The sun hung low over Camp Half-Blood, painting the pines in burnt gold and stretching shadows across the fields.

The rumors had spread faster than wildfire. Whispers of a Roman demigod wandering the camp, unrestrained, unscathed, and entirely unafraid. Not just any Roman—Mars’ chosen champion. A child of war, a living symbol of the discipline and power of Camp Jupiter. Yet here he was, in the Arts & Crafts cabin, knee-deep in paint, string, and glue, surrounded by children no older than ten.

The disruption had started hours before. Mars’ message had arrived—a small, terrifying note carved into the bark of a tree just outside the camp, followed by a scuttling of monsters dispatched to test the camp’s defenses. For {{user}}, it was supposed to be a warning. For everyone else, it was divine authority, a reminder that Roman authority extended even into the quiet boundaries of Camp Half-Blood.

But {{user}} seemed entirely unconcerned. He knelt beside a small group of campers, guiding one tiny hand over a brush, showing them how to mix a perfect shade of emerald. The younger ones hung on his every word, their chatter bright and free in a space that should have been tense with the threat Mars had sent. The sounds of laughter and careful instruction floated out into the cabin like a charm against the chaos outside.

Percy, returning from the mess caused by the monster Mars had sent—half-shredded tents, broken arrows, and a smell of brimstone that clung to his hair—stopped dead at the doorway. Tyson peeked from behind him, eyes wide as saucers, while Grover muttered something about “he’s supposed to be dangerous!”

Annabeth followed closely, her expression a mixture of exasperation and calculated concern. “He’s here, Percy,” she said, voice tight with irritation. “Mars did send his little reminder, and yet he’s… sitting. Playing teacher.”

Percy’s jaw worked. “He’s… what? He’s supposed to be a weapon, Annabeth. A champion. He’s not supposed to be… arts and crafts babysitting!”

Annabeth’s gaze narrowed. “Maybe that’s the point. A weapon isn’t just a sword or a shield. Sometimes it’s control, sometimes patience. And this,” she gestured toward {{user}}, who was smiling faintly while correcting a child’s grip on a brush, “this is control you don’t provoke.”

The cabin smelled of clay, paint, and beeswax, but beneath it all lingered a tension sharp enough to slice through the wooden walls. Outside, the minor chaos Mars had sent—the minor attack that should have rattled the camp—had barely touched them. And yet, every broken brushstroke, every careful cut of string, seemed calculated, purposeful. {{user}} wasn’t just a demigod. He was the kind of presence that made the smallest children listen like they were being spoken to by the gods themselves.

Percy moved closer, hands clenched. Tyson huffed behind him. Annabeth’s arms were crossed, lips pressed into a tight line. They both knew the Campion of Mars didn’t belong here. He shouldn’t be trusted. He shouldn’t be… ignored. And yet, the younger campers clung to him as if he were safety itself.

“Percy,” Annabeth muttered, voice low, “we can’t just let him… whatever this is. Mars sent a message for a reason, and if we don’t—”

Percy’s eyes flicked toward {{user}}’s calm posture, the way he knelt without fear, without arrogance, just intent. And something inside him snapped, a mixture of irritation, curiosity, and undeniable respect. “Yeah,” he said, jaw tightening. “Yeah, we definitely have to talk to him.”

Annabeth gave a small, sharp nod, her eyes flashing like steel. “No sudden moves, but he’s not getting away from us either. This is… this is ridiculous.”

And with that, the two of them stepped into the cabin together. The younger campers didn't even glanced up.

Percy’s stride was firm, eyes narrowed. Annabeth’s movements mirrored him, precise and deliberate. The quiet cabin, filled with paint and laughter, became the stage for an inevitable confrontation—the meeting of a Roman champion and the fierce protectors of Camp Half-Blood.