"Lead the way," I said.
The waitress smiled. She turned and glided toward a velvet-lined hallway off to the side of the main floor, where the lights were dimmer, the air carried the sound of glamours.
I picked up my winnings and followed her.
The hallway was quiet.
But just before I crossed the threshold into the private room—something hit me.
It was like a flashbulb going off inside my mind.
A black sun.
Except... this one wasn't black.
It was gold.
I stumbled, hand bracing on the wall. The waitress didn't seem to notice.
Buried in the center of my soul, a shard.
Not of Olympus. Not of any Earth mythology.
A piece of the Elden Ring.
The music inside me—normally little flickers of sound, the occasional guitar string, a breath of harp—rose.
A symphony.
Violins swelling. Horns rising. A choir of a thousand unseen voices pressing against the walls of my chest. I gasped—just once—and the air tasted like old blood.
My fingers twitched.
I could feel the chip weight in my palm.
But now… so very small.
And the door ahead?
Didn't look so glamorous anymore.
The waitress pushed it open with a smile that belonged on something that hunted.
"Right this way," she said, as if I hadn't just nearly collapsed under the weight of a cosmic relic in my spine.
I stepped in.
And froze.
The air inside the VIP room was thicker. Not in a smoky, nightclub kind of way. In a pressure kind of way. Like reality had been thinned out to accommodate what was sitting in here.
Gods.
Plural.
Some minor, their power flickering like candlelight. I saw a river spirit sharpening cards at a baccarat table, an older hearth deity chuckling over a game of Go with something that looked suspiciously like a living statue.
But others...
Weren't Greek.
A feathered serpent lounged in the corner, coils wrapped artfully around a crescent-moon-shaped bench. It held a martini glass delicately between two talons, its tongue flicking out occasionally to snatch olives from the rim. Quetzalcoatl, maybe. Or something adjacent.
Across the room, a woman with six arms and eyes glowing white rolled her dice, all her hands had fingers crossed.
At another table, a black man with a gigantic head that seem to have two brains in a tailored suit played poker with a Japanese kami.
I walked in slow, the chips in my hand suddenly feeling like Monopoly money.
And somewhere in the back of the room, the compass in my pocket kept pulling.
Still pointing forward.
Still telling me—
My heart wants something in here.
The compass was hot in my pocket.
I passed gods. Spirits. Avatars. None acknowledged me directly, but none stopped me either.
The table was near the center of the room.
A wide, circular thing carved from petrified wood and inlaid with lapis, starlight, and what looked disturbingly like fossilized teeth. It glowed faintly—like it was breathing.
There were six seats, all filled.
And as I stepped closer, the seventh seat appeared.
I didn't speak. I just sat.
The moment I did, a golden flicker burst across the felt in front of me—and a pair of cards landed, face down, edges still smoking faintly with divine heat... Blackjack.
The further they went, the stranger the casino became.
Rhea didn't know how long they'd been walking. The carpets hadn't repeated once. The ambient music kept changing—sometimes swing, sometimes synth, sometimes just wind chimes.
"We should've dropped breadcrumbs," Rhea muttered, scanning the crowd again.
Elia didn't respond. Her eyes were locked on a group of teenagers playing what looked like skee-ball, except the balls were floating, and the lanes shifted mid-throw. None of them looked older than fourteen. By their clothes she could guess that they might've been fifty.
They passed a faux jungle section, complete with glowing totems and artificial mist. At some point, the slot machines gave way to arcade cabinets. Then those gave way to—
"Is that laser tag?" Rhea said, stopping mid-step.
Elia glanced over. Sure enough. There it was. A neon tunnel entrance pulsing with colored light, the sign above it flashing in softly animated letters: TAG YOUR DESTINY. WIN BIG.
People in sleek black vests zipped through translucent barriers, laughing and shouting. For a second, Rhea saw a kid run past with a glowing plastic rifle.
"I mean," Rhea said slowly, "just one game wouldn't—"
"No," Elia cut in, flat and sharp.
Rhea blinked. "It's laser tag."
"It's a trap," Elia said, grabbing her elbow and steering her forward.
"Oh come on, you don't know it's a trap."
"It's the Lotus Hotel. If it's fun, it's a trap."
"Alright, fine," Rhea muttered, pulling her jacket tighter as they passed into another wing. "Fun is illegal."
"Here?" Elia said. "Absolutely."
The deeper they went, the more the hotel seemed to stretch. The casino floor gave way to halls of increasingly surreal extravagance—VR battle domes, a extreme basketball court on trampolines, and a gigantic skating rink.
Rhea slowed at every turn.
