The God of Underworld - Chapter 259
Chapter 259: Chapter 17
It was madness, a pure, unrelenting chaos that defied all sense and reason.
The entire expanse of Helheim, once a cold and silent realm of the dead, was now drowned beneath an ocean of writhing horror.
The sky itself seemed to bleed darkness as countless abominations poured from the fissures beyond the shattered barrier, their forms grotesque and nightmarish—black, infant-shaped monstrosities with pale, swollen bellies, eyeless faces covered instead with countless gaping mouths and unblinking eyes that rolled and blinked in every direction.
Their cries were not of rage, nor hunger, but of mindless, maddening existence, a shriek that clawed into the souls of those who heard it.
They came like waves, no, like a sea of despair itself, crashing upon the land of the dead, devouring everything in their path, leaving behind only black sludge and the echo of torment.
The ground quaked beneath their endless numbers, the air trembled with their screeches, and above it all, the Norse gods stood defiant.
At the heart of this storm of abominations was Thor, the Thunderer himself, his massive frame wreathed in blinding arcs of lightning.
“Bring me your heads!”
Each swing of Mjölnir tore through the hordes like divine thunder ripping apart the night sky.
His roars were like the cries of the storm itself, a sound that shook both heaven and hell.
Every time he struck, entire legions of the black creatures were vaporized into mist, their flesh sizzling and their screeches drowned out by the thunderclaps of his rage.
“COME!” Thor’s voice bellowed over the storm, laughter mixed with fury. “COME, YOU FILTH OF THE VOID! LET ME SHOW YOU THE MIGHT OF THUNDER!”
Yet for every thousand that fell, ten thousand more came crawling from the endless abyss.
Beside him, Hel stood motionless, her robes flowing like liquid shadow, her face cold and calm even as the world burned around her.
With a simple wave of her pale hand, a torrent of purple flames burst forth, spiraling across the battlefield like a storm of ghostly fire.
The flames devoured everything they touched, not only burning the abominations’ bodies but erasing their very essence, their screams fading into nothingness as if they had never been.
Her half-dead face remained expressionless, but her eyes flickered faintly with sorrow.
For every creature she burned away, she felt the underworld itself growing weaker, her very domain eroding under the onslaught.
Still, she stood, unshaken, for she is Death herself, and she must hold back this oblivion.
Freyr fought beside her, his once gentle hands now unrecognizable, blood-soaked and steady.
His bow sang ceaselessly, loosing arrow after arrow of divine light that rained down like the wrath of the sun.
Each arrow pierced through dozens of abominations, exploding in bursts of golden radiance that illuminated the dark skies for fleeting moments.
Yet still, they came.
The endless tide could not be halted.
Around them, countless gods, spirits, and ancient heroes joined the fray.
The Einherjar, the glorious dead of Valhalla, charged into battle with joyous laughter, their war cries echoing through the void.
“For the Allfather! For Asgard!” they roared as they were swallowed whole, only to explode in divine fire from within their devourers’ bodies, dragging the monsters down with them even in death.
One of the silent gods, stood his ground as a giant abomination leapt upon him, tearing into his flesh.
Blood gushed, yet he said nothing, his only reply was to rip the creature’s head from its neck and crush it beneath his boot before collapsing himself, smiling faintly as his body dissolved into light.
Another god of the hunt, fell moments later, pierced by a hundred clawed limbs, but even as he was dragged down, his frost-covered spear froze the horde that consumed his into statues of ice, shattering them before he vanished beneath their weight.
Despite their casualties, none retreated. None of them even faltered.
Even in death, their spirits burned brightly, their essence exploding into divine flames that scorched the darkness itself.
They fought with their dying breath, with their last drop of divinity, their souls blazing so brilliantly that the sky itself glowed in their final stand.
At the forefront, Freya charged into the sea of horrors, her armor cracked, her body bloodied, yet her eyes shone with unyielding determination.
Her sword radiated a bluish-silver light so pure it pierced through the blackness, its arc carving a path of divine beauty amidst the chaos.
