The God of Underworld-Chapter 53 - 8: The Flame

Prometheus strode through the grand hall of Mount Olympus, his bare feet echoing softly against the marble floor, polished by years of divine celebration and excess.

The golden pillars stretched toward the heavens like the bones of titans, and the air itself pulsed with intoxicating music and the scent of divine wine.

Around him, gods and goddesses reveled without restraint—drunk on power, lust, and victory.

Laughter echoed, mixed with moans and the soft clinking of goblets. Divine bodies writhed in corners, tangled in euphoric embraces.

A satyr played the pan flute while a minor river goddess danced without care, her silver veil long discarded.

But Prometheus did not look. He didn’t stop. Even when a goddess reached out to him with slurred laughter and glowing eyes, he gave her a courteous nod and walked past.

One offered him a goblet of ambrosia. Another whispered a promise in his ear, tugging gently on his arm.

He ignored them all.

His stride was graceful and deliberate. He was here for a mission. One born not of pride or rebellion, but of love—for mortals not yet worthy, for a future not yet forged.

And he would pay the price.

He already knew what his defiance would cost. He had seen it in countless glimpses of possible futures. Chains. Fire. Agony. Centuries, no, eternity of torment.

But to him, the pain was worth it.

Because tonight... he would give mankind a chance to stand.

He reached the center of Olympus.

The room was quiet, undisturbed by the noise of the feast.

Here, beneath an open dome that framed the stars above, burned the Sacred Flame—a golden fire that danced in a divine brazier carved from starlight and titan bone.

It flickered gently, elegant and eternal, its radiance bathing the chamber in warmth and gold.

This was the flame that marked the blessing of the Olympians—the sacred source of their majesty and divine spark.

It burned without consuming, and gave without end... but only to gods.

Never to mortals.

Prometheus paused, gazing at it.

The fire danced as though it recognized him.

A smirk crept across his face.

He extended his hand, and the flame responded like an old friend, leaping into his palm without resistance.

It didn’t burn him. It curled around his fingers like silk, wrapping around his arm and settling inside his chest.

A heartbeat of silence followed.

Then, it was done.

The brazier was empty.

And the divine flame of Olympus was gone.

Prometheus turned around calmly, his face composed, almost amused.

He walked out of the chamber with the same lazy swagger he had entered, gently brushing off a drunken satyr who stumbled into him.

As he reentered the grand hall, music still played. Gods still danced. No one noticed. No one cared.

He raised a goblet someone handed him and toasted the sky with a chuckle.

"To chaos," he whispered.

Then, like a shadow through mist, he slipped away from Olympus.

No alarms. No wrathful gods. Not yet.

He had the flame now. The key to the future. The light that would ignite the Age of Man.

As he descended from the mountain, his eyes flicked toward the mortal world far below.

The shivers due to cold. The cries of infants. The weak. The hungry. The lost.

But not for long.

"Let this flame ’burn’ you, my children," he said to no one, "and one day... shine brighter than any gods and titans alike."

The sky trembled. The age of gods had been secured by war.

But now, the age of mortals was about to begin.

And it would begin with fire.

*

*

*

The sacred chamber trembled as a shrill cry echoed across the marble halls of Olympus.

"A-Ah! The flame—THE FLAME IS GONE!"

A young divine spirit, robes fluttering and eyes wide with horror, bolted from the chamber at the heart of Olympus, where the sacred flame had burned for eons.

He stumbled past drunken gods and startled nymphs, shouting in panic as he ran toward the center of the ongoing feast.

"The flame! The sacred flame has been stolen!"

The music stopped.

Goblets slipped from fingers. Faces turned pale. Even those lost in intoxicated pleasure froze, the realization of what had been said slamming into them like a tidal wave.

The sacred flame of Olympus, the divine fire that blessed the gods, had vanished.

Dozens of gods rushed toward the heart of Olympus, flowing like a golden tide toward the center chamber.

Their footsteps pounded in unison, a stampede of fury and disbelief.

And standing at the head of them all... was Zeus.

He marched with eyes already burning blue-white with stormlight, his aura crackling with divine authority.

