The God of Underworld - Chapter 258
Chapter 258: Chapter 16
At this moment, on the vast, endless plains of the Underworld, a barren expanse where the earth was dark as obsidian and rivers of pale fire flowed beneath the horizon, an unfathomable gathering had taken place.
Thousands upon thousands of gods had assembled from every corner of the world and the realms beyond death: Olympians, Chthonic deities, elder Titans, spirits of the sea and sky, and even forgotten divinities whose names had not been spoken since the dawn of time.
Their divine presence filled the air with a pressure so immense that the very ground seemed to tremble beneath the weight of their combined power.
At the forefront of this divine host stood Hades, the King of the Underworld, his calm yet commanding gaze sweeping across the gathered deities.
Beside him stood the primordial Goddess of Night, Nyx, her presence both tranquil and terrifying, her shadow stretched endlessly, swallowing the horizon and dimming even the faint light of the torches that floated like stars in the gloom.
Yet not all who stood in that place were at ease.
Among the Olympians, tension shimmered like lightning waiting to strike.
Their eyes flicked uneasily toward the colossal figures standing among them, the Giants, those ancient enemies who had once brought Olympus to the brink of ruin.
Athena, her gray eyes sharp as blades, stared intently at Enceladus, the massive warrior who had once defeated her in battle and nearly ended her divine existence more than once.
The air between them seemed to crackle with restrained fury, as though a single breath could reignite their ancient feud.
Enceladus, towering and unbowed, returned her gaze with equal ferocity, divine flames flickering faintly around his immense form.
But though his body yearned for combat, his instincts roared for blood, he clenched his fists and forced the fire within him to still.
He knew well that this was not the time for old grudges.
Nearby, Zeus himself, his aura bright as a storm, glared daggers at Porphyrion, the greatest of the Giants, whose arrogance had once challenged Olympus itself.
Yet Porphyrion remained unmoved, his expression distant and indifferent, as if Zeus’s fury was no more than the buzzing of an insect.
Around them, the tension rippled outward, Poseidon’s trident hummed faintly, Ares’s bloodlust simmered, and even the minor gods shifted uneasily, each one remembering the wars that had nearly torn existence apart.
But before the rising hostility could erupt, a deep and steady voice broke through the tension like a bell tolling in the void. Hades spoke.
“I will keep this brief,” he said, his voice calm yet echoing with such authority that even the most unruly gods fell silent. “You all know by now of the threat that has begun to consume the boundaries of creation, the Outer Entities, and their plan to weave all that exists into a single, devoured whole. The Outer Ones are already feeding upon universes as we speak. And as we are now… even united, we cannot hope to resist them alone.”
The murmurs that rose were heavy with dread, but Hades raised a hand, silencing them once more.
“That is why we must seek allies,” he continued, his eyes gleaming faintly beneath the shadow of his helm. “The other pantheons must stand with us, for only together can we defy the nothingness that encroaches upon the multiverse. The Norse Pantheon stands now at the brink of annihilation, besieged by a fragment of an Outer One. Nyx and I have resolved to aid them, not only for their survival, but because their knowledge may be the key to accelerating the creation of a unified hyperverse, a network of divine realms capable of standing against the chaos beyond reality itself.”
He turned his head slightly, and Nyx stepped forward, her midnight eyes glowing like collapsing stars.
With a wave of her hand, the space behind them twisted and folded upon itself, and a vast swirl of darkness burst open, a portal of the abyss, swirling with shadows and fragments of shattered constellations.
The sight alone made many gods recoil, for within its depths could be seen faint glimpses of collapsing worlds and dying suns.
“This portal,” Hades said solemnly, “will take us to the Norse realms. The mission ahead will be perilous beyond comprehension. Some of you may not return. But if we succeed, if we prevail, then we will not only preserve this reality, but secure a chance, however small, for survival.”
He paused, his gaze sweeping once more across the gathered deities, Olympians, Titans, Giants, and Primordials alike, his voice lowering into a grim finality.
“Prepare yourselves. For what lies ahead may well be our final dawn.”
The plain fell silent.
The gods looked toward the swirling abyss before them, their divine hearts weighed between fear and resolve, as the King of the Dead and the Goddess of Night led the first step into the war that would decide the fate of creation itself.
