The days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, and weeks to years. Jonathan, was now living fully as Adonis Blud, gradually adjusted to life in the Agoge of the Spartan empire. The first few months were the hardest. People whispered that Adonis must have injured his head in that heatstroke incident, because he often seemed "not himself"
Forgetting routines, not recognizing distant relatives, and asking basic questions that everyone knew. Jonathan nearly blew his cover a dozen times over with his ignorance, but he learned to feign quietness to mask his missteps. He spoke little, listened a lot, and pieced together Adonis's life from context clues that weren't in the books, or that he forgot.
The patriarch of the Blud clan was Leonidas Blud, Adonis's father, a legendary warrior who had achieved the title of Demi-god. Leonidas was one of thirteen humans in the known universe to have attained the title through rigorous training and a direct blessing of a deity or contracts and more.
Jonathan only saw Leonidas once or twice from afar; the patriarch was a distant figure, often off leading explorations in the unmapped areas of space. Or fighting against mythological beasts on distant planets. His mother and the high officers which comprised of his older siblings. Focused more on diplomatic missions between pantheon alliances.
Even so, his presence loomed large over the clan. People spoke Leonidas's name with respect, reverence, and fear, whispering stories of his feats in battle and the time he supposedly fought a ancient Titan and won.
The name Leonidas rang a bell for Jonathan from his own world's history.
The Spartan king who led the famous 300 Spartans at Thermopylae. It was oddly fitting, Jonathan thought, for a warrior patriarch in a clan of Ares to bear that name. Indeed, like the Spartan king of old, Leonidas Blud was said to be the embodiment of fearless combat and leadership. Jonathan sometimes wondered if his uncle had deliberately drawn that parallel.
Adonis's mother had not visited him and was just as hands off as his father when it came to raising the children. Her name was Seraphine Blud. It was said that she came from the Athena clan from New Athens or was it the moon of Themiscyra. He couldn't remember the details completely. He new he had several older siblings around twelve in fact, making him the thirteenth child.
For Jonathan to remember all their names would be to hard, and there was only concept art for the famous ones.
The Blud clan was large, with a main household and several branch family houses who descendants, of Ares godly children, or of other gods like Hercules of Athena. Adonis's older brothers and sisters ranged from their Late teens to mid-twenties with the older close to their thirties by the beginning of the third book. A few of them were prominent Spartan warriors from reserve officers to high officers. And none of them paid Adonis any mind.
Adonis had a reputation: he had failed to awaken any noteworthy combat aura or divine blessing despite being of age during his time in the Agoge. In this world, children of the clans often "awakened" their powers in adolescence, some inner spark of the godly blood or a manifestation of combat talents.
By 13 or 14, a scion of Ares should have displayed ferocity, battle instinct, or at least exceptional martial skills. But Adonis, at 13 turning 14, showed none of these signs. He had no skill whatso ever at swordsmanship, poor at strategic games or planning, and lacked the fiery aggression admired in Ares's kin.
Jonathan did what he could to improve, but he faced two major problems. First, he had never been trained for this kind of life; his Earth knowledge didn't translate to immediate fighting prowess. He practiced diligently, but progress was slow almost none existent.
Second, and more disturbingly, something seemed to actively hinder him. There were moments he felt a surge of strength or a flash of clarity during training, but it would vanish as quickly as it came, leaving him more drained and clumsy than before.
Jonathan suspected this might be why Adonis was considered "untalented" from the start. Could it be a curse? The thought crossed his mind more than once. In Uncle Jasen's novels, curses and blessings were very real things. A person could be cursed to become a monster or worse. Jonathan had no proof, but the pattern of his failures felt unnatural at times.
Regardless of the cause, the outcome was the same: he struggled. Days were filled with grueling physical training, combat drills, and lessons in tactics and mythology. Evenings brought chores (lower-ranking clan members, which Adonis effectively was due to his poor standing, had duties like cleaning armories or serving higher-ups at dinner). Night after night, Jonathan collapsed into bed with his body aching and his spirit low.
