The God of Underworld-Chapter 101 - 1: The Gigantomachy

The Epic of Herios—the tale of the first man who rose against the darkness, the king who united tribes and held back the monstrous tide, the First Hero.

His name echoed through the annals of time like thunder trapped in the bones of mountains.

It was said that the goddess Athena herself had written the epic in golden script, engraved on the walls of her hidden sanctuary—a place mortals could not reach, yet whose influence shaped every bard’s tale and every child’s dream of valor.

She had watched him from afar, silent and curious at first, but over time, the goddess of wisdom became captivated—no, obsessed—with the mortal man named Herios.

Not because he wielded magic or power, but because he stood without them.

He stood against monsters born of divine wrath.

He stood when death was certain, and in dying, he changed the course of the world.

A man who started the era of humanity with his birth, and began the age of heroes with his death.

It had been centuries since Herios fell in battle, his body buried but eternally entombed in the hearts of mankind.

Over time, the Kingdom of Herion—the kingdom he had forged with blood and fire—dwindled into a city-state, a powerful remnant of the world’s beginning.

However, Herion remained a global power that terrifies many states. It remained the land of heroes and the capital state of underworld gods believers.

Even as empires rose and fell, Herion endured like a scar that would not fade.

Nestled between mountains and rivers, Herion had become a land of philosophers and soldiers, of old laws and older legends.

Pilgrims came from distant shores just to walk its ancient avenues, where the stones still bore the heat of Herios’ final march.

And within Herion, in the upper quarter reserved for the divine, stood the Temple of Hecate.

It was a towering, spired cathedral of onyx and silver. Torches burned with purple flames, and beneath the high arch of its inner sanctum, the statue of Hecate loomed—serene and mysterious.

Her triple faces(carved from human imagination) stared into past, present, and future.

In her hand she held a lamp that never extinguished, the Flame of Forewarning, as it was known to the faithful.

There, knelt before her, was Priest Malchior, the High Seer of Herion.

Robed in black and violet, his face gaunt with sleepless nights, he bowed low until his forehead touched the obsidian floor.

The scent of lavender and ash lingered around him, remnants of the offerings burned earlier that morning.

He had been praying, as he did every dusk, for clarity—for signs.

Then, it happened.

The flame in Hecate’s statue flared, casting the room in flickering violet light.

A chill swept through the chamber, though no wind had entered. Malchior’s eyes snapped open.

The world around him faded.

Darkness fell.

Then, a voice—not a sound, but a presence—entered his mind like a whisper made of lightning.

"Malchior..."

He trembled. He knew the voice of the goddess.

"A great war comes... fire and blood will soak the soil of mortals. Kingdoms will burn, faiths will be tested. You must prepare."

As suddenly as it began, the presence vanished.

Malchior fell backward, gasping. The flame in the statue dimmed to its original glow, as if nothing had occurred.

But the priest sat there frozen, drenched in sweat, his chest heaving.

For a moment, he could not speak.

But soon, he rose with the swiftness of panic, robes trailing behind him as he moved through the candle-lit halls.

Outside, a young worshipper, perhaps no older than twenty, waited patiently beside a basin of holy water.

Malchior approached him and gripped his shoulder. His eyes burned with purpose.

"Go," he said. "Go to the City Lord. Tell him the Flame has spoken. The goddess has foreseen a war that will consume the world. He must ready the armies. Prepare the walls. Begin the summoning rites of the Patrons. We must awaken the Sentinels."

The worshipper blinked. "The... the Sentinels, my lord? They have not been called since—"

"Since the age of Herios," Malchior interrupted.

Sentinels.

Elite warriors descended from the soldiers who accompanied Herios in his final moments.

The strongest spear of Herion that can only be called upon when the state is on the verge of being destroyed.

Most of the time, they remained on Mount Herios, a mountain where people have build a temple along with the grave of Herios, guarding it.

Rumors says that Sentinels can even kill a Divine Spirits, if this was true or not, no one knows.

And no one was willing to try and test it out.

"We don’t have much time. Now the wheel turns again, and a war on a scale never seen since the Fall of Herios may happen soon."

The worshipper nodded with trembling reverence and sprinted down the stairs, disappearing into the street like a streak of smoke.

Left alone in the sanctum, Malchior returned to the statue and knelt once more, his voice a whisper.

"Lady Hecate... please... let us survive what is to come."

*

*

*

That night, the bells of Herion rang for the first time in a hundred years.

The City Lord, old and gray but still sharp-eyed, ordered the walls reinforced.

The city gates were sealed.

Smoke rose from smithies as weapons long rusted were reforged.

The sacred texts of Herios were read aloud in the central plaza, reminding the people of the last time darkness had threatened the world.

Herion is the city of Heroes.

No one here was born a coward.

They were ready for war any time.

And so, across Herion, as stars blinked overhead, families huddled in their homes. The winds felt colder. The air heavier. Priests in temples across the city lit purple flames in silence.

Something was coming.

Something ancient.

And Herion, the city of beginnings, would once more be its first battleground.

*

*

*

In a pitch black space, separated from the very fabric of reality itself, Gaia can be seen sitting on a stone throne, eyes closed.