"Is that bowling?" she asked, pointing at a glass platform where players hurled glowing spheres into cloud-shaped pins suspended midair by strings.
Elia didn't even glance. "No."
"You didn't look."
"If I look, we're both lost. Keep moving."
Rhea sighed and picked up the pace. "You'd be way more fun at parties if you untangle your knickers."
They finally reached a wide, arched corridor marked with soft, glowing signs—CONFERENCE SUITES A - K—and the atmosphere changed instantly. The dreamlike dazzle gave way to something cooler, sleeker, almost... professional.
The crowd here was tighter, more focused. Bellhops and enchanted carts moved swiftly between the rooms, carrying towering platters of roasted meat, fruit arrangements, and gold-accented pastries.
Rhea and Elia slowed as they neared the largest suite—Orpheus K—where dozens of cloaked figures milled around the entrance. Some wore masks, others simply kept their hoods up. They were talking in low tones, comparing scrolls, sigils, and laminated name tags that gleamed faintly with freshly printed ink.
The manager—buttoned-up, clipboard in hand, and smiling like his life depended on it—spoke with a kind of relentless cheer that didn't quite reach his eyes.
"I just want to make sure everything is up to Lotus Hotel's Excellence Specifications™," he said, beaming.
The cultist he was speaking to—a wiry guy in deep navy robes—fidgeted with his sleeves. "Everything's fine. Perfect, really. Ceremony is all set, summoning seals are drawn, guests are cloaked... no issues."
"Fantastic," the manager said, smile widening. "is the ball pit and the altar accommodations to your specifications?"
"Sanctified and blood-washable."
"Oh, excellent. Just one thing before I go—if you feel we've delivered a transcendent conference experience, please consider leaving us a review on MythAdvisor™. Five stars really helps us out."
The cultist blinked, visibly thrown. "Uh... yes. Sure?"
The manager bowed slightly and drifted away.
Rhea leaned toward Elia. "Okay. That was...a thing."
Elia nodded once. "We're close."
"You think the Hades kids are in there?"
"If they're not, then at least they are close."
They eased closer to the edge of the masked crowd, keeping to the fringes. Rhea's eyes scanned every face—or what little she could see of them. Some of the cultists stood like they'd done this a hundred times. Others were shifting nervously, clutching scrolls or murmuring to themselves.
This wing of the hotel felt older—forgotten, but still functional. The hallways narrowed. The lighting dimmed. The walls were papered with faded jungle patterns and out-of-place motivational posters. A few pinball machines lined the edges, screens still active but untouched. The sign overhead read KIDS ZONE.
And in the center of the room, they saw her.
A woman in a crisp gray suit with sleeves dirty with something red, heels clicking softly against the worn tile, stood swinging a glowing rope with smooth rhythm. Her hair was perfectly pulled back, her posture impossibly still.
Two children were with her.
A girl, maybe twelve, sharp-eyed and silent, stood just outside the rope's arc—watching it turn like it might decide to lash out at any moment.
In the center of the loop, a little boy—no older than ten—was jumping in place, muttering numbers under his breath.
The rope hummed softly, glowing gold. It didn't touch the floor.
Rhea stepped cautiously into the room.
Elia froze mid-step. Her eyes narrowed the moment they landed on the woman.
"…That's Alecto," she said under her breath.
Rhea blinked. "Wait. The Alecto?"
Elia nodded once. "Fury. One of the three. Hades' fixer."
Before Rhea could react, the woman looked up.
Her expression was... neutral. Not warm, not cold. Just tired, professional, and very much aware of everything.
"Ah," she said. "Your timing is surprisingly good. It must be your lucky day."
The jump rope slowed to a stop in her hands.
"I was asked to watch over young Nico and Bianca here," Alecto continued. "Temporarily. There were... certain activities occurring nearby that warranted divine oversight."
Her tone was matter-of-fact, as if she were discussing mild weather.
Bianca—the girl—stepped slightly in front of her brother, eyes narrowed, protective and suspicious. But she didn't speak.
Alecto gave the children a glance, then looked back at Rhea and Elia.
"I'll escort them out with you," she said. "They've been here too long already."
Then she blinked, as if remembering something.
"Though... weren't there supposed to be three of you?"
They moved quickly through the casino, weaving past enchanted tables, glittering pillars, and guests too dazed to notice anything but their next bet. Bianca stayed close to Elia's side, her expression taut with suspicion. Nico trailed behind, wide-eyed, taking in the golden lights and illusions with quiet discomfort.
The blackjack section came into view.
"There—that was the table," Rhea said, pointing.
They stepped into the space where Lucas had been just some minutes before.