He held onto one thing, though, hope. Hope that he might find a clue about Uncle Jasen or a way back home. When he wasn't being watched, Jonathan scoured the clan's archives and libraries.
Uncle Jasen's books (the ones Jonathan had read on Earth) had a lot of detail, but being here physically, he realized there was even more depth to this world. The clan's records spoke of the great Pantheon War centuries ago, the very events Jasen wrote about.
The alliance of gods that ended the war was called the Oath Above All, a pact of the gods which were forbidden to directly interfere, but allowed chose mortals to form contracts with for their power or essence.
That's how Leonidas and the other twelve demi-gods gained their status: each had formed a contract with a deity. As well as trained beyond their mortal limits, for decades, and some living centuries, especially due to their mixed heritage.
In Leonidas's case, he contracted not with Ares directly, but with one of Ares's godly children.. These contracts grant extraordinary powers and items, but at a cost or condition unique to each.
Learning this fascinated Jonathan, but none of it directly helped him figure out how or why he was here. Sometimes he wondered if he was actually dreaming in a coma back on Earth, but as months went by filled with very real pain and toil, that notion faded. This was real. He was truly Adonis Blud now, for better or worse.
The first year in this world was a hellish one for Jonathan. Adonis's peers shunned him for his strange behavior and lack of skills. Only one person showed him a shred of kindness: Theron, a veteran swordsman who oversaw equipment maintenance (essentially the clan's quartermaster).
Theron was a gruff middle-aged man with a cybernetic arm, a relic from an old battle, but he didn't carry the arrogance many warriors here did. On a few occasions, Theron offered Jonathan some unsolicited advice or extra rations when he noticed the boy half-dead from training.
"You've got heart, young Blud," Theron told him once as he helped Jonathan wrap a sprained wrist. "But heart means little without strength. You need to find your fire. You come from war gods, there's a blaze in you somewhere. Find it, or…" He didn't finish, but Jonathan knew the implication: find it or you'll die.
The years rolled on. Jonathan survived each harsh season of the Agoge by grit and by learning to pick his battles. He improved slightly in swordsmanship, going from abysmal to merely below average. He picked up spear training as well (the clan emphasized spears, given Ares's traditional weapon was a spear).
With a spear, Jonathan felt a bit more comfortable, perhaps because its longer reach allowed him to compensate for weaker close combat skills. He never became great, but occasionally he managed to hold his own, or occasionally in sparring matches he'd once lost in seconds.
Still, no one was impressed. By the time Adonis reached his late teens, his siblings and even younger cousins had far outstripped him. Some of his brothers had awakened battle-auras, visible manifestations of their warlike spirits. One sister could literally wreath her blade in flames. Another brother, it was said, to have contracted with one of Ares's sons. A minor fear god named Phobos who was guiding and training him. And Adonis? He had nothing to show. No battle aura, no high combat proficiency, no special blessing, no demigod abilities whatsoever.
When Jonathan turned 20 (as Adonis), he faced a grim milestone. House Blud had a custom: if a main family child reached adulthood (21 years old in the Agoge) without distinguishing themselves or showing promise, they would be stripped of their name and casted out. It was a brutal practice meant to cull weakness from the clan.
Jonathan knew it was coming; he had heard the whispers since he was 18. "Adonis will be cast out like a crippled pup," they said. "The disgrace of the main family." It made Jonathan's blood boil with frustration, but there was little he could do to change their minds. He needed the clans resources to help him look for his uncle. He trained harder than ever, pushing his body to the brink day after day, hoping for a breakthrough. But nothing ever came.
On the eve of his 21st birthday, the hammer fell. A council was called in the Great Hall of Blud. Jonathan stood before a gathering of clan officers, house leaders, empire officials, majority if not all were his family members.
Leonidas Blud himself presided, towering on the throne-like chair at the end of the hall. Leonidas was as imposing as ever, now in his late fifties, though he looked no older than forty, with long black dreadlocks, shaved sides, and a neatly trimmed beard. His eyes glinted like dark fire. He was every inch the war-god's son, radiating strength. Jonathan felt a lump in his throat at being in his father's presence.
