
He gasped.
The hand wasn't crushing him. It was cradling his heart, curling fingers around it gently, almost lovingly.
"I would give you power, son of Hades," a voice said. Deep. Hoarse. Heavy enough to shake the walls of the throne room.
Victor's breath caught.
"In exchange, you would give up your purpose and choose mine."
Victor didn't speak. He didn't need to. The answer poured out of him like a scream he couldn't hold back.
"Anything."
The shadows twisted. The void roared. A storm of black mist wrapped around him, tighter and tighter. It burned. It suffocated. It became everything.
And then, nothing.
The throne room was gone.
Light stabbed into his eyes. Warm, bright sunlight.
Ding!
[SYSTEM AUTHENTICATION IN PROGRESS. . .100%]
[WELCOME, SON OF HADES.]
Victor opened his eyes. The sky above him was blue. The vultures shrieked in panic, wings flapping wildly as they flew away.
They had thought he was dead.
Not quite.
He sat up slowly, the rock he'd dropped earlier now covered in blood. A green interface floated before him, translucent, filled with data he couldn't yet understand. But he knew what it meant. That girl. That throne room. It wasn't a dream.
[YOU HAVE AWAKENED THE BLOODLINE OF THE DEAD.]
Footsteps.
Victor turned.
Pan.
The god leaned on his staff, eyes wide with disbelief. He took one look at Victor and let out a long, frustrated sigh.
"You just don't listen, do you?"
But then, Pan stopped. His face twisted in confusion. His nose twitched. And then his mouth dropped open.
"Something feels off," he muttered.
His eyes locked with Victor's, and a chill passed through the air.
"Oh no..."
Victor frowned. "What?"
Pan took a step back, chewing on his fingers like he was trying to stop himself from screaming.
"What have you done, boy?" Pan's voice shivered. "What have you done?"