The God of Underworld

Deep beneath the bones of the earth, where light dared not wander and ancient heat pulsed through obsidian stone, Porphyrion—the towering King of the Giants—stood before his brethren.

They gathered by the hundred, monstrous and divine, their bodies forged from chaos and war.

Each one radiated a presence that made the ground tremble.

They stood shoulder to shoulder in a great obsidian amphitheater carved from the very underbelly of the world—a place older than Olympus, untouched by time, seething with dark energy.

Porphyrion, crowned with a helm of black flame and wielding a colossal spear of broken starlight, raised his hand to silence them.

The clamor of their hunger, their roars, their anticipation of violence stilled into breathless focus.

"Brothers!" Porphyrion's voice boomed like a god's thunder, shaking the cavern. "For too long we have waited in the shadows. For too long we have watched as those who proclaimed themselves as rulers of the cosmos destroy the very world. But that ends—today!"

His words echoed like war drums.

He stepped forward, tall as a mountain, muscles rippling with power.

His eyes glowed like twin furnaces, and the air itself twisted around his form.

Behind him, monstrous shapes stirred—dozens of colossal figures, each born of rebellion and wrath.

"Olympus." He said the name with venom. "They claimed dominion over all. They cast our brothers, the Titans into Tartarus. They perverted the land that is our mother. They built their golden cities on our mother's suffering. They have no respect for the primordial of earth who have given them everything!"

A snarl erupted from the horde. One Giant smashed his fist against the stone. Another roared to the ceiling, causing dust to rain down from above.

"But today, we must make them pay for their sins." Porphyrion's voice grew quiet now, but no less deadly. "We are the rage of earth born to punish the gods. The blood of life and death flows within our veins. We are the end of the age of false gods."

He raised his spear toward the center of the amphitheater, where a massive chasm opened into swirling darkness.

"And thanks to Clytius," Porphyrion continued, "we now possess a new legion—one born not of divine spark, but of nightmares."

From the abyss, the earth growled. Crawling up from the black was something monstrous.

Twisted beasts, forged by Clytius' experiments in the dark, emerged into the firelight—things with too many limbs, with bone for armor and molten blood.

Some were wolf-shaped and snakelike, others looked like mockeries of men with gaping maws and spines of steel.

Their eyes glowed with an eerie green fire—the mark of Clytius' touch.

"They will burn the mortal world," Porphyrion declared, "and consume the very earth the gods pretend to protect. The humans will cry for their deities. But Olympus will not answer."

A murmur of approval rose.

"Because we will be there," he bellowed. "We will strike Olympus directly, with the full might of our race. While Clytius' monsters purge the land, we shall storm their gates. No divine sanctuary, no shining temple, no high throne shall stand. We will uproot their marble halls and cast them into the pits of despair!"

The Giants howled. Their roars shook the underground hall like a quake.

Porphyrion raised his spear high, and thunder cracked above them.

"Let the heavens fall," he thundered, "let the stars weep blood! Let the age of the gods end!"

And in a flash of lightless flame, the Giants vanished—swallowed into shadow, scattering across the realms like a plague.

*

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*

Somewhere in the mortal world…

A peaceful kingdom nestled between silver rivers and gentle hills now screamed in terror.

It had once been a place of learning and beauty, its marble towers rising like lighthouses of culture and knowledge.

Now those towers cracked and fell, flames licking their spires as shadows tore through the streets.

Monsters poured from the forests and valleys like floodwater—beasts with burning eyes and limbs like weapons.

Men, women, and children screamed as fire rained from the sky, unleashed by flying serpents whose scales shimmered like molten steel.

Horrors crafted by Clytius, the dark genius of the Giants, spared nothing.

Giant hounds that breathed freezing mist ran through the streets, locking victims in blocks of ice before shattering them with laughterless howls.

Centipede-like creatures the size of carriages burrowed beneath the earth, erupting beneath town squares to consume mortals in gaping maws lined with stone teeth.

The kingdom's defenders—knights and warriors—fought valiantly, but their blades broke on thick hides, and their arrows bounced harmlessly from bone-carapaced skin.

A boy screamed as a shadow loomed over him—but just as the monster lunged, a figure in golden armor tackled it aside.

A mortal hero, brave and foolish, who had never faced a beast like this.

He would not live long.

And this was only the beginning.

*

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Elsewhere, in a mountain town at dusk…

Golden fields of wheat once swayed gently beneath the wind—fields that fed an entire region.

Now they were scorched black, reduced to ash by monsters whose breath was flame and lightning.

A village elder stood on a hill, watching with tear-filled eyes as dragons—if they could be called that—swept down and set fire to everything he had ever known.

These beasts were not of nature or myth. They were birthed in defiance of the natural order.

Flame erupted as a barn exploded, lightning cracked as a silo burst open in a shower of sparks, and the screams of villagers pierced the night.

The monsters moved with intelligence, with intent—they weren't merely hungry. They were exterminating.

The old man dropped to his knees, clutching a handful of burnt soil, whispering, "Where are the gods…?"

But no answer came.

*

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*

In the distant sky above it all…

High above the clouds, cloaked in a tempest of black storm and fire, Porphyrion stood on a floating rock fortress that hovered above the battlefield.

The wind howled around him, and ash rained like snow.

He watched the chaos with grim satisfaction. Beneath him, the mortal world burned.

Cities were being swallowed. Fortresses collapsed.

The era of men was ending.

Behind him, a dozen Giants stood, shimmering with power. One of them knelt beside him—Enceladus, the giant who almost killed the goddess of wisdom.

"It begins, my king," Enceladus growled. "The mortals scream, now it is time to attack the gods."

Porphyrion said nothing for a moment. He lifted his massive spear, and pointed it across the smoking horizon, past burning valleys, past broken cities… toward the peak of Mount Olympus.

The shining palace was barely visible from this distance, like a white flame resisting the dark.

"Let it fall," Porphyrion whispered. Then louder— "Let Olympus burn!"

The Giants behind him roared and leapt from the sky fortress, vanishing into storms, their descent a rain of wrath upon the heavens.

*

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*

Back atop Olympus…

As Athena stood before the gathered gods, a sudden silence swept through Olympus.

Her eyes widened—then narrowed.

She heard them.

The cries.

The screams.

The desperate prayers of mortals.

One after another, every god in the chamber stiffened.

Apollo's lyre went still.

Astrea clutched her throne.

Ares growled lowly.

Even Zeus looked to the horizon.

They all heard it.

A chorus of suffering rising from the world below—millions of voices calling out to their gods.

Athena's voice broke the silence.

"They've begun."

No one questioned who.

They all knew.

The Giants had made their move.