CHAPTER 124: CHAPTER 23:

The Underworld trembled.

Not with the cries of the dead, nor the flow of rivers, nor the beating wings of damned spirits.

But with something far more terrifying—the fury of its king.

In the heart of the realm, beneath a sky of endless twilight, stood the Hanging Fortress of Hades—a monolithic, floating structure of obsidian and stygian metal, suspended by divine will above the city of Nox, the most prosperous city in Underworld.

Inside, shadows bent and twisted unnaturally, fleeing the throne as if even they feared his wrath.

And upon that throne sat Hades, the King of the Underworld.

His back was straight, but his hands were clenched around the edges of his seat. His eyes burned with an emotion rarely seen from the god of the dead: rage.

His divine aura pulsed outward in rhythmic waves.

Each pulse warped the air, fractured the light, and bent the laws of reality around him.

Cracks formed in the space above his head—subtle tears in time, revealing flickers of past and future, death and rebirth.

Even the concept of linear time seemed afraid to behave in his presence.

The souls within the fortress—gods, divine spirits, and judges—hid behind columns and doorways.

Even the spectral guards knelt, their heads lowered in fearful reverence.

The Underworld itself—the great domain of the dead—shuddered as if echoing its master’s fury.

"They dare..." Hades whispered. His voice was calm, but it carried the weight of a dying world.

He stood slowly.

And the ground shook.

"They dare unleash such monsters... to flood the world with chaos..."

His fists trembled. "To shatter the order I have maintained since the Titanomachy..."

Golden ichor seeped from beneath his nails, a testament to how hard he clenched his hands.

Hades turned and walked toward the central mirror of the throne room—an obsidian disc suspended in the air, showing everything that happened across the land of the living.

Through it, he saw the devastation: cities burning, forests twisted by cursed beasts, oceans rising unnaturally with blood.

Thousands, no tens of thousands of souls were pouring into the Underworld at a rate never before seen.

Even during the great wars of the past, mortals had not died in such horrific quantities.

But among the devastation...

He saw Herion still standing.

The birthplace of civilization, the land of beginnings. A single spark of mortal will amidst a storm of monstrous ruin.

If Demeter, Hestia, and the others hadn’t descended to intervene, that spark would’ve been snuffed out too.

And with it, the future of mankind.

Hades’ expression twisted—not with rage this time, but with confusion.

The Giants should’ve known better.

They knew him. They revered him—not in prayer, more so than even Gaia.

They honored death. Honored boundaries. Honored the natural flow of life and decay.

Their respect for the balance of the world had been one of the few reasons Hades had even allowed them to continue this rebellion, thinking that if they succeed, they might’ve been a better ruler than the Olympians.

They also worshipped him like mortals worshipped gods.

He had even spoken with Alcyoneus in ages past—once, during his stay with Gaia and where the Giants were still newborn and training their powers.

The Giant, although enjoyed the thrill of battle, honoured the delicate balance and order. He spoke of how he hated the Olympians for disregarding the lives of mortals.

But now?

They unleashed monsters that devoured mortals by the thousands.

They threatened to collapse the veil between the living and the dead.

They dared to flood his realm with chaos.

He took one breath, then exhaled slowly.

"No matter. I will not allow this chaos to go any further." He turned his head the side, "Hecate."

His voice resonated across the Underworld, echoing across rivers, through tombs, down catacombs and black halls.

It rippled through the five rivers: Styx, Lethe, Phlegethon, Cocytus, and Acheron.

And from the shadows behind him, a figure stepped forward.

Hecate.

Goddess of magic, crossroads, and necromancy. Clad in black and silver, her torches flickered with ghost-light, her gaze calm but observant.

"You called, my king?" she said, bowing her head.

"Summon them," Hades commanded. "All of my patrons."

Hecate nodded. "Understood. Would you like me to prepare the meeting hall? Or would you like to meet them elsewhere?"

"The meeting hall will suffice," he said. "Prepare it."

She turned and vanished through a doorway that did not exist before.

A pulse of her power flowed across the realm like smoke drifting in water.

And one by one, the Patron Gods were summoned.

*

*

*

In the great hall within the hanging fortress, twelve thrones lit one by one.

Each throne was carved from a different material, bones of beasts, black starlight, glass forged in Lethe, divine obsidian, and each reflected the soul of the god it belonged to.

Hecate returned first, taking her seat beside Hades.

Then came Styx, draped in flowing armor of liquid shadow, her hair swirling like water.

Her expression was one of barely veiled fury—after all, it was her river the dead now polluted.

Thanatos, god of peaceful death, arrived silently, his eyes sorrowful. The mass slaughter had shaken even him.

Lethe, the river of forgetfulness, floated in gently, sadness in her expression.

"The souls are too many," she murmured. "They do not forget. Their pain spills through my river."

The rest of the river gods also took their throne, silent and stern as they waited for everyone to arrive.

Hypnos, god of sleep, reclined lazily—but his aura was tense, and his shadows twitched with unease.

Eris, goddess of discord, twirled a knife between her fingers, amused but silent. Even she found the disorder excessive.

Keres, cloaked in chains and rust, cackled with delight at the blood spilled, but even she bowed when Hades glared at her.

Hera sat on the other side of Hades, her expression noble and regal.

And finally, Aphrodite entered, her presence calming and strangely out of place—but needed.

For love, even in the darkest place, had its place.

All twelve patrons have gathered.

Hades raised his head, turning towards Hera, "Where is Nekyria?"

"She is with Campe, touring Nox." Hera replied.

Hades nodded. "Then, let us begin."

He stood, his shadow engulfing the war table.

"The giants have disturbed the world’s order," he said. "They have disturbed the balance, flooded the mortal wolrd with monsters, and insulted the sanctity of death."

He pointed to the projected image of the world. Herion stood, barely, surrounded by burning cities.

"Every second, thousands, tens of thousands of mortals flooded my realm. Not even during the great wars of the past has mortal casualties become so great."

He turned to the gods.

"I had stayed my hand. The overworld’s business has nothing to do with us. Who ever rules the cosmos is none of our concerns. But this... this is unforgivable."

His voice deepened. "They touched my bottom line. They will suffer for it."

The room darkened as if the Underworld itself responded.

Hecate leaned forward. "Shall we act openly, my king?"

"Yes," he replied. "But not against the giants..."

He raised his hand, and a massive scroll of divine energy appeared before them.

"I have felt this presence for a long time, and I feel like the giants were merely pawns to be used. Let the Olympians handle them, and we will hunt down whoever this presence belongs to."

He slammed his hand onto the scroll and the symbols glowed.

"I will thoroughly eradicate who ever dares to disrupt the world’s order."

*

*

*

That day, throughout the Underworld, every soul—damned or blessed—felt it.

A cold fire spreading.

A divine will awakening.

A god no longer staying out of the war.

And from the depths of the Hanging Fortress, black forges lit again.

Chains uncoiled.

Old weapons reawakened.

The King of the Dead was going to war.

And when Hades marched...

The dead would march with him.