The God of Underworld-Chapter 26: Mist

Beneath the crimson sky, Iapetus stood atop a raised obsidian platform outside his grand temple, overlooking the vast army assembled before him.

Titans, gods, and divine spirits alike stood shoulder to shoulder, their weapons gleaming under the dimming light of dusk.

The air crackled with tension, with anticipation, as they awaited the words of their commander.

Iapetus raised his arm, and silence fell over the gathered forces. His eyes blazed with fury as he surveyed his soldiers.

Then, in a voice that shook the very earth, he spoke.

"Brothers! Sisters! Warriors of the old gods! Too long have we tolerated these parasites!" His voice thundered across the battlefield. "These ungrateful wretches who dare call themselves gods! These mongrels who spit in the faces of the very beings that birthed the cosmos! Who twist fate to their favor and believe themselves worthy of the throne!"

The army roared in agreement, their rage fanned like flames upon dry wood.

"For three years, they have gnawed at us like vermin, scurrying in the dark, hiding behind tricks and cowardice. But no more!" He clenched his fist, his divine aura surging outward, sending shockwaves through the gathered forces. "Tonight, we rip them from their holes! Tonight, we remind them that they are nothing! That they exist only because we allow it!"

The soldiers howled, slamming weapons against shields, their cries of anger and anticipation shaking the heavens.

Iapetus extended his arm towards the distant horizon. "No more shall they whisper rebellion in the shadows! No more shall they sully the name of the Titans! We will descend upon them like the great storms of old! We will show them what true gods are!"

Menoetius, standing at the forefront, clenched his fists, his body trembling with barely restrained excitement.

Iapetus turned to him, his eyes blazing. "Menoetius! Lead the charge! Tear through them like wildfire!"

The Titan of violent anger let out a savage grin, his eyes glinting with bloodlust. "With pleasure, Father."

Without hesitation, Menoetius exploded into motion. He shot into the sky with such force that the very air screamed in protest, a thunderous sonic boom echoing through the land as he became a crimson blur against the heavens.

The army below followed, their roars of war turning into a deafening chorus as thousands of divine beings launched into the sky, their weapons glinting like falling stars.

Their march was silent yet swift. Like shadows of death, they moved across the vast lands, encircling the secluded grotto where the Olympians had hidden.

Their numbers stretched across the horizon, forming an unbreakable siege.

And then, as they peered into the grotto from the cliffs above, they saw them. The rebels.

Hundreds of gods and divine spirits gathered, their weapons ready, unaware of the doom looming over them.

A triumphant grin curled on Menoetius’ lips. "They’re done for."

He stared at his soldiers and raised his hand, "SLAUGHTER THEM! LEAVE NONE ALIVE!"

The moment Menoetius roared, the battlefield erupted into chaos. The Titans’ forces descended like a tidal wave upon the rebels, who barely had time to register what was happening before they were torn apart.

Screams filled the air—agonized, desperate, hopeless. The rebels scrambled to form a defense, but it was meaningless.

The Titans’ soldiers struck like executioners, cutting them down with cruel efficiency.

Blades sank into flesh, spears impaled bodies, and divine ichor painted the earth in shimmering gold.

Menoetius relished in the slaughter. He tore through his enemies with his bare hands, ripping limbs from bodies, crushing skulls between his fingers.

He laughed as he hurled a struggling divine spirit into the air and punched a hole through their chest before they could hit the ground.

The rebel gods were weak—pathetic.

They fought with desperation, not conviction, and that was why they would die.

One god, bloodied and barely standing, raised his sword in a last-ditch effort to strike him.

"Die! You Titan scum!"

Menoetius grabbed the weapon mid-swing, shattering the blade in his grip before grabbing the god’s throat and squeezing.

"You could’ve lived a long life, but you chose to rebel." Menoetius grinned as he tightened his grip.

The rebel thrashed, his hands clawing at Menoetius’ wrist, but his strength was fading.

The next moment, his eyes dimmed, and his struggles soon ceased.

Menoetius dropped the lifeless body and stepped forward, crushing it beneath his foot as he turned to find his next prey.

It took less than an hour.

The last rebel fell, his dying scream cut short as a Titan impaled him from behind.

Silence followed. The once-secluded grotto, once filled with the hope of resistance, was now a field of corpses.

Menoetius stood amidst the carnage, chest rising and falling with exhilaration. He was covered in divine ichor—some his own, but mostly that of his enemies.

He lifted his bloodstained fist into the air and bellowed, "THIS WAR HAS ENDED! THE REBELS HAVE BEEN ANNIHILATED!"

