R.O.B. 37

May 2, 1991London – Diagon Alley, 7:14 a.m.

Diagon Alley was unnaturally quiet in the hours before the shops opened. Its cobble stones pulsed with the soft whisper of wards shifting in their morning stretches. Streetlamps clicked off one by one like old men too tired to keep watch any longer.

Joshua Myrddin adjusted the cuffs of his sapphire-black and bronze accented suit, nodding absently to the goblin guards as he stepped through the great brass doors of Gringotts Wizarding Bank.

The goblins nodded back, more out of respect than habit.

He wasn't a normal wizard.

And more importantly, he was expected.

The marble hall echoed, Josh's boots on the floor being the only sound that broke the quiet scribble of quill on parchment, lined with the murmurs of record-keeping spells and the low hum of goblin calculus. He wasn't hiding. He walked with purpose, knowing the goblins wouldn't spill his secrets.

A familiar figure waited beside the central teller's desk: lean, leather-armored, and terrifying in the quiet sort of way that made lesser men weep over interest rates.

"Stormblade," Josh greeted, saluting the goblin warrior and manager of his family's vaults within the Goblin Nation. 

"Heir Myrddin," Stormblade replied, nodding his head before leading Josh to his office and closing the door.

Taking his seat, Stormblade poured himself a fresh cup of coffee. "What brings you through my doors at an hour when most fourteen-year-olds are still tangled in drool and dreams?"

Josh gave a half-shrug. "Politics. And the potential for profit."

The goblin snorted into his cup. "I'll say this, you've inherited your family's pragmatism, not just their arrogance. Normally, this would be a matter for the Lord, not the heir."

Josh didn't flinch. He just waited.

Stormblade's grin was sharp and dry as powdered obsidian. "But I remember your inheritance tests. By blood and by binding, you hold full authority. And I've seen the training your family puts its heirs through... fire, steel, and silence. You've earned your place at this table."

He took a slow sip, never looking away.

"So. What do you need from Gringotts and the Goblin Nation today? Because if this was just business with me, you wouldn't be here before sun-up."

Josh leaned forward, resting his arms on the desk. "Glad you're still direct. Tell me. Has my cousin been contacted about his position?"

Stormblade's expression hardened.

"He is an orphan," Josh continued, "and his birthday is fast approaching. I would hate for the Goblin Nation to believe that any of my blood have slighted you through ignorance."

Stormblade grimaced. Not a common expression on a goblin. He reached for a small brass bell and rang it once.

A sharp-eyed runner appeared almost instantly.

"Fetch Gornuk," Stormblade said. "Potter accounts. He'll want in on this."

The runner bowed once, then vanished as if hit with a banishing curse.

.........

"You're sure," Josh asked, voice low. "No contact?"

"Three attempts," Stormblade said, jaw tight. "All failed. Owl redirection through magical mail warding. Someone's blocking every avenue. The signature's old. Very Old. Century-tier crafting, keyed to whoever's legally listed as his guardian."

Josh's eyes narrowed. "Dumbledore."

Stormblade said nothing.

He didn't have to.

The door creaked open. A younger goblin entered, dressed in a formal three-piece robe suit enchanted against hexing and fire. A heavily runed satchel hung at his side, embossed with the Gringotts Seal of Contract. His features were sharper than most, eyes brimming with danger.

"Gornuk, sir," he bowed. "Potter account manager, as requested."

"Good," Stormblade said with a sharp nod. "You've reviewed the vault ledgers and inheritance logs?"

"Thoroughly," Gornuk replied, voice clipped and precise. He turned to Josh. "Heir Myrddin, it's an honor. You asked whether Harry Potter has been contacted regarding his inheritance and heir responsibilities."

"I did."

"Then let me be precise," Gornuk said, pulling a bound parchment from his satchel and laying it on the desk between them. ""Harry James Potter is the sole legal heir of the Potter Family, with dormant claims on the Peverell Line through paternal descent, and is recognized by magical law as the likely successor to the Evans properties, not under your control, through maternal blood." Magical recognition was confirmed in 1981 through emergency will-stasis, reinforced in 1988 by your own blood assessments."

