After reaching the threshold of a low-level Chief God, my strength surged several-fold.
But power without form is like a Formula One car without a steering wheel. The realm accepted me as its ruler, but I was far from its true master.
Across the hall, Hecate stepped forward. She bowed slightly and spoke in a tone both respectful and guarded.
"Now, Your Majesty… what is your next move?"
As God of Sin and Secrets, I could feel the truth behind her words, the hesitation buried in her heart, the wariness in her thoughts. She didn't trust me. She didn't serve me out of loyalty, but out of necessity. She had been the caretaker of the Underworld. Her service was duty, not devotion.
But she was right.
Why should she trust a stranger simply because he wore a crown?
I met her eyes and said calmly, "Hecate, from now on, I command you to speak to me as an equal when I am not on the throne."
Her expression faltered.
She hadn't expected that. She, like many, assumed I would be like the kings before me—proud, distant, lording over subjects as if they were lesser creatures. But I was not Zeus. Nor Poseidon. I did not need hollow worship; I only needed understanding.
"Okay… Hades," she replied softly, testing the name on her tongue.
Then, after a pause, she asked again, more directly now, "So what will be your next move? Will you seek the primordial gods… or confront Campe?"
I narrowed my eyes.
This was not just a question. It was a test to see what kind of ruler I would become. Would I chase power blindly? Would I confront danger before knowing my realm?
"No," I said. "First, I'll train. Sharpen what I have and what I can become. Learn what this realm is."
In her mind, I felt her noting my reply. She measured every word, every choice. Perhaps still deciding whether I was worthy of her allegiance or not.
"So, what is the current status of my realm?"
"Currently, the Underworld is divided. In the west lies Tartarus, the pit of punishment. And the other part, which is held without a king, is ruled by the Ten Dukes. Beasts of ancient birth, sovereigns of their domains. Together, they're known as the Dukes of the Underworld."
I asked coldly, "And now that I've ascended… do they recognise me? Or do they see me as a threat to their rule?"
She didn't hesitate.
"Some of them hold power equal to the Cardinal Titans. They have ruled for too long to bow easily. So yes, they will see you as a threat. Not a king."
I nodded.
Then, without another word, I left the throne and walked to the training ground.
I remembered nothing of my past life—only fragments. But in those fragments lived muscle memory, instinct, and knowledge etched into the bones of a warrior.
Martial arts.
The principles remained intact: stance, footwork, centre of balance, force redirection.
But my current body was not the same as before. I was no longer mortal. I was a god, and my structure, especially my wings, gave me new leverage, new potential. The old arts had to be reshaped.
I began with the basics.
Punches. Kicks. Breathing. Flow.
Then I moved through human styles: boxing, karate, taekwondo, grappling, testing everything. I learned how my wings could act as shields, how they could deflect blows like steel, how they could deliver strikes in flight—sharp, brutal, silent.
Over three months, I trained in isolation.
Each day I broke and rebuilt, redefining what a warrior meant in this new body.
In time, I created something new, a martial style built for mid-air combat, where I could hover, glide, and dive without flapping my wings. This style relied on precision, redirection, and 360-degree awareness. My wings became my third and fourth arms—tools of defence, pressure, and devastation.
But even mastery of movement was not enough.
I needed a weapon.
I tested many: dagger, sword, mace, hammer, and various weapons.
Each had flaws. Daggers lacked reach. Swords restricted my aerial flow. Hammers and maces had raw power, but robbed me of agility—which was unacceptable in flight.
After countless trials, I found the balance.
A short spear, easy to handle in close combat and flight, and a chain blade, flexible, dangerous, and unpredictable. Together, they became the extension of my style—precision and chaos, reach and fluidity.
But theory was only as good as the enemy it faced.
So I left the castle.
I walked alone across the desolate plains near the edge of the western gate. Hecate had spoken of skeletal legions, an undead army that roamed this no-man's land.
But the plains were silent, dry, cracked, and lifeless.
Still… I wandered around, and suddenly felt… My instincts were ringing loudly.
Something was here.
I unfurled my wings and conjured a spear of pure shadow—cold and humming with weight. As it formed in my hand, the ground beneath my feet trembled. The earth cracked.
Bones.
One by one, they rose from beneath—skeletal hands clawing from the dust, eyeless sockets staring blankly upward.
I leapt into the air to gain distance, but a skeletal grip seized my ankle.
With a casual jerk, I shattered its arm and ascended high above the ground.
What I saw next made even me pause.
The entire plain had shifted from what was once barren to a living sea of the dead.
Thousands of skeletons. All were armoured, armed, and forming ranks.
"So this is the welcoming party…"
I dove.
With my spear outstretched, wings spread wide, I plunged into their army like a blade into flesh. The first wave was torn apart. My wings cleaved through bodies like guillotines. Bones shattered, skulls flew, spines snapped. I destroyed half their army in a single charge.
But as I hovered above the field, breathing slowly, something strange happened.