It was empty.
No dealer. No players. No chips. Not even a napkin or half-finished drink. It was spotless.
Rhea stared. "No."
"He was right here," she said again, louder now, turning in a slow circle like the force of her voice might pull him back into existence. "Right. Here."
Elia scanned the space—sharp, controlled—but her posture had changed. Tense now. Off. Something wasn't right.
Then Alecto caught up. She walked into the cleared-out space without hesitation, heels silent on marble, her suit immaculate as ever. She stood still for a moment, like a bloodhound sniffing the air.
Then her eyes narrowed. "Of course," she murmured.
"What?" Rhea asked.
The Fury tilted her head, gaze flicking upward slightly.
"I can smell him," Alecto said. "He went deeper."
"Where?" Elia asked.
Alecto didn't answer. She just turned back to them, voice calm and final.
"Stay here."
Bianca opened her mouth to protest, but Alecto cut her off with a look.
"I'm not asking," she said. "None of you follow."
Rhea stepped forward. "You can't go alone—"
"Yes," Alecto replied, cool and absolute. "I can."
She gave the room one last glance, then started walking toward a corridor none of them had noticed before—a long stretch of velvet and gold that hadn't been there a moment ago.
The hallway grew quieter the deeper Alecto walked. Just the hush of velvet carpet under her heels and the steady pulse of lighting that seemed to adjust itself around her, like it knew who she was.
Behind her, a Lotus employee jogged to catch up.
"Ma'am, I'm sorry—this wing is restricted—"
"Is my pass still valid?" she asked, not slowing.
He glanced at his tablet, flipped through a few glowing screens.
His posture changed instantly.
"Yes, ma'am. Welcome back to the Divine Lounge."
She nodded once. The gold-trimmed doors ahead of her opened soundlessly.
The space beyond wasn't a lounge, not anymore.
It was an arena.
A sunken pit surrounded by luxurious seating and dim red light. Tiered booths overlooked the center, filled with spirits, gods, and creatures with delusions of grandeur.
At the center of the pit, a fight was in full swing.
A massive oni—skin like raw meat, fangs bared, kanabō in hand—charged forward with thunderous steps.
The one facing it?
A boy.
Shirtless, streaked with blue warpaint, caked in blood. From his fists extended long, gleaming claws. Strapped across his back was something stranger still: a double-headed bass-axe.
Alecto scanned the stands.
There.
Lord Ares—no, Mars now. She noted the stiffness in his posture, the Roman edge behind the war god's grin as he leaned forward, tossing gold into the pit like tribute.
Bellona lounged nearby, masked and silent, but her gaze never left the boy.
And Bacchus, half-draped in a wine-stained toga, sipped from a crystal goblet, smirking faintly as another cheer rose from the crowd.
Down in the pit, the oni swung.
The boy ducked, twisted, raked claws across the oni's thigh. It hunched over.
He leapt, slashing across its throat.
A spray of ichor painted the sand.
He turned, roared in triumph, arms wide—feral, defiant, triumphant.
He looked like he was born in that arena.
Alecto just watched.
And under her breath, she said, flatly, "Found you."
I swished a mouthful of warm mango Gatorade and spat it into the floor drain with a satisfying hawk tuah.
One of the imps scrubbing blood from my claws made a face. "Elegant."
I winked at him, stepped onto the lift plate, and rolled my neck until it cracked. My claws clicked as I flexed my fingers, the Adamantium glinting like they were hungry.
Above me, the crowd was already roaring.
The announcer's voice boomed overhead, magically amplified and soaked in showmanship.
"In this corner…"
The lift groaned and began to rise.
"He's got claws sharper than Apollo's cheekbones and a win streak longer than Dionysus's tab—make some noise for your new favorite Greek—LUCAS!"
The doors hissed open, and I stepped into the arena.
The crowd surged. Gods, monsters, others—throwing golden bets and celestial cocktails like confetti. I raised both arms, spun once for effect, pointed at some Minotaur-looking guy in the second row, blew a kiss at a fish women holding a bet slip, and stomped the ground three times.
Bassline. Set. Focus on me.
"And in the opposite corner…" the announcer's voice dipped lower, almost reverent.
"From the frozen wastes of the north… cursed to consume, and cursed to survive…"
The far gate clanked open.
Chains rattled.
"The great cannibal—give it up for the last true WENDIGO!"
Then the gate opened.
Seven feet tall, maybe more, though it didn't stand upright. Its skin looked like cracked ice over sinew, wrapped tight around limbs starved into shape. Its mouth stretched too wide, filled with serrated teeth that clicked as it stepped forward. Its eyes weren't glowing.