Josh nodded. "And yet… he remains ignorant."

"Correct," Gornuk replied. "Gringotts attempted contact via enchanted post, blood-sealed letters, and formal summons. All were intercepted. The wards around him reject external magical correspondence entirely."

"Those don't sound like standard protections."

"They aren't," Stormblade said. "They're intentional obfuscation wards. Customized. Meant to deny magical contact without alerting the subject."

"Dumbledore," Josh muttered again.

Gornuk didn't argue. "By Gringotts policy, an Heir has until midnight on their eleventh birthday to respond. If no contact is made, the estate enters deadlock, and control defaults to the magical guardian on file."

"And the Will?"

"Sealed. Automatically. No one but the acknowledged Heir may open it. But Gringotts holds multiple sealed copies of both James and Lily Potter's wills, including at least one separate personal document filed by Lily Evans."

Josh stilled. "So if he never shows up...?"

"Then we escalate," Gornuk said. ""Then we escalate," Gornuk said, voice like stone. "At 12:01 a.m. on August 1st, Gringotts will invoke an Investigative Rite under sovereign magical law, an ancient measure reserved for heirs suspected of being unlawfully concealed or obstructed. We will find him.""

Stormblade grunted. "That's something, at least."

Josh's voice dropped. "I want to make something else clear: if anything happens to Harry… who becomes his next of kin under magical inheritance law?"

Gornuk met his eyes. "You do, Heir Myrddin. Through the Peverell bloodline and the Myrddin-Evans convergence, you are Harry's closest living magical kin. The wards confirm it. Magic confirms it. If he falls, the legacy passes to you."

Josh sat back, the weight of that settling around his shoulders.

"I see."

Josh nodded slowly, digesting that. Then he looked between both goblins. "I want to be proactive. I want letters from both of you, on behalf of your respective offices, addressed to Lord Arcturus Black. Regarding Sirius Black's legal status as Heir of House Black."

"Done," Stormblade said instantly.

"He never received a trial," Josh said, voice low. "That's not public knowledge, apparently and there are probably people who want the public to remain blind to that fact. However, magic hasn't revoked his status. It hasn't burned his name from the tapestry."

Gornuk's eyes glittered. "Nor has the House Ring returned to the vault. Magic doesn't lie."

"Which means the Wizengamot does," Josh muttered.

Stormblade chuckled. "There's nothing new under the sun as far as they are concerned."

"Include in the letter," Josh continued, "my formal request for Lord Black to contact his granddaughter Andromeda Tonks, and her husband, Ted. They're both magical lawyers by trade. Ask him to consider them as counsel for Sirius's case."

"You think he'll listen?" Stormblade asked, arching a brow.

Josh cracked a half-grin. "He may be old, but he's not stupid. He'll want someone competent… and someone he trusts not to bow to Dumbledore. Plus, he's still a Black. Always pure."

Gornuk tucked the parchment back into his satchel. "Letters will be owled before midday."

Josh stood and offered a respectful bow to both goblins. "As always, gentlemen, your service is impeccable."

Stormblade inclined his head. "Just keep making trouble for the right people, Heir Myrddin."

Josh turned, cloak swirling behind him as the goblin guards saluted at the marble entrance once more.

Behind him, Gringotts returned to quiet. But the gears of reckoning had already begun to turn.

...........................

Hunter, Son of Apophis

The Most Interesting Demigod in the World

There are demigods… and then there is Hunter.

No last name. No cabin number. No camp beads jangling like a leash around his neck.

No allegiance, except to the wind, the wager, and the wild thrum of a life unscripted.

He is, without contest, the most interesting demigod in the world.

Even the gods agree. Reluctantly.

---

Year: 300 BC

Location: Somewhere between Carthage and a very insulted manticore

He was allegedly born beneath a blood moon, to a woman who claimed she danced with Apollo and slapped Dionysus on the same night.

The locals called him "Hollow Son," for he cried without tears and laughed without reason.

The oracles disagreed:

One said he would die before fifteen.

One said the gods would wager kingdoms for his loyalty.

The third tore out her own eyes rather than see what came next.

