Underworld. Core Section, Trial Hall.
The halls were dim but alive with murmurs, disputes, and the constant footsteps of denizens and divine spirits moving to fulfill their duties.
Among them stood Hera, a high-ranking Patron of the Underworld and self-proclaid Queen of Underworld.
Her silken robes, once pristine and adorned with gold, were now slightly creased, stained faintly with the ink of scrolls and parchnt from days of endless bureaucracy.
Her hair was pulled back into a loose braid, practicality replacing vanity. Her gaze, however, remained as sharp and imperious as ever.
She sat on a throne not ant for her, but one she now occupied by necessity—an obsidian chair placed before the judgnt dais of Underworld, where conflicts and bureaucratic errors were settled daily.
Before her stood three lesser gods.
Two were engaged in a fierce dispute, their divine voices cracking like thunder. The third, a junior diator, had summoned Hera for help after being overwheld.
"He invaded my domain—those souls were ant for my domain!" shouted the first lesser god, his eyes flickering with ember-like rage. His essence reeked of pride and overworked frustration.
"You abandoned them!" the second god roared in reply, arms crossed. "They were wandering aimlessly! I guided them when you failed."
For Underworld gods, the spirit energy released by souls were like the faith of mortals are to overworld gods.
It supplies them with divinity, strengthen them, and essentially turning them into immortals — as long as souls exists on their domains.
That’s why many gods would fight over souls and have them as denizens of their own territory.
Hera leaned her cheek into her hand and tapped the armrest with her fingers, her expression flat. She had heard variations of this sa dispute five tis today.
"Enough," Hera finally said, her voice cutting clean through the rising fury. Both gods silenced imdiately.
Even lesser divinities knew not to tempt the wrath of Hera when she was in no mood for dramatics.
She gestured toward the second god. "You’re guilty."
His mouth fell open, stunned. "But—!"
"You did not file a Soul Transfer Request. You cannot redirect souls under another god’s jurisdiction without permission, no matter how negligent they are." She turned to the first god. "And as for you—your laziness has been noted. Consider this a warning."
Then she looked back at the guilty one. "As punishnt, you will work double shifts at the soul sorting lines along with Charon. A full year. Report to the River Styx’s Office imdiately."
The second god groaned but dared not protest further. The sentence wasn’t cruel—just exhausting.
In the Underworld, where ti crawled and every soul mattered, punishnt was ted not by pain, but by labor. There were no prisons, only tasks.
After all, gods in prison ans less manpower.
And there are many cases where a god would commit a cri and get themselves imprisoned just to escape work.
So Hades changed the punishnt and have all those who break the law work even more.
As the gods left, grumbling and defeated, Hera let out a long sigh. The silence that followed wasn’t peace—it was the absence of a thousand other problems briefly held at bay.
She slumped into the throne and rubbed her temples. "Six disputes since morning. Three denizens tried to file for reincarnation without proper clearance. And a minor spirit accidentally crossed into the Outer Section without permission and almost drowned in Phlegethon. Wonderful."
A voice slithered from beside her like a teasing gust of wind. "My, my, how far the Great Hera has fallen. Judging petty squabbles among overworked lackeys? How regal."
Hera didn’t even look to see the source. "Campe."
The beautiful half-dragon, half-woman mount og Hades smiled like a serpent preparing to strike. Her shimring scales glinted faintly in the torchlight, "I brought tea. But I drank it all while watching you suffer."
Hera let out another sigh, deeper this ti. "You’re a real delight."
"Ever since our dear Lord Hades decided to tour the realms like so wandering philosopher, you’ve beco the new monarch of misery," Campe said with a chuckle. "Aren’t you honored? You’re practically the Queen of the Underworld now."
Also, Hades went to overworld, but that was known only to Hades, Hecate, Styx and Charon, so to Campe’s and others knowledge, Hades was still wandering the Underworld.
"Honored? Maybe. But I haven’t had proper tea and rest ti in six days," Hera replied flatly. "Do you know what that does to soone like ? Six days of parchnt. Six days of judgnt and endless disputes over soul rights, faith tax adjustnts, and territorial squabbles."
Campe snorted. "Welco to managent. I rather like watching you toil. I usually only see this level of suffering in Tartarus."
Hera was about to respond, or perhaps groan again, when Campe’s tone suddenly shifted—lighter, almost playful. "Oh, by the way. Lord Hades has returned."
Hera blinked. She sat up straight so fast the chair creaked.
"What?" she said sharply.
"He arrived at his fortress not long ago. That mutt is still bowing, I think. Power’s surging back through the palace." Campe’s grin widened. "So, yeah, pretty sure daddy’s ho."
Hera stood without a word. Campe watched her go, amused as always, but Hera didn’t even turn back.
The mont she stepped out of the chamber, her divine form surged with renewed energy. Exhaustion was forgotten. Work, delays, complaints—all irrelevant now.
With swift strides, she moved past the columns of judgnt, down the marble steps, through courtyards where spirits whispered and bowed, and ascended the ethereal staircase that led to the Hanging Fortress—the palace of the Underworld that floated in the shadows above all else.
The guards, upon seeing her, imdiately opened the black iron gates. She didn’t slow her pace.
She could feel it. The power inside.
It wasn’t just that Hades had returned. It was that the Underworld had awakened.
The fortress itself, dormant in his absence, now pulsed with energy. Columns glowed softly, and the shadows danced as if in celebration.
The throne hall doors were ajar, and golden light—subtle, strange—shone through.
She stepped inside.
And there he was.
Hades, Lord of the Underworld, sat on his throne—not as a shadowy, grim figure—but as a king who had made a choice.
His gaze was distant, thoughtful, but when he saw her, it softened just slightly.
"You’ve returned," she said, breathless.
"I have," he replied.
There was a pause—short, yet aningful. Then Hera crossed the chamber and stood beside his throne.
She didn’t kneel—she was not one to kneel for anyone—but she placed her hand on the edge of the obsidian seat and t his eyes.
"Don’t ever vanish like that, do you know what I’ve been through while you’re gone? Work, work, and even more work!"
Hades gave the faintest smile. "Sorry, but I just needed to see, just how is the realm under my rule."
"And now that you have?" she asked.
He looked past her, toward the vast window overlooking the River Lethe. "Now... I think it’s ti we shape what cos next."
Hera’s tiredness, her frustrations—all of it seed to dissipate.
Because now, with Hades back, the real work could begin.
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