Young Gods | pjo & ror (Discontinued)

I ACCIDENTALLY VAPORIZE MY PRE-ALGEBRA TEACHER

Look, I didn't want to be a half-blood.

Many of the deities exchanged looks at that. They were confused, although they knew being a half-blood in that world probably differed from their definition.

"What's wrong with being a half-blood?" a lower goddess asked, only to receive a cold look from the Tyrant, causing her to cower in her seat and those around her.

Poseidon was impatient to learn more about his daughter's past; he had seen how she looked at the clothes and the palace in amazement, implying that she wasn't used to such luxury. He was curious about how she was raised, though he doubted her mortal mother could genuinely provide for her.

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.

"Why would they need to lie?" Parvati asked in concern she had grown to care for Percy during the time that they had spent together. She was excellent to her son, and got along well together.

"I am sure we'll find out," Shiva assured his wife, though just as curious. He found Percy intriguing; she was friendly and funny, especially compared to her father.

Being a half-blood is dangerous. It's scary. Most of the time, it gets you killed in painful, nasty ways.

Poseidon broke the armrest of his throne as he listened to his daughter describe her lifestyle. Hades and Zeus exchanged looks. They didn't know how their brother was going to continue to react, exceedingly if something displeased him. Though Hades also frowned in concern, Percy was too delicate and precious to be placed in constant danger.

Hercules frowned in worry; despite only meeting his cousin briefly and not interacting much with her, he could tell she was a good person.

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.

Well actually my full name is Percilla Atalanta Jackson. But most people call me Percy.

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.

Many eyebrows were raised upon hearing that she was well-behaved by those who had met her; she got into some trouble, but they were hardly her fault.

I could start at any point in my short, miserable life to prove it.

That raised many concerns. This solidifies Poseidon's belief that whoever raised his daughter was inadequate and incapable of doing it and all the more reasons why she should stay with him.

Still, things 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.