She danced across the battlefield, every swing of her blade a hymn of defiance, every cut a prayer of freedom.
The abominations lunged at her, biting, tearing, rending her flesh, but Freya did not stop.
She screamed, not in pain, but in fury, her voice echoing like the song of a goddess who refused to bow.
“As long as we stand,” she cried, her blade splitting another wave of the beasts, “Helheim will not fall!”
Blood soaked her armor, her divine aura dimmed, yet even as the endless tide consumed her figure, her sword continued to gleam, cutting through the darkness until the very last moment, refusing to be extinguished.
It was a scene beyond comprehension, madness and glory intertwined.
The land of the dead had become a storm of divine carnage, a graveyard of heroes who refused to yield, their valor burning so fiercely that even the abyss recoiled.
Helheim was falling, but it was falling in splendor, burning brighter in its death than it ever had in life.
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Asgard.
Odin sat upon his grand throne in the Hall of Valaskjalf, his single remaining eye shrouded with storm and sorrow, his knuckles white against the shattered armrest that now bore the weight of his fury and helplessness.
Heimdall’s report still echoed in the vast chamber—not a single soul from Helheim had retreated.
Every god, every warrior, every fallen spirit had chosen to remain behind, to confront the unrelenting tide of abominations rather than flee to safety.
For a long, suffocating moment, the Allfather said nothing.
The air itself seemed to hold its breath.
Then, the sound of splintering wood filled the silence as Odin’s hand crushed the armrest of his throne into fragments, his teeth gritted so hard his jaw trembled.
“Those fools…” he muttered, his voice a low growl of anguish rather than anger. “Those glorious, damned fools.”
He leaned back, closing his eye, and for a fleeting instant, he wished that courage was not so deeply carved into the souls of his kin, that the fire of pride and honor that defined the Norse could, for once, be dimmed by the simple, pragmatic instinct to survive.
But such a wish was blasphemy against their very nature, and he knew it.
They were warriors through and through, born in blood, raised in strife, and destined to die with their heads held high and weapons in hand.
Even the spirits of the dead had no fear of extinction itself.
If only they could have listened just this once, Odin thought bitterly, his gaze distant, unfocused. If only they could have swallowed their pride and obeyed…
His mind was filled with the faces of his people—the gods who laughed in the face of doom, the spirits who marched into oblivion as if it were a feast hall.
Their stubbornness, that unyielding refusal to retreat, had once been the pillar of his pride as their king.
It was what made them divine. Yet now, it was also what would destroy them.
The thought cut deep into his heart, leaving a wound no weapon could inflict.
He rose slowly from his throne, his heavy robes dragging across the marble floor like the weight of centuries.
He walked toward the massive window that overlooked Asgard’s golden plains, his reflection shimmering in the glass—an old god who had seen countless wars and victories, now facing a despair greater than Ragnarök itself.
The light of the world tree flickered faintly in the distance, as if the cosmos itself sensed its approaching doom.
Odin’s fists clenched at his sides.
They are not supposed to die like this, he thought. Not to this madness. Not to something so empty, so vile, so meaningless.
His eye darkened with fury, but beneath it lay guilt—a deep, gnawing guilt that clawed at him.
He had sent them to fight countless battles before, had demanded their blood in the name of honor and glory. But this time, he wanted to save them.
This time, he wished they had run.
“Why must you all be so stubborn…” he murmured under his breath, his voice cracking just slightly. “Why must your pride burn even in the face of nothingness?”
Heimdall stood in silence, watching his king with pity and respect, for even he knew, there was no convincing the Norse to abandon a battle.
It was not in their blood to retreat.
Odin turned his gaze upward toward the heavens, his expression hardening again, regaining that grim, divine resolve that had carried him through ages of war.
Nyx… he thought, his heart heavy with a hope that felt more like desperation. If ever there was a time to keep your word, it is now. Bring your allies. Bring your power. If Helheim must fall, then let their deaths not be in vain.
His voice dropped to a whisper, a prayer uttered not to any god, but to fate itself:
“Let their courage mean something.”