a simple blacksmith in greece

When you hear "Percy Jackson universe," you'd think you'd end up somewhere cool like Camp Half-Blood, hanging out with demigods or, at the very least, somewhere around the time of Hercules. Nope, not me. I got sent so far back in time that even Hercules' parents were probably still swiping right on each other in Olympus.

Hi, my name's David, and yes, I've been isekai'd into the Percy Jackson universe. How did it happen? No clue. One moment I was living my average, boring life; the next, I woke up in what I can only describe as IKEA's afterlife showroom. It is a completely white room, with minimalist vibes, a single table, and one lonely piece of paper. On the paper, in big bold letters, was a question:

Pick two of your favorite characters.

Now, I don't know about you, but I'm a sucker for hypotheticals. So I thought, why not? I chose Archer Emiya because, let's face it, who doesn't want an unlimited arsenal of badass weapons? Plus, his tragic backstory and ideals always hit me in the feels. Then I picked Godou Kusanagi from Campione. The guy has the powers of literal gods but is still annoyingly humble. He's not edgy, doesn't whine, and genuinely wants to help people just because he can. In short, he's the kind of protagonist I wish we had more of these days.

Boom. Choices made. I blinked, and suddenly, I wasn't in IKEA's heavenly department anymore. Instead, I was standing in a city that looked like it belonged in a museum's "Ancient History" section.

And then it hit me. Not just the realization that I wasn't in Kansas anymore, but also these... memories. Memories that weren't mine. They just popped into my head, floating around like they belonged there. I froze. And, being the genius I am, I stood in the middle of the street, wide-eyed, looking like someone who just discovered Wi-Fi for the first time.

People were staring. Like, really staring. And let me tell you, nothing makes you feel more self-conscious than the judgmental gaze of ancient strangers. So, naturally, I panicked, ducked behind the nearest stone house, and started hyperventilating like a pro.

Three panic attacks later, I managed to calm down enough to piece together some basic facts:

I was in some ancient city.I had new memories—ones that felt like a weird mix of Archer's combat skills and Godou's divine instincts.I had absolutely no idea what I was doing.

So there I was, crouching behind some stranger's house, trying to figure out how I'd gone from binge-watching Netflix to starring in my own historical drama. All I knew was that I needed a plan, and fast. 

It took me nearly an hour to calm down after my panic attack. That was five years ago. And let me tell you, my life here has been a weird mix of survival, self-discovery, and occasionally beating up Bronze Age idiots who think robbing a clueless stranger is a good idea.

When I first arrived, everything was a mess. I didn't know the language, I had no friends, and my skin color stood out like a sore thumb. Nobody here had ever seen someone like me. To them, I was the strange mute guy with "weird" skin, and trust me, people in this era aren't exactly subtle about staring.

But let's rewind to that first day. I discovered I had inherited not just memories but also the skills and abilities of the characters I picked. How did I figure that out? Well, someone decided it'd be a brilliant idea to mug the wide-eyed foreigner. This guy—let's call him Dumbass with a Bronze Knife—thought I was easy prey. He lunged at me, and before I even realized what was happening, I sidestepped like I'd been training for years and planted him face-first into the dirt with one hand. It wasn't until I stood over him that I thought, Wait, where did that come from?

The first two years were rough. I didn't know the language, and without that, I couldn't even barter properly. My survival boiled down to raw strength. I lucked into work when some guy's cow died, and I offered to, uh, cow myself. Basically, I hauled plows and did all the heavy lifting that a cow normally would. It wasn't glamorous, but it gave me a place to sleep (a barn) and just enough food to not starve.

Once I started earning a bit of money, things got easier. The locals still didn't trust me, but as long as I got the job done, they didn't care. People would just point, grunt, and wave money at me. I didn't need words to swing a hammer or carry sacks of grain.

By year two, I'd picked up enough of the language to communicate without just pointing at things like a caveman. With that, I started saving up for something better. Eventually, I managed to buy a small plot of land near the outskirts of the city. The guy selling it was more than happy to take my money, even if he clearly thought I was insane for wanting it.

Now, let me tell you about my house. Calling it a "house" might be generous. It was a glorified stone hut with self-made cement, but hey, it had walls and a roof. The real highlight? The forge. That's right—I built myself a forge capable of working iron. I mean, this was the Bronze Age, and these people were still geeking out over shiny tin. Meanwhile, I was over here crafting iron tools and weapons like I was auditioning for Forged in Fire.

Iron tools brought in money—a lot of money. I became the guy you went to when your bronze sword snapped like a twig. Of course, success comes with its own set of problems. People got jealous. Every few weeks, some genius would decide to rob me, thinking they could take the "weird guy" down. That didn't go well for them.

