The God of Underworld

The war on Olympus was a cacophony of chaos—steel clashing, divine light flashing through the thick dark clouds, screams of gods and monsters echoing across the broken marble halls.

But in one quiet, crumbled temple courtyard, two figures stood still, untouched by the slaughter.

One was Hermes, Messenger of the Gods, his golden sandals glinting with the faintest pulse of divine energy, wings twitching as though eager to flee or fly.

His caduceus hung loosely in one hand, untouched. He stared with a mixture of confusion and wariness at the giant standing across from him.

The other figure was surprisingly… calm. Peaceful, even.

He was tall—of course, all Giants were—but unlike his brethren who roared and laughed as they tore through Olympus, this one stood straight, hands behind his back, not even bothering to summon a weapon.

"I am Damysus," the giant said with a serene tone. "Fastest of the Giants."

Hermes raised a brow. "You don't seem like you're about to crush me."

Damysus offered a small smile. "I have no desire to fight. You and I—Hermes, the fastest of Olympus—we are not born for war. We are born for movement."

Hermes blinked. "So... you're saying you don't want to fight me?"

Damysus nodded. "I suggest a race. A true contest of speed. Let the fastest one prevail."

Hermes tilted his head. He didn't exactly like fighting—he often avoided it whenever he could.

His siblings thought him cowardly, but Hermes knew better. Fighting was messy. Races? Races were clean. Pure. Elegant.

Besides, what's the use of strength if you can't hit your enemy?

He crossed his arms. "What are the terms?"

Damysus pointed to the sky. "We swear on the River Styx. The loser forfeits the right to participate in the battle for Olympus."

Hermes' eyes narrowed. That was no light oath—swearing on the Styx bound even the mightiest gods to their word.

But still…

He shrugged. "You're on."

Lightning cracked above as both divine and Giant blood rained down elsewhere in Olympus.

Here, however, silence fell.

Both Hermes and Damysus raised their hands in unison, speaking the same oath:

"I swear upon the River Styx:

That should I lose this contest, I shall take no further part in this war."

The air shimmered.

And with that, the pact was sealed.

Hermes rolled his shoulders and grinned. "So, how do we do this?"

Damysus raised one long finger to the heavens. "From this courtyard… to the edge of the cosmos. The spiral galaxy where the light of the first supernova still echoes."

Hermes cracked his knuckles. "Long way."

"It'll be over in a blink," Damysus said.

They crouched as the wind died.

"Three… two… one—"

They vanished.

They burst through the sky like golden and silver streaks, shattering clouds, punching through the veil between worlds.

Olympus disappeared in a blink as they entered the heavens, weaving through constellations and comet tails.

Hermes laughed in joy.

He soared between the rings of Saturn, curved around the edge of a dying star, and kicked off the gravity well of a black hole.

His form blurred, body adapted for speed, fueled by every divine spark of agility Olympus had to offer.

And behind him… always behind him… trailed Damysus. Steady, persistent, a second comet never far, but never overtaking.

Hermes had time to glance back more than once. Damysus was fast, undeniably so.

But Hermes was faster. His reputation as the fastest of the gods was not an exaggeration. Traveling to the edge of the universe was nothing to him.

It was because of his speed that even Athena couldn't turn him into bloody bits when he tried to touch her legs.

He was born for racing.

They reached the halfway point of the cosmos in minutes, time dilating around them as the stars bent under their speed.

Hermes smirked.

He would win.

He had to win.

But, at that moment, right when the glowing edge of the final destination neared—the blue-white spiral of the oldest supernova—can be seen.

Hermes looked back with a grin, but soon died down as he saw something that turned his blood cold.

Damysus… accelerated.

The quiet giant blurred into a form Hermes had never seen—a glowing spear of motion, no wasted effort, no drag, no resistance.

It shot way past him before he could even register what happened.

Just like that.

The golden god stared in disbelief as the light of Damysus streaked across the edge of the cosmos first, stopping atop a celestial platform of ancient light.

Hermes landed a moment later, knees buckling, eyes wide.

He dropped to sit, silent, stunned.

Damysus approached slowly. "You lost."

Hermes didn't respond. He simply stared at the void, unable to process it.

He had never been outrun.

Not by gods. Not by monsters.

And now…

Damysus bowed slightly. "I shall return to my people. But I am bound now, as are you. Farewell, Hermes."

And then he vanished—leaving the Messenger God alone in the vastness of space, staring at his reflection in the stars.

*

*

*

Meanwhile, far across Olympus, in a courtyard drowned in moonlight and stardust…

Two figures stood in eerie stillness.

One was a goddess, robed in flowing silver, her gaze cold and calculating.

Stars shimmered along the edges of her hair like constellations brought to life. Her sword hovered at her side, glowing with pale blue fire.

Astraea, the goddess of justice and stars, watched silently.

Opposite her stood Periboia, a towering Giantess clad in armor that resembled cracked obsidian, her lips curled into a taunting smile.

A massive sword hung lazily across her shoulder.

"I really hate you quiet ones," Periboia sneered. "Come on, speak a little. Make this fight a little more fun."

Astraea did not reply.

"Say something will you? Even something about order, balance, justice. Whatever as long as you speak. It makes me feel like I'm talking to myself here."

Still, silence.

Periboia scowled. "Fine. Let's make you scream then."

She rushed forward, sword slamming down like a meteor.

But Astraea was already moving.

With impossible precision, the goddess of stars raised her blade in a fluid arc, redirecting the swing with a ripple of light.

The sound was not a clang, but a harmonic hum—as if the stars themselves sang when she struck.

Periboia cursed and swung again. And again. Her strikes were wild, powerful, cracking stone and distorting air.

Astraea parried every one.

She did not speak.

She did not grunt.

Every movement was efficient. Showing her mastery over her sword that would impress even Athena.

She sidestepped a sweeping blow and retaliated—once. A shallow slice along Periboia's thigh that shimmered with silver light.

The giantess growled.

"You think keeping silent makes you superior to me!?" Periboia spat.

Astraea turned her head slightly. Finally, she spoke—her voice like wind brushing through the cosmos.

"Silence is discipline. I do not scream because I do not need to."

She raised her sword again. Stars flared above.

Periboia snarled and unleashed a flurry of wild strikes, rage taking over.

But rage was predictable.

Astraea danced.

She weaved beneath each attack, stepping with the rhythm of planets, the stillness of space.

Her blade lashed out—once, twice, thrice.

Each cut left glowing burns on Periboia's armor, searing through her divine flesh.

"Damn it! Damn it! I'll rip you to shreds!" Periboia screamed.

Astraea stared straight at her eyes, and with one final motion, she drew back her sword, now blazing with the essence of constellations.

She stepped forward, spun, and delivered a clean slash across Periboia's chest—a crescent of pure starlight.

The Giantess staggered, choking, clutching her chest.

Astraea stood tall, breathing slowly.

"The way you scream is a sign of weakness and lack of discipline."

Periboia fell to her knees, coughing ichor.

"I heard you cannot be killed," Astraea continued. "So, let me seal you. I will make sure you can never return to the overworld."

She raised her hand.

From the stars above, a single point of light descended, it engulfed Periboia as the giantess screamed from anger and humiliation.

Then, a moment later, the light returned from the stars, taking the giantess along with it.

Astraea turned and walked away without another word, vanishing in a streak of silver light.