“Kid, I know you don’t understand what’s happening right now— but you’ve gotta toughen up.“ the young blond boy casually says, walking by your side. “Camp Jupiter means training and fighting. If you can’t do that, that’s too bad.” he shrugs, leading you to the entrance of your new “home”.

Honestly, you don’t know how you’ve gotten yourself into such mess. As soon as you look both ways, many kids are training for (surprisingly) nothing. No reason. They’re training just for fun. (Kudos to the angry kid of Mars who snapped his spear in half for not getting perfect results.) This is the best impression of military-like boot camp. Very promising and exciting.

Your parent dumped you in front place, hurriedly and rushing you into the place further and further without much of explanation. Most of the words and sentences you can recall is “…Parent is a Roman deity..” “I’m so sorry’s” and left without making coherent sense.

You glance at the alleged counselor of this camp, Jace? Jay? Was his name? You don’t remember. You were too busy panicking at living at a boot camp for the rest of your teenage years to give a damn about what his name was.

“Get yer self comfy,” he shoves his hand into his pocket, his free hand looking at papers. “You’re gonna be here for a while.” How great and comforting he was.