The God of Underworld-Chapter 98 - 52:

The battlefield was silent.

The sky, once blackened with smoke and fury, had calmed into a gray stillness, as if the heavens themselves mourned.

Amid the shattered earth, fallen weapons, and broken banners, there stood a single figure—unmoving, resolute.

Herios. Or what remained of him.

His corpse stood upright, planted like a monument to defiance.

His eyes, once fierce and commanding, were closed gently now, like a warrior at rest.

No wind stirred his cloak, no birds circled above.

The world, it seemed, had paused to grieve.

And at his feet knelt Kaerion.

His right arm was gone, torn away in the final charge against the divine constructs. His body bore the wounds of battle like scripture. Dried blood caked his face, and his breathing was shallow, raspy.

But he knelt, spine straight, head bowed not in defeat, but in reverence.

Three days had passed since the final breath of Herios echoed into the wind.

Three days since the remaining divine spirits felt despair and fled in awe and fear of what they had witnessed....a mortal king who did not kneel, who declared his final truth with blood and blade.

The golems they had left behind—soulless, tireless, machines of war—had stayed.

But they were no match for the fury of a kingdom mourning their king.

For three days, Kaerion and the last soldiers of Herion had fought them, tearing metal from metal, bone against brass, until the last glowing core was shattered beneath their blades.

Now, it was over.

Kaerion gazed up at Herios’ lifeless form, tears carving silent trails through the grime on his cheeks.

"My king," he whispered, voice cracking. "You stood when the gods turned their eyes upon us. You bled for every child behind our walls. You gave your last breath not for glory, but for hope."

He paused, swallowing his grief.

"I—I was not strong enough to die beside you. I lived when you did not. I crawled away, ashamed that I still drew breath when your light had gone out."

He reached out with his remaining hand and touched the base of Herios’ sword.

"Now, I kneel to you. I cannot promise anything else, but I swear in my life that what you have done, what you believed in, will never be forgotten."

Kaerion’s voice grew louder, stronger.

"You were the greatest king this world has ever known. Past, present, or future—none shall match the weight of your crown, nor the fire in your eyes. Not even the gods shall birth a ruler like you again."

Behind him, quiet footsteps stirred.

One by one, soldiers emerged from the fog—bandaged, limping, but alive.

And behind them are civilians.

Old men who had taught the young to read in Herios’ schools.

Children who had grown up beneath the protection of his walls.

Mothers, farmers, craftsmen, and scholars.

Thousands gathered, drawn as if by instinct, by something deeper than law.

They came not to look upon a corpse, but to bear witness to the end of an era.

And when they saw Kaerion kneeling, they too knelt.

Tens, hundreds, thousands.

The last citizen of Herion dropped to their knees before their king.

There were no horns, no songs.

Only silence. And grief.

But it was a sacred grief, a reverent sorrow that bound them together in a moment that would be etched into the stone of history.

And then Kaerion spoke again, rising shakily to his feet.

"He did not kneel, not to gods, nor spirits, nor monsters. But we kneel, all of us now, not in worship, but in farewell. In thanks for what he gave, and what he bore."

The people did not cry out. They did not scream or chant.

They whispered, as if too loud a sound would disturb him.

"Herios."

The name passed from lip to lip, a sacred hymn.

"Herios."

A name that would echo in tombs and temples, in scrolls and song, for ages to come.

Kaerion reached forward and gently laid a worn crown—retrieved from the battlefield—at Herios’ feet.

"This world will change," Kaerion whispered. "But not without you. You will remain in our hearts, in our memory, in the fire we pass to those who come will after."

And then he fell to his knees again, not in ceremony, but in exhaustion. He wept, openly, and the crowd did not look away. They, too, allowed their tears to fall.

High above, the clouds parted, and for a moment, a shaft of golden sunlight pierced the gloom, touching Herios’ body.

It was the first light the battlefield had seen in days.

Some said it was coincidence.

Others said it was the heavens weeping.

But those who were there that day—who knelt with blood on their clothes and love in their hearts—they knew.

It was Herios’ final blessing.

And so, beneath that fractured sky, the Kingdom of Herion laid their king to rest—not with fire or stone, but with memory.

And Herios, the king who would not kneel, stood tall.

Forever.

*

*

*

Underworld.

The River Styx whispered with silence and reverence as the soul of Herios drifted across its black waters.

Charon did not speak, did not glance down as he rowed. Even the overworked boatman seemed reverent, sensing the weight of the soul he ferried.

On the opposite bank stood Hades, cloaked in shadows, completely unseen. He did not walk forward, nor call out, but merely watched.

He does not want to disturb the final journey of the once great king.

Herios stepped onto the banks of the Underworld with quiet dignity, saying his thanks to Charon as the ferryman left to ferry other souls.

"...after life." Herios whispered.

No spirits cheered for him. No gods greeted him.

The land was completely still, and yet, there was no fear in his eyes, only relief peace.

He made his way to the River Lethe, the silver current that took memory in exchange for rebirth.

