“Go to Tartarus!”
For Hephaestus in his previous life, this phrase would undoubtedly have been a malicious curse.
But for Hephaestus now, it had become a verb in the physical sense.
Splash, splash, splash~~
The black river surged.
The splashing water sounded like mournful wails—enough to send a shiver down anyone’s spine.
Hephaestus sat in a small boat, looking at the gloomy scenery around him.
Not only was there no ripple in his heart—he even felt a little like laughing.
Is this it?
Is this it?
Is this it?!
To be honest, apart from the strange sounds and the black water, it was just… that.
Although this river was the famous River of Pain—the Styx, which one had to cross to enter the Underworld—and also the one a certain great hero with a famous heel would be immersed in as a child in the future… it wasn’t nearly as terrifying now.
There were no wailing souls in the Styx at present.
After all, let alone humans—there weren’t even small animals on the land yet.
Prometheus was still racking his brains molding clay.
“Hey, Hephaestus—how does it feel to be a Chief God?”
A voice sounded behind Hephaestus.
It was a young ferryman with black hair, black eyes, and a black robe, who spoke to him while operating the oar in his hand.
This seemingly young ferryman was actually terrifyingly senior.
The ferryman of the Styx—Charon.
He was the son of Nyx, the Goddess of Night, and Erebus, the God of Darkness—two of the five primordial gods.
In terms of seniority alone, this ferryman of the Styx was on the same generation as Uranus, the first God-King.
If calculated by seniority, Hephaestus would have to call him great-uncle.
However, seniority wasn’t important in Greek mythology.
Cases of beating elders and beating juniors were rampant—one just had to get used to it.
Besides, he and Charon were good friends.
After all, to forge artifacts powerful enough to rival the Titan gods for Zeus and the others, he had spent a lot of effort searching.
He had been to the ocean, the land, and the Underworld more than once.
So it was only natural that he and Charon—an elder without any airs—had become good friends through their interactions.
“It’s just so-so.”
Hephaestus said casually, “There are those who fawn, those who disdain, those who envy, and those who are angry.
You can never know what these gods are truly thinking.”
“Hahaha~~”
Charon burst into laughter.
The sound wasn’t pleasant—like the hooting of an owl, enough to make one’s scalp tingle—but it was filled with goodwill toward Hephaestus.
“It seems you’ve finally come to terms with it.”
Charon looked at his friend with relief, nodding happily.
“You used to care too much about what those guys thought.”
“So now I’ve come to terms with it,” Hephaestus said calmly, spreading his hands.
Hephaestus had no intention of defending his actions before awakening his memories.
After all, for a boy who was abandoned at birth, it was very normal to crave approval from those around him and to care too much about how others viewed him.
He was different now.
That was all.
“Let’s not talk about this anymore.
I want to ask—is Hades in the Underworld right now?”
Hephaestus didn’t want to dwell on this topic and decisively shifted the conversation to what interested him.
“Hades?
He’s always in the Underworld.
He even built a temple for himself between Elysium and Tartarus.”
“Huh?
Built it himself?”
Hephaestus was a little stunned.
Good heavens—this was the King of the Underworld, after all.
Why was he building a temple with his own hands?!
Well, it seemed that currently, there weren’t really any subordinates in the Underworld for the King of the Underworld to command.
Look at the great gods who remained in the Underworld now.
Three of the five primordial gods were there: Tartarus, the God of the Abyss; Erebus, the God of Darkness; and Nyx, the Goddess of Night.
The significance of these three beings goes without saying—those who know, know.
Most of the gods currently in the Underworld were their descendants.
If Hades were to casually command them, wouldn’t it be seen as disrespectful?
The only one he could find who wasn’t closely related happened to be the Goddess of the Underworld—Persephone.
The existence of this Goddess of the Underworld was very peculiar.
She had no definite affiliation and no definite authority.
She acted as she pleased, and all her actions symbolized the randomness of fate.
No god could control her—not even Zeus, the King of the Gods, could command her.