The soldiers roared with him, raising their weapons, cheering in savage triumph.

The rebels were no more.

But then—

The sky bled.

The cheers died in their throats as the heavens shifted, twisting into an unnatural crimson hue.

The air thickened, turning heavy and oppressive, as if reality itself had been distorted.

A feeling of dread gripped even the mightiest among them.

Menoetius’ eyes widened. ’A bounded field? Here? But how?’

A bounded field is a geographical form of magic whereby one knits a boundary line of magical energy around a space to separate its inside from the outside, cutting off and isolating that space from the outside world and then imposing an effect on the inside, or the boundary line itself.

Menoetius could feel it—the space around them sealed off. There was no escape. The field extended too far, too wide. It was a bounded field unlike any other.

Trapping this many divine beings at once was something only one entity in the cosmos was capable of.

"No... it can’t be..." he murmured, his fists clenching.

Then, the sky darkened further, and from the bloodstained heavens, she descended. ƒreeωebnovel.ƈom

A lone figure, clad in flowing black, as if the very night had woven itself into her gown. Her presence was undeniable.

Hecate.

The Goddess of Magic, Crossroads and Ghosts. Even before she joined Hades in this war, she was feared for her ability known as magic that she had developed.

An ability to create a phenomenon through the use of energy that is different from divinity, that is magic.

She hovered in the air, her ethereal form bathed in a soft, eerie glow, her eyes unblinking.

In one hand, she held a lamp, its purple flame flickering ominously. The other hand rested at her side, but her fingers twitched slightly—like a puppeteer, preparing to move her strings.

Her gaze swept across the battlefield, and she smiled.

It was not a smile of joy.

It was not a smile of mercy.

It was a smile that sent chills through every divine being present.

Menoetius swallowed.

He knew then—

They had been played.

****

Back in his temple, Iapetus sat upon his throne, his fingers drumming against the armrest.

His confidence was absolute.

This operation would be a complete success.

The war would end tonight, and the rebels would be nothing more than an unpleasant memory.

He leaned back, exhaling in satisfaction.

"It’s over."

The rebel forces should’ve already been annihilated now.

But...

"What is?"

Those words were uttered, calm, almost casual, but they sent a chill down Iapetus’ spine.

His smirk vanished.

His eyes darted around the temple, scanning for the source, and at that moment, thick purple mist had seeped into the room.

It slithered along the marble floors, curling around the pillars, creeping up the walls.

His once-grand hall, illuminated by sacred torches, now flickered in dim, eerie light.

He stood abruptly, summoning his divine power to dispel the fog, but it did not move—it did not even waver.

It was not ordinary mist.

It was something far worse.

Then, a figure emerged.

From the thick, cloying darkness, Hades stepped forward.

His presence was subdued, his form clad in his usual black robes, but there was an undeniable weight to him—a pressure that made the very air tremble.

His expression was calm and serene, but his gaze... his gaze held a glint of something inexplicable, something dangerous.

Iapetus’ instincts screamed. Something had gone terribly wrong with the attack.

But he was a Titan—one of the Four Pillars.

He did not flinch, nor did he show any sign of losing his composure.

He straightened his posture, adopting a cold, unaffected demeanor. His voice was steady as he said, "If it isn’t my nephew, Hades... to what do I owe this unexpected visit?"

Hades did not answer immediately. Instead, he took another step forward, his fingers idly tracing the mist around him as though he had all the time in the world.

Then, he spoke, his voice smooth—almost amused.

"I’ve long coveted your domain, Iapetus," he said lightly, as if discussing the weather. "The dominion over mortality. And now... I think I’ll take it for myself."

A beat of silence.

Then, Iapetus laughed.

A deep, resounding chuckle that echoed through the mist-covered temple. He shook his head, eyes gleaming with disdain.

"You think you can just take my domain?" he scoffed.

His fingers twitched, and his spear materialized in his grip—tall, jagged, crackling with divine energy. He spun it once, then leveled the sharp tip at Hades.

"If you want it so badly, then come and take it."

Hades stopped walking.

Then, he smiled.

A slow, playful smile—one that did not reach his eyes.

The shadows behind him shifted, coiling unnaturally as something black and formless began to rise.

Then, in a single fluid motion, Hades lifted his hand—and summoned his own spear.

It was made of pure darkness, an obsidian construct that seemed to drink the light around it.

The spearhead gleamed with a razor-thin edge, and the space around it warped.

Hades twirled it once, then took a step forward, lowering into a stance.

"Very well." he said. "Shall we begin?"