The God of Underworld-Chapter 69 - 23:

The city was alive with the thunder of joy.

Men, women, and children flooded the streets, cheering and laughing.

The once-bloodstained walls of the city of Herios now bore the marks of triumph. Torches lit up the dusk, and the aroma of roasted meat and baked bread filled the air.

Everywhere, songs rose to the heavens, raw and imperfect, but full of spirit.

Herios, still wearing the tattered remains of his battle armor, stood at the highest rampart.

His face was tired, bruised, his arms bandaged where monstrous claws had torn at him. Yet his eyes were bright, filled with the fierce pride of a leader who had defied death itself and emerged victorious.

The people shouted his name:

"Herios!"

"Herios!"

"Herios!"

He raised his hand, and the crowd roared even louder.

He was glad, everyone was okay. Smiling, Herios observed his people. He wondered if gods had witnessed their stand, if so, would they be rewarded for their bravery?

At that moment...

The sky, which had been painted with the crimson hues of sunset, began to darken unnaturally.

A low rumble, like the rolling of distant thunder, echoed across the land. The torches flickered, some even extinguishing under a sudden gust of wind.

A hush fell.

The laughter died.

The songs silenced.

Even the crackling of fires seemed muted as the very world seemed to hold its breath.

And then, under everyone’s eyes, ’he’ appeared.

From the swirling shadows between heaven and earth, a figure materialized, stepping lightly onto the air itself.

He was tall, broad-shouldered, his hair white as the moon, his robes woven from the very threads of darkness.

Around him danced a faint corona of ghostly light, as if even death itself could not bear to cling to him too closely.

And though none among the humans had seen him before, they knew immediately.

He was a god.

No one spoke. No one dared to breathe. Their instincts screamed it, as primal and undeniable as the pull of gravity.

The god smiled, a gentle, regal smile that bore no malice.

And then he spoke, his voice carrying effortlessly across the stunned gathering.

"Greetings, humanity. I am Hades," he said, "King of the Underworld. Judge of the souls. God of the Dead."

Humanity remained silent, not daring to utter a word nor move an inch.

At this time, Herios took a step forward.

"Mighty god of the dead, have you come to end us? Please, take me alone. My people are innocents."

He thought the gods woul want to punish humanity for killing a son of Gaia.

However, contrary to his beliefs, Hades just spread his arms, "I stand not as your captor nor your adversary. But as your witness... and your rewarder."

He smiled, seemingly impressed. "Humans of the new dawn. Brave children of earth and sky. I have witnessed your valor, your resilience, your defiance against despair."

His voice was deep, layered with an ancient power that resonated in their very bones.

"You have fought where others would have fled. You have built when others would have surrendered. You have proven yourselves worthy of a future crafted by your own hands."

He stepped forward, closer to the battlements where Herios stood frozen, awe in his heart.

The humans, still overwhelmed, began slowly kneeling, heads bowed in reverence, though Hades had not commanded it.

Hades smiled warmly at them and looked toward Herios.

"You," he said, voice soft but carrying to every ear. "The one who bore the weight of your people, who faced monsters and giants with nothing but will and broken steel. You, Herios, have carved your name into the very marrow of this world."

He lifted a hand. A soft golden light — so unlike his usual dark power — blossomed from his palm and swept across the people like a gentle wave.

Wounds healed.

Bruised spirits mended.

The weariness that had seeped into their bones melted away, replaced by warmth, vitality, hope.

The children who had cried now laughed with pure, unbroken joy. The warriors who had limped stood tall once more.

It was a miracle that even the simplest heart could understand.

"You have my blessing," Hades said, and the ground itself seemed to hum in agreement.

The god then turned to all the gathered humans, his eyes gleaming with the fire of command.

"Hear now the words of Hades, which shall be etched into the fate of the world!"

The air itself thickened, charged with the weight of prophecy.

"From this day forth, humanity shall stand independent — neither the playthings nor the thralls of gods, titans, nor spirits! No race shall lay claim to your destiny but yourselves!"

The humans gasped, and even Herios felt tears prick at the corners of his tired eyes. Freedom had been given voice.

They no longer need to endure the "trials" and "punishments" of gods which seems to aim to annihilate their race.

"And further," Hades continued, "this city, the beating heart of your courage, shall no longer be called merely a city."

He pointed his fingers toward the walls of Herios. The earth quaked gently. The stones shimmered.

The towers seemed to rise a little higher, the streets straighter, the land itself accepting his decree.

"I name this place Herio, the first Kingdom of Mortals since the dawn of creation!"

A stunned silence, and then cries of astonishment and joy broke out among the people.

Hades turned his gaze again to Herios, who knelt humbly but proudly.

"You, Herios, for your valor, wisdom, and sacrifice, shall be named... the First King of Humanity."

A golden laurel, woven from the very essence of mortal dreams, materialized in Hades’ hand. He gently placed it upon Herios’ bowed head.

"Arise," Hades said, "as King Herios, Lord of Humanity."

Herios rose, his heart pounding with a thousand emotions, gratitude, pride, humility, and a searing sense of responsibility.

Hades stepped back, his voice thundering once more:

"And one final decree shall I make this day! From this moment forth, when mortals speak of those who stand above fear and despair, those who challenge fate and conquer it, they shall call them ’Hero’...!"

He smiled.

"In honor of Herios, the first of your kings."

The crowd erupted, tears streaming from their faces, shouting Herios’ name and the word that would henceforth inspire countless generations.

