The Grand Azathoth Hotel - Chapter 35

Chapter 35

“…Almost finished with the fourth part.”

Sophia stiffened, a cold spike of unease running down her spine. She had to leave. Now. The woman hadn’t seen her yet—if she just broke a window, trashed the place fast, and ran, she could still make it work. No one would know it was her. But something wasn’t right. The way the woman spoke, the way she sat there so calmly, like she already knew she wasn’t alone.

The book snapped shut.

The woman stretched, arms raised lazily above her head, shoulders rolling in an almost inhumanly fluid motion. There was no tension in her movements, no startled reaction, nothing that suggested she was surprised or alarmed. Just slow, effortless ease, like someone who had already decided the outcome of a game before it even began.

“I know you’re here,” she said, her voice flat and factual, as if commenting on the weather.

Sophia’s stomach dropped.

Shit.

But she wasn’t a coward. Not now. Not ever. Whoever this woman was, she had no idea who she was dealing with. Sophia had fought before—against capes, against monsters, against anything that got in her way. And besides, she was masked. There was no way the woman could recognize her.

She straightened her spine, stepping out from behind the shelf, rolling her shoulders in a show of false confidence. “Yeah, I’m here, you bit—”

The words died in her throat.

The woman turned her head, and Sophia saw her eyes.

Pitch black.

Not shadowed. Not dark. Black.

Like the empty void between stars, like a hole punched through the world, like something that wasn’t supposed to be there.

Sophia felt real fear crawl up her spine, clamping around her throat with icy fingers.

Cape.

Had to be a cape. Some kind of thinker or master, someone with weird bullshit powers that let them mess with people’s heads. She had to play this cool, lie her way out, get the hell out of here.

The woman tilted her head slightly, watching her with something dangerously close to amusement. “What are you doing here?”

“I…” The words stumbled out of Sophia’s mouth before she could catch them. Shit. Lying was second nature to her, so why was it so hard now?

The woman smiled, slow and knowing. “Oh. Coming here to break our little café?”

Sophia froze.

That—that wasn’t right. No one would have assumed that. Everyone would’ve thought she was just a thief. How did she know?

The woman’s smile sharpened. “Oh, and you wanted to blame Taylor? You’re the chief bully, I see.”

Sophia felt the blood drain from her face. Fuck. This wasn’t just a thinker. This was high-level bullshit.

A psychic.

She had to get out. Get back to Armsmaster, spin a lie, get the woman arrested before she became a problem.

The woman let out a soft hum, almost like she was reading Sophia’s mind.

“Ah,” she murmured. “Very naughty thoughts.”

The door slammed shut.

Sophia’s breath hitched. Kinetic too? Fuck. She needed to move—

Then the woman lifted a hand, her fingers tracing shapes in the air. Strange, glowing symbols flared into existence, twisting, pulsing with colors that hurt to look at.

Sophia didn’t hesitate. She phased, body shifting into smoke, intangible, unreachable—

The runes lunged at her. They shouldn’t have touched her. But they did. And the moment they did—

Pain. Horrible. Burning. Endless. Not in her body, not in her nerves—deeper. In something she didn’t even have words for.

She screamed. The sound tore from her throat, raw and jagged, but it wasn’t her scream. Not really. It felt ripped out of her, like the runes had hooked something deeper than flesh, than muscle, than bone. Her very being burned, unraveling into raw, exposed agony.

She collapsed. Her legs buckled, her body hit the ground in a heap, but she barely felt it—could barely see. The pain had turned her vision to white static, her breath coming in shuddering, gasping sobs. She tried to move, to get up, to run, but her body was useless, every nerve blazing with something she couldn’t describe.

And then—

A shadow fell over her.

She felt, more than saw, someone crouching beside her.

A voice, low and patient, spoke directly into her ear.

“Azh’ka renith var Uln’oth. Zhurath qaa’th renith.”

