NOVEL NEXT Chapter 36: Chapter 35
It had only been a week since Natasha Romanoff and Yelena Belova made their grand entrance at Camp Half-Blood, and the camp was already buzzing with stories about the two "knife-wielding prodigies who could probably take on a hydra and win without breaking a sweat." Honestly, if there's one thing Camp Half-Blood loves more than over-the-top combat stories, it's new arrivals who can make an impression—and these two were like the sparkly, deadly cherry on top of that sundae.
The sisters weren't exactly the "make-a-few-friends-and-see-how-it-goes" type. No, they jumped straight into things like they were fighting monsters for fun—oh wait, they were. First stop: Kayla Knowles, a ten-year-old daughter of Apollo and the reigning archery queen of Camp Half-Blood. Kayla was pretty much a human target-destroying machine, and though she was young, she had skills that made most of the older campers look like they were still learning how to aim.
Yelena, however, wasn't here for the "shoot from a distance" thing. After about five minutes of Kayla explaining how to calculate arrow angles and adjust for wind, Yelena—probably trying to outdo every person in a five-mile radius—cut her off. "Why would I shoot from a distance when I could just stab them?" she asked, spinning a knife around her fingers like she was born with it.
Kayla just stared, her mouth hanging open like Yelena had just told her she was a wizard. "Uh, because arrows are pointy and... from a distance?"
"Right," Yelena said, twirling another knife. "But mine are better."
Kayla wasn't sure if she was horrified, impressed, or a little bit both.
Then came Katie Gardner, a sweet (but seriously intimidating) ten-year-old daughter of Demeter. Katie's power to grow plants on command was so impressive that it was borderline creepy—like, "look at that dirt patch, it's a garden now" kind of impressive. Natasha was all about it, admiring the ability to turn barren land into a magical botanical wonderland in seconds.
Yelena, being Yelena, immediately took it to a darker place.
"Can you grow a vine to trip someone?" she asked, clearly already thinking about how she could turn this into a tactical advantage.
Katie blinked. "Uh, maybe?"
Yelena nodded thoughtfully. "What about poison ivy?"
Katie hesitated. "I mean, yes, but—"
"Perfect. Let's practice," Yelena said with a grin that suggested she might be plotting something diabolical involving vines and, well, a lot of bruises.
Natasha rolled her eyes. "She's ten, Yelena. Stop trying to weaponize her."
"Hey," Yelena replied, "she's better at it than half the Ares kids."
—
But let's be real. The main reason everyone was losing their minds about the Romanoff sisters wasn't because of their sparkling personalities or their very casual approach to making friends. No, it was because they were straight-up unbeatable in a fight.
While most demigods spent their summers training to fight, sparring with each other, or occasionally throwing down with a monster or two, Natasha and Yelena had been through something called the Red Room. If Camp Half-Blood's combat lessons were like playing hopscotch, the Red Room was like being thrown into a ring with a grizzly bear and expected to come out on top. It was hardcore, intense, and (let's be honest) probably not very friendly toward your personal well-being.
So, when they stepped into the arena, things got real, real fast.
They didn't use swords or celestial bronze daggers like the usual campers. Nope, Natasha was all about her dual knives, slicing through the air like they were an extension of her own limbs. Yelena favored a spear—long-range, versatile, and dangerous enough to make even the most cocky Ares kid second-guess their life choices.
When they took on three Ares campers during their first sparring match, it was like watching a really well-choreographed action movie. By the end of it, two of the Ares campers were sprawled out on the ground, groaning, while the third was pretending he wasn't limping.
"Cheating!" one of them yelled, probably in a last-ditch effort to save face. "They're not fighting fair!"
Natasha, wiping some sweat off her forehead like she'd just been for a casual jog, raised an eyebrow. "It's not cheating if you're bad at blocking."
Yelena, who was grinning like she'd just won the lottery, added, "Also, we won. So… get better."
Their sparring quickly became the camp's new obsession. The Hermes cabin had bets going on how many opponents they could take down in under a minute. The Athena kids, always the strategists, were deep in analysis, discussing how Natasha's knife movements were "an elegant combination of efficiency and ruthlessness." Meanwhile, the Aphrodite cabin, who usually avoided anything involving dirt or sweat, showed up just to whisper about how graceful Natasha looked when she kicked someone in the face.