This was perhaps only the second time he'd stood this close to Leonidas in this life. The first had been a formal family dinner years ago, during which Leonidas had barely acknowledged Adonis's existence.
Leonidas's voice echoed in the hall as he spoke: "Adonis Blud." Just hearing it made Jonathan tense up. "You carry the blood of Ares, yet you have failed to ignite it. You have brought no honor or strength to this house."
The patriarch's tone was cold, each word a dagger. Murmurs of agreement swept through the assembled clan members; Jonathan could feel the weight of dozens of disdainful eyes on him.
"In accordance with our law," Leonidas continued, "you are hereby expelled from the Blud Clan and all of it's branching houses. You will relinquish the name 'Blud' and all privileges it entails. As of this moment, you are no kin of ours."
The words were harsh but expected. Jonathan clenched his fists at his sides. A part of him wanted to scream in protest, to explain that it wasn't his fault, that he wasn't even truly Adonis. But that would either sound like madness or weak excuses, and neither would change the outcome. So he stayed silent, swallowing the bitter bile of defeat.
Leonidas's gaze bore into him one last time. Perhaps there was a flicker of disappointment in the patriarch's eyes or maybe Jonathan imagined it. "You are to leave the house of blood and New Sparta by tomorrow. I suggest you do not stay in the star system and go somewhere else. Go find a life elsewhere, if you can," Leonidas said. Then, with finality: " Now begone from my sight."
And that was it. Jonathan left the hall in a daze, the murmurs of his relatives trailing after him like jeering specters. Some of his siblings watched with crossed arms and thin, and stoically cold expression were on their faces. The only person he could tell was slightly hurt was his mother. Her hand was trembling, she hid it well, but Jonathan could see the slight movements.
Not one spoke up in his defense. Not one objected. In their eyes, this was the natural order, the weak fall so the strong can rise.
That night, Jonathan sat alone on a hill overlooking the Blud estate, a sprawling fortress compound illuminated by crystal lights under the twin moons. He had no tears left to shed; mostly he felt numb. He thought of his family and friends back on Earth, of Uncle Jasen, of everything he'd endured in this world.
"Eight years," he whispered to the night sky. It had been roughly eight years since that fateful evening in Baltimore. In that time he had never given up hoping for a way home, yet now he was further from it than ever, cast out, essentially at the bottom of the social ladder in a violent universe.
But as much as despair gnawed at him, Jonathan also felt a strange sense of liberation. The constant pressure and scorn of the Blud clan were behind him. Perhaps, freed from them, he could still forge his own path. Maybe he could even search for Uncle Jasen even without the clan's resources, especially since he won't be stuck on the planet anymore.
Jonathan inhaled the cool night air and made a quiet vow: he would survive, and he would keep looking for answers.
The next morning, he departed New Sparta. With nothing but a change of clothes, a finely forged spear given by Theron (the only goodbye gift he received), and a few days' worth of rations, and a few gold coins, he took a ship that headed off-world, he didn't look back.
Jonathan no longer legally carried the surname Blud, referring to him just as "Adonis" in the expulsion decree. But in his heart, Jonathan let go of that name entirely. He wasn't truly Adonis Blud, after all. He was Jonathan, a traveler from another world. Perhaps it was better to think of himself that way.
For the next four years, Jonathan drifted through the galaxies as a mercenary. It was ironic; he had little skill, but deadly work and money has a way to even the unskilled. Many people needed meat shields and able bodies, when fighting other houses, or monsters.
Conflicts still simmered between pantheon factions, and various warlords or house rebellions often hired mercenaries for skirmishes. Jonathan ended up tagging along with a small mercenary band affiliated with a lesser clan in the Greek galaxy.
The Son's of Hephaestus, was their name. A group of people clanless, or clan rejects from all over the universe. There Johnathan learned a large number of skills he nevered new on Sparta. He learned to pilot small spacecrafts, handle firearms (yes, there were guns too, energy rifles and such, though elite warriors often preferred melee weapons enhanced by their powers), They only worked on certain level monsters and clan members, but against the clan less he was fine.
