The God of Underworld-Chapter 78 - 32:

Underworld.

Inside Hades’ secret realm.

Hades can be seen tinkering with various mythical glyphs and bloods of primordials.

He had long since forgotten how long he had stayed here.

However, at this moment.

Hades felt something.

The room stilled.

The swirling energies around the realm dimmed. The air tensed, as if frightened.

Something ancient moved through the layers of reality like a root breaking stone, and a whisper—deep, feminine, unfathomable—brushed against his mind.

"Hades."

It wasn’t a voice, not in the traditional sense. It was a presence, like the press of mountains on one’s chest, like the breath of soil around a buried corpse.

He knew it immediately.

Gaia.

He froze.

The sigils halted midair. Even the glowing blood in the tubes stopped bubbling.

For a moment, he did nothing. Then, slowly, he turned his head toward the stone altar at the center of the room.

He stared at it, silent.

The Primordial Mother had reached out again.

He heard no request, no threat—only that overwhelming summons, that expectation.

He knew why she called.

Her anger was growing. The Olympians were destroying her body, inciting humans to spread like fire.

The forests were falling, the rivers choking.

She had warned him.

Pleaded with him.

Invited him.

To rise higher.

To sire a new race.

To change everything.

And still... he hesitated.

He clenched his hand. The bones beneath his skin groaned. He had dedicated himself to seeking strength, and yet, when offered a path, he had recoiled.

Was it fear? Was it morality? Or simply... weariness?

At last, he whispered—not aloud, but through the currents of divine thought, a quiet, almost reluctant response that reached Gaia across the realms.

"Wait."

That was all he said.

Then he turned back to his work.

But he could not focus. The orbs of chaotic light no longer danced with the same rhythm.

The blood samples felt heavy in the air, the theories he had mapped now felt hollow.

His thoughts were clouded with what Gaia represented.

Outside his chamber, reality shifted.

Far above, in the Overworld, atop the primordial, Gaia narrowed her eyes.

She stood, her gaze still fixed on the horizon. The winds swirled around her. The trees nearby bent under invisible pressure.

Birds and beasts had long since fled her presence. The very mountain seemed to breathe with her heartbeat.

"Wait," she muttered, tasting his word with disdain.

The wind howled in response.

She could crush mountains with a sigh. She could awaken creatures buried beneath the crust since before Olympus was born.

And now, she was being asked to wait.

She should’ve already struck down whoever dared to make her wait.

But she did not strike the earth. Not yet.

Instead, Gaia drew in a long breath and slowly sat back on her throne of roots and stone.

Her nails dug into the rock, and with patience fraying, she whispered to herself:

"Then you must choose soon, Hades. For the world will not wait much longer."

Clouds blackened overhead. The skies trembled. Somewhere far away, the land cracked as a forest fell under the weight of mortal greed.

And Gaia listened.

Waiting for the god who had not yet said yes.

*

*

*

The night sky stretched above like a dark canvas, flickering with distant stars that seemed indifferent to the squabbles of men below.

Beneath the cold light of the moon, in the heart of a windswept plateau ringed by mountains and wild forests, a great tent of war stood.

It was stitched together from beast hides, reinforced with spears, and lit within by a roaring fire that cast jagged shadows across the weathered faces of its occupants.

Inside, dozens of tribal leaders sat in a broken circle.

Their clothes were dyed in the hues of their clans — crimson from the Bloodfangs of the western savannahs, pale azure from the Lakewalkers of the salt shores, earthy green from the Rootborne, and many others from the steppes, the cold marshes, and the blazing deserts.

Each one of them had once been a sovereign in their own right. Now, they were united by a common enemy, Herios, the "Tyrant-King" who claimed divine mandate from the Underworld.

They are free tribes who refused to surrendor to tyranny, yet each one of them had bent the knee to a different god of Olympus.

Of course, those cannot be said, and they have long since been blinded by their faith to see it.

The air inside the tent was thick with tension, sweat, and pride.

"Herios’ kingdom grows fat on stolen grain!" snarled Varkas of the Red Ash, his teeth filed to points, his hands stained with blood from a recent skirmish. "He marches across the land with those cursed city-builders, calling themselves ’civilized’ while burning forests and enslaving the free!"

The fact that they were doing the same thing, but much worse, obviously didn’t cross their mind.

After all, they believe they are right.

"Aye," grunted Merka of the Drowned Stones, one eye milky with blindness, a trident-shaped pendant hanging from her neck. "And Lord Poseidon told me the same. Herios must be crushed. My sea warriors have already begun raiding his ports. Soon, they’ll starve."

"That will probably anger his god," spat Thalos the Tusk-Bearer, draped in the fur of a boar, his chest painted with the red mark of Ares. "And I say let it! War is the path of men! Lord Ares shall bless the strongest. That will be me!"

Several leaders grunted and barked in approval, while others jeered.

"You brute," hissed Delminas the Flame-Eyed, a pale-skinned chieftain from the desert, his body adorned with golden chains blessed by Apollo. "Strength alone does not win wars. Lord Apollo gave me a vision: Herios’ walls shall fall not by force, but by light. We must burn their gods from their hearts."

"Light and vision? Tch. My people follow Lord Dionysus," sneered Gorham of the Wild Wastes, swaying slightly from the fermented wine in his flask. "We spread chaos, not order. Let Herios’ men drown in madness and rot."

"Madness is not strategy!" shouted Elisya of the Ice-Bent, rising from her seat, the symbol of Hephaestus seared into her vambrace. "My forgemasters craft weapons from divine blueprints. With them, we will pierce their armor and their pride!"

They glared at each other, their faith in their god blinding them from cooperating, and the room soon broke into open shouting.

Words twisted into insults.

Spittle flew.

Hands hovered near hilts. Unity frayed at the seams.

But then came the voice of Veron the Silent, chief of no tribe but the chosen mouthpiece of Zeus himself.

Veron is a beautiful man, with rumors claiming his beauty fascinated Zeus and took him in as a lover, giving him many blessings.

He stood quietly at the edge of the tent, his robes the deepest black, his eyes glowing faintly with divine influence.

When he raised his hand, all fell silent.

"You forget why you were chosen," Veron said calmly. "Each of you was blessed not just for strength or loyalty—but for potential. Zeus himself sees your pain, your pride, your hatred for the one who defies Olympus."

The leaders simmered, the fire reflecting in their eyes.

Veron walked into the circle, slowly. "But you argue like dogs, each one barking for their master’s bone. Do you truly wish to defeat Herios? Then stop boasting about which god’s gifts are superior. They have all shared one cause: his destruction."

A long silence. Finally, Delminas nodded. "Very well. What do you propose, mouth of Zeus?"

Veron smiled slightly. "Each of you shall do what you do best. You, Flame-Eyed, shall spread your solar doctrine. You, Tusk-Bearer, break their ranks at the border. You, Ice-Bent, unleash your forges. And the rest of you—build temples, spread worship, convert his people from within."

"And if they resist?" Varkas growled.

"Then remind them what happens to those who worship a god who does not protect them."

The tent fell into grim agreement.

Outside, the wind howled over the plateau.

Inside, the alliance of broken nations had become a coalition of vengeance, forged not in loyalty, but in rage—and guided by the hands of gods who saw mortals as pawns.

None of them noticed the shadow that lingered far beyond the tents, watching from the cliff above.

A lone wanderer in a dark cloak stood there, his face obscured, his aura strange—neither god nor mortal.

He watched the gathering with a narrowed gaze, then slowly turned and descended into the night.

The war was about to begin.

And fate was moving again.