---
By the end of the week, it was official: Natasha and Yelena were the new camp celebrities. The Ares kids were griping about their "too technical" fighting style, but secretly, they were all trying to copy their moves in private. The Hermes kids were attempting—and failing—to swipe Natasha's knives when she wasn't looking. Even Chiron had to give them a nod of approval (though he did remind them not to aim for any vital organs during sparring. Apparently, that's important or something).
The sisters didn't let the fame go to their heads, though. Yelena spent her downtime wandering the woods, seeing how many monsters she could lure into traps (with the help of some strategically placed poison ivy, probably). Natasha was busy hanging around the campfire, casually dismantling whatever crazy celestial bronze contraption the Hephaestus kids were working on.
One evening, as Yelena tossed a knife into the ground with a dramatic flourish, she looked over at Natasha. "I give it another week," she said.
"For what?" Natasha asked, not looking up from the spear she was sharpening.
"For someone to challenge us. They always do."
Natasha smirked, her eyes gleaming. "Let them try."
And with that, the sisters made themselves at home in Camp Half-Blood, leaving behind a trail of awestruck campers, bruised egos, and a whole lot of defeated sparring partners. Honestly, it wasn't even fair at this point—but who was complaining?
—
It was one of those brutally hot Camp Half-Blood afternoons, where even the naiads in the canoe lake looked like they were contemplating air conditioning. Over by the strawberry fields, Natasha and Yelena had decided to pass the time in the most logical way possible: teaching Jean how to weaponize fire. Because, you know, playing with flames during peak wildfire season was obviously the best use of their time.
Jean squinted at the flickering blaze in her hands, sweat beading on her forehead. She'd managed to shape it into something vaguely sword-like, assuming swords were supposed to look like flaming pool noodles. "Is this… sword-y enough?" she asked, her voice tight with concentration.
Yelena tilted her head, examining it like a judge on Olympian Bake-Off. "Hmm… more like a fiery baguette."
Natasha smirked. "Ignore her. It's better than last time. At least it's not setting your shoes on fire."
Jean gave them a weak smile before focusing again, the fire quivering under her control. It flickered, solidified, and finally took on the rough shape of an actual blade. Yelena clapped dramatically. "Bravo! Now, let's stab something!"
Before Jean could fire back with a much-deserved eye roll, their productive (if slightly hazardous) training session was interrupted. Enter Damian from Ares Cabin, stomping across the field with all the grace of an angry yak. He had the standard Ares kid look: tall, broad-shouldered, and radiating the kind of cocky energy that screamed, I could win a fight, but I definitely couldn't pass algebra.
"Hey, Red," Damian called, pointing his celestial bronze sword at Natasha. "I heard you've been showing off. Let's see what you've got."
Natasha raised an eyebrow. "Sorry, do I know you?"
The growing crowd of campers let out a collective oohhh, sensing the fight that was about to go down. Yelena leaned over to Jean, stage-whispering, "Ten drachmas says she embarrasses him in under a minute."
Damian sneered, clearly trying to play it cool. "Let's spar. One-on-one. Unless you're scared."
Natasha sighed and handed her practice spear to Yelena. "You're really going to regret this."
"Regret what? Wiping the floor with you?" Damian shot back, earning a few cheers from his cabinmates. Someone in the crowd yelled, "Five drachmas on Damian!" Another voice quickly countered, "Ten on Natasha!"
The makeshift arena buzzed with excitement as Natasha stepped forward, stretching her arms like this was a warm-up for yoga class. "Let's get this over with," she said, her tone more bored than threatened. Damian, on the other hand, was practically vibrating with the thrill of imagined victory.
He lunged first, swinging his sword in an overhead arc. Natasha sidestepped easily, the blade whooshing past her. "That's cute," she said, pivoting behind him. The crowd howled with laughter. "Damian, buddy," someone yelled, "you gotta aim at her!"
Damian gritted his teeth and swung again, this time aiming low. Natasha hopped over the blade with the effortless grace of a ballerina. "Wow," she said, circling him. "Is this really what they teach you in Ares Cabin? No wonder your capture-the-flag stats are so bad."
The crowd erupted. Yelena, meanwhile, was leaning against a tree, looking far too entertained. "This is better than cable," she quipped.
