The God of Underworld-Chapter 49 - 4: The Temptation of Power

The eternal dusk of the Underworld shimmered with quiet stillness. No screams. No cries. Only silence, heavy and watchful, as though even the land itself held its breath.

From the edge of the void, Hades returned.

He walked alone, emerging from the unseen paths that wound between Nyx’s domain and the heart of his kingdom.

His steps were slow, unhurried, yet each one rippled across the very fabric of the Underworld like a command.

Within a few steps, he arrived at the heart of underworld, where his massive gothic castle suspended above ground can be seen.

His home.

His throne.

The place where he will rule the realm of the dead.

The journey from Nyx’s realm had been swift and uneventful, a stark contrast to the weight of what he carried back with him: not just the authority of the Underworld, but something more personal, more intimate.

A clarity of self.

A strange lightness, as if a piece of his missing soul has been completed.

The great obsidian gates of the fortress swung open without a sound as he approached.

With a single step, he arrived straight to his throne room.

The moment his boots touched the onyx floor, an ethereal purple mist swirled in the throne hall, rising like a curtain being drawn for a divine performance.

A beat later, the mist parted.

And from it, Hecate emerged.

Her form was graceful as ever, robed in deep twilight. She bowed her head slightly, arms folded with casual elegance.

"Welcome back, my king," she said, her voice echoing softly through the vast chamber. "I trust your meeting with Lady Nyx was... enlightening?"

Hades said nothing at first. He walked past her, his footsteps echoing through the silent hall until he reached his throne—a tall, ancient seat carved from the finest ores in the cosmos, wrapped in faint purple flame.

He sat slowly, his presence filling the space like gravity itself.

"It was... quite the experience," he finally said, his voice quiet but layered with weight.

Hecate raised a brow. "...In what way?"

He gave her a small, mysterious smile. "Some things are best left in the dark. Even for you."

Hecate chuckled softly, unfazed by his refusal to elaborate. "Very well."

Hades adjusted his cloak as he leaned back into the throne. "What of the Underworld? I assume preparations are proceeding as I ordered?"

Hecate stepped closer, her movements fluid and composed. "Yes. Nearly every creature and spirit, divine and lesser, has begun gathering beneath the fortress as commanded. The five river gods have formed the perimeter. Hera has taken it upon herself to organize the crowds."

Hades gave a soft grunt of approval.

"And Campe," Hecate continued, "is accompanying her, making sure no one stirs unrest. Between the two of them, even the most unruly beast dares not misbehave. Though I think she’s just worried about Hera."

That drew a deeper reaction from Hades. He smirked and folded one leg over the other, resting his cheek on a closed fist.

"Strange, isn’t it?" he mused aloud. "Despite how often they argue... they’re like sisters. Fierce ones."

Hecate gave him a sidelong glance. "Shared violence breeds kinship. Especially among immortals."

"I suppose so," Hades murmured.

He remembered his brief battle with Iapetus. However short their fight was, Hades feel a lot of respect for the late titan.

For a moment, there was silence.

Hades looked out toward the open balcony, where dark clouds swirled lazily above the amphitheater far below.

Thousands upon thousands of shadows flickered beneath the fortress—spirits, monsters, ancient gods, beings of fear and forgotten legends—all awaiting their new ruler’s proclamation.

It would be the first time since the fall of Uranus that the entirety of the Underworld had gathered.

And now, they would bear witness to the rise of a new king.

Hades let out a long breath.

"Everything is moving faster than I thought," he said, more to himself than to her. "One war ends, and now I must wear the crown fully."

"You always wore it," Hecate said, her voice firm. "Now you merely stop pretending it’s temporary."

Hades tilted his head. "You’re unusually poetic today."

"I’m always poetic. You’re simply never in the mood to listen."

He chuckled—low and brief, but genuine. Then his eyes returned to the horizon.

There, beyond the sea of shadows and fire, beyond the obsidian mountains and rivers of flame, lay the vast, unknowable territories of the Underworld.

Many of its corners remained wild, ancient, and untamed.

Rulers of old still slumbered in the depths; Thanatos, Erebus, Taratarus...

Spirits too dangerous or prideful to bow waited in silence.

And yet, now, all eyes would turn to him.

He was no longer the son of the late king.

He was now the king of his own domain.

The king of silence, of finality, of peace in death.

And soon, all who lived in this realm—gods, monsters, and mortals alike—would swear their allegiance to him.

He turned his gaze back to Hecate. "Five days?"