The words were not human. Not a language meant to be spoken by mortal tongues. Something in the air twisted, bending in response to the sound. Her skin crawled, her very thoughts felt like they were cracking apart under the weight of it. A hand pressed lightly to her forehead. Another rune—bigger, brighter, pulsing with something so wrong that her mind tried to reject it.

And then—

Everything went black.

— — — — — 

Apollo landed his chariot of the sun in the absolute middle of nowhere.

Not a town, not a rest stop, not even an abandoned gas station. Just an empty field with dry grass stretching as far as the eye could see. It looked like the kind of place where horror movies started—the moment they all stepped out, Percy half expected to hear ominous violin music.

Instead, there was just wind. And standing in the middle of the field, where there shouldn’t have been anything, was… a door.

Not a house. Not a building. Just a big, fancy, revolving door, turning slowly on its own.

Percy stared. “Okay. Creepy. That’s creepy, right? Just me?”

Annabeth, Zoe, Bianca, Grover, and Thalia were all staring too, which meant no, it wasn’t just him.

And in front of the door, sitting lazily in a chair like he had nothing better to do, was a guy.

He was huge—built like a pro wrestler, with wild red hair and broad shoulders. He wore what looked like a uniform, though the top half was completely unbuttoned, as if he had a personal vendetta against dress codes. His arms were crossed, his scowl was permanent, and judging by the way he was slumped in the chair, he had fully given up on life.

And he was napping.

Not just napping—cartoonishly napping.

A giant snot bubble inflated and deflated from his nose with every breath. It was so ridiculous that for a second, Percy wondered if he was hallucinating.

Zoe frowned, lifting a hand like she was about to wake him, but Apollo stopped her with a shake of his head.

“He is of the Hotel,” Apollo said, like that was supposed to mean something. “Do not wake him. Let’s wait.”

So they waited.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited. 

It was comically awkward. The wind whistled through the field. The revolving door creaked as it turned. The red-haired guy kept snoring. At one point, Grover, who still hadn’t figured out he wasn’t supposed to be on this quest, but had made a very solid argument about prophecies being vague nonsense, looked like he was about to start nibbling on a tin can just to pass the time.

Finally—and ironically—Apollo was the one to lose patience first.

“Greg! Wake up!”

The man jerked awake like he’d been electrocuted. His arms flailed, and for a moment, he curled into a ball, tucking his knees to his chest like he was bracing for impact.

Percy blinked. Pathetic.

After a long, awkward pause, the man peeked out from behind his arms, eyes squinting blearily at them.

“Oh,” he muttered, voice rough with sleep. “Not a regular client.”

He stood up quickly, cleared his throat loudly, and stretched like he totally hadn’t just been cowering a second ago. Then he finally looked at them.

And Percy almost collapsed in terror.

Because when the man’s golden eyes met his, Percy saw—

Oblivion. Not a battle. Not a war between gods. Not even the end of Olympus. Something older. Something greater. A sky that was not a sky, split open like a wound, hemorrhaging light that seared through reality itself. Not fire—something worse, something that ate fire, drowned it, suffocated it beneath the weight of its own destruction. The ground wasn’t ground at all but a shifting mass of the dead, bodies crushed into dust beneath the march of unstoppable legions, their screams still echoing long after their throats had been torn away. Percy saw worlds unmade, not conquered, not broken—erased. He saw planets split like fruit, oceans boiling into nothingness, stars devoured, not by black holes but by the sheer, merciless force of war given form.

He saw eternity breaking.

He felt it.

His heart clenched, not from fear but from the overwhelming certainty that this was a war that had never ended, could never end. It was not an event. It was a truth. A thing that had existed before gods, before Titans, before Primordials themselves.

And it was looking at him.

Percy’s body locked up. His chest seized, his throat closed, every cell in his body screaming to flee, to run, to hide—except there was nowhere to go. Because the thing in front of him, the thing wearing human skin, wasn’t something he could escape.

It wasn’t a doorman.

It wasn’t even a being.

It was war itself.

This was a force of destruction so vast, so ancient, so beyond anything Percy had ever faced, that for the first time since he had become a demigod, he genuinely thought—

I am nothing.