Damian snarled and charged, attempting a tackle. Natasha sidestepped again, sticking her foot out just enough to trip him. He hit the dirt with a satisfying thud. The crowd cheered like they'd just witnessed an epic battle, though it was more like watching someone lose a fight with gravity.
Damian scrambled to his feet, clearly frustrated. He charged again, swinging wildly. Natasha ducked, dodged, and finally struck, delivering a precise kick to his side. He staggered, dropped his sword, and fell flat on his back. Before he could even think about getting up, Natasha was on him, pinning him to the ground with her foot on his chest.
"Are we done here?" she asked, her voice as calm as if she were ordering lunch.
Damian wheezed something unintelligible. The crowd erupted into applause and laughter. "That was brutal," someone said, while another added, "Best sparring match of the week!"
But before Natasha could enjoy her victory, the cheering abruptly stopped. The sudden silence was unnerving, like someone had hit the pause button on a rowdy movie. Natasha frowned and glanced around. Everyone was staring—not at her, but above her.
She followed their gazes and froze. Hovering above her head was a glowing symbol: a pair of golden scales, perfectly balanced and shimmering with divine light.
"Uh… did I miss something?" Natasha asked, pointing at the symbol like it might bite her.
Chiron trotted into the circle, his expression a mix of awe and pride. "Natasha Romanoff," he announced, his voice booming, "you have been claimed. You are a daughter of Nemesis, the Goddess of Retribution and Balance."
For a second, Natasha just stared at him, her brain short-circuiting. Nemesis? Her mother was a literal goddess? And not just any goddess—a goddess of justice and revenge.
Yelena broke the silence first. "Wait," she said, grinning like the cat who'd swallowed the canary. "You're the daughter of revenge? Oh, that explains so much."
The symbol above Natasha flickered once more before vanishing. Around her, the crowd buzzed with excitement, already speculating what this meant for Camp Half-Blood's newest star.
"Well," Yelena added, slinging an arm around her sister's shoulder, "at least now we know why you're so terrifying."
—
Natasha blinked, still processing the shock that her entire existence had just been turned upside down in front of a crowd of laughing, cheering, and mostly confused campers. "Daughter of Nemesis? That's... not exactly what I was expecting for a family reunion," she muttered, half to herself.
Yelena, ever the supportive (and mostly annoying) sister, patted her on the back. "At least now you can add that to your résumé. Bet it'll make any job interview interesting."
Natasha shot her a look that could've frozen a river. "If you keep talking, I might end up claiming you as my second target."
Yelena grinned. "I like where this is going."
The crowd, meanwhile, was losing its collective mind. The kids from the Athena cabin were scribbling furiously in their notebooks, as if they were taking notes for their thesis on how a former spy now turned demigod could possibly survive a training camp filled with people who used swords for fun. The Ares cabin looked like they were about to combust with a mixture of jealousy and barely-contained anger, while the Hermes kids were already whispering about ways to swipe Natasha's knives. Because, of course, they would.
"Wait," a voice called from the back of the crowd. "Does that mean—if she's a daughter of Nemesis—does that make her, like, the ultimate judge of, like, who gets retribution and who doesn't?"
Natasha looked over her shoulder and saw a camper from the Apollo cabin, clearly imagining himself as the next big thing in the art of delivering judgment. He wasn't wrong. Technically, it was a fair question.
Chiron, ever the teacher, trotted over with a big grin on his horsey face. "Yes, indeed, young camper. The daughter of Nemesis is a force to be reckoned with. She can deliver justice where it is due, and—" he lowered his voice "—deliver some very creative punishment to anyone who thinks they can get away with being too full of themselves."
A collective "ooooh" went through the crowd. For the first time all week, the Ares cabin looked a little less cocky and a lot more... worried.
"Revenge and balance," Natasha muttered, pacing. "Great. I spent my whole life making sure people didn't get too balanced, and now I'm the embodiment of it." She gave Yelena a sideways glance. "Do you think Nemesis would, like, mind if I just… let someone else do the whole 'retribution' thing for a while?"
Yelena let out a small, amused chuckle. "Let me guess—you just want to focus on stabbing people, don't you?"
"Well, yes," Natasha deadpanned. "But don't tell anyone. My reputation is very important."
