The Nameless Heir
Chapter 80: A Moment Wothout War

Chapter 80: A Moment Wothout War

All the Sins and Desires stood tall behind Kael,

silent and looming—like shadows made flesh.

Their presence was overwhelming, each one radiating the essence of their master and what once ruled over mortals.

Before them...

The souls slowly broke free.

One by one, the cocoons cracked open.

They were no longer bone-like souls. Their twisted undead forms had vanished.

Instead...

They took the form they had before they died.

Flesh returned to their bodies. They looked human again.

But something deeper still lingered behind their gaze. Loyalty to their creator.

After it was all done, he softened his posture, leaned back, tilting his head up. His gaze met his mother’s, and he let out a huge breath. Then a smile tugged at his lips—tired, but it was a satisfying smile.

"It’s finally done, Mother."

His mother didn’t speak at first. She just stood there, caught in the weight of what she had just seen.

Then, quietly, she stepped forward.

"You did well," her voice soft and full of warmth.

Her eyes met his. She watched him like she was still trying to make sense of everything that had happened. How the little boy she’d just gotten back is all grown up—he stood taller than her, spoke just like his father, his words carried the weight of the Underworld.

To her, it felt like just yesterday he was begging her to lay on her lap.

Her eyes sparkled and gleamed not just with disbelief, but with pride, like a son who made his mother proud.

She placed her hand on his head and ran her fingers through his hair, slow and gentle, the same way she used to when he used to sleep on her lap.

"I always knew you would be great," she whispered.

She paused.

"Your father would have been so proud if he saw you like this now ," she said.

Her voice shook. It came out low, barely above a whisper—like it was heavy with everything she had been holding in for a while.

He leaned forward and pushed himself off the throne, but his knee almost gave out—like they barely had any strength to keep him steady. He fell against his mother’s shoulder.

Pride stepped forward and reached out, trying to steady him. But Kael raised a hand—a small gesture telling him it was okay.

He didn’t need help.

He just needed a moment.

So he leaned there, breathing slow, resting against her.

"Don’t worry, Mother... I’m close to bringing him back," he said.

The words came out ragged. Each one dragged from his lungs—like speaking alone was a battle. He had to catch his breath between every syllable.

"I know, Kael," she said.

The words came out soft—but underneath, there was something else. A hesitation. Like she didn’t want to let her hope rise too high, afraid it might break if she did.

And Kael saw through it. All of it.

She opened her mouth but couldn’t get any words out, so she just rested her hand behind his head, her palm brushing gently the back of his head.

Not to move him. Just to hold him there.

He didn’t move. Just leaned into her, letting the silence hang between them.

She didn’t speak either. Her hand stayed behind his head, still, steady. Not holding on—just there.

He stayed like that for a bit. Not worrying about all the people who wanted to kill him.

For once, he wanted to feel like they didn’t exist—and he was living a normal life.

He could still see it—that faint memory burned into the back of his mind.

He was just a baby. She was holding him, running from the Titans. He remembered the way her arms shook. The panic in her breath. The sadness in her eyes.

That was the last time she held him. Right before they hid him to keep him safe.

And somehow... he never cried.

Because even after that—through the shadows that protected him—he always felt it.

That same touch. Familiar. Steady. He remembered that feeling, even if he never saw her again.

"Just... don’t push yourself too hard," she said, her voice barely more than a breath.

He eased off her shoulder, slow. Rolled his shoulders like he was waking himself back up.

Then he looked at her and smiled. Not too wide. It was soft but small, just enough to say, I’ll be fine.

"I won’t, Mother. I’m a big boy now."

Then he turned toward the newly risen soldiers, his voice cutting through the silence like steel.

"Which one of you is a child of Hephaestus?"

What Kael found was shocking.

Out of the millions of souls—fallen demigods, rebels, traitors to Olympus—only three stepped forward.

The Underworld had no shortage of divine blood. Many had defied the gods and paid the price. Yet among all of them, only three bore the mark of the forge god. Kael had expected more. Still, he said nothing.

Then he called out, firm and direct:

"Greed. Take out some of the weapons you took from the Demon King’s castle."

Greed stepped forward, that familiar crooked grin tugging at his face—the same one he always wore.

He didn’t say a word. Just reached down, like he already knew exactly what kind of weapon his master would want.

His hand sank into the shadow at his feet.

His fingers moved slow and sharp, like he was searching for the perfect one.

Then, with a sharp pull, he hooked the darkness and yanked three weapons from the void.

The first was a long gold sword, blackened and sharp.

The second, a silver shield—heavy with old magic.

And the third, a medium-length sword—silver and humming with potential.

He stepped toward the three.

"These were forged in hell," Kael said. "Study them. Break them down. Reforge them stronger."

He paused. He lowered his voice—it wasn’t a command, but something closer to a request.

"Now... teach me how to forge."

The three glanced at one another.

Then they looked back at him, their eyes lit up not with pride, but with something much more.

Gratitude.

Like they were honored that Kael had asked.

Glad to be chosen.

"We will show you how," they said in unison, their voices firm—almost ceremonial.

He looked at them, his tone direct.

"What do we need?"

One of them stepped forward, eyes already gleaming.

"We have everything."

A massive hammer took shape in his hand. It looked heavy, but they lifted it with ease.

The other two exhaled and spit fire from their mouths, like a dragon—red-hot, wild, and violent enough to scorch the air.

Kael blinked and raised an eyebrow.

"Can we use different types of fire?"

They exchanged a glance, blinking like they didn’t expect him to ask something no one had ever thought to ask. Confusion written all over their faces.

Until Kael summoned him.

He snapped his fingers, and the shadows around him twisted, and something moved inside them.

Then the dragon burst upward, coiled around the top of his castle. It was massive, its scales dark and slick like wet stone. It tilted its head up and exhaled, letting out a burst of flame. The heat wasn’t just hot. It ate the air.

It devoured.

"This one’s fire can’t be healed from," Kael said calmly. "It eats away anything it touches—slow, relentless. Can you combine that into a weapon?"

Their eyes widened. Their mouths dropped open slightly.

And then—like children handed the keys to a forbidden forge—their faces lit up with wild excitement. They started nodding, nearly tripping over each other.

One of them even spat from pure adrenaline, too fired up to care.

"Yes!" they blurted out in unison, practically glowing.

Kael just smirked, glancing at the dragon.

"Let’s begin."