James stared.

  Aron turned his head just enough for James to see the seriousness beneath the glamour.

  "This route," Aron said quietly, "isn't it."

  James's throat bobbed.

  "This obnoxious scent tell me where a trap is anchored," Aron continued. "And that lingering fear I smell... something is indeed wrong."

  James's eyes widened.

  "And if I'm right," Aron added, "Hermez wants us to come this way."

  James tightened his grip on the cracked transit staff. "Then where—"

  Aron nodded toward the marching column. "You'll go in with them. You'll find Theo."

  James's brows furrowed. "How do I—"

  "You'll know him," Aron cut in. "He has my blessing. It smells like iron and old fire. You'll feel it the moment you're close."

  James hesitated, then nodded once, a real soldier's nod. He knew many times his lord didn't make sense, and he never had to, as both he and his lord cared about in the end were, results, but he was worried. He shouldn't be. He should just trust Aron like he used to but…

  "And if something happens?" James asked.

  Aron's tattoo pulsed again. His mouth tightened like he felt the debt tick upward. "Don't worry about me," Aron said. "Just get to Theo. Be updated on what's happening, don't trust what's happening, and always believe in the instinct I trained you with."

  James stepped into the column, shoulders squaring as he matched their rhythm. The disguise made him look like he belonged. Worse, it made him feel like he belonged, and that stirred something in him that was not comfort.

  As he marched he glanced down at his hands—golden under Freya's illusion, spotless, Olympian. His stomach twisted. He remembered striking Aron. He remembered the warmth of Aron's healing and the humiliation of being held together while screaming to fall apart.

  And now he wore the enemy's skin. James forced himself to breathe through it.

  For him. For Khorn. For everyone he had failed this past decade. Ahead, the pace of demigod arrivals slowed. Fewer portals split the air. The grid's hum softened. The column's leader muttered a command, and the unit turned toward the palace heart.

  Then a voice boomed across the false city.

  Not from mouths. From the rune grid itself. A broadcast, cold, metallic, public.

  "ATTENTION ALL UNITS. GATEWAY ACCESS TEMPORARILY SUSPENDED. INSERTION LIMIT ENFORCED: FIVE HUNDRED DEMIGODS MAXIMUM. NO ADDITIONAL DEPLOYMENTS UNTIL GRID RECALIBRATION COMPLETE."

  With that announcement, James knew. His doubts were useless, as Aron's plan was already breaking legs in the background.

  Listening to that announcement, the air trembled as if annoyed. Most demigods grumbled; a few cursed outright. Some scanned the sky for answers, because fewer numbers meant one thing only: more work.

  James smiled, knowing Hermez blood made them fast at many things and slow at patience in return. He smiled more—not from good news, but because someone competent had finally moved.

  "She's doing her job well," he murmured.

  A demigod beside him scoffed. "What?"

  James gave a lazy shrug. "Nothing. Grid's acting up. Guess we wait. Ugh…"

  The other nodded, suspicion fading. "Glory and Olympus await. A little extra work won't kill us."

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  "For Hermes," James said.

  "For Hermes," the demigod echoed, suspicion gone.

  Freya had struck. Or Odin. Or both. A rival myth pushed back. The false valley-city's perfection cracked; tunnels and portals began sealing one by one.

  'Should've happened sooner,' James thought, still tempted to spit at pagans. But late beat never.

  The column marched on. Then James spotted him.

  Theo leaned against a pillar by a side corridor—posture casual, expression bored, the exact pose of someone pretending not to wait. His hair glowed extra yellow under illusion, eyes the same arrogant gold as the rest, but James sensed the truth beneath.

  A thread, a scent. Iron and old fire, just as Lord Aron described, plus the unmistakable blessing. James slipped from formation like he belonged there and walked straight over.

  Theo's gaze flicked up, then sharpened—not from suspicion, but recognition. He saw the same weight in James that he'd felt in Khorn, on Peter.

  James stopped close enough their shoulders nearly brushed. Theo spoke without moving his lips. "You reek of him."

  James exhaled through his nose. "And you reek of resentment."

  Theo's mouth twitched. "Fair. Didn't expect to meet someone of your level here."

  "Same. Where's Peter?" James whispered.

  Theo's jaw tightened; the mask slipped for a heartbeat, showing something colder. "Alive. Barely."

  Relief hit James first. Then anger.

