The God of Underworld-Chapter 62 - 17: The First Step

Smoke curled through the skies like dying prayers, the scent of blood and burning flesh thick in the air.

The sun—if it could still be called that—was veiled behind a blanket of ash and winged beasts.

Below it, at the foot of a valley once used by farmers, battle raged.

Herios stood at the forefront, his muscles tense and slick with sweat, his cracked bronze sword held high.

"CHARGE!"

His voice roared like thunder, and his tribe surged forward at his command—men and women wielding crude spears, jagged swords, and wooden shields bound with sinew.

The other tribe leaders also led their tribe to attack.

Their war cries filled the air as they clashed with the beasts.

The monsters—creatures twisted by chaos, with tusks of iron and limbs like scythes—met the charge head-on.

Some crawled on all fours with shrieking mouths in their chests, while others stood tall like giants, swiping aside humans like flies.

The sound of bone snapping echoed. Screams rose. Blood sprayed the dirt, turning the once fertile ground into a crimson swamp.

Herios led from the front, darting between a towering beast’s legs, slicing at tendons and plunging his sword into its chest.

It howled in rage before collapsing.

He didn’t pause. Another lunged, and he ducked under a claw, jabbing upward to pierce its neck.

But despite his lead, the battlefield was descending into chaos.

"Stay in formation!" he shouted, but his voice was drowned beneath the cacophony of terror and steel.

Humans were falling—slain by sharp fangs and heavier bodies. The tribes had never fought together. Every group protected their own, and none trusted the other.

The once-assembled coalition fractured into clumps of panicking warriors.

Orders were ignored. Cries for help went unanswered.

"Protect the flank!" one tribe leader shouted.

"Fall back! We’re overwhelmed!" cried another.

"No! Press forward! We have the numbers!"

Confusion reigned.

Herios gritted his teeth, watching a line collapse under the weight of a charging beast.

It trampled a boy no older than fifteen. His scream was short-lived.

He had to act.

"ENOUGH!" Herios bellowed, his voice sharper than a blade and heavier than any command.

Something in it made the tribes freeze, even in the middle of death.

"Break into three groups!" he shouted. "Form a crescent! Keep the beasts contained! Don’t fight alone—pair up! You, the spear throwers! Focus fire on the winged beasts!"

There was hesitation. But then, miraculously, they moved. Something about Herios’ voice cut through fear like fire through darkness.

He rushed to the left flank, rallying the scattered warriors. "Swords to the front! Shields behind! Rotate every ten seconds—keep the beasts at bay!"

They formed crude phalanxes. It wasn’t perfect, but it worked, especially since it was thought of by a what can be describe as a caveman.

The monsters pushed. The humans held.

Herios darted across the battlefield like a flame, reinforcing the weakest points, giving new commands, adjusting formation.

Where one flank wavered, he reinforced.

Where another broke, he counterattacked.

He climbed onto a fallen beast’s corpse to see the battlefield. His mind raced—not just a warrior’s mind, but something deeper.

Tactical.

Analytical.

Thoughts that is different from the simplemindedness of humans of this era.

"Light the black liquid," he told one spear thrower group. "Set the ground ablaze. Cut off their advance."

They obeyed.

The monsters surged—and fire consumed them.

Cheers erupted from the humans.

But it wasn’t enough.

More beasts emerged from the hills, called by the scent of blood. Larger, deadlier.

One had three heads and bone plates thicker than stone. Another screeched, and a group of humans bled from their ears.

Herios’ men screamed. Some ran, others cried.

If this continued, they will surely get annihilated.

"We fall back," Herios ordered, panting. "Crescent formation, retreat eastward! Take the wounded first! Burn the ground behind us!"

The tribes followed, not questioning anymore. Herios guided them like a conductor of war, leading a chaotic orchestra through hell.

They retreated slowly, every step costing lives, but the line held.

And when the last warrior crossed the valley ridge, Herios turned one final time to face the horde.

His sword was broken. His armor dented. His eyes, however, were still lit with fire.

"We’ll be back," he whispered, voice a promise to the gods and monsters alike.

Then he turned and ran, disappearing into the smoke with the last hope of mankind.

*

*

*

Night had fallen. The flicker of torches barely pierced the darkness that wrapped the mountainside like a funeral shroud.

Hidden behind a cascade of stone and vines, in a large secluded cave, the surviving humans huddled together—bloodied, broken, but not defeated.

Moans of the wounded echoed faintly through the chamber as healers moved swiftly, treating torn flesh and setting broken bones with crude tools and whispered prayers.

Children cried softly in the corners, comforted by tired mothers.

The air was thick with the scent of smoke, blood, and the unshakable tension of what they had just survived.

At the far end of the cave, beneath the dim glow of a single burning brazier, the tribe leaders gathered.

Eleven of them, cloaked in fur and bearing the marks of warriors, sat in a circle carved into the stone floor, their faces lined with weariness and ash.

