The God of Underworld - Chapter 326
Chapter 326: Chapter 25
The battle at the perimeter had descended into a frenzied, elemental meat-grinder.
Zeus stood suspended in the void, his form wreathed in a lightning storm so dense it forced the surrounding vacuum to convulse, ionizing into a sea of burning plasma.
The nothingness of space warped under the pressure of his presence; whole constellations flickered like candle flames in a storm.
Every bolt he cast vaporized thousands of the Silent Wailers, those abominations of countless eyed infants and flesh like smudged ink, their bodies rupturing into screaming nebulae of corrupted starlight.
Yet for every thousand erased, ten thousand more surged forward, crawling over the charred remains of their kin in a roiling tide of cosmic hunger.
They swarmed like locusts born from the throat of a dead universe, their collective shrieks gnawing at the very concept of sound.
Cracks spiderwebbed through the fabric of reality around Zeus with every swing of his thunderbolt.
Galaxies in the far distance dimmed, as if the very idea of illumination faltered in the face of the monstrous horde.
The void rippled with pressure, like a great ocean pressed to boiling, yet Zeus did not fall back.
He radiated supremacy, lightning grounding itself on the bones of the cosmos.
His voice boomed, each syllable detonating like a supernova.
“Come at me and learn of fear! This is the might of the king of the gods!”
He hurled his spear of stormlight, a pillar of wrath that pierced through millions at once, cleaving through dimensions like wet parchment.
The Silent Wailers howled; the sound was was like the death of galaxies—but Zeus only surged brighter in response, as if daring the void to strike back.
Beside him, Poseidon swung his trident in great, sweeping arcs.
Just like many Gods at the level of Zeus, he had reached Transcendence as well.
And at this moment, he wasn’t merely moving water; he was manipulating the Fluidity of Space itself, gripping the primordial currents that underpinned existence.
Each motion tore through the void like a tidal god ripping apart the ocean floor.
The trident’s prongs glowed with the hue of deep abyssal trenches—colors that had no name, shades seen only by sailors who died at sea.
With every sweep, the space around him buckled, folding into itself like wet silk.
Tsunamis of compressed vacuum surged outward, invisible until they struck.
Where they hit, the Silent Wailers imploded into shrieking pinpoints of nothing, crushed down to singularities that flickered like dying stars before winking out.
Tentacled horrors lunged from rifts that dripped with anti-reality, their limbs writhing like blades of bone and ink.
Poseidon redirected the flow of space with a simple gesture, and their trajectories bent, and with another gesture, the tidal pull of the cosmos itself ripped them apart.
Rivers of distorted physics spiraled around him, currents of gravity that flowed like rapids.
Every slash of the trident sent shockwaves that rippled across dimensions, cracking them open like ice sheets.
New oceans formed in his wake—seas made of gravitational shear and collapsed mass, swirling with the remains of entities no mortal eye could comprehend.
His voice rolled like thunder trapped beneath the earth.
“Is this all you have!? It seems not even Outer Ones can escape the tide of reality!”
With one final thrust, the cosmos itself recoiled, colossal vortex formed, an event horizon shaped like a whirlpool, devouring legions of the Wailers in a single, roaring breath.
Poseidon stood firm, boots planted on the invisible surface of space, he was like the ancient sovereign of currents as old as creation, reshaping the battlefield with every heartbeat.
Further down the line, Ra and Odin fought back-to-back, a golden sun and a spear of absolute frost carving a sanctuary of order in the middle of the encroaching dark.
Their clash was the nearest thing to stability in that slaughterhouse of creation.
Ra burned, Odin froze, and between them the void screamed.
“They are too many!” Ra bellowed.
His solar aura guttered, dimming in ragged pulses as a galaxy-sized fragment of the Wailer Horde lunged, their countless jaws like an eclipse, trying to swallow his barge whole.
He forced it back with a brutal flare, vaporising them from existence.
Just then, the temperature of the battlefield changed. It wasn’t heat or cold but as if the very concept of reality itself was collapsing.
Every deity felt it in their marrow: a collective shiver, like pins sliding under their fingernails.
Turning their heads towards the hole in the barrier, their eyes widened in horror as a rank of Matured Outer Ones, no longer amorphous larvae, but horrors the size that completely dwarfed entire universes, slowly entered.
They vary in shapes, but each was a horror beyond comprehension.
They vibrated in sync, pulsing against existence’s seams.
Odin snarled. “Damn it, they finally appeared.”
They slipped through spatial folds like needles through silk, bypassing the line of every gods.
“Stop!” Zeus and the others tried to stop them, but their attacks were shrugged off as if swatting a dust.
They could only watch as they headed straight to the heart of the Hyperverse.
Ra’s voice cracked. “They’re going for the underworld.”
The Underworld: the pillar on which all planes were staked, the spine of reality, where all ten universe revolves.
Odin planted Gungnir into the battlefield, and frost spiderwebbed across infinity. “If they reach the heart, everything ends. We need to stop them.”