The campers were still buzzing with questions, now approaching Natasha with a variety of theories about what being a daughter of Nemesis meant for her future at Camp Half-Blood. There was no shortage of suggestions, either. Someone from the Hermes cabin suggested she might be able to literally strike down anyone who stole their stuff (they were a little too hopeful). A kid from the Demeter cabin asked if she could make plants grow at an unreasonable speed to "teach the monsters who think they can invade our space a lesson." And of course, a very enthusiastic Aphrodite kid wondered if maybe, just maybe, she could have her own reality show. Natasha ignored all of them, feeling a headache coming on from the sheer overload of new expectations.
But then, as if to remind her that the universe had a sick sense of humor, the ground beneath her feet began to rumble. At first, it was a slight tremor, something that might've just been her new daughter of the goddess of retribution vibes manifesting. But then it started to grow. A loud roar echoed from the direction of the forest, followed by what sounded like an entire squad of monsters getting their morning workout.
Yelena, always the optimist (when it came to monsters, at least), stretched like she was about to enter a 10k marathon. "Looks like the universe is reminding us that Camp Half-Blood isn't just for show," she said, cracking her knuckles. "Time to test those 'retribution' skills, huh?"
Natasha didn't have time to reply before a huge shape broke through the treeline, charging toward the camp with a sound that could've been mistaken for a freight train. It was a giant monster with the body of a bear and the head of a lion, roaring like it was auditioning for a spot in the next Godzilla movie.
"Right," Natasha said, rolling her shoulders. "Looks like the scales of justice are about to get a real workout."
Before anyone could blink, she was moving, her foot hitting the ground with purpose. The crowd parted like the Red Sea as she charged toward the incoming beast, her body already shifting into battle mode.
And just as the bear-lion hybrid raised its massive claws to swipe at her, Natasha launched herself into the air with a flip that would've made any circus acrobat jealous. She landed squarely on the creature's back, just behind its head, and drove one of her knives into the spot where the neck met the skull. The monster howled in pain, but Natasha was already in motion again—ducking and weaving, her strikes so fast it was as if she were the one controlling time.
The monster, already reeling from the blows, stumbled, its claws swiping through the air uselessly. Yelena, not to be outdone, leaped from a nearby tree and buried her spear into the beast's flank, twisting it for good measure. Within moments, the creature was on the ground, defeated and twitching.
The campers, who had been watching in stunned silence, erupted into cheers.
"Looks like you did miss something, huh?" Yelena grinned as she landed lightly beside her sister.
Natasha took a deep breath, wiping some monster slime off her face. "Yeah. That would be my new life plan, apparently."
"Now that's what I call a proper welcome to the family moment," Yelena quipped, giving Natasha a proud clap on the back.
And just like that, Natasha Romanoff, daughter of Nemesis, found herself not only with a new divine title but also with a new level of respect at Camp Half-Blood. And as for Jean? She just stood there, holding her flaming sword, probably wondering if she could also get some tips on how to take down a giant monster with a flaming baguette.
—
In the swirling, ever-changing dreamscape of K'un Lun, Harry stood like a confused tourist in a martial arts dojo, facing off against none other than the legendary Monkey King, Sun Wukong. The guy was twirling his massive staff, the Ruyi Jingu Bang, like it was a toothpick. Meanwhile, Harry, on the other hand, was trying (and failing) to make the staff look like anything other than a giant, unwieldy broomstick.
"I don't get why I need this thing," Harry muttered under his breath, swinging the staff around like a guy who'd never even seen one before. "I'm way better with my knives, or, you know, anything else."
Wukong's eyes sparkled with amusement. "Come on, Harry! It's all about fluidity! Let the staff flow like water!"
Harry, who had about as much grace as a bull in a china shop, made an exasperated noise. "Yeah, right. This thing flows like a brick."
Thud. The staff hit the ground with all the grace of a three-ton hammer. Again.
Wukong chuckled, a sound so deep it vibrated through the air like thunder. "Your form's all wrong, kid! You're using it like a club. The staff is about precision, control, and flexibility, not just brute force."
Harry shot him a look. "Why do I even need to use a staff? I've got my bow and knives. What am I going to do with this stick, whack a few squirrels?"
Wukong didn't answer right away, his eyes narrowing as he watched Harry. Something about his movements wasn't right—not that Harry could see it. Wukong could. And that something told him that Harry was way more talented than he was giving himself credit for. This staff? Not his weapon. It was a base—a starting point for something else.
