Join a young Demigod as he fights, learns, loves, and adventures both by himself and with his newfound companions while he struggles to discover his own nature.
[DISCLAIMER: THE PERCY JACKSON SERIES AND ALL INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY OF THE UNIVERSE BESI...
I'm still not quite dead. It's good to see all of you again. Welcome back to the book. It's good to be back. I wanna preface this and the other parts of the series by saying:
I do not own anything in the Percy Jackson series, character or otherwise. I only hold the rights to my original character and his actions. Please do not copyright strike me again.
I'm going to "cast" the gods. Mostly so you can visualize when you read these. Also I'll do that with certain important characters like Chiron. None of the mc's though because they've already got established book appearances.
And Y/N. Well, he's you. Aside from a couple teeny tiny little details. Anyway! I'm getting off track. Let's get back!
With that being said, I hope you all enjoy it! And:
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[Percy's POV]
Look, I didn't want to be a half-blood.
If you're reading this because you think you might be one, my advice is: close this book right now.
Believe whatever lie your mom or dad told you about your birth, and try to lead a normal life. Being a half-blood is dangerous. It's scary. Most of the time, it gets you killed in painful, nasty ways.
If you're a normal kid, reading this because you think it's fiction, great. Read on. I envy you for being able to believe that none of this ever happened.
But if you recognize yourself in these pages. If you feel something stirring inside stop reading immediately. You might be one of us. And once you know that, it's only a matter of time before they sense it too, and they'll come for you.
Don't say I didn't warn you.
My name is Percy Jackson.
I'm twelve years old. Until a few months ago, I was a boarding student at Yancy Academy, a private school for troubled kids in upstate New York.
Am I a troubled kid?
Yeah. You could say that.
I could start at any point in my short miserable life to prove it, but things really started going bad last May, when our sixth-grade class took a field trip to Manhattan. Twenty-eight mental case kids and two teachers on a yellow school bus, heading to the Metropolitan Museum of Art to look at ancient Greek and Roman stuff.
I know it sounds like torture. Most Yancy field trips were.
But Mr. Brunner, our Latin teacher, was leading this trip, so I had hopes. Mr. Brunner was this middle-aged guy in a motorized wheelchair. He had thinning hair and a scruffy beard and a frayed tweed jacket, which always smelled like coffee.