And he even picked up engineering basics for maintaining his equipment and the Son's equipment , and rudimentary magic, yes magic is real to. He had a slight talent for it, but never decided a discipline to focus on. He was better with magic and a spear than a sword, which wasn't surprising given his background, him knowing magic with his other skills, made more jobs easier. But his magic only went so far when your enemies were trained in magic for years magic, and superhuman abilities. Or they were nightmarish monsters, with magical resistant hides.
It was a hardscrabble life. Jonathan took on guarding jobs, bounty hunting (mostly catching deserting soldiers or chasing off wild mythic beasts that threatened villages from planet to planet), and occasional front-line fighting in other people's quarrels. He earned just enough for food and passage from planet to planet.
He made a few acquaintances among his fellow mercenaries and other merc companies, He faced his occasional times of hardship and betray, as he dealt with tough, scrappy people living on society's fringes, but he remained guarded and made it through, though trust was scarce in that line of work.
All the while, he kept an ear out for any hint of his uncle. He had hoped that perhaps Jasen, if he was in this universe, might have left some clues for him. But Jonathan found nothing concrete. Jasen Smith was not a name anyone recognized, nor did any of the tales or rumors ring a bell as being about an Earth man.
Earth in this universe was not a place many stayed after the war. The planet had barely recovered thanks to several groups working together, but it is still the topic of conquering, like how it was in the original book.
It was disheartening, but Jonathan refused to give up. Maybe his uncle was under an alias, or in hiding. After all, if Jasen truly wrote those books, he had foreknowledge of this world's events; then he knew where to be and what to do to stay ahead. Jonathan had to be careful as well. He rarely mentioned being from another world, and when he did (to a trusted companion after a drink, perhaps) they laughed it off as a tall tale.
Thus, Jonathan's second life marched on in struggle and obscurity. By age twenty-five (chronologically, if he counted from being 13 when he arrived), he felt old beyond his years. A lifetime of combat and survival in a foreign universe had left its mark.
He often wondered if the original hero of Beyond the New World was faring better. Probably, those books were about a grand destiny and calling, whereas he seemed to have missed his chance at one. Yet fate wasn't done with Jonathan.
Death and the Offer
It happened on a desolate moon at the edge of the Ares Galaxy, of all places. Jonathan and two platoons of the Sons of Hephaestus mercenaries had taken a contract to investigate a "demonic beast" that was terrorizing a remote mining colony. The pay was decent and bonuses if hides or pieces of the beast were found.
The mining outpost on this dusty moon was little more than a cluster of prefab shelters and tunnels bored into rock. The colonists greeted the mercenaries with desperate relief. For weeks, something had been attacking the settlement at night, leaving mutilated bodies and smashed equipment. The survivors described it as a "shadow with claws," moving too fast to clearly see. Some whispered it was a demon unleashed a god from ancient times, or perhaps a Primordial beast that slipped through a crack in reality.
On the second night of their stakeout, the demon came. It swept out of the darkness with a blood-curdling screech. The fight that ensued was chaos. In the dim light of floodlamps, Jonathan caught glimpses of the creature: a hulking, spidery form, black as ink, with too many burning red eyes. It was fast, faster than anything human. The mercenary team's energy rifles barely grazed it as it darted among the storage crates.
The beast picked off Jonathan's teammates one by one with horrifying ease. A swipe of a claw, and a man's torso was rent open; a lunge, and another merc was impaled on a barbed limb. Jonathan realized with terror that he was outmatched. Still, he gritted his teeth and fired spell after spell into the thing. A lucky hit blew off one of its spindly legs, making it shriek in rage. The creature retaliated by spitting a jet of corrosive black venom. Jonathan tried to dodge, but the fluid splashed onto his left arm, and agony flared as it ate through armor and into flesh. He screamed, falling back against a wall.
