The God of Underworld-Chapter 95 - 49: The End Of A King

Smoke and divine sparks swirled in the air as the battlefield trembled with silence.

The five remaining divine spirits floated above, their once-glorious forms now dimmed with wounds and fatigue.

Even gods were not immune to despair, and now, they gazed upon a man who had slain one of their own.

Veron, bloodied and furious, clenched his jaw.

Though his wounds burned and his divinity felt frayed, his sharp eyes caught something others missed...

Herios was breaking.

The once-glowing light that enveloped the mortal king flickered like a dying torch.

His breath was uneven, each exhale a rasp of strained lungs.

His armor, once regal, now hung in pieces, drenched in blood.

The great sword Pluton still pulsed in his hand, but even it seemed to dim slightly, as though mourning the wear of its master.

Veron’s lips curved into a cruel smirk.

"He’s reaching his limit," the god murmured, a glint of twisted satisfaction in his gaze. "Even a bright star dies, much less a mortal man."

He turned to Thalureon, who hovered nearby with heavy breath and a hand over his earlier wound.

"Bring them," Veron commanded, his voice calm, cruel, and absolute. "Bring the golems. If he wants to stand against gods, then let him drown in stone and steel. He wants a war of will? We’ll give it to him."

Thalureon gave a slight nod, raising his hand. Divine symbols glowed in a spiral around his wrist.

The air cracked open.

And from the torn earth, from summoned vaults blessed by Hephaestus and infused with Poseidon’s will, thousands of golems rose.

Towering automatons of iron, obsidian, and gold, their bodies marked with runes that shimmered in hellish red.

Each golem carried weapons forged in divine forges, massive axes, saw-blades, cannons of flame.

The sky turned darker as they cast long shadows across the field.

Herios steadied himself, leaning heavily on Pluton as his body trembled.

Blood seeped from his nose, ears, and eyes.

The divine pressure crushed him like a mountain, and his bones ached with every movement.

Still, he did not fall.

He watched them come, showing no thread of fear nor hesitation.

"So this is your strategy now, Veron?" he muttered, his voice a hoarse rasp. "What a shame. To think a god would fall so low."

Veron didn’t respond.

Thalureon, with an emotionless wave, sent the golems forward.

A wave of iron death surged across the battlefield.

They came in legions, grinding earth beneath their feet, shaking the skies with their mechanical roars.

They attacked in formation, relentless and cold, their only purpose was to crush the mortal king in front of them.

Herios raised Pluton once more.

His back cracked.

His knees nearly buckled.

But he charged.

He dove into the mass of golems like a dying star plunging into a black sea.

Clang!

Pluton slashed through a golem’s neck. Sparks exploded as the massive construct tumbled.

Boom!

A hammer came down, but Herios sidestepped and retaliated, cutting through the core of another.

The battlefield became a hurricane of motion.

Each breath was agony. Each swing bled more of his strength. But Herios did not stop. He fought like a man possessed with unrelenting will.

The golems overwhelmed him from every angle.

They struck with inhuman precision.

Steel fists slammed into his back.

Blades carved into his side.

A cannon of divine flame scorched across his chest, burning skin to the bone.

He dropped to one knee.

Blood poured from his mouth.

But his eyes burned.

He stood up.

And kept going.

Hours passed.

The divine spirits did not intervene. They watched—silent, cold. Their confidence rising.

However...

The golems fell, one by one.

Hundreds. Then thousands.

And the longer they watched, the less confident they become.

"How?" Solmyra whispered, wide-eyed. "How is he still standing?"

"He shouldn’t be alive," Thalureon growled. "No mortal body can survive this long..."

But Herios did not care what mortals should or shouldn’t do.

Pluton, his sword of truth, hummed lowly in his hands.

His body was broken beyond imagination. His ribs cracked, his left arm barely moved, and his right eye was blinded from blood and smoke.

And still he fought.

He dropped to one knee.

But he didn’t fall flat.

He still held Pluton.

And slowly, ever so slowly, he raised his gaze to the remaining golems.

Despite being mechanical, they seemed to have felt fear and refused to approach him.

"Is that all?" he coughed, smiling through the blood. "I guess even artificial beings fear death."

Veron, watching from afar, said nothing.

The divine spirits looked at each other, and for the first time, true fear returned to their eyes.

Because Herios, the mortal king, still stood.

Broken.

Bleeding.

But undefeated.

"Come on..." Herios smiled, "Aren’t you humiliated? Make me pay. I stand here, alone."

Blood soaked the earth beneath him. His armor had long since broken away, revealing torn flesh, bruised bone, and divine burns that marred his once-proud form.

His sword, Pluton, remained upright, wedged in the ground beside him like a grave marker.

"Attack him!" Thalureon roared in anger and humiliation.

With his command, the golems moved.

They roared and all rushed towards him.

Herios did not falter. He gripped his sword and met their charge.

And just like before, he was completely dominating the golems.

However...

Under the intense battle.

There was a flash of movement.

Thalureon.

In a blink, the divine spirit appeared behind Herios, his blade glowing with a pulsing blue flame.

No hesitation. No declaration.

Only death.

Shhhkt—

The sword plunged through Herios’ back and out through his chest, the divine steel singing as it tasted mortal heart.

"Hghk—!"

Herios gasped violently. Blood erupted from his lips, spilling onto the broken ground. His body spasmed. His limbs trembled.

But he did not fall.

He swayed.

Then, he looked over his shoulders, seeing the grinning face of Thalureon.

"You—" Herios couldn’t finish his words as his eyes seems to have lost its strength and closed, his body went limp.