Her beautiful figure was emphasized by a revealing white robe, her breath causing the very foundation of the world to bow in reverence.

Too long.

Too long has she waited.

Waiting for this moment.

The moment when her children wound grow up and be able to defeat the Olympians.

Then her eyes opened.

And the world trembled.

A single breath—one drawn through immortal lungs—echoed across the tapestry of existence.

Earthquakes rolled beneath distant seas. Forests bowed as though in reverence.

Volcanoes stirred, rumbling as if it was about to explode.

Gaia inhaled.

And in that breath, the mountains heard her. The deep roots of trees straightened in attention.

The very tectonic plates groaned, shifting subtly as if they were her bones stretching awake from slumber.

Suspended in that immeasurable realm beyond perception, her eyes—twin orbs of green and obsidian, reflecting both nurture and fury—opened wide and sharp.

With a gaze capable of unraveling reality, she turned her face to Olympus.

She saw the gilded marble spires, the nectar gardens, and the radiant halls of the gods who had once been her favourites.

She saw the library of Metis, the lightning-forged throne of Zeus, and the simmering pools where gods feasted while the mortal world toiled.

She stared.

Unblinking.

Unforgiving.

"It is time."

Her voice never reached the ears of gods or men.

No sound echoed in the mortal realm. But the core of the world quivered. Deep-sea creatures stirred. The animals of the land paused mid-motion. Even the stars in the sky twinkled in uncanny synchronization.

Behind her—emerging like stone rising from the sea—came her children.

The Giants, born of the fusion between underworld , primordial sky and primordial earth, stood tall and solemn.

Each one bore a unique shape and strength, forged by nature’s hand and godly will.

Some were covered in scales made from volcanic rock; others had skins of polished obsidian.

Horns curled like ancient mountain ranges; eyes blazed with molten hatred.

Their height dwarfed mountains, their breath carried the wind of continents.

They were not monsters. Nor were they gods nor titans.

They were Gaia’s vengeance given form.

At the very center stood the largest of them—Alkyoneus, the oldest, the tallest, the most silent.

He carried no weapon, for he was a weapon. Where he walked, the earth bloomed and cracked simultaneously.

Next to him was Porphyrion, with a crown of twisted branches and a cloak made from the hides of beasts extinct for millennia.

There were twelve of them in total—twelve Giants conceived with Hades, the Lord of the Underworld—each with a spark of sky, the life of earth and the inevitability of death within them.

Her thoughts wandered to her daughter whom she had grown fond of, Nekyria.

The child born from the perfect union of the three realms and will one day, surely transcend even primordials like her.

However, perhaps it is the universe’s way of restricting her, Nekyria grows slowly.

While most gods where born an adult, Nekyria was born a baby. While most gods already indulged in all sorts of depravity and succumbed to desires within a hundred years, Nekyria was still struggling to walk straight.

However, perhaps it is because of that phenomenon that Gaia’s motherly instinct awakened, and she had dote on her daughter too much.

Unfortunately, she is currently in Underworld, and Hades would only bring her once every few years.

Gaia’s gaze lingered in that direction briefly, her lips pressing into a tight line—but then, she looked again to her warriors.

"My sons," Gaia said, her voice thrumming through their souls like magma through stone, "the time of Olympian excess has reached its end."

The Giants stood still.

They had waited lifetimes in silence, slumbering beneath continents, hidden in caves older than mortal memory, shackled in mountain tombs and oceans deeper than words.

But now they lifted their heads. Their eyes glowed.

"Your blood is sacred," Gaia said, rising as she spoke, the womb of relity stirring around her. "Forged under the sky, from the womb of the world and the shadow of death. Your existence is more nobler than any gods or titans. Now, we must punish them for what they have done to this world."

One by one, the Giants began to arm themselves.

From caverns in the void, they pulled up ancient weapons forged in silence.

Alkyoneus reached into the earth itself and pulled forth a spear made from the petrified spine of a sea beast.

Porphyrion summoned lightning not from the sky, but from underground, coiling it into a greatbow with arrows that screamed as they were drawn.

Others bore clubs made from fossilized forests, nets of woven stone, and chains rusted with the blood of Titan jailers.

They readied armor that had not been worn since before the first Titanomachy, polished by lava and shadow.

Gaia floated before them, growing with every breath she took. Her voice boomed:

"Today, we shatter Olympus."

Her hand stretched toward the dimensional veil separating their dark realm from the divine summit.

"They perverted my land, insulted my authority," she said, eyes smoldering. "They drunk from sacred springs and laughed while mortals screamed. They abandoned balance for vanity. They call themselves gods, but they are nothing but a mistake."

The Giants raised their weapons in unison.

The space around them cracked. Reality fractured. The scent of rain and stone and blood filled the dark.

"You will march upon the sky. You will break their temples. You will unseat their thrones. You will burn their false paradise down to its marble bones."

A single, massive footstep fell forward.

Alkyoneus moved first.

Behind him, eleven others followed.

The war was not yet declared to Olympus.

But Gaia had spoken.

And when the Primordial Earth breathes, even the gods must hold theirs.