The bones… moved.
No, they reassembled.
Bones slithered back to sockets, torsos rejoined limbs, heads snapped into place.
A low laugh rumbled in my chest.
"Now this… this is interesting," I murmured, twirling my chain blade in my hand. "Let's make this game more interesting."
I landed gently among them, cracking my neck to the left… then to the right.
Thousands of skeletons turned toward me, raising shields, spears, and bows. Arrows were nocked. Halberds were lowered.
Their eyes—empty, soulless—locked onto me.
I exhaled slowly and slid into my stance—knees low, wings wide, weapons humming with divine energy.
I smiled.
"Alright then," I said, my voice echoing across the plain.
"Let's begin… Round Two."
---
The battle did not start with a roar, but with a whisper—the dry rustle of bone on stone as the legion advanced.
I didn't wait for them.
My wings snapped forward, not to fly, but to strike. The leading edge of my right wing sheared through three skeletons in a single horizontal cut. I spun, chain blade whirling out in a wide, humming arc. It wrapped around the neck of a skeletal captain, and with a sharp tug, I sent its skull flying into the ranks behind.
But they did not break. They did not fear.
They closed in, shields locked, spear tips glinting with a faint, eerie phosphorescence.
An arrow shot toward my face. I tilted my head, and it glanced off my horn with a sharp ping. Another came for my chest—I deflected it with the shaft of my spear, then drove the point through the archer's ribcage, pinning it to the ground.
But already, the bones around its feet began to quiver, pulling themselves toward the shattered frame.
Regeneration. Not magic—something deeper. A law of this place.
I had to think differently.
Brute force was useless. I needed to break the cycle.
I leapt upward, wings beating hard to gain altitude. From above, I could see the pattern—the bones didn't just reassemble randomly. They flowed like iron filings to a magnet, pulled toward central points scattered across the battlefield. Nexuses.
Five of them, glowing with a sickly, pale green light, hidden among the troops.
Clever.
I dove toward the nearest nexus, a pile of larger, older bones stacked like a crude altar. Skeletons rushed to intercept, forming a shield wall. I didn't slow. At the last second, I pulled up, skimmed just over their heads, and slammed my spear down into the heart of the nexus.
The green light flared, then shattered like glass.
A wave of force erupted outward, and every skeleton within fifty paces collapsed into inert, scattered bones.
One down.
The remaining legions seemed to hesitate—not in fear, but in recalculation. They regrouped, shifting their formations, protecting the remaining nexuses more carefully.
The next hour was a dance of death and strategy. I became a shadow among them—striking, vanishing, using my wings not just as weapons, but as tools of misdirection. I would feint toward one nexus, only to spiral away and strike another. My chain blade became a tool of chaos, entangling limbs, disarming shields, creating openings where none existed.
By the time the fourth nexus fell, the skeletal army was in disarray. Their coordination broke; without the central will guiding them, they moved sluggishly, aimlessly.
The final nexus was guarded by a single figure—taller, clad in tarnished bronze armour, a crown of twisted iron upon its skull. It held a notched greatsword in both hands, and in its eye sockets burned twin embers of that same green fire.
This was the commander.
It did not speak. It did not need to.
We circled each other on a small rise, the last of its army crumbling around us.
It attacked first—a sweeping horizontal cut meant to cleave me in two. I dropped low, my wings folding around me like a cloak, and the sword passed harmlessly overhead. Before it could recover, I thrust my spear upward, aiming for its throat.
It parried with shocking speed, knocking my spear aside and countering with a pommel strike to my face. I took the blow—my head snapped back, ichor welling from a split lip—but I didn't retreat. Instead, I grabbed its wrist with my free hand and yanked it forward, driving my forehead into its skull.
The crown of iron bent. The embers in its eyes flickered.
I didn't give it time to recover. My chain blade shot out, wrapping around its sword arm. I pulled hard, and the bones of its forearm snapped. The greatsword fell.
It stumbled back, but I was already in the air. I came down like a meteor, spear-point aimed at the nexus behind it.
The commander threw itself in the way.
My spear pierced its chest, bursting through its spine and sinking deep into the nexus stone beneath.
The green light exploded.
This time, the blast was silent. A wave of stillness rolled out across the entire plain. Every remaining skeleton froze, then dissolved into dust, leaving only the faint whisper of settling ash.
I landed, breathing heavily, my wings drooping with fatigue. I stood over the fallen commander, its form already crumbling. One of its hands lifted, not in threat, but in a slow, deliberate gesture—a fist placed over where its heart would have been.
A salute.
Then it, too, was gone.
The plain was silent once more. No bones, no armies, no light. Just the wind over cracked earth and the slow, steady beat of my own heart.
I straightened, wiping ichor from my mouth.
Round Two was over.
And I had learned the first true lesson of my realm: here, even death could be made to serve. The question was, who had been the master of this lesson… and what else lay waiting in the shadows?