The God of Underworld-Chapter 93 - 47: The Respect of War

The battlefield fell silent for a breathless moment...

All eyes turned to the center of the field, where the battered figure of Herios, King of Herion, stood shrouded in a radiant storm of white light.

It poured from his body like a second sun, wrapping his figure in blazing arcs of raw will. It is not magic, not divine blessing, it is something else entirely...

The unyielding will of mankind.

The power of dreams, the power of unity, the power of belief, all manifested into something tangible.

Into something divine.

The gods who were watching this war all couldn’t look away, their eyes focused on the figure of the King of Humanity.

On Olympus.

Ares sat on his throne, his eyes firm and focus.

A warrior whose heart had known only the rhythm of battle, whose eyes had only ever sought out strength and victory.

His crimson armor, forged from the screams of dying stars, glistened beneath the heavenly light.

His hands, stained with the memory of countless wars, rested upon the arms of his obsidian throne, each finger like a coiled spear.

But now, those hands trembled.

Before him floated the divine scrying mirror, a rippling window into the mortal realm.

And within it, he saw the impossible.

Herios, broken and battered, standing alone against six divine spirits.

A mortal of flesh and blood, bleeding, gasping, barely able to hold his sword.

But remained firm and unbent.

Surrounded by the light of humanity’s will and courage, he stood to fight.

Not for glory.

Not for gods.

But for his people.

For their dreams.

For the right to exist.

And Ares, who had long dismissed humans as fleeting shadows, could not look away.

His breath caught in his throat.

His body moved before his mind did.

He stood.

Then, tears... they streamed down his cheeks like rivers, cutting paths through dust and pride and centuries of distance.

His war-hardened heart ached, twisted in his chest with something he hadn’t felt in an age.

Pride.

"They bleed... and yet they fight," he whispered, voice hoarse. "They burn, and yet they rise again."

He placed a gauntleted hand to his chest, where his heart thundered like a drum.

"For so long, I believed only gods could embody the purity of battle. That only we could define courage, strategy, power..."

He smiled, "But that man... Herios... he fights without blessing. Without immortality. Without certainty of tomorrow. And yet, he didn’t back down once."

He stared deeply at that man, the King of Humanity whom the heavens couldn’t force to kneel.

"Heroes..." The word escaped him before he even knew it had formed.

His mind wandered to that moment when Hades had once declared that word.

It had been Hades who had spoken of humans capable of rising beyond mortality, who believed in them even as Olympus laughed.

"Heroes," Ares said again, louder this time, his voice echoing across Olympus. "They are real."

His laughter came like thunder.

Raw, triumphant, and joyful.

"I see it now! I see it!" he shouted. "They are not insects to trample. They are not fleeting sparks. They are great warriors worthy of respect!"

He turned to the skies, to the realm where the mortal world raged and burned with battle.

"I swear it," he said, raising his hand to the heavens, vowing with the power of a god. "As long as I exist—so shall humanity. As long as my blood flows through Olympus. No god shall erase them. No divine law shall silence their will. No tyrant shall smother their courage. They are warriors. They are dreamers. They are men and women worthy of my respect."

Behind him, the throne of war cracked, unable to contain the fury of his oath.

And the stars above Olympus flared in kind.

For the first time in eternity...

The God of War had knelt.

Not in submission.

But in respect.

Back in the mortal world.

The Sword of Truth, Herios’ sacred weapon born from the prayers of a people who refused to bow, pulsed at his side like a heartbeat.

Its edge hummed with searing, golden light.

Even the gods paused.

From his perch above the burning fields, Veron, the Divine Champion, narrowed his eyes.

"This man..." he muttered. ’I hate to admit it, but even if I’m already a divine spirit... I can tell for certain that I am no match for him. How absurd. Is this really a power that a mortal can achieve?’

He felt it, a ripple in the divine plane, a tremor of instability. A shift in reality that even those reclusive Primordials have surely felt.

Herios had touched something no mortal should.

This man, through his sheer will and belief... He had transcended the realm of mortality and ascended to the realm of gods without having any shred of divine blood nor divinity.

"KILL HIM!" Veron roared in alarm. "We must strike now! We can’t let this man survive!"

He turned his attention to the sky and shouted to the heavens.

"Elathys! Thalureon! Return to me! This is no longer a war of mortals—this is a challenge to Olympus itself!"