"Hero!"

"Hero!"

"Hero!"

The very heavens seemed to ring with their voices.

For a long moment, Hades watched a them, a rare glimmer of satisfaction in his dark eyes.

He had given them a future, not bound by the chains of heaven nor the will of death — but crafted by their own courage and strength.

As the cheers echoed into the distance, Hades turned. His form blurred into mist, vanishing into the twilight sky, leaving behind a mortal world forever changed.

Thus, in the age before records, before written words, the first kingdom of man was born.

And so too was born the eternal legend of the Hero.

*

*

*

The sky split open like a wound.

Upon the vast, empty expanse of the heavens, where no mortal eye could see, a ripple of raw power spread, distorting the clouds and forcing the very air to tremble.

There, standing alone upon the wind, was Hades — Lord of the Underworld — his dark cloak billowing as though it were made from the night itself.

His brow was slightly raised, his expression calm yet edged with mild irritation, as he regarded the scene before him.

For surrounding him, forming a loose circle upon the air, were the Olympians — brilliant, radiant gods who ruled the overworld.

They stood proud and furious. Their armor gleamed like molten gold, their divine weapons crackled with the power of storms and seas.

Their eyes, once filled with the lazy arrogance of those unchallenged, now burned with anger.

At their head floated Zeus, King of Olympus, his thunderbolt gripped tightly in one hand, his knuckles white with rage.

"Hades!" Zeus bellowed, his voice shaking the very sky. Lightning licked the clouds above him, snarling like a chained beast. "Explain yourself!"

Hades remained silent, studying his younger brother with a dispassionate gaze.

"You were bound!" Zeus shouted again, stepping forward, the Olympians following behind him. "By your own oath, by Styx herself, you swore never to interfere in the affairs of the overworld! Never to set yourself above us!"

Hades tilted his head slightly, the ghost of a smile playing at the corner of his mouth.

"I have not broken my oath," Hades said, voice calm but carrying like a blade drawn across stone. "I did not seize dominion. I did not raise armies nor topple thrones. I merely..." — he paused, letting the silence grow heavy — "rewarded the valor of mortals."

The gods bristled.

Poseidon’s trident quivered with suppressed fury. Ares’s eyes narrowed into slits. Athena gripped her spear tighter.

Zeus’ face twisted in rage.

"Merely?" Zeus snarled. "You healed them. You blessed them. You anointed a king in your name!"

He threw his arm toward the world below. "You gave them strength enough to resist us! Your blessings have tainted the main source of faith! Taking faith from humanity will be troublesome now!"

Hades’ smile faded into cold neutrality.

Zeus’ voice grew more savage, cursing in ancient tongues not heard since the birth of the world. "You rotten, corpse-loving wretch! You worm from beneath the soil! You dare twist the course of fate set by Olympus itself?!"

The other gods laughed cruelly at Zeus’ insults, rallying behind their king.

But Hades simply sighed.

The sky grew heavier.

The laughter of the gods choked in their throats as a presence — vast, ancient, and terrible — began to rise from Hades.

It was as if an abyss had opened, and from it came not just the scent of death, but the very concept of mortality itself — the inevitable end that even gods, in their deepest hearts, feared.

In an instant, the boundless, crushing weight of the Underworld itself pressed down upon the Olympians.

The clouds blackened.

The light dimmed.

The wind died.

Zeus gasped, staggering as an invisible force slammed into him, forcing him to his knees. His thunderbolt fell from his hand, crackling uselessly as it tumbled through the air.

The Olympians cried out, some falling to one knee, others clutching their throats as if the very air had turned to stone.

Hades floated forward, unhurried, his black eyes gleaming with a cold fire.

"You have grown comfortable in your thrones," Hades said quietly, each word reverberating like a hammer in the gods’ minds. "You have grown fat with worship, drunk on power you did not earn."

He approached Zeus, who struggled against the crushing gravity but found himself powerless.

"You forget, little brother," Hades said, his voice low and terrible, "why the Titans fell."

He reached out — and with terrifying gentleness — pressed his palm down on Zeus’ golden crown.

Zeus screamed in rage and shame as his body buckled, forced slowly, inexorably, onto both knees.

The king of the gods — the wielder of the sky, the slayer of Cronus — knelt.

His head bowed low, pressed toward the unseen ground, as Hades’ hand remained firm atop his scalp.

The Olympians could only watch in stunned horror. None dared to move. None could break free from the oppressive might that suffused the heavens.

Hades leaned down, his voice dropping into a whisper that somehow echoed like a thousand storms:

"I am not your subject, Zeus. I am not your lesser. And I do not require your permission."

He withdrew his hand, and Zeus collapsed forward, gasping.

Slowly, with a regal grace, Hades straightened and cast his gaze over the gathered gods, searing each of them with his black stare.

"Know this," he said, voice now loud enough to shake the horizon, "Humanity is under my protection. If any of you dare to enslave them, corrupt them, or leech their faith without their willing gift, you will answer to me."

The sky split again — a silent promise of devastation should they defy him.

Hades turned his back on Zeus without fear, stepping away as the clouds began to part slightly above him.

"You have been warned," he said simply.

And with a ripple of shadow, Hades vanished, leaving the Olympians trembling and silent amid the wreckage of their pride.

Far below, in the newborn kingdom of Herion, humanity celebrated, ignorant of the divine battle waged high above their heads — a battle that would shape the fate of gods and men for ages to come.