  Theo kept his voice low. "Hermez tortured him. Not just for amusement."

  James's fingers clenched the staff. "For what?"

  Theo's eyes flicked toward the palace core. "His daughter, apparently."

  James's brows knit.

  Theo's tone edged sharper, resentment hardening. " Something about, She was born with a talent that skipped him. Something inheritance didn't touch and because of that He hunts her like a stolen relic. Thinks Peter knows where she is. That's all I've got."

  James's stomach chilled. He remembered Lord Aron's gaze lingering on Peter more than himself—once dismissed, now clear. A daughter with speed beyond Hermez's law. A weapon. A successor. A crack in divine lineage that could slit a god's throat.

  Theo watched James's face harden and gave a single nod, confirming the larger game afoot.

  "He's desperate," Theo murmured. "That's why this cage was brought. Why the Hephaestus partnership. It's not domain defense."

  James swallowed. "He's controlling information but our lord got in his way."

  Theo's eyes narrowed. "The gateway broadcast—"

  "Asgard interference," James confirmed. " Hermez will accelerate because of it, Where's Peter exactly?"

  Theo glanced toward a lower corridor. "Detention wing. Rune locks. Hermez comes and goes like he owns time. We don't touch him yet… Where's the immortal?"

  Theo searched James's face for doubt.

  James held steady. "He's coming. Have faith."

  Theo's mouth curled. "Faith faith faith....Faith is for people who can afford mistakes. I can't."

  James leaned in, voice tight. "He's not gambling. He's calculating. If you think he'll just charge—"

  "I don't," Theo cut in. "I think he'll do worse. I know how beings like these gods and immortals think."

  James didn't argue but Theo's voice dropped lower. "If he has a plan, I need it. I'm inside the monster's throat. One slip and Peter dies. I won't carry that. So tell me—what's the plan?"

  James's eyes dropped to the transit staff, to the cracks webbing the serpents.

  Silence.

  "He told me to find you first," James said. "Said you'd smell like his blessing."

  Theo's eyes narrowed, grim amusement flickering. "Marking his tools now."

  James ignored the jab.

  "He said our route wasn't the one," James continued. "So he split us."

  Theo's gaze sharpened. "Hmmmm....i see, He's no fool. He's going for the anchor."

  James's tension spiked. "Anchor?"

  Theo's jaw clenched. "This cage has a spine. Myth nailed into reality. Hephaestus forged it. Hermez feeds it. There's always a vantage point."

  James gripped harder. Theo studied him, weighing whether he could bear the rest.

  Then Theo spoke, voice like stone.

  "If Aron destroys the anchor, the city drops. Demigods lose formation. Portals stutter. Then finally, Peter becomes movable."

  James's chest tightened. "And the cost?"

  Theo met his eyes. "If Aron swings hard enough to break myth, or the swing is too light, utter chaos…"

  James swallowed.

  Meanwhile, high above the false city, Aron climbed. Wind sliced across his face, carrying the metallic bite of runes. He moved with the steady rhythm of someone who'd scaled worse peaks in forgotten wars. Snow swallowed his steps; the mountain spine rose sharp and resilient.

  At the summit the false valley sprawled below—green and gold wound under false sky.

  Aron's lips curled, not quite a smile.

  "No repeat traps," he muttered. He set the hammer down deliberately. Blackened star-iron sank three inches into powder. A low tremor rippled outward, shaking loose drifts from higher ledges. The hammer rested like a coffin nail waiting for the final strike.

  Aron knelt, palm against the haft. His arm tattoo pulsed; pain lanced up his wrist like an old debt calling.

  'I will trust you again, Freya,' he thought.

  He inhaled deeply. Rune-metal, god-sweat, rot beneath the illusion. Then—something else. A mortal thread. A girl's scent, faint and familiar. He couldn't place it, but it lingered. He pushed it aside. Bigger threats waited.

  Rising, he lifted the hammer in both hands and stepped into the gale. One strike to ignite the chaos he needed. He paused, eyes on the weapon.

  'System, show consequences if I follow through my plan..'

  [Calculating...]

  [Warning: Cleave will trigger Oversight and future Fights.]

  [Taking karma and lowered stats, Survival percentage is 30%]

  "Better than I thought." Aron grunted. Others might have hesitated. Smart ones would have walked away but Aron had never claimed wisdom and with that thought He swung anyway.

  'Cleave.'