The God of Underworld-Chapter 86 - 40: The Meeting(2)

The sun had long dipped below the horizon, but the firelight from Herios’ torch flickered valiantly, casting shadows across the jagged cliffs.

He rode at the front of a small column of horsemen—his Chosen Guards, clad in dark bronze armor trimmed with silver.

Their armor bore no divine symbol, no god’s crest, only the banner of Herion, symbolizing the flame of humanity, born not from Olympus or Chaos, but from the will to survive.

Herios, cloaked in a dark traveler’s mantle, leaned slightly forward over his horse.

His face was lined with the burdens of leadership. His eyes, sharp and unwavering, scanned the horizon.

It had been three days since they left the capital of Herion.

Three days of riding through hills, forests, and winding rivers.

But no monsters stalked them. No divine beasts crossed their path.

The rebels had honored their message of truce—an invitation to speak, one final time, before the war consumed both sides.

At dawn on the third day, they arrived.

The rebel encampment sat in a wide valley between two mountain ridges, built in the ruins of an ancient temple, its columns long since crumbled.

Banners bearing symbols of foreign gods—eagles, lightning bolts, golden suns—waved in the cold wind.

Soldiers in polished armor lined the outer perimeter, their spears crossed when Herios approached.

Then, a man emerged from the central tent.

Tall, elegant, and disarmingly beautiful, he moved with the grace of an aristocrat, golden hair cascading like silk down his shoulders.

His armor glimmered unnaturally, woven with divine threads, and a white cloak trailed behind him like the wings of a swan.

Herios dismounted calmly, his guards forming a wall behind him.

Veron smiled, stepping down from his horse with theatrical elegance, extending a hand.

"King Herios of the Herion Kingdom," he said. "The mortal who defied Olympus. I must admit... I was curious to meet you."

Herios shook his hand. "And I, you. I’ve heard stories. You rose from a humble priest to a god-kissed warrior."

Veron’s smile widened. "Praise be to Lord Zeus."

There was tension in the air, like the hum of an arrow moments before it flies.

They sat at a stone table prepared in the shade of a dead tree, guards keeping a cautious distance.

Herios noted the sigils carved into the stones around them—symbols of divine protection, almost certainly meant to suppress sudden violence.

Neither trusted the other.

The talks began civil.

They spoke of war—how it had already claimed thousands, and how it would soon claim thousands more.

"You know why we must talk," Veron began. "Your soldiers are fierce. Brave. But this war is strangling both our futures. For every man we kill, a dozen more families cry. This land bleeds."

Herios nodded slightly. "I agree."

Veron was clever, eloquent.

"This war is a wound," he said. "It festers. It burns. I do not desire more blood. We can end this before it consumes us both."

Herios nodded, but said nothing.

Veron leaned in. "All I ask is that you allow us to pray. Let the people of Herion worship gods as they choose. Let temples be built to Zeus, Apollo, Athena. That is the price of peace."

Herios’ eyes grew hard.

"No."

Veron blinked. "No?"

"I can bend on trade, on borders, on prisoner exchanges," Herios said, his voice quiet but firm. "But I will not allow my people to kneel to those who once laughed as we starved. We rose from the ashes of a world they shattered. Why should we offer them our prayers?"

"You would let your people suffer and die just because to deny us to build temples?"

"No," Herios said. "I would never make them abandon their dignity, even if it means dying for it."

Veron’s eyes narrowed, still with a smile on his face. "What is dignity to grace? We can have peace. We can have wealth. Power. Strength. Anything we can ask for, and all of it for just a temple. Why must you refuse?"

Herios’ voice sharpened. "You ask me to allow temples to gods who called us vermin. Who left us to rot in famines and fires. You ask me to let my children kneel to those who once crushed us for sport. I can agree to many things. But not this."

Veron’s smile faded.

"Then you’re more foolish than I thought," he said coldly. "You’re just a mortal. Fragile. Temporary. You’re not even a demigod. Hades hasn’t given you divinity, hasn’t made you one of his blessed. You have no bloodline, no heritage. Just your pride and your dirt-born kingdom."

Herios said nothing.

He could have told him. He could have said that Hades had offered to make him divine—had offered him immortality, power, and the chance to become a true god-king.

He could’ve told him that if he prayed for Hades’ help, the God of Underworld would immediately ascend to the overworld.

But Herios had refused.

He wanted to live and die as a man, because if mortals were to prove they were not pawns or playthings of the gods, one of them had to walk that path to the very end.

And that would be him.

But he did not say this.

He only stared at Veron and said, "A mortal I may be, but I will be a mortal who defies your gods. And if I fall, it will be a noble end, for I did not yield before the heavens, but resisted it with my being."

Veron’s lips curled.

"You’re defending a dream, Herios. An illusion. I am a Divine Spirit. I’ve been blessed by Zeus himself. My body no longer knows disease. My blood burns with celestial fire. Even if a god descended to this battlefield, I would not fear him."

"Then come," Herion said as he stood, "Bring your gods, your flames, your banners. We will stand, as we always have. For each brick of our city was laid by mortal hands. And we will defend it with mortal hearts."

Veron’s fury exploded then. "Then remember this. One week from now, at dawn, my legions will descend. The earth will split with thunder. The skies will weep fire. And Herion will be erased."

Herios simply turned and walked away.

"Then one week from now," he said over his shoulder, "the world will remember that there was once a kingdom that defied gods and chose dignity over divinity."

Herios returned to his horse, quiet.

The enemy forces did not stop, they did nothing but simply watch.

One of his guards, a young man named Calen, asked, "Shall we prepare the city for siege?"

Herios nodded.

"We will ready every stone, every sword, every soul. They march with gods. But we..." he looked toward the horizon, where Herion waited beyond the hills, "...we march with human will. And that will be more than enough."

*

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*

That night, around a campfire, Herios stared into the flames.

He did not fear death.

But he feared failure.

Not for himself, but for the belief that mortals could forge their own destiny.

That humans, born without wings, could still reach the heavens, not through prayer, but through will.

He placed his hand over the earth.

"Let it come," he whispered.

For the greatest battles were not of armies—but of faith.

And the gods were listening.

"Lord Hades," He looked up to the night sky, "I pray not for victory nor protection, but simply for your attention. Please bear witness to the courage and conviction of your greatest champion."