The God of Underworld-Chapter 27: Infinity

Menoetius stood frozen in place, his eyes wide with disbelief as the tide of battle shifted in an instant.

One moment, his forces were victorious, tearing apart the last remnants of the rebel army. The next, they were the ones being slaughtered.

Out of thin air, thousands of rebels emerged.

They did not rush out from hiding, nor did they arrive late to the battle—they simply appeared, as if reality itself had deceived them.

The soldiers he had once dismissed as dead were now standing, but they were not the same.

Their bodies were shadows—formless yet solid—twisted into humanoid shapes. Their eyes burned with blazing purple flames, the only light in their darkened forms.

And they moved without hesitation, cutting through his forces with merciless efficiency.

Menoetius watched, rage boiling in his chest as his once-proud army fell apart.

"What the hell is this!?" he roared.

His soldiers screamed as the shadowy figures and the rebel forces tore into them, their divine flesh shredded like mere paper.

Some tried to fight back, but it was useless. The moment they killed one shadow, another would appear and attack them, while a rebel god would kill them.

Others attempted to flee—they did not get far.

One by one, they were cut down, their divine essence absorbed into the very things that killed them.

Menoetius gritted his teeth, feeling a divine amount of anger and hatred. His rage needed an outlet, or he might explode.

His glowing eyes snapped to Hecate, who stared at him with her impassive gaze.

She floated above them all, serene and composed, watching the slaughter as if she had orchestrated it from the beginning.

"YOU! DAMN YOU HECATE!"

With a deafening boom, Menoetius launched himself into the sky, his body blazing like a meteor.

He shot toward Hecate at terrifying speed, he summoned an axe and raised it high—intending to split her in two.

Hecate did not flinch.

She simply snapped her fingers.

And suddenly, the world around them vanished.

Menoetius blinked.

Moments ago, he was in the battlefield. Now, everything was dark. Empty. Silent.

There was no sky, no land, no battlefield—only endless, boundless nothingness.

He was still facing Hecate, still poised to strike her down. She stood calmly, her black dress flowing in the unseen wind, the faint glow of her lantern casting eerie shadows in this void.

But something was wrong.

He tried to move, but he couldn’t.

No, it wasn’t that he was frozen. He could still feel his body, still feel his limbs moving forward. Yet he wasn’t getting any closer.

It was as if... as if the space between them stretched endlessly. He couldn’t get close to her no matter how much he tried.

Menoetius’ breath hitched. His grip on his axe tightened as frustration set in.

"What... what is this?!"

Hecate’s gaze was indifferent as she spoke.

"A simple spell."

Her voice was soft, almost amused, as she explained.

"It is called Infinity—a magic that stretches the concept of ’distance’ between me and my target to infinity."

Menoetius snarled. "What nonsense are you talking about!?"

He swung his axe. It should have split her in half. But instead, his attack never reached.

It was right in front of her. Yet infinitely far away.

"What the hell!?"

"You and I may appear to stand in the same space," Hecate continued, tilting her head. "But no matter how much you struggle... no matter how much you try... you will never reach me."

Menoetius’ breathing grew heavy, his frustration boiling over. He roared, swinging his axe again and again, putting all his divine strength into each blow.

None of them landed.

Hecate merely watched, unimpressed.

Then, she raised her free hand.

"Enough."

Her lantern flared.

A new kind of magic spread through the void—ancient, oppressive, terrifying.

Menoetius felt something change.

The darkness around them warped. No, it wasn’t just the darkness—it was the very nature of the world itself.

"Let me show you the truth. The primordial hell that was before there is."

The stars vanished.

The laws of reality shattered.

In their place, a vision took form—a place before creation, before order, before the heavens and the earth were split apart.

It was hell.

A world where there was no land—only an endless expanse of fire and poison.

"This is the origin of the concept of the land of the dead used in all pantheons."

Where blazing magma and scorching gas churned, creating an atmosphere where even the strongest divine beings would suffocate and burn.

A place where ice and fire coexisted in chaos, where the very air could freeze your lungs yet boil your flesh at the same time.

