Let the rain be blood! ( War Game )

The Art of War (or, More Like, the Art of Total Panic)

Two days, I told myself. 

Two whole days to come up with some genius plan to survive the literal war zone Camp Half-Blood was about to turn into.

After Chiron's announcement, I'd slunk back to my cabin—Cabin 3, aka the place where solitude is the main attraction. It was just me, some dust bunnies, and the soft sound of waves lapping the shore nearby. Peaceful, right? Not today. Today, my cabin was a mess. The floor was littered with papers, rough sketches of battle plans, strategies—well, "strategies" is a generous term. It looked more like the scribblings of someone having a nervous breakdown, which was pretty accurate.

I had diagrams of the camp's layout, lists of possible hiding spots, and notes on every camper I could think of. Clarisse? "Hit hard, hit fast." Annabeth? "Too smart—don't bother outthinking her." Hermes cabin? "Trap masters. Avoid all obvious paths." It was like preparing for a final exam, except the stakes were much higher than failing algebra.

I'd spent hours sitting cross-legged on the floor, trying to come up with some brilliant plan that would make me the unexpected victor. But with every minute that passed, it became painfully clear that I wasn't going to out-strategize these people. They had cabins full of kids ready to charge into battle for them. I had... myself.

You know what? 

Screw this.

I stared down at one of the crumpled diagrams of camp and sighed. It was useless. I could plan all day, but nothing was going to save me if Clarisse came charging at me with her spear or if Annabeth caught me in one of her annoyingly perfect traps. Being kind and reasonable wasn't going to get me out of this alive.

That's when it hit me: Maybe it's time to stop being kind.

All this time, I've been the guy who tries to save everyone, who avoids hurting people unless absolutely necessary. I've been "the good guy." But let's be real—being the good guy wasn't going to cut it this time. I had to go full-on warrior mode. No more Mr. Nice Percy.

It's time to embrace the chaos.

I stood up, kicking aside the papers scattered across the floor. Strategy? Overrated. I didn't need a flawless plan. I needed to be unpredictable. If they thought they knew me—well, they were about to meet a whole new Percy Jackson.

With a new sense of determination, I made my way to the camp's armory. There was no way I was going into this fight empty-handed. Sure, I had Riptide, my trusty celestial bronze sword, but I was going to need more than just a single weapon. If I was going to play dirty, I needed options.

Time to gear up.

I rummaged through the armory, grabbing whatever caught my eye. First, I snatched up a couple of daggers—small, lightweight, easy to conceal. Perfect for throwing or getting in close. Then, some throwing knives. I wasn't exactly an expert with those, but how hard could it be? Pointy end goes in the enemy, right?

Next, I grabbed a short sword. It was heavier than Riptide but would give me some versatility in case I needed something for closer combat.

Then, I paused. My eyes landed on a gleaming trident in the corner, almost glowing in the dim light of the armory.

Oh yeah, that's happening.

I grabbed the trident and gave it a little spin. It was heavier than I expected, but something about holding it felt right—like I was channeling the power of my dad himself. It wasn't practical, but it was definitely intimidating. And if nothing else, I could freak some people out with it.

I stuffed my weapons into a bag and slung it over my shoulder, feeling like some kind of half-blood action hero.

Back at my cabin, I laid everything out on the bed: daggers, throwing knives, a short sword, Riptide, and the trident. It looked like I was preparing to take on a small army, which, now that I thought about it, wasn't far from the truth. I sat on the edge of my bed and looked at the mess of weaponry before me.

So this is it.

 Two days to turn myself into a total war machine.

I couldn't afford to hesitate anymore. If I wanted to survive, I had to stop holding back. I couldn't be the Percy who worried about making friends or being liked. In the war games, everyone was the enemy—even Annabeth if it came down to it.

The next day was all about practicing. I spent hours out in the woods, testing out the daggers and throwing knives. To my surprise, I wasn't half bad with them. Sure, I missed the target a few times (okay, more than a few times), but by the end of the day, I could at least hit a tree without accidentally throwing the knife backward.

Progress. 

I'll take it.

The trident? Well, let's just say it wasn't exactly the easiest thing to swing around. I tried practicing with it in the clearing near the beach, but I kept getting it stuck in the ground. I even tried some water-based moves, but honestly, it was a lot harder to look cool with a trident than you'd think. Still, I kept it with me. If nothing else, it was a symbol of my heritage. Maybe it would freak people out just enough to give me an advantage.

As the second day wore on, I found myself standing on the beach, staring out at the water. The sun was setting, casting a golden glow over the horizon. It was peaceful—probably the last peaceful moment I'd have before the chaos of the games kicked in. I dug my toes into the sand and let out a long breath.

Tomorrow it all starts. 

Tomorrow, everyone's going to see a different side of me.

The part of me that was scared, that wanted to play fair, was slowly fading away. In its place? Someone who was ready to do whatever it took to survive. I wasn't going to be the guy who got picked off in the first five minutes. Not this time.

No more Mr. Nice Percy.

With one last glance at the ocean, I turned and headed back to my cabin. I had one more night to prepare, and I wasn't going to waste it.