The God of Underworld-Chapter 88 - 42: Glory of Herion

The thunder of hooves had long since faded as Herios, First King of Herion, walked through the wide stone corridors of his castle.

Word of his return had already reached the capital, and the high council awaited him in the throne room of Herion.

The heavy doors creaked open, revealing a semicircle of cloaked figures surrounding the high obsidian throne.

There were dozens of them, old and young, generals and sages, masons and scholars—all chosen for their deeds and dedication to the people of Herion.

The torchlight flickered over their expectant faces as Herios walked the black stone path toward his throne.

Silence hung in the air, thick and heavy. The council bowed low, but did not speak until Herios sat.

He did.

Only then did the eldest among them, an old sage, stepped forward.

"Your Majesty," he began, "we have been awaiting your word. May we ask what did the goddess of crossroads said about our future?"

He hesitated.

The room held its breath.

Finally, Herios’ eyes met theirs, calm and clear.

"She showed me fire," he said, voice like iron dragged across earth. "Herion will burn. Not through treachery, nor divine wrath—but war. We will be overrun. Our walls will fall. And Herion will be buried."

A few gasped, others clenched their jaws.

"But," Herios continued, "she also showed me a choice. If we call upon the help of our gods, then our city may be spared."

The room fell into uneasy silence again.

Then one of the younger councilors, a female, spoke up. "So... we must decide whether to ask the gods for help?"

Another councilor, a muscular middle aged man, slammed a fist into his palm. "Better humbled than dead, I say! If it saves our people—"

"Is it truly saving them?" interrupted Kaerion. "We built this land with our own hands. Must we need to trouble our gods for mortal disputes? Our people believed in the eternal paradise in the realm of Hades. Death is glory."

Before things could escalate, Herios raised a hand, silencing the debate.

Then, with slow grace, he leaned forward on his throne. The obsidian seemed to pulse beneath his fingers.

"I ask you now, not as your king," he said, "but as your brother, your comrade, your kin who walked with you across the scorched plains, who built this city with calloused hands and sleepless nights—I ask you: What is Herion? What does it mean to you?"

They looked at one another.

Then, a councilor stepped forward, face full of pride. "Herion is... pride. It is stone laid by mortals, for mortals. It is ours. We have built it with our own mortal hands."

"It is our home," said a female councilor, voice trembling slightly. "A dream we made real, not through miracles, but through unity."

"It is blood," growled Kaerion. "Our fathers and brothers died to build it. Our sons and daughters were born within its walls. No divine savior built our walls. No god fed our starving."

"It is proof," said another councilor. "That mankind can rise. That we are not doomed to beg at divine feet for every crumb of life."

Their words filled the room like rising wind, each voice a thread in a tapestry of mortal pride.

And Herios smiled.

A small, tired, but true smile.

He stood again, voice quiet but unshakable.

"You have answered well. The gods did not build Herion. They offered no tools. No guidance. And yet here we stand, proud and prosperous."

He looked each councilor in the eye.

"If we can make this miracle with our own hands, why can’t we protect it ourselves?"

The silence that followed was not uncertain—but resolved.

A heavy, solemn silence that belongs to people who have made peace with their choice.

Herios turned toward the large map carved into the far wall—a map of Herion and the lands beyond.

He laid his palm upon it.

"Let them come," he said. "Let them bring their blessed armies, their Divine Spirits, their god-kissed champions. Let them come with fire and fury."

He turned back to his council. His eyes blazed not with despair, but with certainty.

"And we will face them not with divine favor, but with the fire beneath our feet. The fire we forged ourselves."

The council bowed as one.

And the drums of war began to echo through Herion once more.

*

*

*

The city of Herion stood cloaked in twilight.

The wind swept through its high white walls, carrying with it the scent of smelted iron and olive oil, of sweat, blood, and faint blossoms from the king’s courtyard garden.

Torches blazed along the avenues, casting flickering shadows over stone homes and statues carved in the likeness of mortal heroes.

Above all, the heart of the city—The Forum of Flame, where the people gathered in times of trial—was alight with whispers and fearful murmurs.

And upon its highest platform, overlooking a sea of citizens, stood King Herios.

His silhouette burned like a sword against the dusk. No crown adorned his brow. No armor wrapped his form. He wore only a black cloak fastened by a silver pin.

He raised one hand, and silence followed like a loyal dog.

Even the children ceased their fidgeting.

The old men straightened their backs.

The soldiers by the gates stopped murmuring prayers.

Herios looked upon his people—not as a god looks at mortals, but as a man looks upon his family.

Then he spoke.

"I have not called you here to whisper false hope. I will not offer you comfort made from lies, nor rally your hearts with shallow glory."

His voice, clear and unwavering, echoed across the square.

"I have come to tell you the truth."

There was a pause. A stillness. Then he breathed deeply and said:

"Herion will fall."

A collective shudder rippled through the crowd. Some gasped. Some wept quietly. Some only stared.

"That is a fact that we cannot change," Herios continued. "A few days from now, the armies of Veron—blessed by gods, armored by Olympus itself—will descend upon us. They march not for land. Not for gold. But for our will."

He clenched his fists.

"They wish to destroy what we built with our hands. A kingdom not born of divine blessing, but of mortal labor, of mortal courage, and of mortal dreams."

He let that sink in.

"You may choose to flee. There are roads out of Herion still open. You may seek sanctuary in distant cities. You may even kneel and offer prayers the god"

His gaze was calm. Gentle.

"If you wish to drown your fears in wine, to spend your last nights in joy or oblivion—do it. This kingdom was always about choice. That is what makes us free."

He paused, then stepped forward.

"But if there is even one among you who still believes that our story is worth continuing... Then stand."

A hush followed.

Then a child rose to his feet.

Then a mother.

Then a soldier.

Then hundreds.

Thousands.

Herios raised his hand again, and the silence returned.

"Herion will fall. That is the truth. Not because we are weak, but because the gods fear what we represent."

He turned slowly, arms outstretched.

"But hear me now—the fall of Herion does not mean we also fall Just because they burn our homes does not mean they erase our values."

He pressed a hand to his chest.

"If just one among us see the dawn of victory... if one soul carries the fire of our dream forward... then our values, our way of life, will be engraved in that one’s heart."

The people stared, eyes wide, some trembling, some standing tall, emboldened by the fire in his words.

"I will not promise survival. I will not promise victory. But I promise you purpose. If we die, let it be for something greater than ourselves."

He took a deep breath, voice rising like a roar from the mountains.

"Offer me your lives—not because I am your king—but because I am your voice. Let me carry your dreams, your love, your pain. Let us pass on the glory that is Herion to those who come after. Not one of you shall be forgotten. Not one of you shall be small."

He looked down at them now—every man, woman, and child—as if they were gods in their own right.

"So decide now—live and scatter, or die and become eternal."

A heartbeat.

Then another.

Then one voice rose.

"For Herion!"

Then another.

"For the King!"

And then the plaza exploded in a storm of voices, fists raised, tears streaking across ash-covered cheeks.

Herios closed his eyes, letting the sound fill him, move through him.

They would fall.

But the gods would remember them.

The world would remember them.

And perhaps, in some distant age, a child would hear their name and wonder.

"Who were the people of Herion?"

And then they would know the truth.

They were not gods.

They do not have divine blood.

They were just men and women... who stood unbending, down to the last one.