The God of Underworld-Chapter 90 - 44: Crystalization of Humanity’s Glory

On Olympus, the air shimmered with golden light.

The wind that swept through its marble halls carried the scent of olive blossoms and divine ink. But Athena felt none of it.

Her gaze pierced the veil between realms as she stood upon her balcony, eyes locked on a distant battlefield where fate was being rewritten by mortal hands.

In one hand, she held a scroll—aged but blank, waiting.

In the other, her quill—feathered from the wing of a chimera, hunted and given to her by Artemis, dipped in ink brewed from the wisdom of ages.

She watched, breathless, as Herios—king not by blood, but by soul—stood with sword raised beneath the looming shadow of six divine champions.

The chosen of Olympus hovered like suns above him, yet still he did not flinch.

Athena’s heart beat faster. Not in fear, not even in concern, but in thrill.

"So this is the pivot," she whispered, her gray eyes alight with fierce wonder. "This is the beginning."

She began to write. freewēbnoveℓ.com

Each stroke of her quill carved myth into memory, truth into tale. The parchment drank her words eagerly, knowing it was about to birth the first of a new kind of epic.

Herios.

A name that would outlast empires.

The man whose defiance broke the silence of the gods.

Athena’s lips curled into a subtle smile, though her eyes glistened with the weight of truth.

She knew.

He would not survive.

No prophecy, no vision, no divine intervention would change that. The threads of fate had twisted too tightly, woven into a tapestry whose end was now too near.

But that did not matter.

For Athena, Goddess of Wisdom, of War, and self-proclained Architect of Heroes, understood something the others didn’t.

It was not how a man died that shaped the ages.

It was why.

And Herios... his death would not be a whimper lost to history.

It would blaze across the sky like a falling star, too bright to ignore.

Too eternal to forget.

A mortal man standing against Olympus.

A city that did not flee, but stood tall.

A people who followed belief rather than divines.

And at the center of it all—a king, carved from hardship, crowned by loyalty, guided not by prophecy, but by will.

Athena trembled, cheeks flushed with anticipation.

She could already see it—the aftermath.

The tribes that would rise, inspired by his name.

The poets who would sing of his stand beneath the thunder of gods.

The smiths who would forge blades in his likeness.

And the children—yes, the children—who would grow not dreaming of pleasing gods, but of challenging them.

Herios was not merely leading a rebellion.

He was beginning an era.

The Age of Mankind had begun when he declared Olympus did not own the earth and built a kingdom for humans.

And it would be his death that would start what Athena now named silently,

The Age of Heroes.

An age of mortal resolve. Of strength drawn from spirit, not lineage.

Of people who rose—not because they were born to—but because they chose to.

Her breath hitched, and she could no longer remain silent.

From high atop Olympus, beneath the silver dome of heaven, Athena shouted down toward the mortal realm.

"Herios!" she cried, voice ringing through wind and sky like a bell. "O King Where All Began! Show me your resolve! Shine brighter than any stars! And stand prouder than any gods!"

It was not a blessing.

It was a coronation.

Not of gold, nor laurels.

But of memory.

Of myth.

And of meaning.

He would not hear her. Not now.

But the wind would carry her words. The stars would echo them in their silence.

And the world... the world would remember.

Athena turned back to her scroll.

There were many more words to write. Many more tales to prepare.

Because this was only the beginning.

Herios would die.

But from his ashes, a thousand would rise.

And from their tales, she would carve a new sky.

A sky not ruled by gods...

...but shared with mortals who dared to challenge the sky.

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*

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The battlefield groaned under the weight of destiny.

The skies darkened, not with storm, but with the presence of many gods who had gathered as silent witnesses.

From mountaintops, celestial palaces, and distant stars, they came—not to interfere, but to observe what should have been a mere final act in a mortal’s rebellion.

Above the field stood six figures—serene, glowing, and unshaken. They were the Divine Spirits, gods’ favored extensions, blessed with celestial fragments of divinity.

One stood foremost among them: Veron, clad in armor of divine crystal, his eyes glowing with disdain.

