The God of Underworld

Orpheus staggered through the dunes, each step heavier than the last.

His throat was dry, his vision blurred, and his chest burned as though his very soul was peeling away.

"How much longer…?"

"Is this sand truly endless?"

The thought repeated in his head like a broken song.

His knees buckled, and for a moment he thought the sand would claim him, that he would sink and vanish into the endless emptiness.

But then, the horizon shifted.

A vast, black expanse of water appeared before him, stretching endlessly, its surface unnaturally still.

The River Styx.

Without hesitation, he forced his legs to move as he ran towards his goal.

The place where oaths are bound and souls are weighed. The sight of it made his legs finally give way, and he collapsed onto the sand near the river.

His body trembled as he tried to breathe, every inch of him aching. His muscles were exhausted, his spirit frayed. Even his heart, strong with longing, felt as though it was nearing its final beat.

And yet, he had arrived.

He had crossed the first trial.

And from the silent waters, a boat emerged.

Its wood was as black as obsidian, carrying an aura of ancient stillness. Guiding it was Charon, the ferryman of the dead.

His tattered cloak fluttered despite the absence of wind, and his hollow eyes glowed faintly with otherworldly light.

Charon stepped onto the sand, his bony feet not leaving a mark. He crouched beside the broken mortal, one hand pressing against Orpheus's chest.

A faint glow radiated, and Orpheus felt a sudden rush of relief.

The burning in his chest eased, his cracked lips softened, and his lungs drew breath without agony.

And although his exhaustion lingered, it no longer crushed him.

Orpheus blinked weakly up at the figure.

"I… made it…" he whispered.

Charon nodded, "Indeed, well done young mortal."

Orpheus breathed a sigh of relief, a victorious smile on his face.

"Don't celebrate yet." Warned Charon, "That was only the first trial. You still have six more waiting ahead of you, and if you falter even once, your wish would no longer be possible."

That brought Orpheus back to reality.

He took a breath and said, "There's 'only' six trials left. With Lord Charon healing me, I can continue."

Orpheus wanted to bow his head in thanks, but Charon's cold hand stopped him.

Instead, the ferryman pointed toward a small vessel resting against the shore, a single boat with worn paddles inside.

Its blackened hull seemed eager to touch the water again.

"Your next trial awaits."

Charon's gaze turned to the dark river.

"You will take this boat and circle the five rivers of the Underworld. Styx, Acheron, Lethe, Phlegethon, Cocytus. You must endure what the souls trapped within them endure—their pain, their grief, their hatred, their madness, their oblivion. Only then will you be judged worthy to continue."

Orpheus's eyes widened, the weight of the words crushing his spirit anew.

But after a moment, his trembling fists clenched.

His voice, weak but steady, rasped, "If this is the price… to see her again… I will endure it all."

The faintest flicker of something—perhaps approval—passed through Charon's empty eyes.

"Then board. Once you finished this trial, a heroic spirit shall come for you, to guide you to the third trial."

The ferryman's words echoed like judgment.

Orpheus, legs weak but will unbroken, dragged himself into the boat.

His fingers curled around the oar, its weight strangely comforting. The vessel drifted from shore, carried by an unseen current, deeper into the black waters.

Behind him, Charon's voice followed, grim and final. "Pray your soul does not break before the rivers are done."

*

*

*

The footsteps of Hecate echoed across the dimly lit halls of the Underworld fortress, her black robes dragging like a shadow.

And clinging stubbornly to her back was Athena, humming and muttering endlessly like a child who had refused to be left behind.

A single strand of Athena's golden hair suddenly stood straight up, twitching like a divining rod.

Her gray eyes lit with joy.

"He did it! I felt it—he passed the first part of his quest!" she declared, almost bouncing in excitement.

Hecate exhaled through her nose, long-suffering.

"Congratulations to him," she muttered flatly.

Athena pouted, truly, she acts childish once something concerns a hero.

"It's all your fault I couldn't see it! How will you pay me if I can't write down the entirety of his epic!?"

Hecate gritted her teeth, "I don't care. And now whining like a child "

But Athena did not stop.

She whined.

She nagged.

She tugged on Hecate's shoulder like a spoiled younger sister.

If Medea were to see her teacher in such a state, she'd risk suffering inhumane punishment just to laugh like her lungs are about to explode.

The goddess of magic pressed her hands against her ears, but Athena's voice somehow pierced through as if she were speaking directly into her mind.