The gods turned in horror, but Athena’s voice cut through the chaos across the mental link, cool and unwavering.
“Do not break formation! Maintain the perimeter! The heart of the Hyperverse is not undefended! Focus on the breach!”
Her certainty was a lifeline. The Matured Outer Ones vanished toward the core, and every instinct screamed to chase them, but Athena, along with other Wisdom Gods was assigned by Hades to lead the defenses against the outer ones.
Their orders must be followed, so the other gods could only ignore the matured outer ones and focus on defence.
As for Athena, she wasn’t worried about the safety of Underworld at all.
Whem Hades integrated the ten pantheons, he anchored them into Underworld, turning the realm of the dead into the heart of the Hyperverse.
The Underworld was now the axis mundi: where the roots of Yggdrasil coiled through the Duat, drinking from the Nile of Souls; where Tartarus’s abyssal furnaces fused to the frost-rimed plains of Hel; where the gates of Irkalla locked like adamant ribs around the core.
Three judges stood at the threshold: Minos with his scroll of fates, Mimir with a well of memory burning in his skull, Ereshkigal with a crown of obsidian law.
All Underworld Gods of every pantheon were relocated in Hades’ Underworld, which became the sole underworld of the Hyperverse.
Compared to the boundary of the Hyperverse where the Gods were fighting against the Outer Ones, the Underworld was far more fortified and conceptually dense.
It wasn’t just defended by walls; it was defended by Hades’ underworld army and conceptual laws.
To breach it, an enemy wouldn’t just have to kill guards—they’d have to kill funerary rites, destroy the idea of endings, dismantle the metaphysics of consequence itself.
And at this moment, the Underworld braced for impact.
As the Matured Outer Ones tore through the inner veil, they expected soft reality and screaming souls—something pliable, something afraid.
Instead, the silence hit them first. Not passive or hollow, but weaponized silence so dense it compressed against their carapaces, settled in their lungs like molten lead, and made the notion of movement feel like blasphemy.
Reality did not recoil from them here, it tightened, as if trying to squeeze them out of their lives.
In the obsidian palace at the center, walls carved from the fossilized bones of extinct pantheons, something ancient shifted.
A presence older than the first mortal heartbeat, older than the contract that made living things die.
He is the King of Underworld, assigned here by the Supreme Deity for his strength and loyalty.
Thanatos, God of Death, stirred. He sat on a throne of cold bone, positioned to gaze over the mist-drenched plains of the dead, where eternity collected like dew.
He opened his eyes.
These were not the soft, merciful eyes of a psychopomp, nor the weary gaze of a shepherd of souls.
They were the eyes of an executioner. The eyes of someone who had been waiting, patient, hungry, and eager for a neck worthy of a blade.
Purple flame bloomed in the center of each pupil, a spark of conceptual authority: the right to end.
The right to close the book.
That spark spread.
Like a synchronized wildfire, the flame erupted in every pair of eyes in the Underworld.
A chain reaction across dimensions.
On the plains of Asphodel, countless Heroic Spirits and Divine Spirits opened their eyes, burning with purple flames.
Their spectral armor crystallized around them, and violet fire crawled up their swords, inscribing runes of Finality, turning legends into sentencing tools.
In Tartarus, The Primordials shifted, their overwhelming presence grew even more oppressive as the same purple flame burned in their eyes.
The imprisoned Titans felt their chains loosened, and the overwhelming power that once ruled the cosmos bursts of their bodies.
The Giants, spawn of Hades and Gaia, roared, their voice echoing throughout the realm of Tartarus.
In Hel’s frozen pits, the Nordic Giants cracked open like mountains shedding ice, their breaths fogged into runes, each exhalation a verdict.
In the Duat’s sepulchral halls, Anubis, Sobek, and Set rose from their sarcophagi, their forms colossal and ceremonial, like hieroglyphs given vengeance and teeth.
The Five Underworld River Gods shifted their course, as countless souls emerged from their waters, their eyes burning in purple flames.
The Matured Outer Ones doesn’t realise it yet, but this wasn’t a sanctuary, it was a fortress. A fortress built from endings, maintained by inevitability, and now—fully awake.
Thanatos stood, his every movement seems to distort space around him, his aura causing the air itself to vibrate.
He raised his hand, and in every afterlife, in every cultural echo of death, a sound rang out—the cosmic scrape of a billion scythes against whetstone, sharpening themselves in anticipation.
The Outer Ones, beings that devoured timelines and unmade causality, felt something they had no anatomy for: the instinct to flee.
“You are in the wrong place, Oh Great Outer Ones,”Thanatos whispered.
It was not a threat, no, it was a simple statement, as if telling a simple fact, but his voice carried the final rattle of a dying universe, the exhalation of stars collapsing.
“In this realm, you are no longer the end…. We are.”
And reality responded.
The Underworld did not try to push away the Outer Ones, nor did it try to stop them, instead, it closed, like a tomb sealing, like a judge slamming a gavel, like a sentence being passed.
The Matured Outer Ones had broken into the last page.
And they are no longer allowed to leave.