Crowned in the realm of death Chapter 29

I spend months training in silence.

The air in the training grounds grows still around as I move, my focus absolute. I no longer focus solely on the spear. I study the sword's precise arcs, the dagger's lethal intimacy, the axe's brutal commitnt, the hamr's crushing finality. Not to master them, but to understand their souls. I learn their stances, their flow, their inherent weakness. I want to know how to counter them, to strip away the pride of any wielder and reveal the fatal openings behind their strength.

By the end of it, my body moves like water, an extension of thought rather than muscle. My hands know how to kill in a dozen ways without a single spark of divinity.

When I enter the eting hall, Hecate is waiting, her silhouette frad against the map of the realms. Her arms are crossed, and her eyes, usually alight with cunning, are deeply focused.

“Our next target is Noctandrath,” she says “Very little is known about him—only that he’s a floating giant eyeball that wanders the far northwest valleys. There are whispers that he once held the strength to face Cardinal Titans. We don’t know his full power…” she trails off, her finger tracing a desolate region on the map. “But we know one thing that he’s a great variable. Which ans he must be eliminated.”

I nod, the decision settling into my bones. My form already begins to shift, dark feathers erupting from my skin as I transform into the Black Phoenix. Hecate mounts my back, her grip firm, and together we soar into the swirling, bitter winds of the far northwest.

I dive into deep valleys, barren lands where the air itself churns with primordial darkness. Shadows cling to the jagged cliffs like thick cobwebs, and in the narrow caves below, pairs of crimson eyes blink open, demonic creatures that glare from the profound shadows. Wailing ghosts weave through the canyons, their sorrowful cries a tangible force that claws at the soul.

Whenever I stare into the shadows, my divine presence pressing outward, the creatures shrink back, hissing as they retreat deeper into the safety of the ravines.

To locate our elusive prey, I invoke my Secret Divinity. The world sharpens into a web of hidden connections and silent truths. The mont I sense his presence. I accelerate toward his position without hesitation.

We find him hovering over a half-decayed behemoth of a corpse. Noctandrath is a grotesque, floating eyeball the size of a small tower, its gelatinous surface pulsing with a sickly inner light. A thousand twitching tentacles, each ending in a needle-like point, latch onto the corpse, slowly absorbing its remaining essence like a swarm of leeches draining life itself.

But the mont he senses us, he vanishes. By using teleportation and travelling to another corner.

I imdiately call upon my Secret Divinity again, my mind straining to trace the fading echo of his teleportation. We follow swiftly, cutting through the frigid air.

We reach him once more.

This ti, I don’t speak. There are no words for such a thing. I simply inhale and exhale a concentrated beam of blue fla, a breath of icy fire ant to sear beyond flesh and into the very core of the soul.

And again, he is gone before the fla connects.

The chase becos a maddening cycle. Over and over, I track him with my divinity, a relentless hunter. Over and over, he slips through reality’s grasp, always a mont ahead. Finally, with a tear in the world that sounds like screaming fabric, he escapes into another dinsion entirely.

Drained, both ntally and spiritually from the relentless pursuit, we find a nearby cave to rest. The silence within is heavy, broken only by the distant echo of dripping water.

We rest for a while in the cold, dark stillness.

Suddenly, a flash of light engulfed us.

It happened suddenly, no warning, no sound. Just a piercing beam of pure perception that swallows my consciousness whole.

---

I open my eyes… and I am on my throne.

A profound weight settles on my head. A black, ancient, and cold crown rests upon it, the symbol of a kingship that feels suddenly like a chain. Around , the vast halls of the Underworld stretch into emptiness.

They are terrifyingly empty.

Here neither Hecate nor any shifting shadows of souls.

Only a silence so deep it feels like a physical pressure on my eardrums.

Confusion, thick and disorienting, clouds my thoughts. I stand and leave the palace, my footsteps echoing through the grand, deserted halls. I ascend to the mortal world, the transition feeling unnaturally seamless.

I walk through empty cities, desolate valleys, and silent deserts. Then… I see her.