No one spoke for a long moment.

Then, an elder with braided grey hair and a broken spear leaning against his shoulder broke the silence. "We were lucky to survive."

Murmurs of agreement followed.

"Yeah. I didn’t think we’d actually survive." another muttered. "If it wasn’t for Herios, we probably would’ve been eaten by those beasts."

All heads slowly turned to Herios, who stood nearby with his arms crossed, gazing at the map he’d carved into the cave floor with the charred end of a sword.

"Even though we fought together, we lacked coordination," said a younger chief, rubbing dried blood from his hands. "The chaos and different voices shouting commands confused our people."

"Aye," said another, voice firm. "...I think we should officially unite as one. I’m sure everyone here knows that we’d all die if we scattered."

One by one, the others nodded. The elder rose slowly, his joints creaking like old bark.

"Then, it is time," he said. "Time we stop pretending we can survive this age alone. Our ancestors divided the land and splintered the people—but that time is over. Today, we fight for more than just our own kind. We fight for all mankind."

He turned to Herios.

"You have shown what a leader looks like, and that is not to have just strength, but also wisdom. Not just valor, but also vision. We would have been slaughtered without you."

"I agree," said a broad-shouldered woman with a scar across her cheek. "I saw how you moved across the battlefield. You gave hope when there was none."

"I watched you save my daughter," whispered another, eyes misty. "You didn’t even know who she was. But you shielded her with your own body. That is the kind of leader we need."

All eyes turned again to Herios.

He met each gaze, his heart heavy.

"I am only one man," he said at last, voice steady. "I bled with you. I lost friends with you. I did what I must to survive. Nothing more."

"You did more than that," said the elder. "You led us."

Silence followed.

After a few minutes, Herios finally nodded. "Very well. If this is what you believe... then I will lead."

A cheer rose, faint at first, then growing.

The leaders all stood, placing their weapons in a ring at Herios’ feet—a sign of allegiance and respect.

That night, the humans gathered as one. The wounded were propped up, the children carried, and the old brought forward to witness history.

Herios stepped onto a stone outcropping inside the cave and raised his voice.

"Today," he declared, "we bury our tribes. Today, we are no longer eleven scattered tribes. Today, we become one tribe. One people. One flame."

A roar of agreement filled the cavern.

"We will fight together," he continued. "We will forge weapons together. We will teach our children the art of war, and we will not bow to the gods, nor the monsters who hunt us. We will rise, and survive."

He raised his hand, and in it, a torch blazed with fire.

"From this day forward—we are the Ithas Tribe! In honor of the divine who defied the gods and gave us the sacred flame!"

The humans raised their voices and weapons, and in that sacred moment, beneath the stone and stars, the first step to the building of mankind’s first nation was taken.

*

*

*

In underworld, in Hades floating fortress.

A projection hovered before Hades and Aphrodite. In it, flickering and alive, was the image of humanity.

They had survived.

More than that—they had united.

Herios, now leader of the newly-formed Tribe of Flame, stood atop stone, his people cheering, fire blazing behind him as symbols of their defiance against annihilation.

From his dark throne, Hades leaned forward, his chin resting on his knuckles. His stern face betrayed little emotion—but his eyes, normally cold as obsidian, held a flicker of light.

"It begins," he murmured. "The beginning of a city, no, a civilization. The first time mankind looks beyond mere survival... and toward legacy."

A soft rustle came from beside him. Aphrodite, draped in a flowing silken gown that shimmered like starlight, sat comfortably on a divan near the edge of the scrying pool.

Her golden eyes gleamed with mirth, and the faintest smile played on her lips.

"They are really stubborn bunch," she said. "I thought they would scatter like frightened deer after that battle."

"They almost did," Hades replied. "But Herios held them together. He really deserves to be their leader."

Aphrodite watched as a group of human children passed stones to help build a crude wall, their laughter echoing faintly through the vision.

A moment passed.

Aphrodite rose and walked toward him, placing a gentle hand on the armrest of his obsidian throne. Her touch was warm against the cold stone.

"You really like them."

"Maybe," Hades admitted. "They remind me that power isn’t always forged in birthright or divine might. Sometimes... it’s forged in hardship and struggle."

Yes, just like he was back then. Desperate for power.

She tilted her head. "Do you think the other gods will care?"

He smirked. "Not yet. But they will. When cities rise. When temples are built. When prayers echo across the mountains and rivers—they will care."

"And when that happens," she said, "they’ll try to claim them."

"I won’t let them," Hades said, voice sharp as a drawn blade. "These mortals deserve to rise by their own hands, not be puppets to divine whims."

Aphrodite gazed back at the image of Herios giving orders, firelight dancing across his determined face.

"They are... beautiful, in their own way."

"Indeed," Hades agreed.

And so, in the quiet of the Underworld, the God of the Dead and the Goddess of Beauty watched the dawn of human civilization—not as distant deities, but as silent guardians of the flame now burning in mortal hearts.