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Chapter - 11: Blood's Awakening
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The entire Realm of Hades had plunged into chaos.
This underground dimension, once orderly, stable, and eternal ever since the day Hades had claimed the throne after defeating and imprisoning his father Cronos, had now become the opposite of what it had always been.
The rules that had sustained it for millennia had all broken at once, like the snapped strings of a maddened instrument. The earth was splitting apart, matter crumbled like dry sand, and everywhere opened black, bottomless cracks.
It was as if the Underworld were collapsing from within.
From the House of Hades, the chthonic gods watched in silence. They did not speak. They did not move. No one dared to look away from the canyon that was yawning open before them. The abyss seemed endless. It was like a gash in the heart of the world, a living wound that would not stop bleeding darkness.
In the field of Elysium, once green and peaceful, the roots of trees twisted like crazed serpents. Rocks shattered and then reassembled violently, only to destroy themselves again.
There was no logic in that movement—only continuous destruction. The laws of reality had been broken, and now the world was trying to survive without them, in a confused and desperate way.
The river Styx was in revolt. The black water boiled, as if preparing to swallow everything. And it wasn't just Styx, the goddess who ruled it, who was angry. No. It was as if the very concept of the river—its essence—was being ripped away.
It was clear to every god watching this spectacle that someone, or something, was rewriting the very foundations of the Underworld.
Gravity had gone mad. Objects fell in the wrong directions. Some stones floated in the air, while others were sucked underground as if pulled by invisible hands.
The temperature shifted from one second to the next: one moment there was absolute frost, and the next a suffocating heat. Space itself seemed to have bent. Some areas were compressed into themselves, others stretched out as if they were about to vanish.
And in the middle of this disaster… there was light.
But not a light that illuminated. It gave no clarity, no warmth. It was only an empty, cold glare, as if the very essence of light had forgotten its purpose. Everywhere one looked, there was only living darkness, in motion.
Everything that had once been eternal now seemed to have become something else.
Something corrupted.
An anomaly.
A chaotic flaw.
And yet, in all this chaos, there was one figure that still seemed stable.
Standing on the platform at the center of it all was Zagreus.
His body was tense. His hands were clenched against his chest, as if he were trying to keep something inside that desperately wanted to get out. Pain coursed through his bones, his blood, his soul.
He trembled. But he did not fall.
Behind him, his father — Hades — had stepped closer. His gaze was stern, but marked by a worry he rarely allowed to show. He was the god of the dead, ruler of the Underworld, but in that moment he looked like just a father, watching his son suffer and not knowing what to do.
Hades was used to control. To logic. To discipline. But now, his world was crumbling, and the cause seemed to be Zagreus himself.
And yet… he didn't touch him.
He stood still. Because deep down, he felt that what was happening to Zagreus wasn't just a whim of power. It was something far more magical — something absolutely essential to his son.
And, in all honesty, he didn't want to ruin everything just because his domain was losing its stability. Even if that went against his divine nature — and irritated him greatly — his son's safety came first.
Then, it happened.
A deep rumble rolled through the air, like a titanic heartbeat. Rocks trembled. The ground shook.
Zagreus screamed. A piercing, inhuman cry that echoed throughout the Underworld. It was a scream full of suffering, but also something deeper: release.
His knees buckled beneath him, and he collapsed to the ground, as a chaotic vortex of thick white smoke began pouring out of his body, coiling around itself as if it were alive.
At first glance it might've looked like simple steam… but Hades, with his divine sight, understood immediately. These weren't particles of matter. They were emotions. Rage, pain, shame, despair — negative emotions so intense they had taken physical form, as if Zagreus's very soul was expelling them.
Rumble… rumble… fsshhhhhh.
And then, suddenly, an explosion.
It erupted from his chest. A dark flash, as if something inside him had broken. Or perhaps… been released. A surge of black and crimson energy surged outward like a wave, consuming everything in its path.
Hades stepped back. Not out of fear, but from instinct. His divine soul, ancient and powerful, felt threatened by that force. It wasn't just energy. It was hunger — demanding to be fed with everything that existed.
Zagreus's right arm trembled. His veins lit up like rivers of living lava. His blood pulsed to a new rhythm, as if syncing with another heart — another being entirely.
Then the bident — All-Blood — reacted.
The weapon vibrated, emitting a deep, guttural sound, like a beast growling. It began to absorb the energy pouring from Zagreus, as if it had been forged for exactly this moment.
A massive force erupted within him. His divine blood, mixed with the dark chaos of Tartarus, finally found a way out. It surged like a living flame — dense, almost liquid. It burned, but did not consume. It created.
Around him, shapes began to form.
Shadows.
Figures.
Dozens, hundreds of colossal illusions. Deformed creatures, impossible to describe. As tall as mountains, as dark as moonless nights. They were true nightmare-beings, manifesting their presence in this realm.
And Hades recognized them easily.
He had never seen them with his own eyes, but he knew them.
How could he not recognize them? Those very creatures were mentioned in the prophecy that had hung over his son's destiny since birth. For Hades, identifying them was not difficult. In fact, it was almost natural.
Demogorgons.
They were mythical figures, incarnations of the primordial chaos from which all the pantheons of this world were born. Primordial essences, so ancient and dangerous that even the gods, in modern times, avoided naming or even remembering them for fear of restoring to them even a fragment of the power they once held.
