Chapter 5: River’s Edge Awakens

At River's Edge, a young man in black, strange markings on his brow, leaned lazily against a maple tree. His three-pointed, double-edged blade rested at his side, and a black lab slept soundly at his feet—a scene of tranquil peace.

The smell of wet leaves and distant barbecue smoke drifted on the breeze, the kind of scent that meant football season and homecoming parades. It was the kind of spot you'd find along the Hudson, red leaves drifting down onto a muddy riverbank, the world outside muffled by the hush of late autumn. Eric Young’s jacket was zipped up against the chill, his boots stained by old river clay. The dog let out a sleepy sigh, stretching his paws, oblivious to the tension about to break.

Suddenly, he frowned slightly and said, "What brings you here today, Mr. White?"

He didn’t move, but the hand resting on his blade tensed ever so slightly. The greeting was casual, American—no titles, no ceremony, just the wary politeness of a man used to trouble finding him when he least wanted it.

From the air, a little old man with white hair strolled out, smiling. "Eric, your days are truly leisurely. If I get the chance, I must stay at your River's Edge for a while."

Mr. White’s New England accent made his words sound almost comforting, like a favorite uncle dropping in for Thanksgiving. He dusted off his coat, eyes twinkling, but Eric wasn’t fooled.

Hearing this, Eric Young raised an eyebrow. "No one comes all the way out here for nothing... Looks like something big has happened?"

His tone was wary, his eyes scanning the sky for trouble. The blade at his side hummed with the anticipation of old battles.

"Not long ago, I sensed you all gathering at the Grand Hall. Now you've come to find me—could it be that some great demon has appeared again?"

He ruffled the dog’s fur, as if bracing himself for the story to come. Somewhere in the trees, a blue jay squawked, and the autumn wind carried the first hint of winter.

"But even the monkey is a legend now. What trouble could there be that even he can't solve..."

At this, a trace of solemnity crossed Eric's face. For once, even Mr. White set aside his playfulness and spoke softly: "This matter... is a long story."

He pulled a battered notebook from his pocket, flipping to a page scrawled with names and dates. The words he spoke carried the weight of centuries, of promises broken and debts unpaid.

After Mr. White finished recounting the whole affair, Eric—who had always been reluctant to meddle in outside matters—lowered his head, the air around him growing heavy and oppressive.

The river flowed by, carrying leaves and old memories. Eric stared at his own reflection, seeing not just himself but the faces of those he’d let down by staying on the sidelines. He hesitated, thumb tracing the scar on his jaw—a reminder of all the times he’d chosen safety over heroism.

It had been too long.

All the Atlantic gods were like him, each guarding their own little domain, until now, when outsiders dared come to their doorstep to bully them.

A boat horn sounded in the distance, a reminder of all the lives just beyond his banks, waiting for someone—anyone—to fight for them.

Clang!

The three-pointed, double-edged blade hummed as it fell into Eric's hand, sharp energy shooting skyward, splitting the clouds.

A gust of wind swept through the maple leaves, the energy so strong the dog woke and barked at nothing. Eric stood tall, the sleepy guardian now a warrior, his eyes fierce.

He looked up, took a deep breath, and his eyes shone with killing intent.

"Good!"

His voice rang out across the water, carried by the wind to the farthest shore.

"Good, Olympus! Good, Western hunt!"

His words were a promise and a challenge, thrown like a stone into the still waters of fate.

"That monkey, at least, has some guts. No wonder I always respected him!"

He grinned, a rare smile, admiration cutting through the anger. The world needed more like the Great Sage.

"This battle... I, Eric Young, will fight!"

With that, light flashed around Eric.

A suit of silver armor, radiant and gleaming, draped over him.

The riverbank glowed with sudden brilliance, the armor fitting him as if it had waited for this moment all his life. The black lab circled his legs, tail wagging in anxious excitement.

Surging divine power roared forth, completely unrestrained.

The ground trembled as his power filled the air, birds scattering from the branches overhead. The world itself seemed to lean in, eager for the coming storm.

This battle... is for the Atlantic lands!

For the dignity of the Atlantic!

I must give it my all!

"Eric, don't be hasty."

Mr. White stepped forward, his tone urgent, a hand reaching out as if to steady a friend on the edge of a cliff.

Seeing Eric about to stride straight toward Olympus, Mr. White hurriedly stopped him, flustered.

His voice cracked, uncharacteristically desperate, the old mask of calm slipping away.

"What is it?"

Eric raised an eyebrow, battle spirit surging, a bit impatient.

He was already itching to behead a Western barbarian god to honor the Leviathan king.

He flexed his fingers on the hilt, the river wind tugging at his hair. In that moment, Eric looked every bit the hero out of legend—impatient, righteous, ready.

Mr. White waved his hand, and countless shimmering mirrors filled the sky.

Within them were beast clan great sages with mountain-like bodies and surging energy.

Each mirror showed a different champion: a giant bear cracking its knuckles in a misty Appalachian forest, a river goddess rising from beneath the falls at Niagara, a coyote with eyes bright as embers stepping out of the Arizona desert. Paul Bunyan swung his axe in the Rockies, and a jazzman in New Orleans tipped his hat, the legends of the land answering the call.

There was also a war god of the Heavenly Court, red scarf billowing like a storm.

His scarf flared in the wind, the color of old battle flags. His jaw was set, determination etched in every line.

And a disciple, radiating the brilliance of ten lifetimes, power surging.

A young woman stood alone atop a lighthouse, her face aglow with resolve. The light swept the horizon, and for a moment, it seemed the whole coast was waking up.

...

Those mighty beings who once quarreled and fought amongst themselves—

Now, all silently stepped out from their own abodes.

In a thousand American towns—coastal, inland, riverbank, mountain—the old powers roused themselves, setting aside rivalries for the sake of something greater.

Heading in the same direction—Olympus, the kingdom of the gods.

The message was clear: this was a fight for home, for the battered, beautiful, stubborn Atlantic. No more hiding, no more waiting for someone else to step up.

Mr. White smiled. "We have indulged those barbarian gods for too long."

The smile was brittle, but real. He tipped an imaginary hat, as if to the memory of all who’d fought before.

"Now that we fight, we must win in a single battle."

His voice was steady, echoing with the finality of a general’s battle plan—no retreat, no regrets.

"Besides attacking the gods' kingdom of Olympus, there is one more thing for you to do first."

"What is it?"

Eric seemed to have guessed, a trace of excitement lighting his eyes.

He grinned, eager for the next challenge, the glint of the old daredevil in his eyes.

"Go straight into Olympus... to the summit of the sacred mountain."

"Fight the gods together with the Great Sage."

The dog barked once, sharp and eager. Eric nodded, pulling his blade tight against his back. The leaves swirled around his boots, and the river seemed to sing as he took the first step toward war, the memory of the Leviathan King burning in his heart. Somewhere on the wind, a storm was building. Olympus wouldn’t know what hit it.