The God of Underworld-Chapter 89 - 43: A Greedy Divine Being

The wind that swept across the mortal world carried with it the echoes of drums—war drums, the chants of soldiers, the cries of hearts too proud to kneel.

From the shadows of the hidden realm where he had lain with Gaia, Hades, King of the Underworld, stepped into the gray veil that separated godhood from mortality.

The air shimmered around him, the subtle warping of space that followed divinity wherever it tread.

His obsidian robes flowed like shadow given shape, and his purple eyes pierced through the layers of time and destiny like twin orbs burning in twilight.

He turned his gaze to the mortal plane, to a soul not born of divinity or deep design.

A soul whose prayer reached him like a whisper beneath an avalanche.

Herios.

A man who chose mortality in a world ruled by gods.

High atop a hill beyond Herion, Hades stood, unseen by all save the winds and stones.

From this place, he watched as the entire army of Herion lined the walls and plains outside the city.

Tens of thousands—every sword sharpened, every banner lifted, every eye burning with resolve.

Behind them, in the marble streets of Herion, the civilians remained.

Not one had fled. Women, children, the elderly—all had chosen to stay.

Bakers became archers.

Farmers prepared boiling oil.

Children carried water for warriors.

They would not run.

This was their home. Their dream.

This was the final glory.

Hades smiled faintly. Not in amusement, nor condescension. It was a smile of kinship. Of understanding.

"I will bear witness," he murmured. "To the moment your soul burns its brightest."

At this moment, the sky split with thunder, though there were no clouds.

The heavens roared, and six radiant figures descended from the storm, suspended in air like false suns.

Their cloaks flowed like fire, and divine energy bled from their forms like molten gold.

At their center floated Veron, arms crossed, sword gleaming with celestial enchantments.

His eyes swept the battlefield below—where Herion’s banner stood defiantly against the odds.

Beneath Veron, thousands of soldiers in lesser armor marched into formation.

They were outmatched in steel, but empowered by the Olympians’ blessings. They had tasted divinity, and believed themselves invincible.

Silence fell upon the field as Veron’s voice, amplified by divine will, rang across the distance.

"Herios!"

The mortal king stepped forward, armor forged in the flames of Herion’s last mountain, cloak stitched by the hands of the city’s people.

"Do you regret it?" Veron called, voice calm but cold. "You still have time. Surrender now. I will ensure peace. Your people will live. You will be remembered not as a traitor to Olympus, but as a wise king who knew when to yield."

Herios looked up at the shining figure in the sky. His face was serene, yet his eyes blazed like wildfire.

"You ask if I regret it?" he echoed, raising his voice for all to hear. "Veron, I have many regrets. I regret not planting more wheat in the last harvest. I regret not accompanying my loved ones more often. I regret not building more schools for the children."

He lifted his sword.

"But this?" He gestured to the people behind him. "This stand for dignity? This refusal to bow to tyrants in silken robes? This fight for a world where we are not born to serve?"

His voice deepened.

"I do not regret this. Even if your god descends and force me to yield, I will not kneel. I will point my sword to his throat and tell him...Humanity needs no gods, we were born to conquer the stars."

Gasps and murmurs spread through both armies. Even among Veron’s ranks, a few soldiers glanced at one another.

Veron’s smile twisted into a frown.

"Then you have chosen death."

Herios nodded, calm.

"Then let it come." He turned to his army, raising his sword high. "This is the day! The day the world remembers who we are! Let them write songs, let them forge tales, and even if we fall—our fire will not die!"

The soldiers erupted into thunderous cheers. freewebnoveℓ.com

Even the civilians on the walls pounded drums, banged pots, raised voices.

Veron’s face twisted into anger, "Just you!? Then watch as I reduce you and your kingdom into dust! Forgotten in history!"

Herios smiled, "That is impossible... Know this, dog of Zeus. Just like my soul, Herion is eternal."

And from the distant ridge, Hades watched, silent and still.

He felt it.

The ember in Herios’ soul—

Igniting.

Not with rage. Not with fear.

But with brilliance.

The gods had come to smother a rebellion.

But what they had found was the first flame of a war greater than any they’d ever known.

And as the sun climbed above the plains, the sky prepared to witness a kingdom’s final stand—and perhaps, the birth of a legend that even the gods could not kill.

Hades smiled.

Not with irony. Not with pride or amusement. It was soft—a rare, tender thing, as fleeting as dew on stone.

He looked up.

Above, the sky held no mercy. Six gods hovered like judgment incarnate, cloaked in radiant fury.

The one called Veron—favored by Olympus, carved from lightning and decree—had called Herios to heel.

But Herios had not knelt.

Instead, he had lifted his sword, not with wrath, but with a truth so human, so profound, that even the gods dared not interrupt him.

Hades let out a quiet breath, barely a whisper, and covered his face with his hand. His fingers curled against his skin as if to hide a crack that had just opened within him.

"So this is a king..."

His voice was not meant for the wind. It was for no one. Not even himself.

It was an admission.

And with it came a laugh. Soft. Bitter. Almost ashamed.

He laughed—not because he found the moment amusing—but because he could not cry.

Because what Herios had done with words and will, Hades had failed to do with years of power.

For ages, he had ruled the Underworld as a figure of fear and isolation.

He had claimed dominion over the dead, carved cities from black stone, negotiated with Nyx, and whispered into the ears of fate.

He had amassed power, forged alliances, made war and shadowed peace—but in all that time, had he ever once truly ruled for his people?

He thought of Hecate and Hera, whom he had pushed aside in his pursuit of ambition.

He thought of the spirits who toiled beneath his fortress.

He thought of the gods who whispered of him with awe and admiration, and of the mortals who feared him, and mortals who adores him.

And he thought of how Hera and Hecate tried to persuade him, telling him that he should be satisfied with what he has, and there is no need to pursue more power when he already stood at the pinnacle of power.

He had dismissed it at the time, he was obsessed with power.

But now, watching Herios standing unbroken before impossible odds, he felt the weight of their words.

For the first time in an age, Hades did not feel like a king. He felt like a child who had wandered too far into the labyrinth of ambition, only to find the thread back home had long since vanished.

And yet—here stood a mortal man. No throne. No bloodline of divinity. No ancient power to his name.

Just a sword.

A voice.

And a city that believed in him.

Hades lowered his hand and looked once more upon the hill where Herios stood, backlit by a thousand raised fists and burning hearts.

The god’s eyes shimmered—not with divine light, but with something older.

Something mortal.

"Thank you," he murmured. The words barely escaped his lips, but they rang louder in his soul than any battle horn. "For reminding me."

He didn’t need to finish the sentence.

Thank you... for showing me what it means to be king.

"But sorry..." Hades’ eyes remained firm. "They were right, I should be satisfied with what I have now..."

But he must move forward.

He must seize fate with his own hands.

For who’s sake?

For the sake of other people? For his realm?

No. For his own desires.

He must transcend chaos and control everything.

That’s what he is.

"In the end, I am merely...a greedy divine being."

In that moment, the battlefield below had not yet erupted into chaos. Swords remained sheathed, banners unmoved by the breathless air.

It was the stillness before a legend takes root—before gods commit folly, and mortals rewrite history.

But Hades knew.

This moment would not end with simple bloodshed.

This was a fracture in the divine order. A seed of something vast. Something dangerous.

Something true.

And so he stayed.

Not to interfere.

Not to tip the scales.

But to bear witness.

To watch the soul of a man shine so brightly, it cast shadows even upon Olympus.

For kings were not crowned by fate alone.

Sometimes, they were chosen by the people who believed in him.

And sometimes, just sometimes... even gods were made to remember why thrones were built at all.