The God of Underworld-Chapter 75 - 29: Theology

The forest was thick with shadows, shrouded in the mist of early dawn.

Beneath the ancient oaks and twisted roots, smoke curled from campfires.

Beneath the canopy, the last free human tribes had gathered in secret.

Warriors, elders, seers, and chieftains of many bloodlines stood or sat in a rough circle, many of them eyeing one another with suspicion.

Old enemies were now forced into a single alliance... but desperation was a powerful glue.

At the center of the gathering sat a dark-skinned chieftain wrapped in lion pelts, his eyes bloodshot with fury.

"That bastard, Herios," he spat, slamming his fist against a flat stone used as their makeshift table. "He claims unity, but all he’s brought is tyranny! He forces any humans who dared not submit to him to their knees!"

"He is blessed. Not even the sun burns without his word," growled another. "He controls the rivers, the crops, the winds... What kind of man has that power?"

"He’s not a man!" someone shouted from the back. "He’s a evil spirit clothed in mortal skin!"

An old seer with cracked fingernails and a voice like dry leaves raised her hand for silence.

"We can call him all the names we like," she said grimly. "But words alone cannot stop him, our weapons break like twigs against his warriors, our shield shatters against his strength. He is a man blessed by the gods."

"Underworld gods," someone muttered bitterly.

"Evil gods who blessed the tyrant and want to rule the world!"

Silence fell.

They despaired.

Even their curses had lost force.

They hated Herios, yet could not deny his power. His unity had brought peace, prosperity — and total domination.

The cities under his banner flourished. His name was on every tongue. And above all, he was blessed.

Deep within their hearts, they believed that if they also received a blessing of the gods, then surely they can do better!

Legend speaks of how he brought down a giant, but they believed Herios couldn’t do it without any help from gods!

That’s why, if they were to be blessed, they will surely build a kingdom greater than Herion.

As they wallowed in frustration and envy, "it" came.

A low rumble — not thunder, but something older, something that stirred the soul.

The campfires sputtered and flickered. The wind changed. The air shivered with electricity.

And then... a voice.

It came from the skies, yet was not of the skies. It came from within their hearts, within the wind, within the world itself.

"Children of Man... I have heard your cries."

The words were warm, majestic, but powerful. An iron edge beneath honeyed tones.

The tribes looked upward in awe. Even the animals fell silent. The wind stopped. The fires went still. And the stars themselves seemed to pause in their eternal journey.

"I am Zeus. God of Sky. King of the Gods. Father of Storms. Slayer of Cronus. Lord of Olympus."

The humans gasped.

A few dropped to their knees immediately. Others hesitated, stunned. Even the proud chieftains found themselves trembling.

A divine presence now filled the grove.

"I see your bravery. Your defiance. Your hunger for freedom. And it reminds me... of us."

The voice swelled, but it no longer boomed — it whispered, like a god leaning close to share secrets.

"Long ago, I too lived under the tyranny of a false king. My father, Cronus, devoured all he feared... just as Herios devours your nations. But I rose up. I rebelled. And I won."

A ripple of wonder spread among the tribes.

Could it be true?

This being — Zeus — he had faced his own tyrant?

The chieftain in lion pelts looked up with narrowed eyes. "Then why speak to us now, god of Olympus? Why not strike Herios down yourself?"

There was a pause.

"Because man must shape his own destiny," Zeus replied. "But I offer you the strength to do it."

The winds picked up again, circling them. Leaves rose into the air, spinning like a vortex.

"Bow before me. Build temples in my name. Offer prayers and loyalty. And in return, I shall bless your blades, harden your shields, and set fire to your spirits. I shall make you a flame against the darkness that Herios has cast."

Silence.

The humans looked at one another. A few still hesitated.

"This could be a trick," an old chiedtain muttered. "No god speaks so freely."

Despite this, the chieftain stood tall. He had lived through six wars. Buried three wives. He had no more patience for submission — not to Herios, and not to fear.

He knelt.

"I accept your covenant, Lord of the Sky."

One by one, others followed.

Some knelt in hunger for power.

Some knelt because they feared being left behind.

Some knelt in silence, hearts heavy with doubt, but minds eager for hope.

And others knelt simply because they could not see another way.

Zeus’ voice softened, but did not lose its power.

"You have made the right choice. And your enemies shall soon tremble."

The sky cracked with white lightning. Thunder roared. And when the light faded... the wind returned. The fires sparked again. The birds resumed singing.

But something was different now.

Something had been bound.

The tribes would no longer stand alone.