A woman flies quietly under the pale moonlight, holding a warm, glowing lamp that casts a gentle halo around her. Blonde hair. A kind, nurturing aura that feels like a forgotten dream.

Hestia.

“Sister!” I call out, my voice too loud in the imnse silence. I fly toward her, a desperate hope blooming in my chest.

She turns and she screams loudly.

It is a raw, primal sound of absolute terror, as if she has seen death itself given form.

“A MONSTER! A DEMON! ZEUS!! HELP !!”

She flees toward Orthys, her cries shredding the silent air, leaving a trail of palpable fear behind her.

Before I can even process her reaction, the sky splits apart. A spear of pure lightning, slling of ozone and fury, tears through the clouds and strikes squarely in the chest. The impact throws backwards, my body convulsing with raw, stunning pain. I gasp, the wind knocked from my lungs.

I look up. And there he is.

Zeus, standing tall amidst the gathering storm clouds, his eyes blazing with righteous anger.

“You monster!” he roars, his voice the crash of thunder. “How dare you harass my sister?!”

I am frozen, not by his power, but by the sheer, unbelievable wrongness of it all.

“What are you saying?” I manage to choke out, pushing myself up. “I’m Hades! I’m your brother!”

But the Titans and gods begin to appear one by one. Poseidon, with a trident dripping with seawater; tis, her eyes sharp with calculation; Protheus, looking on with grim resignation; Themis, holding her scales; Deter, Hera, and a host of other gods. And in all their eyes, I see the sa thing: not recognition, but pure, unadulterated revulsion. They see only a beast.

“He lies!” a voice shouts.

“Look at him! That’s not a god, that’s a curse!” another yells.

“End him now!”

I reach out with my divine perception, my Secret Divinity screaming to uncover the truth behind this nightmare. But all I feel pressing back against my senses is a solid wall of emotion disgust, fear, hate, a sinful joy at my tornt. No truth. Only feeling.

And then Hestia looks back at , her face, once kind, now twisted into a mask of revulsion.

“Brother?” she spits the word like venom. “How can a monster like you be my brother? Is this your new trick?”

The sky cracks open. Their combined attacks rain down upon —lightning, ice, primordial force. I fight back, my own power rising in a desperate defence, but their combined might is a crushing tide, overwhelming and absolute.

Then cos the blade.

Not from the front, where I stand against the storm.

But from the back.

A point of exquisite, cold steel punches through my spine. The pain is shocking, a violation that is far greater than all other injuries.

I turn, my body screaming in protest… and my entire soul shatters.

Rhea.

My mother.

Her expression is one of radiant joy, a smile of pure, unadulterated triumph, as if she has accomplished sothing glorious she has waited a lifeti for.

"Finally…" she whispers, her voice sweet and terrible. "I have waited for this mont too long. You should have never been born."

She pulls the sword from my back without a hint of hesitation, raising it high for the final, killing blow.

And in that instant, with the last dregs of my strength, I reject this reality. I teleport myself back to the only place that has ever been mine.

I collapse into my throne, bleeding, gasping, my soul fractured. My blood, dark and divine, pools on the stone beneath .

All around , the palace pulses with a strange, malevolent presence. A sentient shadow in the corners of my vision, a feeling of sothing watching, waiting, savouring my agony.

Then co the voices. They are not heard, but felt, arising from the cold stone beneath and the bleeding wound in my spirit.

Why do you hold back…?

Why do you still cling to hope…?

They call you a monster.

They stab you in the back.

Even your mother.

Her joy was real. You felt it.

They will never accept you.

The whispers are soft, logical, and utterly venomous. They coil around my mind, not as an attack, but as a confirmation of my deepest, most hidden fears. And deep down, in the shattered core of , I find I agree. There is no longer any room for denial.

“Yes…” I mutter, the words a bloody rasp against my teeth. “They betrayed . They tried to kill .”

The voices rise in a unified, dark symphony, resonant and furious.

Then show them what a true monster is.