He pointed his blade—a silver crescent forged in the moon’s core—and roared:

"Enough of this theater! Destroy him! Reduce this insect to ash!"

His voice, like thunder cracking through mountains, rippled across the battlefield.

The chosen soldiers of Olympus, blessed mortals, warriors, and monsters born from sacred rites, surged forward like a tidal wave of divine fury.

Yet Veron and the five other Divine Spirits remained still.

To them, this was beneath their station—a mere formality. A cleanup. They would not stain their pride in a war between gods and men.

It was then, it happened.

Herios moved.

He stood alone, feet dug into cracked earth, his cloak fluttered, his eyes burned with fire of determination.

He did not tremble. He did not falter.

Instead, he raised his sword.

And the world paused.

It began as a flicker—like a candle being lit in a storm.

Then it surged.

A golden flame ignited around Herios’ body.

Not divine.

Not arcane.

But something older. Purer. Something born not from Olympus, not from Chaos—but from faith.

The kind of faith that mortals gave freely, with love.

From the city behind him, where farmers wept and warriors knelt in prayer...

From children clutching handmade charms and mothers whispering his name into the night...

From the countless who had followed him through hunger, storm, and endless war...

That faith poured outward.

The golden light gathered in the air, swirling like a living spirit, coiling around Herios’ blade.

It thickened, burned brighter, until it became something real—tangible, like the arm of the people reaching through him.

The gods who watched from the sky leaned forward.

Even Zeus’s thunder paused mid-cloud.

"Impossible..." whispered Dionysus, eyes wide.

"That’s our power," murmured Apollo. "The power of faith..."

"How could a human harness that power!?" Poseidon exclaimed.

Faith is the power that can only be harnessed by gods that comes from mortals who believed in them.

But this... it was not the gods being believed in.

It was Herios.

His people believed in him.

Their king.

Their shield.

Their sword.

Herios breathed slowly, his grip steady. His blade now glowed like a star being born.

Its steel had disappeared—replaced with radiant gold, runes etched not by blacksmiths, but by hope.

Veron’s gaze narrowed. He stepped forward at last, lips curling in irritation.

"What is that sword...?" he asked.

But Herios did not answer.

He simply raised it to the heavens, light cascading over his form, his cloak flaring like wings.

Then he spoke—not to Veron, not to the gods, but to the people who could no longer hear him from behind the walls.

"This battle is not for conquest," Herios said. His voice echoed louder than drums of war. "It is not to take back land, or to steal from gods."

"This battle is to protect. To protect every soul who gave me their trust."

The light surged around him. His sword hummed, the air rippling in heat and awe.

"Their faith gave birth to this sword," he said. "Forged not from iron, but from belief. Condensed into a single strike."

"This sword is the crystallization of humanity’s glory."

"A sword that promises victory."

He looked to the heavens—toward a god he had only met once, but always honored.

The silent King of the Underworld.

The watcher of souls and keeper of afterlife.

"I name it," Herios said, lifting the sword until it eclipsed the sun, "Pluton."

"The Sword of Truth. In the name of the god I worship—Hades."

At that moment, the battlefield cracked.

Veron’s eyes widened. "Wait—"

But it was too late.

Herios swung.

Pluton cleaved the sky.

And the world was bathed in light.

Golden light, pure and absolute, burst outward like a sun collapsing in reverse.

It roared over the battlefield, swallowing monsters, divine champions, and armies alike.

Mountains bowed.

Rivers parted.

The heavens themselves trembled beneath the weight of that single, impossible strike.

The gods turned away, shielding their eyes.

In the distant future, Athena would talk about this moment to her worshippers.

"That," she whispered to them, "was the day the gods learned fear."

Because from that day forth, Pluton—the Sword of Truth—would be passed into legend.

A weapon not forged by divine hands, but by mortal faith.

A symbol not of destruction, but of hope.

And Herios, the man who had no throne, no crown, no divine blood—would forever be known as,

The First Hero,

Lord of Humanity,

And The King Where All Began.