The air around him warped from the sheer force of his rage.

When he arrived at the chamber and saw the empty brazier, he didn’t say a word—not at first.

He stared.

And then—thunder boomed through Olympus.

A bolt of lightning tore through the clouds above, shaking the mountain to its very roots.

Zeus turned, his voice booming like the sky splitting open.

"WHO! DARED!"

The divine spirit who had discovered the theft cowered before the King of the Gods.

He dropped to his knees, trembling as Zeus’s heavy footsteps approached. "I—I was only cleaning the chamber, my lord! I swear, I saw nothing! I—I only noticed when I turned around and—"

"Silence," Zeus growled.

In a flash of fury, Zeus grabbed the spirit by the hair and slammed his head into the marble floor, cracking it beneath the weight.

The gathered gods gasped. Some turned away, others watched in grim silence.

The divine spirit whimpered in pain, blood trickling down his face. "P-Please, my lord... I don’t know who did it... I swear it..."

Zeus released him and rose to his full height, his golden hair whipping in the wind stirred by his own divinity.

His voice roared across the mountain like a storm crashing against cliffs.

"EVERYONE—FIND THE CULPRIT!"

His voice echoed through the heavens, heard by birds in flight and waves below. "I want Olympus searched. Every god, every spirit, every crevice—tear this place apart if you must. The one who dared defile the sacred flame will suffer a punishment that will echo through eternity!"

Behind him, the gods and spirits scrambled into action, flying, sprinting, teleporting—fanning out across Olympus in a frenzy.

The skies darkened above the mountain as Zeus remained in the chamber, fists clenched, his jaw tight.

He didn’t know who had done it.

But he would.

And when he found them... not even Chaos itself would offer them mercy.

*

*

*

Prometheus walked through a quiet glade, high up on a ridge that overlooked the savage wilds below.

The sky was still tinged gold with the glow of Olympus far behind him, though that light would soon flicker.

He could already imagine the chaos erupting—gods screaming, accusations flying, thunder roaring.

He chuckled to himself, humming an old Titan melody, each step light and carefree.

The sacred golden flame—once a symbol of Olympian dominion—now danced silently within his fingertips, its divine power carefully veiled.

He twirled it once, like a child with a toy, then continued his descent.

Below him, spread across the plains and forests, were the first humans.

They were crude, hunched, their speech still guttural and unshaped. Their hands were dirty, their skin marked by the harshness of the world. They lacked tools, shelter, understanding.

And yet... Prometheus could see it. The potential in their eyes.

Flickering... like sparks waiting for flame.

As he approached, some of the humans shrank away, others picked up rocks or sticks, growling low in fear.

They did not know who he was. They barely understood what a god even meant. But they felt his presence.

They felt the divinity that clung to him like the scent of storm before rain.

Prometheus lifted both hands, smiling gently. "Peace, little ones. I bring no harm."

The humans hesitated. One, bolder than the rest, stepped forward, baring his teeth and grunting.

Prometheus crouched before him, his smile never fading. "You do not understand my words now. But you will. In time, you’ll speak in thousands of tongues, shape kingdoms, write poetry and prophecy."

He tapped the man gently on the chest. "And all of it... will begin with this."

He opened his palm under the watchful eyes of humanity.

The golden flame—Olympus’s sacred fire—roared into life before them.

The humans gasped, some recoiling, others entranced, while few were curious.

They had never seen such a thing.

The fire warmed their faces, cast dancing shadows behind their hollow eyes. It flickered and cracked—not like wildfires or lightning strikes—but controlled, alive.

"Warmth," Prometheus whispered. "Light. Knowledge. Civilization. This... is yours now."

He stood, watching their awe. "Use it well. Grow. Create. Rise above beasts and stone. One day, you will carve roads across oceans and lift your eyes to the stars."

He turned, already walking away as the flame took root among them, spreading slowly as the boldest reached toward it, tentative and curious.

Prometheus didn’t look back. He didn’t need to. His grin widened as he hummed again, staff tapping against the earth.

"Let them search Olympus all they want," he muttered. "The future has already begun."

And behind him, in the wild cradle of the world, the Age of Men was born.