Just pale. Empty.
It moved like a animal. Barefoot. Clawed. The chains fell from its wrists like it had melted out of them.
A few gods leaned back. One of the imps behind me whimpered and bolted.
The Wendigo didn't scream.
It lunged.
I ducked low, claws raised, sliding under its first swipe. The air burned cold as it passed, thick with the smell of rot and snow.
I slashed across its ribs.
No blood. It bled black.
It twisted mid-motion, knees bending backwards, lashing out with inhuman speed.
I blocked with my forearm, staggered, and raked a backhand slash across its flank. Flesh tore.
It didn't even blink.
It lunged again.
We collided hard—adamantium on claw, flesh on bone. It raked my side. I hissed, dropped low, and uppercutted into its gut, claws sinking deep.
It bent and cracked.
But didn't fall.
Didn't even make a noise.
Oh, that's how we're playing it.
The crowd was screaming now—bets flying, gods yelling, the sound a wall of thunder behind the fight.
We circled.
It flickered left.
I caught it.
It feinted.
It scored a shallow cut across my chest. Close enough to sting.
I backed off, knuckles slick with blood, breath even.
The Wendigo straightened and looked me in the eye.
Big mistake.
My eyes burned crimson.
Twin tomoe spun inside each iris—Sharingan flaring to life.
For a heartbeat, the Wendigo froze.
Because what it saw… wasn't me.
It saw itself.
It saw blood on its hands that hadn't been spilled yet. Saw me where I wasn't supposed to be. A glimpse of a future, It's senses distorted.
That flicker of doubt was all I needed.
I surged forward—claws first—straight into its exposed chest.
My right hand punched through its ribcage—clean through. Bone shattered. I felt the break.
It shrieked—high and thin.
My left hand came up, locked around its throat—still twitching.
And pulled.
A snap. Wet. Gurgling.
The body collapsed and bled the black ichor in the ground.
I stood, holding its severed head aloft.
Still snarling. Jaw slack.
Black ichor dripped down my shoulder.
Didn't care.
I turned slowly, raising the head higher.
The arena erupted.
Coins. Fire. Chants. Screaming gods and drunk spirits. Monsters howling. Madness, joy, worship.
But I didn't smile.
Not yet.
I found Mars in the crowd—grinning, throwing gold like rain.
I tilted the Wendigo's head a little, gave the crowd a slow, mocking bow.
Ichor still ran down my arm.
The cheering echoed around me when something shifted in the air.
A flicker above me—red and purple, glowing like a dying star.
I blinked. Looked up.
Floating just above was a strange object. Long. Tapered. Wrapped in dark cloth. Pinecone-shaped.
It spun slowly, casting ripples of light—violet and crimson—across my face.
I had no idea what it was.
But the crowd did.
The noise died.
Instantly.
Even the gods fell quiet.
I looked around.
Imps froze mid-movement. One had a bag of gold, paused mid-shove. Everyone stared.
I looked back at the object.
"...Huh."
It blinked once—just once—and vanished.
So I raised two fingers in a lazy salute, turned, and walked to the exit platform. Claws still out. Black blood dripping. My chest streaked, my jaw bruised.
The doors opened with a hiss.
I stepped inside. Leaned back against the lift wall.
Let out a breath.
"Time to get cleaned up."
The lift hissed shut behind me, lowering me into the prep room. Same cracked tiles. Same scent of sweat, ichor, and magic baked into the walls.
The attendants were already waiting—nereids, velas, even one of the stoic dryads from earlier. Their togas looked different now. From white cloth to red embroidery. Threads woven in strange patterns. Rank markers, maybe. Status.
I just dropped onto the same bench, wiped the worst of the gore from my face, and let them work.
Cool cloth on my arms. Enchanted balm smeared across the claw mark on my ribs, It was already healing anyway, but I liked how her hand felt. One of the velas braided a red strip around my wrist, whispering something rhythmic—almost like a hymn, or a spell. Another carefully cleaned dried blood from my collarbone, moving with the reverence you usually saw in temple rites.
Then the curtain shifted.
Alecto of the furies walked in or at least that's what one of the nereids said.
Everyone stilled. Even the imps straightened.
She stopped in front of me, hands clasped behind her back, eyes sharp and steady.
"You shouldn't exist," she said.
I blinked, still toweling off. "Yeah, I've been told."
She didn't smile. "Not because of what you are. Because of what's in you."
I squinted. "...English, please."
"Roman," she corrected. "You've got Roman blood."
I blinked again. "Okay. Still not English."
She exhaled. "It complicates things."
"Fantastic. I always knew I was special."