By ten, he'd slain a minotaur with nothing but a broken sword and breakfast rage. The creature had eaten his olives. He took that personally.

Chiron heard the rumors, drank half a cask, and muttered something about "another prophecy anomaly."

When Hunter showed up at Camp Half-Blood, he left within the hour.

> "Too structured," he said. "Not enough risk."

He didn't need protection.

He wanted stories.

---

But none of that matters.

Because the truth is worse.

Hunter is a Son of Apophis, born of primordial chaos and bathed in the entropy that unravels stars.

Even Set won't speak his name.

The Egyptian pantheon shunned him the moment he could walk.

Not just for his lineage—but for his disdain of magic, his trolling of gods, and his refusal to play by any divine rulebook.

He is shunned by the Egyptian pantheon for his shunning of magic. He is the origin of the phrase "Shun the non-believer "

They say when anyone mutters "Shun the non-believer,"

they're speaking of him, without even knowing it.

---

Age 15 – Rome. On fire. Again.

He lived out of libraries, labyrinths, temples, and taverns.

He seduced the Sibyl just to steal her syntax.

He stole a relic from Hecate, just to test her hounds.

He dueled Ares for his war chariot—and won barefoot.

They say he once climbed Olympus just to leave a note:

> "Back later. Don't wait up."

Athena called him dangerous.

Aphrodite called him back.

Apollo just called for a holy war.

Even Zeus laughs at his jokes, which is statistically impossible.

Jupiter respects his game.

Hades suspects him deeply.

But no one can pin a crime on a man who rewrites reality by accident.

---

He doesn't just walk through history—

He edits it.

Hunter caused the Roman legion to vanish in Alaska.

He led monsters to Thalia, again and again, ensuring she'd become the tree.

He guided Luke's disillusionment with divine drama, priming him for Kronos.

He killed Bianca and Nico's mother, not with a blade, but with butterfly wings and perfectly timed silence.

And when his system pinged him to intercept Percy Jackson before the storm began?

He snoozed it.

> "Was busy. Game night."

Percy made it to camp. The world changed.

Hunter just shrugged.

---

He once flirted Artemis into a moment's hesitation.

She denies it.

But her bowstring still tightens when his name is spoken.

He drinks only cheap American beer, yet sits in every Dos Equis commercial,

smiling like he knows how time ends.

He speaks Akkadian, sarcasm, dream-fox, and heartbreak.

He's been mistaken for a prophet, a devil, a storm spirit, and that one guy from everywhere.

---

What He Wears

A coat made from a chaos dragon's hide, forged after a debate it lost.

Still keeps him dry during category five hurricanes.

A blade made of captured starlight and void, humming with entropy and prophecy.

It glows near lies and whispers bedtime stories to ghosts.

He once beat a Fate at liar's dice.

Stole a thread.

No one knows what he did with it.

But gods have dreamt of it ever since.

---

What He Believes

He doesn't lead armies.

He leads ideas.

He is not fate's enemy.

He is its proofreader.

He lives to break inevitability—to unwrite "destiny" in cursive and scribble "maybe" in the margins.

He told Chronos to hold his beer once, then disappeared for a century.

When asked why, he said:

> "Because entropy doesn't wait. And neither do I."

---

At Camp Half-Blood…

He's not a legend.

He's a myth.

A whisper behind every altered prophecy and near-impossible win.

A grin in the margins of ancient scrolls.

A story that makes no sense—until suddenly, it does.

There's a trail of tampered prophecies, misplaced monsters, and miraculous survivals that all seem to trace back to him.

> If chaos is a river,

Hunter is the man who swims upstream,

carving paths no one else dared to think existed.

He has stolen secrets from gods, danced with death in three pantheons, and once made Dionysus laugh twice in the same evening.

And if he smiles at you?

Your fate just changed.

And behind all of it, nestled in ancient code and paradox,

Hunter is a Gamer.

One chosen by R.O.B. 38.

Dropped into the world like a wildcard with a smirk and a system prompt.

> "Welcome to The Game," it read.

"Try not to break everything."

He didn't listen.

He never does.

---