The God of Underworld

Eleusis, a small city-state who worshipped the Goddess Demeter.

Once a major agricultural state, now it was being ravaged and destroyed.

Forests once lush with life burned under storms of flame and venom, and rivers ran red where monsters feasted freely.

Amid the chaos, laughter echoed—low, twisted, guttural.

The laughter of monsters.

Winged beasts soared over farmland, spewing fire that devoured crops and cottages alike.

Hulking hounds of shadow galloped across dirt roads, dragging screaming humans behind them like prizes.

Spined horrors crawled out from burrowed tunnels, their claws dripping with blood, their eyes wild with unholy glee.

And in the center of the razed city—a place of golden wheat and prayerful songs—an immense serpent coiled around the broken remains of a granary, hissing laughter slithering from its many mouths.

It reveled in destruction, in the snapping of bones beneath its coils.

A place that had once sung to the goddess of life and harvest now smoldered, broken, and violated.

Nothing could make them happier.

Just then...

A light descended.

It wasn't fire. It wasn't lightning. It was a warm, pure radiance—like the sun filtered through autumn leaves.

It struck the earth like a pillar, shaking the very soil.

The monsters froze, their twisted amusement turning into confusion… then horror.

A figure stood at the center of the light, cloaked in gold and green, hair like woven stalks of wheat, eyes glowing with the fury of life itself.

Demeter.

Her once gentle expression—serene, motherly—was now a storm of wrath.

She walked slowly, each step causing grass to spring from the ash.

Her sandals touched the blackened soil, and where her feet landed, life bloomed—sunflowers, wheat, vines, as if refusing to allow decay to remain in her presence.

She looked around, her expression turning more and more angrier by the second.

"How dare you... "

She had arrived in the mortal world quite some time ago, but she had chosen to stay with the nymphs whom she left to take care of her garden.

It was just now, when she heard the screams of the earth, she realized something was wrong.

She turned towards the monsters, then her voice rang out—not loud, but every living thing heard it.

"...I don't care where you came from, but none of you shall leave this place alive. This I swear, as Demeter, Goddess of Harvest."

The wind howled. Thunder cracked in the distance—not from Zeus, but from the divine anger of a nurturing force betrayed.

The serpent hissed and lunged. Its massive jaws opened wide.

Demeter raised her hand.

Roots exploded from the ground like spears, piercing the beast's body.

Vines coiled around its heads and ripped them apart one by one.

The creature howled, thrashing, but the land itself had turned against it.

Other monsters tried to flee—but from every direction, the ground split and hands of ivy dragged them into the soil.

The trees groaned, waking from slumber, moving like titans as they crushed fleeing abominations into pulp.

The goddess did not scream. She did not roar. Her anger was still and silent, it was absolute.

Where the monsters brought death, she brought judgment.

It was not swift nor merciful.

And Demeter stood among the ruins like a flame that would never be extinguished.

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Far away, in a quiet place untouched by war…

A temple bathed in silence sat alone on a cliff. Its hearth never went out.

Its halls were always warm. And in that sanctuary of flame and family, Hestia knelt before the eternal flame.

Her hands trembled.

She felt it.

The prayers of children who had just lost their parents. The tears of mothers holding lifeless bodies. The shattering of households across the land.

It broke her heart.

She had long remained apart from war. She did not march with the gods during the Titanomachy.

While her siblings battled, she kindled the hearths of the Underworld, keeping the warmth of family alive for those who crossed into death.

But now…

Now, she felt the world burning. Families torn asunder. Villages once protected by her light drowned in darkness.

And she could no longer sit idly by.

She rose.

Her simple robes shifted, glowing with warm red and gold light. The flames in her eyes danced—not playfully, but fiercely.

She turned toward the sky.

But before she could leave, a soft rustle echoed behind her.

"Are you going to interfere, Hestia?"

Hestia turned.

There, radiant and graceful as ever, stood Rhea, her mother—the Titaness of fertility, motherhood, and generation.

Rhea's eyes were ancient, filled with sorrow and love. She stepped forward, reaching out to cup Hestia's face gently.

"Can you handle it, child? Unlike your siblings, you lack experience when it comes to fighting."

Hestia nodded. "I know. But I cannot bear to feel it anymore. The breaking of homes… of lives. I will not sit idly by as innocent families gets destroyed by monsters."

Rhea held her gaze. "Be careful. Your flame gives hope to the hopeless, use it to dispell their worries and ward away any evils."

Hestia smiled, a flickering warmth in the silence.

Then, without another word, she took flight—ascending through the clouds, her trail a blazing ember against the growing darkness.

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The State of Herion.

The gates of Herion loomed tall—walls of white stone reinforced with divine sigils and mortal craftsmanship.

The city sat at the foot of a mountain, the mountain of first dawns, and legend held that humanity's first flame was born here.

It was a city of warriors. A kingdom of legends. A sanctuary for those who refused to bow.

The kingdom founded by the King who defied the gods and hailed as the greatest king in history.

Upon its high ramparts stood a man whose armor shimmered not with magic, but conviction.

His cape bore the symbol of Hades, and his eyes glinted like tempered steel.

Varn, Captain of the Sentinels, leader of Herion's last line of defense, gazed into the horizon.

And there—they came.

A tide of monsters.

A horde of screaming, chittering, charging beasts.

Towering warbeasts.

Lithe stalkers. Serpents with wings and wolves with obsidian skin.

From the hills, from the woods, from tunnels dug through the mountains—they came like the end of days.

Behind Varn stood the Hundred Sentinels—each one a hero in their own right.

Cloaked in armor passed down from generations, blades kissed by the gods, eyes burning with resolve.

They had trained for this.

They had sworn their lives to Herion.

Varn drew his sword, the ancient steel humming with purpose.

He turned to his warriors.

"This is the day history remembers! Not for how many enemies we killed—But for how long we stood! This is Herion! The City of Heroes! The Land Where All Began! And it will never fall—not while we draw breath!"

A thunderous cheer shook the walls. Swords rang from scabbards. Shields locked into place.

Without hesitation, Varn leapt from the wall, blade first, landing like a comet amid the monsters.

The Sentinels followed, dropping from the battlements like arrows from the sky.

Steel clashed.

Flesh tore.

Blood sprayed across stone and earth.

But they did not falter.

The Hundred Sentinels fought like legends reborn.

For Herion.

For humanity.

For hope.

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Deep within the earth, Gaia watches.

Her brows furrowed seeing her children use those monsters to attack the mortals, knowing full well that it would surely earn the wrath of the King of Underworld.

However, she did not stop them.

At this moment, all she cares about is the destruction of Olympus and the death of Olympians.

Nothing else mattered more.

With that, a dark, mysterious aura flickered around her for a moment before disappearing, as if it has never been there.

Gaia frowned, sensing some disturbance. She spread her senses, but found nothing.

She shook her head, thinking it was just an imagination.

She turned her gaze back to the land, before focusing to Olympus.

There, her children, the Giants, are about to start their attack.