In that moment, Jonathan truly thought it was the end. The demon beast barreled into him, and pinned him to the ground. It loomed above, drooling venom from a fanged maw. In the flicker of a dying lamp, Jonathan saw his death in those slavering jaws.
Strangely, his mind went not to Earth or his uncle or even fear, but to a sense of agonizing regret. All that struggle... and it ends like this? He felt so small, so powerless.
The beast struck. Searing pain exploded in Jonathan's abdomen as claws tore through him. He choked on blood, vision dimming. The monster roared a sound of triumph, and prepared to finish it.
But then, a brilliant light pierced the darkness. For an instant, Jonathan thought it was another hallucination of that white light that had brought him here. The demon hesitated, its many eyes narrowing at the brightness.
With a snarl, it recoiled, scuttling back as if afraid. Jonathan, barely clinging to consciousness, saw a hooded figure walking calmly into the fray. The light emanated from this stranger, a soft glow that filled the air.
The hooded figure extended a hand almost casually towards the demon. There was a pulse of energy. Jonathan felt the air thrum. In the next second, the monstrous creature was simply gone. One moment it was there, the next it exploded into a cloud of black ash that blew away on an ethereal wind. A single guttural screech echoed, then silence.
The demon was utterly obliterated.
Jonathan's ears rang. His head lolled to the side as he tried to focus on the hooded newcomer. The figure approached and knelt by him. Under the hood was the shadow of a face, Jonathan couldn't quite make out the features, but the voice that came was gentle, regretful.
"Such a sad life you've lived," the stranger said softly. It was a neutral voice, could've been male or female; it had a layered quality, as if several tones spoke in unison. "I am sorry for that."
Jonathan coughed, blood bubbling on his lips. He was fading fast; he could feel warmth spilling out of the gaping wound in his stomach onto the dusty ground. In the back of his mind, he knew the injury was fatal. The venom on his arm burned too, likely poisoning him. He had minutes left, at best.
He squinted up at the hooded person. "Who… who are you?" he gasped out. A crazy hope fluttered within him. Could this be God? Or a god, at least? The effortless way they dispatched the demon suggested immense power. Maybe Ares himself, or Zeus, or some angel…
The figure chuckled lightly at the question. "That's hard to say. There are levels to being a 'god'. Let's just say… I'm something beyond your current understanding." The answer was enigmatic, but it told Jonathan enough: this was no ordinary deity. Perhaps not a deity at all, but something higher, or something outside the pantheons.
A violent tremor of pain shot through Jonathan's body, making him groan. The hooded being placed a hand gently on his forehead. A white flame appeared, then a soothing coolness radiated from the flame, dulling the pain somewhat. "I'm sorry to say this, but you're dying," the being said, almost kindly.
Jonathan gave a weak, wet laugh that turned into a cough. "T-tell me… something I don't know," he managed. It was absurd, he was on the verge of death, but somehow having a conversation. Maybe this was just a hallucination in his final moments. If so, at least it was comforting.
The being's hood inclined, as if nodding. "Very well. I will tell you something useful, Jonathan."
Hearing his real name spoken by this stranger sent a jolt through him. His eyes widened. He hadn't been called Jonathan in years not since he left Earth. How could this being know? It lent a clarity to the moment: this was real, not a dying dream.
"I will form a Contract with you," the hooded figure said. "And with this contract, come boons." Their tone was matter-of-fact, but Jonathan detected a hint of urgency beneath it.
A contract. That word carried great weight in this universe, the pacts between god's and mortal's that grants power. His mind swirled. Why would this powerful entity want to form a contract with him, a dying, failed nobody? He tried to speak, but only a raspy croak came out.
The being seemed to understand his confusion. "You wanted a power and a way to get back home, did you not? I can give you that. But time is short, your life slips away even as we speak."
Jonathan's vision was tunneling, darkness creeping at the edges. He felt oddly calm though. Perhaps acceptance of death was settling in. But now a ray of hope, however faint, cut through that darkness. He forced his eyes to focus on the hooded figure. "If… if I accept… this contract… will I live?" he whispered. His voice was so weak he wasn't sure the words were audible, but the being appeared to catch them.
