Chapter 229: Chapter 73
The Underworld this night was rowdy in a way it had not been in ages.
The Dead Drunk Bar, a rickety, sprawling tavern built of black oak and bone-pale stone, the origin ofbthe betting pool, was overflowing with gods, divine spirits, and heroic spirits, all gathered to celebrate the rumors that their King of the Dead had finally taken steps toward embracing not just one goddess, but a harem of them.
The moment the news had spread across Asphodel and down into Tartarus, the bar had filled to the brim, and now the air was thick with the smell of wine, roasted meat, and divine smoke from incense someone had lit without asking.
"Hahaha! I knew the king wouldn’t settle for one! Harem for the win!"
"Fuck! This ain’t fair! Lady Aphrodite, Lady Hecate, Lady Hera, just one of them is enough for a god to brag for a lifetime, and Lord Hades have them all!"
"Hah! Who said there won’t be a harem end?! In your face!"
"Due to king finally having a harem, I declare that tonight’s drinks are on me!" one half-drunk minor god bellowed from atop a table, his bronze goblet sloshing wine onto the floor as he lifted it high.
"For the King! May his harem never suck him dry!" His words were met with a roar of approval, goblets crashing together in loud toasts as the spirits echoed his cry.
Not all were in agreement, of course.
In one corner, a trio of skeletal shades argued heatedly, one pounding his bony fist on the table.
"He hasn’t even married yet!" the shade rasped, his hollow sockets glowing with faint irritation. "As long as there is no marriage, it isn’t official!"
"Shut your empty skull!" another shade retorted, waving a roasted leg of lamb in the air as if it were proof of victory.
"If you keep spouting nonsense I’d feed you to Cerberus! Marriage or not, the King has finally claimed what’s his. That’s worth celebrating!"
Their squabble was drowned out almost instantly by the music of lutes and lyres, and the roar of voices chanting for more wine.
In the middle of the chaos, a heroic spirit leaned casually against the bar, his grin wide, his golden hair gleaming under the flickering torchlight.
His eyes slid across the room until they landed on a goddess seated at a table with her chin resting in her palm.
With a bold wink, he lifted his cup toward her.
"So, goddess, if the bet is still on, I’ll be waiting at my quarters later." His voice carried over the noise, smooth and teasing.
The goddess sighed heavily, her hand brushing her temple as though she had grown used to his antics. Still, she gave the barest of nods, her lips curling in reluctant amusement.
The room erupted at once, laughter and whistles filling the air.
"He’s finally getting laid!" one spirit hollered, pounding the table hard enough to knock over several mugs.
"About time, too!"
"Lucky bastard!" another shouted from across the room, his voice cracking with drunken envy. "Do you know how many have been trying to pursue her!?"
"Hey! Let us join in!"
The goddess in question only rolled her eyes as the crowd teased, but beside her, another female divine spirit leaned in and nudged her ribs with a sharp elbow.
"So," the spirit whispered slyly, her breath warm against her ear, "you finally got your wish, didn’t you?"
The goddess smirked, her golden eyes flashing as she swirled the wine in her cup, deliberately not answering.
Instead, she took a slow sip, letting the fire of the drink coat her tongue while the noise of the celebration washed around her.
Her silence was answer enough, and her smirk drew another round of cheers from those who had been watching.
A satyr staggered past with a jug in each hand, shouting, "To the King’s women! May they keep him busy enough that he doesn’t drag us into more work!"
The laughter that followed nearly shook the rafters.
At another table, two divine messengers argued loudly about which goddess had the upper hand, slamming their fists on the table with each declaration.
One claimed Aphrodite’s beauty was unmatched and irresistible, the other swore by Hera’s pride and dominance, while a third, overhearing, shoved his chair between them to declare Hecate’s mystery and loyalty were beyond compare.
Their debate ended when someone poured an entire pitcher of wine over all three of their heads, to the roaring approval of the crowd.
The bar had descended into chaos, and yet in that chaos there was joy, there was release.