Before she could elaborate, the lights dimmed—just slightly. The far end of the room pulled everyone's gaze. Even the dryad stopped mid-polish.
Something was descending.
Bronze sandals. Crimson-trimmed toga. Spear in hand. Her posture was effortless, regal. Her eyes were obsidian—cold and clear.
"I am Victoria," she said, voice ringing like a bell made of command. "Goddess of Triumph. Roman to my last breath."
I stood slowly. Barefoot. Bare-chested. Still streaked with wendigo ichor and cleaning paste.
She circled me once. Not like a predator. Like a senator inspecting a piece of marble before auction.
"You fight well," she said. "Crude. But effective. The savagery in your blood lends itself to victory."
I opened my mouth. She raised a hand.
"You have earned favor."
She withdrew something from her robes—a laurel wreath, gold-dusted.
She just put it there, like I was a statue that had won a tournament.
"You are permitted in the Arena. Any time. Any field," she paused, almost seeing If I understood, "Do not shame this honor."
And just like that, she turned and walked away back to the stands.
I stood there, towel in hand, still damp, still shirtless, laurel crown now slightly askew on my head, somehow "Under" my silly little hat.
"...Is this how athletes feel?"
Alecto said nothing.
The jinn was already waiting at the payout desk. Dressed sharp. Wreathed in low-burning smoke. His eyes were buried in a glowing scroll, tallying bets and kill counts.
"I'd like to cash out," I said, adjusting the slightly-too-regal crown.
"Of course," he muttered.
He snapped his fingers.
With a thud, a cloth sack dropped onto the counter. Embroidered with a big, stupid black money sign.
I stared. "You're kidding."
He arched a brow. "That is the default option."
"Does it have to have the money symbol?"
"No," he said flatly. "But I figured you'd appreciate the aesthetic, It's a classic for a reason."
I gave the bag a long look. "...Fair."
With a lazy gesture, he conjured a second option: a sleek black card, gold-inlaid, marked only with a swirling sigil and the words Divine Holdings — Arena Division in tiny print.
"This will auto-convert to the local currency," he said.
I looked between the card and the cartoon sack.
The bag was ridiculous.
I grinned. "Gimme the card. But I'm keeping the bag too. I earned the jingle."
The jinn sighed. "Of course you do, why have good taste anyway."
I stuffed the card into my pocket and swung the money bag over my shoulder. Clink-clink. Full Looney Tunes.
I turned toward Alecto. "Alright. I've been paid. Lead the way, Fury."
She didn't answer. Just turned and started walking, heels clicking like a metronome.
I followed, adjusting the laurel crown again. It wasn't heavy—but it sat proudly.
although It smelled weird.
Not like incense or perfume.
More like...
"Is it just me," I muttered, "or do these laurels smell kinda metallic? And—what is that—wet sock or wet fish?"
Alecto said nothing.
I sighed and shifted the money bag on my shoulder.
As we walked back into the corridor—leaving behind the bloodstains, the roar of gods, and whatever favor I'd accidentally earned—I couldn't shake the feeling that this had been the easy part of the quest.
The AC hit me like a slap.
I winced, rubbing my arm. "Okay, who decided to crank it to Hades' basement in here?"
Alecto didn't answer. She never did when I was being sarcastic. Or talking. Or breathing, really.
I adjusted the money bag on my shoulder—still jingling faintly with every step—and resisted the urge to scratch under the laurel crown. It was itchy..
My torso was still bare. The hotel attendants had done a good job scrubbing the blood off me, but nobody offered a shirt. Apparently, divine honor didn't come with complimentary wardrobe service.
We passed a few patrons—dryads, spirits, a pair of very confused satyrs—and every single one gave me a look. Some curious. Some impressed. One just kind of... terrified.
Alecto sighed. "You're worse than Dionysus."
"High praise," I said.
Back to the team. Back to the job. Back to the actual quest part of the quest.
I exhaled.
At least they wiped the gore off.
CP Bank: 300cp
Perks earned this chapter: 400cp Shardbearer (Elden Ring - Caelid Wilds) [Source] (Destined Death) Within you is a greater piece of the Elden Ring itself, granting you incredible capabilities that allow you to stand on equal footing with the Demigods themselves. You will find that all of your physical attributes have been greatly enhanced, allowing one of human stock to face off against some of the mightiest beasts around barehanded and emerge victorious. Your magical potency is nothing to scoff at either, capable of casting far more spells and incantations than you ever could have before. Additionally, this will act as a [Capstone Booster], improving the benefits you would gain from certain perks.
Milestones: Circus Maximus- Become a gladiator 200 CPLa