Unrestrained and powerful.
To use a phrase Hephaestus was very familiar with from his previous life: she was “outside the three realms and not within the five elements”—utterly free and unfettered.
Back then, Zeus—his confidence inflated after conquering several goddesses—had even thought about making a move on her.
And then… there was no “then.”
If Zeus couldn’t do anything, much less Hades.
Tsk, tsk.
Thinking about it this way, his brother-in-law’s situation was a bit too tragic.
Hephaestus shook his head, feeling pity for Hades.
Compared to Zeus and Poseidon, who could gather a host of gods as soon as they took their positions, Hades was truly miserable.
He had no subordinates, and several great mountains pressed down on him from above.
He had to do everything himself if he wanted to accomplish anything.
But even so, he still had to give face to this King of the Underworld.
To dig for building materials in the Underworld, he had to inform the owner—even if it was only the nominal owner.
Moreover, he still needed to ask Hades about the Underworld Palace on Olympus.
Sitting in Charon’s small boat, Hephaestus crossed the Styx.
After disembarking, he continued on foot.
Everything he saw along the way was barren and dark.
Such an environment was undoubtedly oppressive—but for Hephaestus, it was already commonplace.
After all, no matter how oppressive it was here, could it be as oppressive as the world he had lived in during his previous life?
In the age when the flame was fading, despair had filled everything.
However, there was indeed a certain similarity here.
Hephaestus looked at everything around him through his mask.
A hint of nostalgia appeared on his face.
He even had the strange illusion that a tattered, hollowed corpse might suddenly leap out from his blind spot and attack him.
“Tsk.
Hephaestus, Hephaestus—there are no Lords of Cinder here.
What are you thinking?”
Hephaestus shook his head, self-mocked for a moment, then continued forward.
He walked and walked.
Finally, he reached a fork in the road.
Hephaestus knew that one path led to Elysium—the only lively place in the Underworld, where flowers and plants could grow in the soil.
Every time he had come to the Underworld before, he would relax there, take a nap, and so on.
The other path led to the terrifying abyss of Tartarus—which made gods pale at the mere mention of it.
In that dreadful abyssal purgatory, the losers of the Divine War—Cronus and his followers—were suppressed.
The Underworld had once echoed with their roars and curses.
Fortunately, Charon said that recently they had been appeased by Gaia, the Earth Goddess, and had entered a sweet slumber.
Zeus, oh Zeus.
A glint flashed in Hephaestus’s eyes.
He subtly glanced toward that seemingly lecherous and impulsive old white-faced man.
Although the methods were still a bit crude—he had arranged for his brother, whose strength was second only to his own among the gods, to be in the Underworld.
Nominally the King of the Underworld, but actually doing the work of a jailer.
This both got rid of his brother and put his own mind at ease.
That godly scum—the old white-faced man—still had some tricks up his sleeve.
However, it was all useless.
When the time came, he would still fall.
At most, Hephaestus would consider making his posture a little more graceful when he fell.
Hephaestus chose neither path.
Instead, he walked directly toward the middle of the two roads.
In the distant future, a courthouse would be built here—where the judges of the Underworld would weigh the merits and demerits of souls in their lives, to determine whether they would go to Elysium or serve their sentence in Tartarus to atone for their sins.
Oh, right—at that time, there would also be further subdivisions, dividing Tartarus into regions so that souls who committed different degrees of sin would have a suitable place to go.
Of course, the deepest part of Tartarus was naturally reserved only for the gods—who were the supreme VIPs.
Hephaestus walked for a long time before finally seeing the outline of the temple.
However, when he got closer, he was shocked by what this so-called temple truly was.
To describe it as “ruins” felt too generous.
These three stone walls built around with stones, then topped with some withered branches, and finally covered with a few leaves—you call this a temple?!
Are you serious??
Hephaestus couldn’t help but want to complain.
And what made him want to complain the most was that in the center of the [temple]—a tall, beautiful woman in a black robe was sitting on a large stone… dozing off?!