But now they were there, surrounding Zagreus, and they seemed drawn to him.
The shapes moved slowly, then began to merge. One after another, they collapsed upon themselves. The air thickened. The world trembled. The energy collapsed into a single point.
Seven seconds.
That was all it took.
The illusions united, absorbing every drop of power, becoming a single creature. One. Immense. Inhuman.
As tall as a Titan.
Its body was covered in armor of black and crimson scales. Spikes jutted from every joint — elbows, shoulders, knees — like blades grown from flesh. Its head nearly touched the dark sky of the Underworld. Bone wings slowly spread, darkening everything beneath its dominion.
It was an apocalyptic vision.
Its eyes were glowing rubies, full of varied negative emotions. Its body seemed forged from Tartarus itself. The skin was a fusion of metal and flesh, a living armor.
The Demogorgon.
It was not entirely real, but not a dream either. It was there, present. A vision threatening to become reality.
And every creature of the Underworld sensed it.
Monsters fled. The weaker souls scattered like dust before they could even attempt to resist such overwhelming power.
Only the gods remained standing, but even they did not know how to react to such a thing:
Persephone had taken command with an iron fist, desperately trying to maintain order among the panicked souls. She gave quick orders, tried to contain the chaos and reassure the spirits, holding firm until her husband arrived, but her efforts yielded little result.
Meanwhile, Hecate showed a visibly annoyed expression as she struggled to keep her laboratory intact while simultaneously protecting herself and Melinoe. A magical, glowing, flickering barrier enveloped them both, repelling the reality distortions that sought to penetrate.
Styx, silent and motionless in her waters, observed the scene from a spot neither too far nor too close. Her eyes, normally inscrutable, were fixed on the gigantic illusion of the Demogorgon with a mixture of awe and reverential fear.
And finally, there was Nyx.
The Mother of Night remained motionless, wrapped in her shadows. No one could truly perceive her, not even the other gods: she was there, yet at the same time seemed part of the void.
Her presence merged with the darkness itself, making her invisible to mortal and immortal eyes alike. Yet her gaze was fully present — fixed on her son, to witness his growth as a god.
Meanwhile, Zagreus, still kneeling, stared at the Demogorgon without any trace of fear. There was no terror in his eyes, nor hesitation. On the contrary, he watched it with a silent, almost childlike curiosity.
There was something about that creature that drew him, something familiar, as if he had always known it without ever seeing it before. He rose slowly, barely noticing, as if pushed by an invisible force.
His eyes never left the colossal figure before him. He took a few steps forward, guided by instinct, and reached out his hand toward the enormous creature. He did not know whether he sought to touch it or simply to make contact, but he had to try.
And the Demogorgon did the same.
Or perhaps not.
Perhaps it was not copying him.
Perhaps it was simply reflecting itself in him.
For a moment suspended in time, two essences looked at each other as if they recognized one another, as if they shared the same heart, the same blood, the same immortal body.
Then, slowly, the aura began to fade.
The Demogorgon folded its bone wings, which dissolved into the air like smoke. Its body began to shatter into fragments of burning darkness, and finally even the eyes — those two red suns — went out.
It vanished completely, silently, leaving behind only black sparks and hot ash, which the winds of the Underworld carried away as if it had never existed.
The chaos receded. The air calmed again. The platform stabilized. The laws of physics resumed functioning. Reality stitched itself back together as if that delirium had never happened.
But something had changed.
Zagreus's imprint remained. Invisible, yet present.
Like a mark on the world.
Behind him, Hades stepped forward. His voice, usually steady and authoritative, was now low, rough, almost hesitant. "Zagreus…" he murmured.
There was no anger in his words. No accusation for the chaos that had devastated his realm, no reproach for the temporary destruction of the order he himself had maintained for eons. On the contrary, there was a deep relief in seeing him still standing, alive — whole.
But in the tone of his voice, two things were clearly perceived: respect and fear.
A sincere respect for the power his son had demonstrated, and fear because he couldn't understand how, by simply accepting a symbol of power for himself, Zagreus could have unleashed a catastrophe of such magnitude.
Hades had always suspected that his son was not like the others. There was something in him that even divine understanding couldn't grasp. But now he had certainty in more than one way.
Zagreus was not entirely normal.
The Telchines knelt, one after another. Some wept. Others whispered words in forgotten tongues, praying or giving thanks for being spared.
They all understood.
Zagreus was no longer just the son of Hades.
He was something very different, and now everyone clearly knew it.
Zagreus remained still, the trident still clasped tightly in his hands. The weapon pulsed, alive, like a heart. His blood sang. He lifted his gaze toward the sky, then slowly lowered his eyes to the weapon.
The bident still gleamed, as if sensing every one of his emotions.
"You respond to my feelings, don't you?" he whispered. His voice was full of wonder and tenderness. He closed his eyes. Took a deep breath. Then asked, with steady voice, "Show me a simpler form. A lighter one. A form I can always carry with me."
All-Blood answered.
Crimson light enveloped the weapon. The metal melted, alive, but did not lose its essence. The elongated form shrank, slowly, until it became something small and compact.
When the light faded, only a black necklace remained. At its center, a crimson pendant shaped like a double-headed spear Zagreus took it between his fingers and put it around his neck, clutching it with two fingers.
And in that moment, for the first time in his life, he felt that he truly belonged to that world.
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