Yet still, he remained standing.

Thalureon quickly retreated, a sickening grin still on his face. His blade sliding out with a sickening sound.

Herios’ chest wound gushed freely, steam rising as blood sizzled on the earth.

Veron, hovering above the scene, let out a breath.

He stared at the limp body of Herios, and slowly, let out a loud laughter.

"Hah... hahahaha!" His voice cracked like thunder over the field. "It’s over! Herios is no more! Hahaha! Victory is ours!"

"Even in death, you refuse to fall. Hmph, stubborn to the very end, mortal." He approached the swaying figure, raising his sword high, intent on finishing the job. "This is your final act."

He stepped forward...

But Herios’ hand twitched.

His fingers gripped the hilt of Pluton tighter.

And as Thalureon raised his sword, Herios’ eyes snapped open—silver-white and burning with light.

"Got you... " Herios whispered.

And in that moment, his entire body exploded with light.

A searing white-silver brilliance engulfed the battlefield like a second sun had descended upon the mortal plane.

The Will of Humanity.

A force born not of magic, nor divinity, but of every heart that refused to kneel.

Of every mortal that dreamed.

"Let this sword bring you judgment..."

With a roar that cracked the heavens, Herios swung his sword in an arc so wide it tore through the air itself.

A wave of light surged out like a divine tsunami, unstoppable and absolute.

The remaining golems caught in its wake were instantly incinerated.

Not a trace remained, not even dust.

Thalureon’s smile froze on his face. His eyes widened as the light overtook him.

"No—!" He tried to flee, but it was too light.

He coughed once. Blood burst from his mouth in a sudden spray.

He looked down.

A thin line of light had carved from his left shoulder to his right hip.

No wound showed at first.

But slowly...

His body began to split.

Cleanly.

As if judgment itself had declared his existence false.

"This... this can’t be..."

With one final cough, his form shattered in two, collapsing like a broken statue.

The divine spirit known as Thalureon, forger of machines and flame-bearer of Hephaestus, was no more.

Veron watched in stunned silence.

Solmyra stumbled back, her radiant eyes wide with disbelief.

Even the gods above, those peering down from the celestial dome of Olympus gasped in horror.

The halls of immortality shook, for they had just witnessed what should not be possible.

Not once.

But twice.

A mortal had slain a divine.

Herios stabbed his sword to the ground, using it to hold himself up like a cane, the slowly, he raised his head

And then his eyes, those silver, burning eyes, locked onto the remaining divine spirits.

Veron.

Solmyra.

Varan.

And Elathrys.

The four divine spirits who remained after Thalureon’s fall.

The moment Herios stared at them, each of them took an involuntary step back.

They could not explain why.

Herios, broken and bleeding, should have been harmless.

And yet the way he glared, the way the wind wrapped around him as if the very world bowed to his will, made even these divine beings falter.

"Come," Herios said.

His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper.

But it rang out like a thunderclap across the field.

"Come at me, if you still have pride."

Silence.

Not one divine spirit moved.

The only sound was the crackling of fire and the distant groans of the dying.

Herios coughed violently, blood splattering across his chest.

His knees buckled slightly, but he forced himself back up.

His body was beginning to betray him.

His bones shifted unnaturally.

His skin began to pale. His soul, the very force keeping him alive, flickered.

Like a candle in a storm.

And yet...

The divine spirits did not move.

He took a shallow breath and bared his teeth in a bloody grin.

"Are you afraid?" he asked.

No one answered.

Not a word. Not a murmur.

They couldn’t.

Their tongues had grown heavy. Their limbs unmoving.

Fear, true primal fear, had taken hold of them.

Herios lifted his head to the sky.

Even the heavens above seemed to pause.

And then he spoke, not to the divine spirits, but to the gods themselves, watching from their golden thrones far above the clouds.

"Remember this moment. The moment, when a mortal..." He gritted his teeth. "...broke through fate. This moment, when a man, one born of fire and mud, stood above the heavens and dared to fight back."

His eyes dropped to the divine spirits again. They were still frozen in place.

"I may die here," he said, voice rising like a storm, "but know this—"

He pulled Pluton free from the ground and raised it with one last act of defiance, the blade now gleaming not with divine power, but with the hope and pride of all mankind.

"In this moment, a mortal has surpassed the divine!"

His voice shook the very foundations of the world.

Lightning cracked across the sky.

Mountains trembled.

Oceans stirred in distant corners of the earth.

Even in Olympus, gods who had grown fat and indifferent stood in silence.

And then...

The blade fell from Herios’ hand.

And with that, the world stilled.

It took the divine spirits a few minutes to realize that Herios, the proud king of humanity, had already died.

His knees did not bend, his back did not yield.

He died standing, pride etched in every sinew, a monument to the indomitable flame of mankind.

Not once did he kneel, not once did he despair. For in this final stand, he bore the weight of all men’s dreams.

Not as a god, not as a beast...

But as a human, proud and eternal.

A hush fell over the battlefield.

The divine spirits did not move.

No one dared to approach.

Veron stared, unable to understand what had just happened.

Solmyra’s hand trembled.

Elathrys looked away.

Even Varan, cold and detached, could not suppress the twitch in his brow.

For all their power—for all their divinity—they feared that if they stepped forward, Herios might rise again.

That he was not dead.

That no matter how broken, how bloodied, he would stand back and fight.

And so they remained frozen.

For seconds.

For minutes.

For hours.

No one dared to disturb his body.

No one dared to claim the battlefield.

For though the king of humanity had fallen, in that moment, in that silence—

He had already won.