He does not want to live in Underworld as a ’Heroic Spirit’, spirits of great figures who can live together with the underworld gods.

He gazed into the river for a long time, watching the swirling shimmer of his past: the battles, the betrayals, the fires, the monsters.

And then, his people. Their hope, their tears, their voices chanting his name as he died standing.

He turned to the attendant spirit overseeing rebirth—a quiet, pale godling in gray robes.

"Can I be reborn as a farmer?" Herios asked.

The lesser god blinked in surprise. "A farmer?"

"Yes. A man of the soil. One with no crown, no sword, no legacy to bear. Just a man who tills the earth, loves his wife, and watches his children grow old."

The spirit looked unsure, but nodded solemnly.

"Your request... shall be honored. The threads of fate will bend for you, just this once."

From the shadows, Hades allowed himself a faint smile.

He followed as Herios stepped into the mists of reincarnation, his soul shining faintly—then flickering, then vanishing into the world above.

Hades tinkered with the reincarnation a little bit, making sure that Herios will be reborn in a completely new world he will enjoy.

Once he was gone, Hades finally moved.

He turned, vanishing through the folds of the Underworld’s veils and ascending the dark tunnels between realms.

His destination: the deepest forest where stars kissed the earth and roots whispered secrets—the Dwelling of Gaia.

There, amid wild flowers taller than men, and trees older than memory, sat the Mother of Earth, cradling a child in her arms.

Her body, vast and verdant, hummed with life. Her skin shimmered like moss over ancient stone. Her eyes were deep pools of green.

Around her danced the Giants—their children, titanic and raw in power, though not yet fully grown.

Some shaped mountains with their fists.

Others drank sunlight like nectar.

Despite these, Gaia’s eyes were on the smallest one in her lap.

Nekyria.

A child not born for the purpose of punishing the gods, but from the need of a man to be transcend.

A union of two ancient forces—Hades, Lord of the Underworld, and Gaia, Mother of All.

She was a perfect being, still infantile, but radiant with a terrifying potential.

Hades stepped forth, his aura parting the tall grass.

Gaia looked up at him, and for a moment, the world itself seemed to pause.

"You watched him?" she asked.

Hades nodded. "From the River Styx to his final wish at Lethe. He has chosen to be reborn in the world of men as a farmer."

Gaia smiled faintly, brushing a leaf from Nekyria’s golden lashes.

"A fitting end for a soul who carried the world."

Hades stepped forward and crouched beside her, eyes on their daughter.

"I’ve come to take Nekyria to the Underworld for a time. I wish to introduce her... to my vessels. To the spirits who serve me. To the place that will one day be part of her legacy."

Gaia tilted her head. "You wish for her to be your successor?"

"If she wants to, then maybe one day." Hades replied gently. "But I doubt it. She is born to be far greater than any beings in existence. She won’t just be a mere ruler of the dead."

Gaia studied him for a long time, as the trees swayed gently around her.

Then, she nodded. "Take her. Let her see the lands of the dead. Let her feel the weight of what you carry."

Hades carefully picked up the infant. Nekyria stirred but did not cry. Her dark eyes blinked once, then focused on her father.

She reached for his hair, grasping it softly. The Lord of the Dead, who had known no true tenderness for eons, felt his heart ache with something ancient and unspoken.

He turned to leave—but Gaia’s voice stopped him.

"Hades."

He glanced back.

Gaia stood now, tall and commanding, her hair flowing like vines through the sky.

"The time is coming," she said, eyes hardening. "The Olympians grow fat and arrogant. Their age of order is built on the bones of my children. I will not allow them to choke the world further. Once the Giants have reached their maturity, I will start my plans."

A silence passed between them, old and vast.

"You mean your war." Hades stated.

"It is not war." Gaia replied. "It is retribution. I will punish those who are destroying me."

Hades remained silent.

Gaia continued, "I ask you, when my retribution begins... will you open Tartarus?"

The question lingered like poison in the air.

Hades’ eyes narrowed. "You want me to release the Titans?"

"Yes. They are your prisoners. You hold the keys."

Hades was silent. His gaze lowered to Nekyria’s peaceful face, then rose again to Gaia’s eyes.

"No," he said at last. "I will not free them. I will not allow any beings imprisoned in Tartarus to be released."

Gaia’s face showed no anger, nor disappointment.

She had expected such answer.

"Then will you oppose me?"

Hades shook his head.

"I will not interfere. My realm is of the dead, not in the overworld. Let the world burn if it must—but I will not raise my hand for or against."

A moment passed. Then Gaia smiled, a slow, knowing smile.

That is more than enough," she said. "In fact, that is the best outcome. I cannot predict what will happen with if someone like you got involved."

Hades hummed, giving her a nod before he turned away without another word, cradling his daughter.

As he vanished into the shadows, the roots beneath the earth seemed to tremble, and the wind grew heavy with the scent of ash and new life.

War was coming.

And in the dark halls of the dead, a child would learn of silence, sorrow, and the future her bloodline was destined to shape.