My solution? Public humiliation. Anyone who tried to rob me would wake up tied to a wooden pole in the town square with "THIEF" painted across their forehead. Word got around fast. After a few months, everyone decided it wasn't worth the risk.

And that's how I went from clueless time traveler to blacksmith extraordinaire, all while surviving in an era that didn't even have indoor plumbing. It's not exactly the hero's journey I imagined, but hey, it's my life now.

And so, that was my life for the first five years. Hard work, dealing with jealous neighbors, and occasionally teaching wannabe thieves that stealing from "the weird guy" was a one-way ticket to public humiliation. Good times.

Anyway, let me tell you about the place I ended up in. The country's name was Σίπυλος (Sipylus), and the current king was Tantalus, son of Zeus. Yeah, that Zeus—serial dater, lightning enthusiast, and general pain in everyone's divine backside. At first, I couldn't put my finger on why Tantalus sounded familiar, but I knew he was that guy. You know, the one in myths who screws up so badly it becomes a cautionary tale for generations.

Speaking of myths, did you know people here won't say Hades' name? Like, ever. They just call him "The Rich One." At first, I thought it was some kind of ancient branding thing, like, "Hades™: Where Your Afterlife Investments Grow!" But apparently, it's more like the Voldemort situation—if you say his name, it's bad luck or something. Honestly, I kind of respect it. If I were the god of the dead and someone was casually name-dropping me, I'd probably haunt them for kicks too.

Two Days Later

Then it hit me—Tantalus! That guy! The memories came flooding back, and I remembered why his name felt like a giant flashing DO NOT TRUST sign.

Here's the tea: a few days ago, a messenger showed up in town with news. Apparently, Tantalus had been doing the rounds, making waves in every city, and people were whispering about how something wasn't quite right with him. That jogged my memory, and I realized: this dude is the reason the word tantalizing exists.

Why? Oh, just because he thought it'd be a great idea to cook his own son and serve him to the gods for dinner. Yep, you heard that right. He looked at his kid and thought, Hey, that's a five-star meal waiting to happen. Spoiler: the gods weren't impressed.

Now, if you're thinking, "What kind of punishment do you give someone who tries to feed their child to literal deities?" The answer is: the kind that makes you an eternal meme. They sent him to Tartarus, where he's stuck forever surrounded by water he can't drink and fruit he can't reach. I mean, imagine being the guy whose punishment is the ancient equivalent of a YouTube buffering symbol.

Honestly, I can't decide what's worse: the eternal thirst or knowing that every time people use the word tantalizing, they're low-key laughing at you.

But hey, at least I'm not the guy who tried to turn family dinner into a family dinner.

Oh, absolutely, there's another myth about Tantalus—because apparently, cooking your son and trying to feed him to the gods wasn't enough to ruin his Yelp rating. This one involves a golden dog, a guy named Pandareus, and enough absurdity to make you question how myths were even created in the first place.

Let me break it down for you. So Tantalus, being the overachiever in bad decisions that he is, teamed up with his buddy Pandareus. Now, Pandareus wasn't just some random dude; he was blessed by Demeter to never get indigestion. That's right, the goddess of the harvest looked at this guy and said, "You know what? This dude needs an iron stomach. Enjoy your eternal cheat days, pal."

Anyway, these two geniuses hatched a plan to steal a magic golden dog. Why? Because ancient myths don't need logic; they run on chaos and bad ideas. This wasn't just any golden dog, though. This was a dog created by Hephaestus—yes, the same Hephaestus who's Zeus' son—to guard baby Zeus. You know, back when Zeus was hiding from his dad, Kronos, who had a nasty habit of eating his kids like they were popcorn.

Let's pause for a second, because this story has layers of nonsense that need unpacking:

Hephaestus made the dog.

Hephaestus is Zeus' son.

This dog was guarding Zeus when he was a baby.

Meaning Hephaestus made this dog before Zeus grew up and had kids.

Yeah, I'll give you a moment to let the timeline implode in your brain.

Anyway, Tantalus and Pandareus stole this golden, god-made, timeline-defying dog. Why? Because apparently, Tantalus looked at the world and thought, You know what I need to do today? Steal a divine puppy. Who even does that?! Did he think he could just toss it a bone and call it a day?

As you might expect, this did not end well for either of them. Zeus, being Zeus, found out and was not thrilled that someone jacked his golden guard dog. Pandareus fled and got turned to stone—classic punishment. Tantalus, meanwhile, just added this to his growing résumé of "Reasons I'm Going to Tartarus."

Honestly, between cooking his son and stealing a god dog, Tantalus deserves every bit of eternal torment he got. Stealing a magic golden dog? That's not even evil—it's just weird.