The God of Underworld-Chapter 83 - 37:

The golden banners of Herion swayed gently within the grand hall of the Citadel, high above the marble floor where King Herios sat upon his obsidian throne.

The air buzzed with reports of victory.

Scroll after scroll was unrolled before him by armored messengers and red-robed scribes.

One after another, they told of triumphs at ravines, forest strongholds, river crossings—each battlefield a chorus singing of Herion’s glory.

"Captain Tyros reports that the Wolf Hills have been retaken, your majesty."

"The Twelfth Legion crushed the rebel archers along the River Rhaem. Their commanders were executed."

"Supply lines are untouched, and morale among the outer villages is high. Our people sing your name again, my king."

Herios sat in dignified silence, his eyes scanning the carved map laid before him—symbols representing villages, armies, burning fields.

A faint frown touched his face. Though the victories were many, each pin that marked a battle also marked blood.

His people’s blood.

Around him, his council spoke with self-assured pride.

"As expected of our soldiers," an old Chancellor said, adjusting his gold-trimmed robe. "These savage traitors could never stand against the might of Herion."

"Indeed," snorted an old lord, head of the Council Guard. "They bark loud, but break like twigs when pressed."

"Kaerion has performed splendidly," muttered another, "as expected of that man. He’s really incredible."

Herios said nothing. Though it is good to have this confidence, but he really hope that the war would end soon.

Before anyone else could speak, the large doors of the throne room were flung open with a gust of cold mountain wind.

A young messenger stumbled in, his cloak soaked in sweat and snow.

"Your majesty!" he cried, bowing instantly. "A message from the front—from General Kaerion himself."

The room immediately fell silent.

"Speak," Herios said, his brows furrowed in confusion. Did something happen to Kaerion?

The messenger unrolled a scroll, voice trembling slightly as he read.

"General Kaerion reports that the enemy leaders have requested an audience with you, my king. They claim they wish to negotiate a surrender. They have proposed to meet... atop Mount Tharion, in three days’ time."

The hall fell into stunned silence.

Then, as if on cue, the council exploded into outrage.

"This is a trap! Do they think we are fools?! They seek your blood your majesty, not peace!" a councilman spat.

"Yes. Those traitors would never surrender. They’d rather have your head than forgiveness." Maelion growled. "What a bunch of fools. Do they think they cab trick us with this?"

"They lost in battle and now wish to claim victory through deception!"

"Let Kaerion handle it. If they wish surrender, let him take their knees."

But Herios did not echo their fury. He stood slowly, his crimson cloak falling across his shoulders like a mantle of fire.

His golden circlet caught the torchlight as he walked down the steps of his dais.

"Enough," he said, his voice gentle but firm.

His voice cut through the bickering like a blade.

"Even a lion must observe and listen before it strikes,"he said. "What if their surrender is sincere? Shall I, the king, turn away a hand raised in truce? Shall I continue this pointless war that can only give nothing but needles bloodshed?"

"Your majesty, they are cowards, rebels, oathbreakers!" A councilman barked. "They deserve steel, not mercy."

Herios turned his gaze upon the man, his eyes sharp. "Again, what if they are sincere? If this ends the war, the burning, the cries of our children, the pyres in the night...should I ignore that chance?"

The councilmen were silent. Even they could not argue with that.

"I will go," Herios declared. "To Mount Tharion. I will look into their eyes myself and know the truth of their words."

"Your Majesty," said a loyal councilman, stepping forward, voice lowering. "You are the heart of Herion. We must not let any accidents happen to you."

"I am its heart, yes," Herios replied, "but I am also its sword and shield. I do not lead from shadows. I lead with my people, before them if need be.

He stared at the eyes of every councilman.

Eventually, they all collectively sigh in frustratiin, knowing his stubbornness.

"Then take an army. Or at least the Royal Guard."

Herios nodded after a long pause.

"I will take a company of trusted soldiers. Fifty men. No more."

"Only fifty?"

"I must not appear at war when peace is offered. That would turn the hand back into a fist."

The council exchanged worried glances. They knew their king’s will was as firm as a mountain, and once he made a decision, no force could move it.

And in his eyes, there was no fear. Only

"Very well," Maelion said at last. "We pray that may the gods watch over you, Your Majesty."

Herios gave a single nod.

As the meeting ended and preparations began, Herios looked out over the horizon from his high window, where the shadow of Mount Tharion loomed like a distant sentinel.

He did not fear what waited there.

Whether deception or peace, he would face it.

For the sake of his people.

For the end of war.