A planet in its primordial state—before Genesis.

Hecate’s voice echoed like a divine decree.

"Khaos Aidees."

The world ruptured.

The void shattered.

Menoetius barely had time to react before it swallowed him whole.

He did not scream—there was no time.

The moment it touched him, his very existence unraveled.

His divine body eroded into nothingness. His consciousness collapsed into the abyss.

And then, he was gone.

****

The battlefield was drenched in golden ichor.

The ground, once firm and untouched, was now a broken wasteland of scattered limbs, torn armor, and charred corpses.

The air reeked of burnt flesh and despair.

And at the center of the carnage, stood Campe.

The woman hailed as the Dragon of Hades.

Her long crimson hair was slick with divine blood, clinging to her pale, flawless skin.

Her piercing red eyes burned with exhilaration, reflecting the flames that still licked at the bodies of her victims.

She grinned, revealing her feral and sharp tooth, as she ripped a god in half with her bare hands, his final scream barely escaping his throat before it was drowned out by the wet sound of his body splitting apart.

Any gods or titans she had set her eyes on didn’t even bother trying to fight, they immediately abandoned all hope of resistance and fled.

"Pathetic," Campe chuckled, her voice dripping with amusement. "These are the great soldiers of the current ruler of cosmos?!"

With a lazy wave of her clawed hand, she whipped her tail around, sending a wave of razor-sharp winds that severed fleeing gods in half.

"AAAHHH!"

Ichor sprayed like rain, staining her already blood-soaked body.

One of the surviving gods, a warrior with golden armor and a twin-bladed spear, stood his ground.

His body trembled, but he refused to run.

Campe’s grin widened. Finally, someone with guts. He’s weak, but at least he actually dare to stand up.

The god took a deep breath, his divine aura flaring.

"Death to the rebels!" He screamed, his spear burned with white-hot light as he lunged toward her, his movements a blur of speed and precision.

Campe laughed in delight.

She moved with inhuman grace, dodging his strikes as if she were dancing. Each attack that could have severed her head or pierced her heart was met with nothing but empty air.

"You’re fun!" she purred. "But you’ll burn just the same."

Before he could react, she opened her mouth—

A torrent of hellfire erupted.

He knew, at this moment, he is going to die. But he remained firm, his eyes burning with determination.

"HAIL CRONUS! KING OF COSMOS!"

The golden warrior screamed as flames of pure destruction engulfed him. His armor melted in seconds, his skin peeled away like wax, his bones glowing red before turning to ash.

When the fire died, nothing remained.

"I don’t know your name, but I acknowledge your spirit as a warrior."

Campe let out a satisfied sigh, stretching her arms before turning her gaze back to the battlefield.

There was no one left.

Her army stood victorious, their war cries shaking the heavens.

"THE ENEMIES HAVE FALLEN! VICTORY IS OURS!"

"DEATH TO CRONUS! HAIL THE OLYMPIANS!"

The rebel gods and divine spirits roared in unison, weapons raised high, the glow of their divine forms flickering against the destruction around them.

Their enemies had been slaughtered to the last.

The Titans’ forces had been eradicated.

Just as the cries of triumph reached their peak, the space above them twisted.

The shadows stretched unnaturally, forming a vortex of darkness, and from within, a lone figure emerged.

Hecate.

She descended like a phantom, her black dress billowing against the ethereal wind. The lamp in her hand flickered with an eerie glow, casting ghostly shadows over the battlefield.

Her eyes swept across the celebration, but there was no trace of emotion on her face.

She landed silently beside Campe, who was still licking golden ichor from her fingers.

"You’re late," Campe smirked, not bothering to look at her. "Was that brat too much for you?"

Hecate remained silent.

She wasn’t paying any attention at Campe.

She was staring at the distance.

A dark mist loomed beyond the battlefield—a silent omen of the battle still yet to be fought.

Her voice was quiet, but filled with something heavier than the battlefield of corpses behind her.

"Hades..."

He had gone to fight Iapetus alone.

And Hecate could feel it.

The battle between gods was about to reach its climax.