Far in the distance, where the soldiers of Herion still pushed desperately against divine might, the two Divine Spirits hesitated.

Their eyes turned back toward the light erupting in the center of the battlefield.

They understood.

Without a word, they flew toward Veron, divine trails tearing through the sky.

But Thalureon, ever vengeful, turned before leaving. He lifted his burning hand toward the earth and muttered a word in the old tongue.

The ground cracked, and from beneath the soil erupted hundreds of gleaming metallic beasts—golems wrought from forged bronze, black iron, and fire, blessed with the smith-god Hephaestus’s fire.

They landed with ground-shaking thuds, their glowing cores humming, eyes red with cold obedience. freewebnoveℓ.com

"Destroy the city," Thalureon ordered. "Let them scream and leave no one alive."

Then he turned and vanished into light.

Kaerion, still standing in a bloody crater with his soldiers, shouted at the approaching machines, "DEFENSIVE FORMATION! DON’T LET THEM THROUGH!"

Back at the battlefield’s center, Herios barely had time to look up.

A blazing wind tore through the sky as six divine beings descended at once.

Veron, Elathys, Thalureon, and the three divines who were with Veron—Mireos of the Moonlight Lance, Varan of Echoing Blades, and Solmyra of Judgment Flame.

Together, they formed a ring around Herios, hovering above the ground like gods of destruction, six storms of celestial might.

And then, they attacked.

The earth shattered.

Elathys unleashed a hail of radiant arrows that pierced the ground like falling stars.

Thalureon summoned blue infernos that spiraled like dragons.

Veron led the charge, his lightning-imbued spear hurtling forward like a thunderbolt.

Herios raised his sword just in time.

He parried Veron’s first blow, the clash sounding like metal screaming, but the force sent him skidding backward, boots tearing lines in the stone.

Mireos blinked forward with terrifying speed, his lance shimmering with moonlight.

Herios twisted, barely dodging, but a cut appeared on his ribs—divine weapons could ignore mortal armor.

He grunted, ignoring the pain, and counterattacked.

His blade struck Thalureon’s shoulder, sending the spirit stumbling back—but fire burst from Thalureon’s palms in retaliation, engulfing Herios’s side.

The king screamed as his cloak caught fire and rolled to extinguish it, only to be blasted skyward by Elathys’s arrows.

In the air, Varan appeared above him, swords spinning, moving too fast to track.

Herios barely raised his blade in time.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

Each blow echoed like a bell tolling death.

Finally, he twisted in the air and kicked Varan away, using the recoil to flip and land hard on his feet, panting, bleeding, burning—but alive.

They closed in again.

"Is that all your will can do?" Veron sneered, raising his spear. "Pathetic."

"That’s rich coming from a bunch of self-proclaimed god ganging up on me," Herios gasped. "You needed help dealing with a mere mortal."

He threw his blade into the sky, where it caught the light of a thousand prayers.

The Sword of Truth spun like a sunbeam, then shot downward, cutting through Veron’s spear and sending the divine champion flying with a thunderous shockwave.

Three spirits followed, hammering Herios with divine fury, but he danced between them, taking shallow wounds, gritting through the agony.

Blood flowed freely from his arms and chest, but his eyes burned brighter.

He parried Elathys’s arrows with a swipe, blocked Mireos’s lance with his forearm, grunting as divine steel sliced his gauntlet.

He roared and struck back, driving the Moonlight Spirit into the ground with a brutal shoulder slam.

But Solmyra descended then—her hands glowing with searing judgment.

She whispered a curse and placed her palm to his chest as divine fire burned through Herios’s ribs.

He howled in agony, fell to one knee—then gritted his teeth, grabbed her wrist, and threw her across the battlefield with all the power left in his body.

For a moment, the world froze.

Herios stood again, wobbling.

Breathing heavily and barely alive.

But still holding his sword.

The six divine spirits circled him again, stunned.

Veron scowled. "Why won’t this man just die!?"

"Just keep attacking. I don’t believe he can continue fighting with the state he is in."

Herios looked up, blood staining his mouth.

"It is humanity’s birthright, Veron," he said hoarsely. "To resist. To rise. To fight the impossible."

He raised his sword again, despite the tremble in his hand.

"So come. Strike me down, if you think your gods are stronger than my will."