Percy Jackson: As a Gamer In This Dark World

"Seems you've got the luck of the devil himself to survive in a place like this for so long," the man muttered, his voice gruff but laced with an odd note of wonder. His eyes flicked up to the lifeless woman who had 'birthed' me, and he let out a long, weary sigh.

He seemed to understand immediately what had happened—how I came into this world. Yet, despite the horror of the situation, he just looked down at me, his expression unreadable as I clung to him with all the strength my tiny hands could muster.

"I know it's bad luck," he said finally, shaking his head. "But I can't just leave you here… Maybe Trista will take care of you."

With surprising gentleness, he retrieved a cotton blanket from his saddlebag and swaddled me carefully. The fabric smelled faintly of sweat and dust, but I didn't care. The warmth it provided was a godsend, soothing the chill that had settled deep into my tiny body.

As the man mounted his horse, cradling me securely in one arm, I allowed myself a moment of relief. Whatever had brought me to this nightmare of corpses, at least I was no longer alone. Though I couldn't shake the feeling that the Fates were involved in all of this, for now, their interference seemed to have brought me a sliver of luck.

The gentle rhythm of the horse's trot, combined with the warmth of the blanket and the man's steady hold, soon lulled me to sleep.

When I woke, I stretched instinctively, letting out a yawn as my eyes fluttered open. The first thing I noticed was that I was no longer wrapped in the rough cotton blanket. Instead, I wore clean baby clothes, soft against my skin.

Blinking, I took in my surroundings. Above me was the white ceiling of a tent, its spacious interior supported by a sturdy wooden pole in the center, with smaller poles reinforcing the sides. Sunlight filtered through the fabric, casting warm, diffused light across the space.

As I turned my head, I saw the man who had rescued me—Jake, I overheard him called—sitting across from a woman. They appeared to be deep in conversation, their voices low but distinct enough for me to hear.

Though I realized they weren't speaking English, I somehow understood every word.

"Is this your idea of a joke?" the woman asked, irritation evident in her tone. Her sharp gaze could have cut through steel.

Jake sighed, rubbing the back of his head. "Just listen. I couldn't leave him there. And I know you've recently… Never mind," he trailed off, his voice faltering as the woman's glare grew even sharper.

She looked ready to gouge his eyes out. But after a tense moment, her anger gave way to exhaustion, and she buried her face in her hands.

"Jake," she began, her voice softer now, but no less firm. "I know you mean well, but this is no place for a child—especially one who came from that place. If word gets out that he's from a purged town…" She paused, shaking her head. "Who knows what people will think of us? A child born of death…"

She trailed off, her gaze distant. "I've heard old tales of such things happening, but I never believed it was actually possible."

Percy's POV

"As did I—until I found him," Jake said, his voice carrying a weight of conviction. His gaze shifted toward me, and I realized I was staring at them both. When our eyes met, he offered a small smile, one of reassurance or maybe hope.

Trista followed his line of sight, her sharp features softening as her eyes landed on me. She turned back to Jake, who now met her with a pleading expression. Her sigh was long and heavy, the kind that hinted at battles fought not just on the field but deep within.

She glanced back at me one last time, and in that moment, I saw something flicker in her gaze—something far beyond the present. A memory, perhaps. Pain. Loss.

"Fine," she said finally, her voice weary but resolute. "I'll take care of him. But I'm going to need a raise and time off from battle."

Jake smiled, relief evident on his face. "Anything you need. But I can't give you more than a year or so. Winter isn't far off, and the fighting should slow down for a while. As for the raise, I'll see what I can do. I'll also get Mark to craft you a baby carriage."

Trista nodded, accepting the compromise as Jake stood and left the tent, his heavy boots crunching against the earth outside.

With a sigh, Trista rose to her feet as well, and for the first time, I got a proper look at her.

She was young, no older than her early to mid-twenties, but her face told a different story—a familiar one. I had seen that look countless times during my battles. The weary, hardened expression of someone who had survived more than their fair share of bloodshed.

Yet as her eyes met mine, her features softened. A tenderness washed over her face, and her soft brown eyes glistened as though tears threatened to spill. Her clothes were simple—a brown cloth shirt and tight, practical pants. The design reminded me of medieval attire, though I didn't have time to dwell on it.

She bent down, lifting me gently into her arms.

"What am I thinking…" she murmured to herself before letting out a soft chuckle. "Still, you are kind of cute."

Her rough, calloused hands brushed my cheek with surprising gentleness, a maternal warmth that eased the tension in my tiny body. I could feel the strength in those hands, hardened by years of wielding weapons, yet now they held me as if I were the most fragile thing in the world.

As she looked at me, the sheen in her eyes grew more prominent, and a single tear slipped down her cheek, landing softly on my forehead.

"You remind me so much of him…" she whispered, her voice trembling. "You even have his eyes."

I blinked up at her, and the pieces clicked into place. She must have lost a child—maybe even recently. That's why Jake had brought me to her. He wasn't just saving me; he was trying to save her, too. Giving her a chance to heal by giving her someone to love again.

I'd seen it before, in my previous life as a demigod. Parents who lost children would sometimes find solace in adopting another. It didn't erase the pain, but it gave them something to hold onto—a purpose to keep going.

"Oh my…" she said softly, wiping the tear from my forehead before brushing her own eyes dry.

Before I could dwell on the moment, my stomach let out a loud grumble, breaking the silence. Hunger hit me like a wave, sharp and insistent.

Trista laughed lightly, her lips curving into a warm smile. "Seems like someone is hungry," she said, cradling me closer.

She carried me out of the tent, and for the first time, I got a proper feel for the world around me.