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Norse.
Upon the desolate, battle-scarred plains of Helheim, one of the last bastion of the Norse realm, Freya stood in silence her crimson eyes reflecting the cracks that had begun to splinter across the great barrier Hel had raised to protect their world.
The barrier, once radiant with divine runes, now trembled under the weight of the vast and endless darkness pressing against it, each fracture widening with an eerie groan that seemed to echo the heartbeat of the dying realm.
The air was thick with the scent of ash and blood, and every gust of cold wind carried whispers of despair, yet Freya’s gaze never faltered.
Her bluish-silver hair fluttered wildly behind her, the strands glinting faintly in the faint light of the collapsing sky, and though exhaustion weighed upon her armor, her bearing was proud and unyielding.
Before her stretched an army unlike any the Nine Realms had ever seen, thousands upon thousands of warriors from every tribe and race of the Norse world: gods in gleaming mail, spirits of the slain, giants of ancient bloodlines, elves and dwarves, even beasts touched by divinity.
They stood shoulder to shoulder, not as enemies or rivals, but as one people, united under the same banner, the same purpose, the same unspoken resolve.
Every one of them knew that this might be their final hour, that the darkness that loomed before them could not be stopped.
Yet, since when had the Norse ever feared death? For them, death was not an ending, but a return to glory, a proof of life lived with purpose and courage.
What truly terrified them was not dying, but dying in vain, leaving behind nothing, living a life that had no weight, no meaning, no song to be remembered by.
And so, to die here, defending their home, their kin, and their gods, to perish with their weapons in hand and their hearts alight with valor, was not tragedy, but honor.
Compared to the shame of a wasted life, this was a death worthy of their names.
At the forefront of this gathering stood three figures who embodied the might and spirit of the Norse pantheon itself.
The first was Thor, the God of Thunder, a towering man whose strength seemed to hum through the air.
His great frame was broad, his belly round and full, his red beard wild, and his long hair whipped by the wind as he gripped Mjölnir tightly in his scarred hands.
Lightning crackled faintly along the hammer’s surface, as though it too was restless for the coming storm.
Beside him stood Hel, the pale and somber Goddess of Death, half her body radiant and divine, the other half cloaked in the cold pallor of decay.
Her eyes surveyed the assembled army, her army, with the calm of one who had already embraced the inevitable.
And beside her was Freyr, god of fertility and sunlight, his once warm aura now dimmed yet resolute, his sword gleaming faintly as if in mourning for the light soon to fade.
Together, they were currently the highest ranking gods in Helheim, the final shield standing between their world and the abyss.
Hel’s gaze swept across her army, her voice cutting through the howl of the storm like a blade of ice.
“I will not sugarcoat this,” she said, her tone solemn yet unshaken. “Our deaths are only a matter of time. The tide before us cannot be stopped by strength alone. Those who wish to leave—go. I will not curse your names, nor call you cowards. Asgard still stands, you mave go there and live.”
For a long moment, the only sound was the groaning of the cracked barrier and the distant roar of the darkness beyond.
Not a single warrior moved.
Not one stepped back.
The silence itself became a declaration, a defiance against fate.
Hel nodded slowly, pride flickering in her normally detached eyes.
She turned then, facing the encroaching void where monstrous shapes writhed and whispered within the darkness.
Raising her voice, she called out once more, her tone filled with the terrible majesty of a goddess of death commanding her people for the final time.
“Brave warriors of the Norse!” she cried. “You have accepted your fate—you have embraced the certainty of death! Then hear this: you will not die meaningless deaths! When your final breath leaves you, know this, you fell not in despair, but in defiance! You will fall with your knees unbent, your backs unbroken, your blades bloodied, and your enemies slain!”
Her eyes flared with divine light, and her voice thundered across the plains, echoing even in the heavens above.
“For the glory of the Norse!”
And as her words swept through the ranks, the countless warriors roared in unison, their voices merging into a single, earth-shaking cry that pierced even the darkness ahead.
“For the glory of the Norse!”
Their battle cry reverberated across realms, defiant, proud, and filled with a brilliance that even the encroaching void could not swallow.
In that moment, the gods of the Norse stood as they always had—unyielding before fate, glorious even in ruin.