"Two now," she corrected. "You’ve been gone for three days. The clock is ticking."

Hades raise an eyebrow at her choice of words, but didn’t comment.

Hades rose from his throne, his cloak billowing behind him like smoke. His presence surged—gravity, shadow, divinity. A sovereign force.

"Then let the realm prepare," he said. "When the fifth day comes, they shall kneel—not because they fear me... but because they believe in the world I will build."

Hecate bowed her head, eyes gleaming with pride and curiosity. "And we shall be ready, my king."

As she vanished into the mist once more, Hades remained standing, eyes fixed on the flickering shadows below.

He could already hear the murmurs of the gathering masses.

And soon... they would hear his voice.

*

*

*

*

*

Overworld.

The sun lingered above Mount Olympus longer than usual, as if even the heavens were too ashamed to cast night upon the sacred mountain.

For three days and nights, the feasting continued—wild, unending, and decadent.

Zeus had declared it a celebration for the ages. A commemoration of their triumph over the Titans.

An offering to the new order of gods.

But what had begun as a feast of unity had devolved into something far darker.

The golden halls of Olympus, a place that was supposed to be of reverence and celestial grace, now pulsed with music, laughter, and the sounds of indulgence.

The once-pristine marble floors were littered with overturned goblets, spilled ambrosia, and silken robes torn in haste.

Fires flickered in strange colors, and illusionary lights spun wildly through the air, cast by divine tricksters and spirits called forth to entertain.

In merely three days, the grand temple became unrecognizable.

Gods from every corner of the cosmos had answered Zeus’ call. Young deities newly risen from the cosmic dust. Spirits of stars and comets. Ancient powers that had remained dormant throughout the war.

They came for camaraderie, for honor... and for power.

But power, as ever, twisted the hearts of those who sought to wield it.

The goddesses of Olympus, respected warriors and strategists during the Titanomachy, now found themselves the subject of jeers and lecherous hands.

Many were passed around like trophies—offered drinks laced with divine intoxication, their protests ignored or mocked.

The bonds of war had eroded under the weight of unchecked authority.

At the center of it all was Zeus.

Crowned in glory, wrapped in robes that shimmered with the gold of lightning, he sat upon his new throne with a goblet in hand and a different goddess on his lap each hour.

His laugh echoed like thunder, commanding and wild.

He had been the hero of the war, the voice that rallied the Olympians.

But now?

Now he had become something else.

Even his own sisters were not spared.

Demeter, so full of warmth and gentleness, decided to stay in Olympus for awhile to enjoy the feast.

But when Zeus had reached for her with clouded eyes and an eager hand, she had drawn her divine sickles without hesitation.

With wrath in her eyes and heartbreak in her voice, she cursed his name.

"You are not the brother I fought beside," she had spat. "You are a stranger clothed in glory, drunk on power."

She escaped that very night, descending the mountain in silence. She swore never to return and instead wandered the mortal world, vowing to find beauty and peace away from Olympus’ corrupted halls.

Rhea, mother of the Olympians, remained unaware.

She had sequestered herself in a quiet temple far from Olympus, sharing the solitude with Hestia, the eldest and most peaceful of the gods.

Together, they had withdrawn from politics and revelry alike, content to watch the world from afar, believing that peace had finally returned.

But peace had only shifted.

Unseen, the shadows of indulgence, pride, and arrogance crept deeper into Olympus.

Whispers of dissent began to stir among some of the elder gods, and younger spirits spoke in hushed tones of how their dreams of a better cosmos had already begun to rot.

On the fourth day, one of underworld gods who had fought alongside Hades returned to overworld and wanted to enjoy the rumored Grand Feast.

He did not step foot inside the hall, but first he simply stood outside, cloaked in shadow, and observed.

What he saw made him turn away in disgust.

"It is not Lord Hades who rules the land of the dead," he said later to another spirit, "but Zeus who commands a kingdom without soul."

As the music blared louder and divine fires danced higher, the great halls of Olympus groaned beneath the weight of excess.

The very mountain, ancient and wise, seemed to protest. Cracks began to form in the white stone, as if Olympus itself could sense what its new ruler was becoming.

Yet none dared challenge Zeus openly.

Not yet.

But they remembered.

They remembered Demeter’s fleeing figure.

The horror in her voice.

Zeus debauchery.

His sins.

And they remembered the glory that had once burned in Zeus’ eyes—now dulled, clouded by pleasure and unchecked pride.

One day, the gods would speak of this time not as the golden age of Olympus... but as the beginning of its long, slow fall.