Hades descends to the 10th floor, his footsteps echoing in the oppressive silence. He stops before the massive cell of his uncle and cups his hands around his mouth. "Uncle! Uncle Brontes! Are you still alive in there? Uncle Brontes!"
A gigantic hand slams against the bars with a deafening clang. "BRAT! Must you be so loud? My ears are ringing!" Brontes's voice booms, shaking dust from the ceiling.
A wide, teasing grin spreads across Hades's face. "Oh, good! You're alive. I thought you might have died of loneliness in this dusty hole."
"You should worry more about your own health, you little pest," Brontes grumbles, squinting his single massive eye. A flicker of genuine shock passes through him. 'By the forge... he actually did it. He slew Campe.'
Hades raises his hand. Dark energy coalesces in his palm, forming a contract written on shifting black parchment, its terms glowing in elegant, golden script. A simple, sharp dagger materialises beside it. He slides the contract through the bars.
Brontes picks it up; the large parchment looks like a sticky note in his enormous hand. He squints, bringing it close to his eye. "What is this nonsense?"
"It's a contract," Hades explains, his voice all business. "It states I will free you from Tartarus. In return, you will serve as the royal blacksmith for my kingdom and teach your craft to future generations." He offers the dagger. "Prick your finger. A single drop of blood will suffice."
"Ridiculous! This is indentured servitude! And what is this tiny script at the bottom?" Brontes booms, crumpling the contract and throwing both it and the dagger to the floor in a fit of rage.
"Very well. If you're not interested, I'll take my leave." Hades turns and begins walking away, his boots making loud, deliberate stomping sounds on the stone floor.
A vein bulges dangerously on Brontes's forehead. "WAIT!" he roars, the sound shaking the very foundations of his cell. "I... will sign it!" He snatches the dagger and contract from the floor. With a grunt, he pricks the tip of his massive finger. A single, shimmering drop of blood, glowing with primordial power, falls onto the parchment. It absorbs the blood, and the golden letters flare with light. "Now, open these bars!"
"Patience, Uncle. Let me see how actually Tartarus is." Hades closes his eyes. He merges his Divinity of Secret and Sin with his new, absolute authority over Tartarus. His consciousness expands, examining the state and sins of every single cell in the abyssal prison.
Brontes watches him, bewildered. 'Has he gone mad from fighting Campe? How can he see anything with his eyes closed? My future looks bleak. Lord Chaos, please have mercy on your poor grandchild.' He nervously wrings his hands together, sending a silent prayer to the primordial void.
Hades's eyes snap open. "Tartarus," he commands, his voice low but imbued with undeniable authority. "Move cells 101, 91, and 67 from the 10th floor; cells 34, 78, and 81 from the 8th; cell 45 from the 6th; cells 26, 43, and 73 from the 4th; and cells 1 and 9 from the 2nd. Bring them all before me. Now."
The entire prison of Tartarus groans. The sound of grinding stone echoes through the depths as entire cell blocks shudder and slide through the rock, rearranging themselves according to his will.
Brontes stumbles back, shocked. "What's happening?! Why is Tartarus trembling? Has Lord Tartarus perished?!"
Hades shoots him an exasperated look. "Please don't say such ominous things. Lord Tartarus is very much alive. Don't just kill him off whenever you feel like it."
'Who is saying, just half an hour ago, you declared me dead!' Brontes thinks.
Brontos is utterly confused "Then why is the prison moving? Do you know something?"
"Because I ordered it to move," Hades replies flatly.
"But... how can you do that?" Brontes asks, his massive brow furrowed in confusion.
"Because I now hold complete authority over Tartarus," Hades states, his tone utterly nonchalant, as if he's commenting on the weather.
Brontes's single eye widens in sheer, unadulterated shock. "What?! How?!"
Hades looks at him with mock irritation. "Uncle, you ask too many questions. Please be silent for a while and just nod." With a subtle flick of his will, Hades enforces the command. Brontes's mouth seals shut, and his head begins to bob up and down in a steady, unwavering nod, much to his own immense frustration.
The tremors cease. The new cells are now arranged before them. Hades picks up the signed contract and approaches the first five cells, which hold his other two Cyclops uncles and the three Hecatoncheires.
"My dear uncles," he announces, his voice dripping with false sweetness. "I am your nephew, Hades. Uncle Brontes has already signed the contract and insists you all do the same."
Cottus, the eldest of the hundred-handed giants, picks up his own contract. He sniffs the air and examines the parchment, instantly recognising the unique essence of Brontes's blood. "He speaks the truth. Brontes has signed."
Hades interrupts. "If you still doubt me, just look straight ahead. See how desperately he's urging you to agree." All five brothers turn to look at Brontes's cell. They see their brother, trapped behind bars, nodding desperately with a manic intensity, tears of pure frustration streaming down his face.
Cottus's voice is thick with emotion. "But... why is he crying?"
Hades maintains a perfect, businesslike smile. "Tears of joy, Uncle. He's simply overwhelmed at the thought of being reunited with all of you after so long."
The explanation shatters their resolve. The five mighty beings break down, weeping openly. Without another word, they each prick a finger and let a single, glowing drop of their blood fall onto their contracts.
Hades snaps his fingers.
Click.
The locks on all twelve cells disengage with a series of heavy, final thuds. The doors swing open. For the first time in millions of years, they are free. The six brothers rush toward each other, their reunion a storm of tears, crushing hugs, and rumbling, joyful sobs that shake the floor.
Meanwhile, the other six freed prisoners step out cautiously. Among them are three divine beasts: a lazy-looking panda, a timid red panda raccoon, and a sloth that blinks slowly. They were imprisoned by Uranus for the grave crime of oversleeping and missing a celestial decree. Two stunningly beautiful nymphs, who failed to please the cruel Uranus, and finally, a Titan named Sebastian, who was imprisoned for daring to raise his voice against Uranus's tyranny.
The Titan, Sebastian, steps forward and drops to one knee, his head bowed. "I am Sebastian. I am willing to serve you, my lord." The other five, taking their cue, quickly kneel behind him.
Hades waves a hand dismissively. "There's no need for that. You don't have to serve me to repay my generosity."
Sebastian keeps his head bowed. "We wish to serve, my lord. Not merely out of debt, but by our own will. Now we have no place to go, no shelter to protect ourselves. My lord, you are the only hope for all of us."
Hades allows a fraction of his immense aura to wash over them "Even knowing that, I am Underworld King". The six petitioners break into a cold sweat, hesitating under the pressure.
Suddenly, Brontes throws them a lifeline, his voice still magically compelled to be helpful. "Don't bully the weak, kid."
Hades looks at Brontes, his smile not quite reaching his eyes. But he relents and conjures a new contract. "If you still wish to serve, read the terms. A single drop of blood will seal your pledge." He offers them the parchment.
Hades then walks over and hops up onto Brontes's massive shoulder, sitting comfortably as if it were a throne. "That was quite generous of you, Uncle. Willing to help others like that."
Brontes manages a strained smile. "I learned from the best. You've shown me how to be both benevolent and venomous at the same time."
"Hahaha!"
"Hahahahah!"
Their laughter booms through the cavern, a jarringly cheerful sound in the grim pit of Tartarus. To the others, it looks like a nephew and his uncle have become fast friends.
But the truth is something else entirely.
In his mind, Hades is already plotting. 'Perfect. I will turn you into my personal weapons factory. Just you wait, Uncle.'
In his mind, Brontes is making a vow of his own. 'Laugh all you want, nephew. I swear on the forge, I will find a way to make your existence utterly miserable.'
Their laughter continues, a perfect mask for a glorious, brand-new feud.