Their walk took quite some time, and for the whole time, Hecate suffered endless whining.

By the time the two reached the great black doors of Hades' office, Hecate looked as though she had aged another century.

"... we're here." Finally. Hecate breathed a sigh of relief.

The doors opened with a low creak, revealing Hades seated at his obsidian desk, Hera and Aphrodite nearby.

The three gods turned their gazes upon the odd pair… then just as quickly looked away, as if to spare Hecate the embarrassment.

Hecate's cheek twitched furiously.

"Someone," she said with forced calm, "please get this owl-headed nuisance off of me."

But to her surprise, the weight on her back was suddenly gone.

She blinked and turned.

There stood Athena, no longer the nagging passenger, but the goddess of wisdom herself, radiant in her white chiton and gleaming aegis.

Her posture was perfect, her expression serene, as though she had never uttered a single whine in her immortal life.

She stepped forward, every inch the regal warrior-goddess, and inclined her head with noble grace.

"Lord Hades," Athena said smoothly, her voice like a clear bell, "I greet you with respect, and come to witness the forging of a hero's legend."

Hecate stared at her in stunned silence, her eye twitching harder.

Aphrodite smirked behind her hand, and Hera's lips curved with amusement.

Hades, as always, remained impassive—but the faintest shadow of a sigh seemed to escape him.

Athena stood tall as she continued, her gray eyes unyielding as they met Hades' shadowed gaze.

"As patron of heroes, I cannot turn away when one such as this man rises to meet a trial that could shake even the hearts of the gods." She sighed dreamily, "Allow me to witness, Lord of the Dead. I do not ask to interfere, only to observe."

The office was silent, the firelight from the braziers flickering against black stone walls.

Hera folded her arms, watching with a faint smile.

Aphrodite leaned lazily in her chair, clearly amused, while Hecate sat stiffly by the door, glaring daggers at Athena for dragging her into this mess.

Hades leaned back in his seat, steepling his long fingers, and regarded Athena with that deep, timeless calm of his.

For a moment, silence stretched, heavy and suffocating, like the stillness before a storm.

Then, after long contemplation, he gave a single, measured nod. "Very well. You may stay. After all… you were the one who wove the epic of Herios. Your words etched his legacy into eternity. As you honored my first champion, I will grant you this."

Athena bowed her head slightly, her lips curving into the faintest of smiles. "You have my gratitude, Lord Hades."

Satisfied, Hecate dusted off her robes and turned toward the door. "Well, if that's settled, I'll be returning to my duties—"

"Stay." Hades' deep voice cut her words clean in half.

She blinked, startled. He gestured toward the chairs opposite his desk.

"Since you've come this far, it would be better for you to remain. Let your magic tend to your work in your stead."

Hecate hesitated, then sighed softly. With a flick of her wrist, her shadow split from her body, coiling like smoke before taking her shape.

A perfect double stood beside her, shimmering with an ethereal glow.

"There. My duties will continue, even as I sit here."

Hera and Aphrodite both gaped.

"Wait—" Hera leaned forward. "You could do that this whole time?"

Aphrodite threw up her hands dramatically. "You mean to tell me we've been buried in tedious work for centuries, and you could simply make a copy to do it all?"

Hecate nodded, unbothered. "Of course."

Both goddesses immediately exchanged a look and then spoke at once, "Can you make clones of us too?"

Hecate shook her head firmly, crossing her arms. "I can, but I will not. A clone is not a replacement for the self. Using one to escape your own burdens makes the act meaningless. My clones are tools, nothing more."

After all, unlike a certain someone, her clones doesn't transfer memories back to her.

So what work hasn't been done, or what work had already been done would sometimes get absolutely mixed up, and her workload would increase.

Aphrodite pouted, slumping in her chair.

Hera frowned, tapping her fingers against the armrest.

"And why is it meaningless?" She pressed.

But Hecate only closed her eyes, leaning back in her seat. 'Some truths are not worth explaining to those who do not seek them. Ask me again when you understand the weight of work."

With that, she fell silent, ignoring the twin glares of the two goddesses beside her.

"That doesn't even make sense! If you can make them, why won't you?!"

Hecate simply sighed, not bothering to offer any explanations.

Hades, unshaken by their squabbling, turned his gaze back to the scrying mirror, where Orpheus' small boat drifted into the shadow of the first of the five rivers.