NOVEL NEXT Chapter 580: The Throne of the Underworld King
From the shadows, a black figure shot upward. It was the Nether-Throne—the very relic Aldric the First had once tried, and failed, to move. The throne ascended smoothly and came to rest behind the Lord of the Underworld.
"Lord of the Underworld," the Throne itself declared, its voice resonating like polished steel, "I infused the faith of the Underworld into another so that I might return to the Nether Realm. Please forgive me."
Ethan blinked. The Throne was speaking.
"This is not your fault," the Lord of the Underworld replied, her voice calm as she descended and settled upon the Throne. To Ethan, the sight felt natural, almost inevitable. Certainly far more fitting than when Aldric the First had once forced himself into that seat. "What I wish to know," she continued, "is why you abandoned the Underworld and came here."
"Lord of the Underworld, I am uncertain," the Throne answered. "When the Former Lord vanished, I fell into a deep slumber. When I awoke, I was already here. Yet upon me lingered his aura."
The words rang like a hymn across the battlefield.
"I suspected as much," the Lord of the Underworld said coldly. "The Path of Ethereal cannot be opened from the outside without immense faith. Otherwise, I would have reclaimed you long ago. In your absence, nine-tenths of the Underworld's faith was lost. I could gather only a pitiful fraction, never enough to traverse that path. Were it not for these two stirring chaos, shattering the barrier, and allowing me to sense your presence, I could not have come so swiftly."
Ethan's mind raced. He... even here, his hand was at work.
"I refuse!" Aldric the First roared. His body shook violently, golden light sputtering against the dark mist.
"You need not refuse," another voice mocked. The Crowling God, lying battered on the ground, sneered through its broken beak. "You are nothing but a pawn. Pawns do not choose."
"And are you not the same?" The Lord of the Underworld turned her gaze upon the Crowling God. Her words struck like a hammer, and the creature shrank into the dirt, its arrogance evaporating.
"Lord of the Underworld, have mercy!"
"You were once the Former Lord's mount," she said, her tone cutting and precise. "When he vanished and I remained unmanifested, you fled, spreading your own cult, sowing chaos, even daring to covet the Nether-Throne itself. Did you hope to claim his title? You put on this grotesque skin and called yourself the Crowling God. And now you beg for life?"
Her aura flared, pressing down like the weight of mountains.
"I was wrong, I was wrong!" the creature shrieked. "I will shed this skin, here and now!"
Ethan scoffed under his breath. What a cowardly attempt to wriggle free.
The beast staggered upright, clawed at its own throat, and ripped. The sound was sickening. Purple blood spattered the ground as the false flesh tore away. A skeletal head pushed through, hollow sockets blazing with green fire. In moments the husk peeled off completely, revealing a massive skeletal dragon, its wings tattered, its body even larger even than before.
The Lord of the Underworld said nothing, only watched in silence. Ethan could not read her expression.
"Nether-Dragon Yarkun," the creature boomed, lowering its skull. "Ready to serve, Lord of the Underworld."
Freed of its disguise, its aura surged higher, raw and terrifying. Ethan wondered if this was what a true Divine-rank beast looked like.
The Lord of the Underworld gave only a short, dismissive sound. With a wave of her hand, the Nether-Throne lifted from beneath her and settled with a crash onto the dragon's spine. The impact rattled its bones.
"Yarkun," the Throne itself spoke, its voice almost playful, "you once sought to steal me. Did you imagine you would ride me? How amusing. I have ridden you for ages. Was this your revenge?"
The Nether-Dragon froze. The flames in its sockets flickered nervously, betraying its guilt.
Bones shifted along its back. Spikes of white grew outward, curving protectively around the Throne. Black and white power intertwined, radiating a majesty that could not be denied. This was no longer a throne, but the war-seat of the Underworld King.
Aldric the First stared at the transformation. His defiance drained away. The black mist around him thinned, and the golden Imperial Aura beneath it seeped out. His strength dwindled back to what Ethan had first witnessed, the might of a fallen emperor rather than a god.
"So in the end," Aldric whispered bitterly, "I truly was nothing more than a pawn."
"You did nothing wrong," the Lord of the Underworld said, her voice softening. "Will you not follow me, and together conquer the realms?"
Ethan fully expected the emperor to accept. But after a long silence, Aldric shook his head.
"To conquer is merely to serve as your soldier. I would rather be an ordinary man." He turned to Ethan. "And you, boy. You promised to take me back to Earth. That is my ancestral land. I have been away two thousand years. It is time I returned."
His words carried no fire, only weary disillusion.
Ethan hesitated. Even weakened, Aldric was still powerful. Without his mother watching him, who knew what havoc he might unleash?
The emperor saw his doubt and gave a weary laugh. "Do not worry, boy. You wanted my Imperial Aura, did you not? Take it. I told you, I will live as an ordinary man."
Ethan stiffened. How could Aldric know of his private conversation with Yaya?
"Hahaha," Aldric said, reading his face as though it were parchment. "I studied kingship since youth. The thoughts of men are written in their eyes. Yours are no exception."
Ethan had no reply. His mind whirled, yet no words came.
Then Aldric flicked his hand. Something gleamed as it sailed through the air toward Ethan. His mother tensed, ready to intervene, but sensing no malice, she leaned back into the Throne. Ethan caught the object.
Opening his palm, he saw several familiar seeds glimmering faintly. His chest tightened. These were the very seeds he had secretly put in the white bottle earlier—he had meant for Aldric the First to consume them.