His legs almost gave out. His stomach twisted so hard he thought he might puke. Every cell in his body screamed at him to run.

Then, Apollo stepped between them and snapped his fingers.

“Greg. It’s me. Apollo.”

The red-haired man blinked, looking annoyed. “It’s Ddraig, not Greg. Except for James.” His voice was a deep grumble, like the rumble of distant thunder. Then his scowl deepened. “And who the fuck are you? Never met an Apollo.”

Apollo sighed like he was so, so tired. “Polo. You remember.”

Ddraig squinted. “Huh. No, dude.”

Apollo let out another long-suffering sigh—then transformed into a twelve-year-old boy.

Probably what he had looked like as a kid.

Ddraig’s face lit up in recognition.

“Ohhh. This Polo! Dude, you grew up, what the fuck.” He stretched his arms behind his head, stepping aside lazily. “Well, whatever. You can go inside, I guess.”

Then he frowned. “Just… don’t tell Robin I was sleeping. Or James. Mostly James. ”

— — — 

Rias had stopped following Issei around the last few weeks. Not on purpose or anything. It had just… happened. One day she was keeping an eye on him, waiting for some miraculous power-up, and the next? Nothing. He was just another boring failure who hadn’t awakened into the legendary dragon host she’d been hoping for.

Which left her.

And her problem.

Her wedding was coming up soon—too soon. Without Issei and his probably ridiculous Sacred Gear, she was out of easy options. There was no knight in shining armor to sweep in and break the engagement for her.

So what was she supposed to do now?

Train?

Ugh. Sweat? Absolutely not. That was for people who enjoyed exhausting themselves in stupid ways, like Kiba or Xenovia. She’d rather die than spend hours getting bruises and ruining her hair.

She could study, maybe. Read up on magical theory.

…Yeah, no. Too much effort.

Her thoughts drifted to Sona. Hmph. It had been a while since they last talked. Now that she thought about it, the Sitri heiress had been acting strange lately. More secretive than usual, keeping her distance. Probably hiding something.

Rias pouted.

Sona was always like this. Always playing little power games, hoarding information, pretending to be so responsible. It was annoying.

She should probably go confront her. Demand to know what was up.

Ugh. But that sounded like work.

Which left the real question:

What could she do?

She sat there, staring at the ceiling, waiting for inspiration to strike.

Nothing came.

Huh.

Fuck.

• — — 

Asia’s cheeks burned as she watched Issei work, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. He was shirtless, of course. Because of the heat. Because working outside in heavy clothes would get them dirty, and he couldn’t let that happen. It made perfect sense. But still—Watching him haul a massive tree trunk onto his shoulder, muscles flexing under the sun, his tanned skin glistening slightly with sweat—

No.

Bad Asia. Very bad Asia.

She shook her head furiously, trying to banish the thoughts before they could fully form.

Instead, she cleared her throat, trying to focus on something—anything—other than the sight in front of her. “Um… What are we doing again, Lord Issei?”

He sighed, stopping mid-lift and resting the log carefully on the ground. Then, to her absolute horror, he crouched down to her level, looking her right in the eyes. Asia felt her soul leave her body. 

“I told you,” he said, voice gentle, patient, like he was explaining something to a child. “You don’t have to call me ‘Lord,’ Asia. I'm just an humble gentleman.”

She nodded quickly, trying to process what he was saying, but it was impossible to think when his bare torso was this close. She could see the light sheen of sweat on his collarbone. No. No, no, no. Focus! Issei smiled at her—that warm, easygoing smile that made her feel safe, comfortable, and increasingly weak in the knees.

“I’m building a church,” he said mysteriously.

Asia blinked. She turned to look at their surroundings—just an empty field in the middle of nowhere. No houses. No roads. Just them.

“In the middle of a field… in the middle of nowhere, Issei-sama?”

He turned toward her fully, grinning. “Exactly, Asia.” His eyes practically shone with conviction. “One has to be humble before spreading the True Faith.”

Asia felt her heart skip a beat. What… what was that supposed to mean?!