And perhaps, for the beginning of something more.

*

*

*

Deep within the hidden chambers of the Hades’ fortress, Hecate stood before a wide, suspended crystal orb.

Its surface shimmered with bluish-white mist, swirling with scenes from the mortal realm.

In its depths, she watched the image of King Herios, preparing for his journey toward his uncertain meeting on Mount Tharion with the pride of a lion and the heart of a boy.

The chamber was quiet, save for the gentle hum of soul-lanterns that floated along the carved obsidian walls.

The scent of burnt myrrh and starlight, ancient and sharp, hung heavy in the air.

Her eyes, like twin eclipses, narrowed as Herios’ figure move with certainty.

"Tch..." she clicked her tongue, folding her arms.

"Hopelessly naïve," she muttered. "Marching into the lion’s maw, convinced he can tame it with words. That boy’s nobility will be the end of him."

The orb flickered, momentarily darkening as Herios’ image blurred in mist.

Just then, a gentle echo of footsteps behind her made Hecate turn. Through the great onyx archway walked Hera, her poise regal, her golden gown flowing like a cascade of authority.

Beside her, silent yet feral, strode Campe—Mount of Hades, cloaked in a storm of chains and scaled armor, her presence always a half-step from menace.

"Hera," Hecate greeted, folding her hands into her sleeves. "What wind blows you down into the depths of gloom?"

"The wind of duty," Hera replied, her voice calm but laced with urgency. "And necessity."

Hecate arched a brow. "A rare pair, coming from you."

The self-proclaimed Queen of Underworld smirked faintly, but decided to get straight to the point.

"I need you to summon a gathering of Hades’ Patrons," Hera said, coming closer to the central table of the chamber, where soul-scrolls flickered with underworld records.

"An emergency council?" Hecate asked, her voice hardening. "Why?"

Hera let out a tired and frustrated sigh as she stepped forward. "Because the Underworld gods are rotting from overwork."

Hecate raised a brow as Hera continued, "The war in the overworld has escalated. The death toll rises each day. Our borders are flooding. Judging souls, guiding them, housing them, keeping order—it’s becoming unsustainable. Our personnel are stretched thin, and our dominion groans under the weight of responsibility."

The Olympians really had it easy. It feels like all the work has been dumped to underworld gods.

"Has it got this bad?" Hecate wondered, softly. "But what would the patrons do in this situation?"

"I think," Hera said, her tone softening just slightly, "that it is time for a massive reforms."

She laid a hand lightly on the table.

"That’s why I want the Patrons to approve the elevation of select Divine Spirits. We need more hands. Turn the most capable of them into Lesser Gods. Give them authority, let them serve their realms properly. Ease the burden on the rest."

Hecate tilted her head in silence, considering.

"It’s not a small thing," she murmured. "To grant even a sliver of divinity—to elevate a spirit from service to sovereignty. Their names will be carved in this realm’s walls for eternity."

"Then carve the right ones," Hera said. "Aphrodite and I have compiled a list. Divine Spirits who’ve gone above and beyond."

"We can’t wait for Lord Hades?" Hecate asked, though her tone betrayed she already knew the answer.

"Hades is..." Hera looked off, frowning. "...you know, currently unreachable. He left his pocket realm some time ago and has yet to return."

"Of course," Hecate muttered. "I guess even Lord Hades can’t escape the fate of leaders dumping all the work to their subordinates."

She turned her gaze back to the crystal orb for a moment, where Herios now selecting the strongest and most loyal royal guards to accompany him to his journey.

He walked like a king.

He walked like a fool.

For someone who had lived for long and hailed as the first king, he still couldn’t abandon his foolish ideal of creating a utopia for mankind.

He should know by now that not all humans are willing to abandon their pride and arrogance even if it means they will prosper.

’Hopelessly naïve.’

But even Hecate couldn’t deny the strange aura around him... like something ancient had taken root in that mortal boy.

"I’ll summon the Patrons," she said at last. "Within the hour. I’ll gather them in the meeting hall."

Hera gave a graceful nod. "Thank you."

Campe simply gave Hecate a nod, before following Hera as they turned to leave.

As their footsteps faded beyond the obsidian archway, Hecate lingered, staring one last time at Herios through the scrying crystal.

"You should have been born a god," she whispered. "Maybe then... No, perhaps it is because you are a human that you can shine brighter than any others."

Then, with a flick of her hand, the image dissolved into smoke. The great chamber dimmed as she turned and strode away to summon the most powerful gods of the Underworld.

The storm, it seemed, was still far from over.