Arena's Victor: The God of Darkness |The Anak Series| [COMPLETED!]

Punishment

He sat upon his mighty throne of sleek Blackstone; deep in thought with his eyes trained on the palm of his left gauntlet; he couldn't break the staredown.

The sound of the flickering flames of the nearby torches licked his ears but remained deafened.

What had happened upon Olympus? His control in its general aspect had slipped between thinned gaps, almost like an invisible leak.

To be blunt, he didn't feel like it was him in control, more so that he was simply only a passenger of his own body at the time.

He thought he was prepared to face his brothers and sisters, his nieces and nephews.

That was clearly not the case.

Recounting the events, Perseus believed that his composure upon Olympus seemingly sporadically drifted, and had been replaced with a burning fury.

"An illusion?" The God quietly phrased aloud. "A trick meant to disturb my schemes?"

No longer could he rely on the twist of his physical appearance to invade Camp Half-Blood, that much was clear. The Olympians knew of his involvement in the young huntress' quest, resulting in an unfortunate ultimatum.

Perseus' armored boot clicked the tile beneath him in a rhythmic pattern; he had requested the natures of Tartarus and its inhabitants to prepare for war at the given notice.

Now that he was unable to congregate with the demigods, Perseus' plans to raid his father Kronos' fortress were complexly skewed.

"Damn the Fates and their obvious meddling, pitiful deities with no lack of dishonor," he raised his left hand once again as his eyes locked on the appendage.

Was it possible that they were competent enough to manipulate his emotions, provoking the difficult scenario that was now his reality?

Perseus frowned, he doubted it.

Rather, he believed there may be a separate problem that incited his unwillful actions, something that influenced him to commit such an antithetical act.

Still staring down upon his palm, he considered the many possibilities of his own unfortunate development.

If he had to describe it...

Perseus would depict such as: an alter-ego. An overbearing personality that represented his thriving hate for the Olympians.

MovKar...?

Could it be that effectuating the Primordial Power that MovKar drew upon; molding the mask of the Arena's Victor into an absolute vengeful tool, could be the culmination of his own destruction?

An ostensibly interesting theory, possibly too convoluted to consider fantasy.

Perseus shook his head, blinking slowly to rid himself of looming suspicions and assumptions. He had more crucial relevance to fixate his attention on.

"What's done is the past, for the future of my dominion is what I must protect. My world is slowly perishing as the parasites and their kingpins blindly malnourish her."

Taking a deep breath, Perseus closed his eyes as he comfortably melted into the lingering shadows cast by the room's light.

He was capable of quote-on-quote "flashing"; the dramatic teleportation that most deities sought most practical, however, as a natural-born hunter, the shadows were more customary to his habits.

Shadow travel had become quite relaxing for his mind and body, a cool sensation that numbed his aches and concerns.

But alas, one such as he could not falter and simply relish in the bath of comfort; time is not so kind to those who procrastinate that which is critical.