"Not in this life," came the gentle reply. "I'm sorry. Your body is beyond saving." They said it apologetically, as if genuinely regretful that they hadn't arrived sooner. "However, if you accept, I can give you a second chance. A chance to live again, a little earlier than when you last arrived in this world."
A second chance... earlier than when I arrived... The meaning sank in slowly through Jonathan's fading consciousness. Could they mean… to send him back in time? His heart would have leapt if it had the strength. To go back, to do it over, to not be cursed with weakness, to make different choices, to perhaps truly find his uncle or a way home… It was everything he could have wished for, yet scarcely dared to imagine.
Jonathan tried to speak, but tears leaked from his eyes instead. He wasn't even sure why he was crying from relief? From fear of false hope? Everything was blurring. "Why… me?" he breathed out.
The hooded being almost sighed. "Your uncle would want me to," they said softly. "And perhaps… you can help this world." That cryptic statement sent Jonathan's mind spinning.
This being knew Uncle Jasen! Was uncle Jasen working with this entity? Or was uncle Jasen the entity? Jonathan didn't have the strength to ask.
He remembered one crucial thing: in contracts, there were always conditions. Always a price or fine print. He had seen people blessed or cursed by careless deals. With a monumental effort, Jonathan forced out a final question: "What… do you want… from me? The… price?"
The being chuckled quietly. "Smart. You know to ask for the fine print." They withdrew their hand from his forehead and instead extended it outward, palm up, as if offering a handshake or something.
Their hand glowed with a faint golden sigil that hovered above it. "Don't worry, I'm not here to take your soul or bind you into eternal servitude. The 'price', if any, is simply this: I will give you a mission. A message, if you will. Fulfill it at your own will and pace."
Jonathan could barely move at this point. Each breath was shallower than the last. But his mind clung desperately to the being's words. "Message…?" he repeated.
"Become strong enough to find out my name," the hooded figure said. "Do that, and you will find your uncle, and the answers to returning home." The voice was calm but carried a resonance that seemed to echo in the very air, as if this was a vow etched into reality.
Find out their name… so even the identity of this being was a mystery he'd have to solve. And by doing so, he'd find Uncle Jasen and a way home. It sounded almost like a riddle or a quest objective from a game, but Jonathan's heart swelled. It was a path. A purpose laid out clear: grow strong, uncover truth, reunite with family, and maybe go home. That was more than he'd ever had in this life so far.
His vision was almost completely dark now. The pain had subsided into a cold numbness; he knew death was seconds away. Jonathan summoned the last ounce of his will. With a trembling bloodied hand, he reached out toward the glowing sigil in the figure's palm.
"I… accept," he whispered. Perhaps only his lips moved, but the being seemed to sense his agreement.
"Then it is done," the stranger said softly. They gently clasped Jonathan's outstretched hand with theirs, the glowing sigil passing from their palm into Jonathan's. For a brief moment, Jonathan felt a warmth flood through him, a peaceful, all-encompassing warmth. His pain vanished entirely, and the world went quiet. In that tranquility, he heard the being's final words, distant and echoing in his mind:
"I bless you, Jonathan Colt, that no curse shall ever again hinder your soul's potential. Sleep now, and be reborn under better stars."
Jonathan wanted to say thank you, but he couldn't form the words. His consciousness was drifting away, fading into that gentle warmth. The last thing he saw as his eyes closed was the faint outline of the hooded figure bathed in light, watching over him like a guardian angel or perhaps something far greater.
Then there was nothing.
For what felt like an eternity, there was darkness. Not the cold, frightening dark of death as he'd imagined, but a comfortable, womb-like darkness. Jonathan had no form in this void, just a tiny spark of awareness floating in a sea of silence. He wasn't sure if he was dreaming or truly dead or in some kind of limbo.
Slowly, sensation began to return, entirely new sensations, muffled and strange. He felt as though he were being carried, enveloped in warmth. Muffled sounds came to him: voices, indistinct at first, then gradually clearer.