For gods, for spirits, for shades who lived eternities in shadow, there was nothing quite like the chance to drink, shout, and gossip about the affairs of their ruler as though they themselves were living the drama.
The celebrations only grew louder, spilling into the kind of chaos that could only ever be born in the Underworld, where gods, spirits, and shades all shed their masks of solemnity.
Cups clattered, wine spilled, and the air reeked of roasted meat, sweat, and smoke.
In the middle of the noise, a drunken god with hair wild and face red from too much drink slammed his fist on the table, declaring with the kind of conviction that only the drunk believe.
"The King doesn’t need a dozen lovers or three, he is better off with Aphrodite alone, no one else can match her, no one else deserves to stand beside him!" His voice cracked, but it rang out loud enough to silence the laughter for a brief second.
It was that silence that gave another god the perfect moment to mock.
From across the table, a tall figure leaned forward, his mouth twisting into a grin sharper than a blade, and he sneered,
"Is that so? Or is it that you only say that because you never got what you wanted? You speak of Aphrodite’s worth, but everyone here remembers how you once groveled at Hecate’s feet, willing to throw away every lover you had, willing to cast aside the very women who warmed your bed, just to chase her shadow. And what did she do? She spat you out, cast you aside like a dog. And worse, when your women heard you would abandon them for another, they left you. Every. Single. One. You are the only fool who ends up with neither."
The crowd erupted in laughter, cruel and sharp, their voices cutting deeper than any blade.
"Damn! If that was me, I’d punch him!"
"You gonna let him do you like that man?!"
The drunk god’s face turned purple with fury, his teeth grinding, his fingers curling into fists so tight his knuckles whitened.
His rage broke loose in an instant, his fist flying across the table to smash into the mocking god’s jaw with a crack that echoed like thunder.
The entire room roared in delight, their bloodlust ignited by the sudden violence.
"Bar fight! Bar fight!" they howled, stamping their feet against the wooden floor until the room itself seemed to quake.
"Punch him!"
"Kick him!"
"Break his jaw!"
"Dislocate his shoulders!" The chants rose and fell like waves, drowning the sound of shattering cups and splintering wood.
The god who had been struck reeled backward, blood already trickling down the corner of his mouth, but he did not fall.
With a furious growl, he straightened, seized the edge of a heavy oak table, and with impossible strength hoisted it into the air.
He swung it like a weapon and smashed it down on the drunk god’s head, the wood splintering into shards, the impact sending plates, bones, and goblets scattering across the floor.
The crowd howled louder, fists pumping in the air, some climbing onto tables to get a better view of the battle unfolding before them.
The two gods collided like beasts, wrestling, clawing, throwing each other into chairs and walls.
The tavern itself shook with the force of their struggle, each insult hurled as savage as the blows they exchanged.
"Cuck!"one spat, blood staining his teeth.
"Your women left you because you’re less than a man!" The other bellowed back.
"Shut your mouth, I’ll make you eat those words!" And then came the filthier insult, cutting sharper than any blade.
"I banged your sister while you wept for Hecate!"
The crowd exploded in cruel laughter, some doubling over, some slapping each other’s backs so hard it sounded like thunderclaps, while others bellowed louder for blood.
At the counter, the minor god of bars, owner of the Dead Drunk Bar, clutched his head in despair, watching as his tables, chairs, and dishes turned into weapons and rubble.
He took a single step forward, ready to shout and end the madness, but a hand stopped him.
A god, half drunk but smiling with gleeful cruelty, leaned close and said, "Let them fight. I’ll pay for every shard, every broken table, every cracked mug. Tonight’s destruction is worth the entertainment."
The owner’s lips trembled, torn between pride and fear, but the sight of the crowd’s frenzied excitement made his shoulders sag.
He stepped back, muttering under his breath, and chose to let the madness unfold, knowing that in this place, coin and reputation mattered more than order.
The fight grew more savage, blood spattering across the floor, their roars echoing against the rafters as fists, elbows, and curses turned the bar into an arena, and the Underworld’s denizens celebrated violence as if it were a festival.