Harry's movements were fast, but stiff. He gripped the staff with both hands like he was trying to turn it into a sword. Wukong saw it immediately. Harry didn't belong with a staff—no, he was something else. The staff, though, could be the key to unlocking whatever his true weapon would be.
Wukong sighed, a bit of amusement flickering in his eyes. He knew what was coming, but it wasn't his place to push. This was Harry's journey, his discovery. Wukong wasn't a teacher in the traditional sense; he was more of a nudge-you-in-the-right-direction kind of guy.
With a sharp flick of his wrist, Wukong dismissed the whole "training" session. The staff in Harry's hands shrank down to a more manageable size—kind of like a walking stick now. "We're done for today," Wukong said, spinning his staff once more like it was an extension of himself. "You're not ready for this yet."
Harry blinked. "What? That's it?"
Wukong grinned, clearly enjoying himself. "You've learned enough for now. The rest? That's all on you."
Harry stood there, still holding the now-compact staff, and for the first time, he didn't feel like a complete idiot. Wukong's words kept echoing in his head. The rest is up to you. Whatever that meant. What was the "rest"?
Wukong stepped back, eyeing him thoughtfully. There was something in Harry's posture, the way his body moved. Something that told Wukong Harry wasn't bound by tradition, by standard weapons. Harry was all about speed, unpredictability—traits that didn't fit a staff. Not in the way most people used it.
Harry's mind was racing now, and he couldn't help but feel it. There was something, a nagging feeling, deep in his gut. The staff was a stepping stone—sure, it was helping him get somewhere, but it wasn't his destination. He was meant for something more. Something quicker, something sharper. But what? What could it be?
Wukong gave him one last look, before turning and disappearing into the mist. His words hung in the air like a riddle. "Maybe next time... we try something different."
"Different how?" Harry called out, already knowing full well that Wukong wasn't going to answer. The guy was like a walking riddle machine.
"You'll figure it out," Wukong said cryptically, his voice drifting away like smoke.
Harry stood there for a while, the staff now feeling almost... light in his hands, like a promise. It wasn't the right weapon, not yet, but it was a clue, a signpost pointing him toward something else. Something that suited him better. And when it clicked—when he figured out what it was—it wouldn't just be another tool. It would be a part of him, as natural as his own heartbeat.
For now, though? He was on his own. But Harry had a feeling that whatever he was meant to wield, it was going to feel just as right as breathing. It was out there. Waiting.
—
Harry stood there, still holding the now-shrunken staff, feeling like he'd just been handed a broken puzzle piece and told to figure out what the picture was. He glanced down at the staff in his hands, his fingers tracing its length absently. It didn't feel like much—just a stick. But, in that weird way that Harry's life had been going, he knew this wasn't the last he'd see of it. The whole "next time, try something different" bit had a ring of this isn't over to it, and Harry wasn't about to let it slide.
"Alright, well, I'm definitely not going to look like a total idiot next time," Harry muttered to himself, giving the staff an experimental twirl—more out of habit than confidence. It felt like he was trying to swing a flagpole, but maybe that was the point. It was a tool for learning, not the final weapon. But what could that weapon be?
As he stood there in the quiet of the dreamscape, a sudden thought struck him—he didn't need to wait for some mystical moment of inspiration. He could figure this out himself. Harry had been through enough weird situations in his life to know that he didn't need some grand prophecy or ancient monkey king to point him in the right direction. He just had to trust his instincts—because, frankly, if he didn't, who would?
The wind rustled in the background of the dreamscape, and Harry felt a strange tug at his memory. It wasn't the staff that had caught his attention—it was his own style. What had Wukong said? Precision. Control. Flexibility. Those were the things that Harry was good at, right? So why was he trying to force himself into a style that didn't fit?
His hand tightened around the staff, and an image flashed through his mind—something sharp. Something fast.
It wasn't a staff anymore. It was something else. The staff morphed in his mind's eye, growing broader, heavier, more imposing. But it didn't lose its speed. It became an axe, the blade's weight balanced by the fluidity of movement that Harry was starting to understand. The bow and knives? They were about precision, and so would his new weapon be. The battleaxe. A weapon for someone who fought with speed, but also power.
"Boom," Harry said, grinning to himself. "That's it."
The staff in his hands seemed to shimmer for a moment, as though the dreamscape itself was responding to Harry's growing understanding. He could feel it now—the potential of the weapon, its future form, not bound by the conventions of the past.