They were now weapons in a far older game.

And far above them, in the towering spires of Olympus, Zeus sat with a smirk curling on his lips — watching his pawns move into place.

And, all over the world, the Olympians also began their move.

Poseidon, the Lord of the Seas, was also trying to form his own kingdom of humans who will worship him.

He did not show himself, for fear of being discovered by Hades, but his voice spread across the coastline, dozens of coastal human tribes watched in awe and terror.

Their villages clung to the sea like barnacles, their lives tied to the tides.

"You have fished my waters without thanks. You have built your huts upon my shores, but never named a stone for me. No longer. From this day forth, you shall build temples to honor me. You shall pour wine and salt into the waves. You shall offer your greatest catch to my name."

There was resistance at first. A few chieftains raised their spears, their faces painted with war symbols.

But then the sea answered.

A towering wave rose before the tribes, wide enough to drown a hundred ships, silent and still in the sky. It hovered like the judgment of the heavens.

The message was clear.

And so they bowed.

Thus, the Sea Tribes were claimed—not with charm, not with promises, but with the raw, unfathomable fear of drowning beneath a god’s wrath.

Elsewhere, Ares stood before the Flamebone Tribes of the jagged hills.

He sealed his own divinity, donning the body of a mortal man.

His arrival was no divine whisper, but a tempest of blood and chaos. The god of war came clad in bronze, his sword dripping with divine ichor, his eyes maddened with lust for battle.

He gave no speeches. Instead, he challenged their strongest warrior to single combat.

The duel lasted seven seconds.

Afterward, he walked into their camp and declared, "You fight well. Now fight for me. Raise my banners. Etch my name into your swords. And I shall give you endless war. Praise my name! I am Ares, God of War!"

The Flamebone cheered. They were born of violence. And now they had found their god.

Far to the east, Apollo’s mortal avatar descended upon the Skyvine Valleys, his beauty and radiance blinding the shepherds and singers that lived there.

He brought them knowledge of poetry, medicine, archery, and light.

The people gathered and listened for hours as he played his lyre, tears falling from their cheeks.

He whispered of inspiration, of dreams, of beauty as a divine act.

"Worship me," he said gently, "and your souls shall never know despair."

They built a temple within three days.

Dionysus, meanwhile, found the Vineblood Tribes in the southern jungles.

His approach was chaos incarnate—laughter, madness, music, and wild color.

Wine flowed like rivers.

The people danced, entranced by his presence. They worshiped him not through sermons, but through ecstasy.

He never had to ask for loyalty. They gave it freely, deliriously.

Hephaestus brought fire and forge to the Mountain Tribes. He taught them how to mine deeper, how to temper steel, how to craft blades that would never break.

In return, they built him a forge-temple of molten gold and prayed to the god who made gods strong.

Each Olympian claimed their own corner of the mortal world.

One by one, the free tribes that had resisted Herios fell—not to him, but to the gods who abandoned humanity. ƒrēewebnoѵёl.cσm

A war of influence began. It was no longer about Herios. It was about divinity. About faith. About control.

But not all the gods participated.

High above, on a distant crag of Olympus where no thrones sat, where no laws echoed, three goddesses stood in quiet observation.

Athena, clad in silver armor with her helm resting at her side, stood with arms crossed, her violet eyes focused and serene.

Artemis, the wild huntress, leaned against a stone pillar, polishing her silver bow, barely glancing at the chaos below.

And beside them, Astrea, the silent judge of stars and cosmic balance, observed the earth with emotionless detachment, her eyes a mirror of the constellations.

"They scramble like starving dogs," Artemis said, her voice laced with disdain. "Those humans are pathetic."

"Indeed. I guess for them, kneeling before a divine was better than kneeling before a mortal," Athena replied calmly.

Astrea did not speak. She was not interested in this charade.

Artemis shrugged. "Let them have their little kingdoms. I’ll stay with the forests. The moon does not beg for worship. People simply worship it."

Athena turned her gaze to a distant city — the capital of Herios’ kingdom. Its streets glowed with torchlight. Its temples rose with grandeur and grace.

"They mock Herios," she said, "but none of them could have done what he has done."

"No," Astrea finally said, her voice like the ringing of stars. "He was the one Lord Hades acknowledged, and no one in the past, present, and future, can hope to be as great as him."

Silence fell.

Below, the world shifted. Kingdoms rose. Temples blazed. Gods sharpened their influence like blades.

And above all, the human world began to split—not in war, but in something far worse.

In ideology.

And faith.