It was almost as if Sun Wukong's cryptic lesson had unlocked something deep inside Harry. Wukong hadn't told him what to do, and that was the beauty of it. He wasn't supposed to be given all the answers. The Monkey King had just shown him the right path—and Harry had taken it.
Harry swung the staff one more time, this time with more confidence. He imagined the blade of an axe extending from it, feeling the weight shift, the power of the swing growing. And for the first time since this bizarre dreamscape training had begun, Harry actually felt like he was getting it. This was it. The beginning of something that was meant for him.
And just like that, as if the universe had conspired to offer him the answer, the staff in his hands morphed before his eyes into the weapon he had envisioned—an axe, its handle sleek and solid in his grip, the blade gleaming with promise.
"Well, this is going to be fun," Harry said with a satisfied grin, twirling the axe effortlessly. He didn't need to wait for the right moment to make his move—he had already done it. The journey was his to take, and he would own it.
Sun Wukong's lesson had been a strange one, but Harry wasn't complaining. Maybe the Monkey King knew that he needed to come to this conclusion on his own. Maybe the staff was just the first step. But now? Now Harry was ready for something more.
With a final, satisfied swing of his newly imagined battleaxe, Harry took a deep breath. This was only the beginning of something bigger. After all, with weapons like this—and with himself—how could anything stop him?
He grinned to himself, eyes gleaming. The next chapter was waiting.
—
In the quiet, ancient cave deep within the heart of K'un Lun, Shou-Lao the Undying stood, his massive, scaled form flickering in the shadows. His molten eyes glowed like twin suns, ancient and all-seeing, and he could sense the stirrings of destiny unfolding in the dreamscape. There was a certain energy in the air, a ripple in the fabric of time and fate itself.
His gaze fixed on the distant horizon where the dreams of Harry, the Godling, were being shaped. Harry, the one who had been marked for something far greater than even he could understand.
Shou-Lao's lips, curved into a knowing smile, shifted slightly. "The staff, the bones, the weapon," he murmured to no one in particular. "It begins."
The Dragon of K'un Lun had watched over this land for centuries, keeping an eye on the potential of those who sought power, those who would come for the Heart of Shou-Lao. Harry, however, was different. The boy had not arrived like the others, brimming with ambition or seeking glory. No, he had arrived with the fire of something deeper—something destined, perhaps. The Godling's path was already intertwining with the ancient powers of the land, and Shou-Lao could feel it in his very bones.
He wasn't fooled by Harry's fumbling with the staff or his resistance to the training. Shou-Lao had witnessed it all in his long existence—the moment when a warrior discovers their true calling. And Harry's was unfolding before him, one swing, one dream at a time.
Shou-Lao chuckled softly, the rumbling sound reverberating through the cavernous walls of his home. It's happening sooner than I anticipated.
He knew Harry's true purpose: the battle with Shou-Lao would come, but not until the Godling was ready. The challenge had to be earned, not handed over by mere fate. And when Harry did defeat Shou-Lao, his bones—the very foundation of the Dragon's immortal form—would become part of the weapon that Harry had yet to fully comprehend. The bones, imbued with centuries of power, would forge the heart of the very battleaxe he had imagined. Just as Sun Wukong's staff would be a part of it, so too would the essence of Shou-Lao's existence be woven into the weapon that would define Harry's destiny.
His molten gaze flickered again, the ancient dragon's mind working through the implications. The moment Harry was ready, he would wield the ultimate weapon, crafted from the gods themselves—something no mortal had ever held.
But that moment, Shou-Lao knew, would not come until the Godling had fully embraced his destiny—when he had unlocked the full extent of his power and understood his true self. Then, and only then, would the Heart of Shou-Lao come into play. Harry would claim it, just as Sun Wukong's power would eventually be channeled into the very weapon he had started to create.
"And then," Shou-Lao murmured with a low, satisfied growl, "he will be ready."
The dragon's massive tail swished through the dark cavern, his mind alive with the knowledge that he was not simply a guardian of K'un Lun—he was part of a much larger picture.
He was part of Harry's path, and the Godling's fate would be intertwined with his own in ways that Harry could not yet begin to understand.
Soon, Shou-Lao thought, his voice heavy with the weight of centuries. Soon, he will come for me. And then... he will have his weapon.
---
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