Chapter 21 – Welcome to the Basement of the Cosmos
There was no sky in Tartarus.
Just a ceiling of writhing shadow miles overhead, pulsing like a diseased lung. The air was thick, choking, not just with heat but with weight. Every breath carried the taste of rust, fire, and decay. The ground beneath our boots wasn't dirt. It was obsidian cracked with crimson veins, pulsing like it was alive—and it probably was.
Clarisse stepped beside me, her spear clenched tightly, her eyes sweeping the gloom.
I let my fingers drag along the chain wrapped around my wrist. It pulsed faintly with warmth. Ready.
The Underworld had already been dark.
Tartarus was hollow.
"This place…" Clarisse muttered. "Feels like it's watching."
"It is," I said, and my voice came out lower than usual, like even sound didn't want to linger here.
The further we walked, the more unnatural it became.
There were no clear paths. No markers. Just a winding descent that bent space in ways that made your stomach turn.
And then we heard them.
The punished.
It started like whispers in your ear.
A thousand voices, all moaning, sighing, whispering your name, whispering their names, as if begging you to remember.
We turned a corner around a slope of jagged black stone and saw him.
Sisyphus.
Shirtless. Muscled like a marble statue and twice as tired. He was halfway up a steep, narrow hill of ash, shoving a massive black boulder up with trembling arms. Every time he neared the top, the hill buckled, and the boulder rolled down, flattening everything in its path.
He didn't scream. Didn't swear.
Just turned around and started pushing again.
"Classic," I muttered.
Clarisse stared. "They actually put him on the treadmill of death."
"Eternal cardio. I can respect the gains."
We moved on.
Next was a pool.
Crystal clear. Trees heavy with ripe fruit hung low above it.
And standing in the center, waist-deep in the water, was Tantalus.
He reached.
The water receded.
He stretched.
The fruit pulled away, just out of reach.
"Please…" he whispered. "Just one taste…"
Clarisse growled. "He tried to feed the gods his own son."
"I mean, that's a power move. Horrific, but undeniably bold."
She glared at me. "You need to stop respecting insane war crimes."
We walked past him too.
The corridor opened wider.
Chains clattered from the walls, glowing with a fire that never burned out. Screams echoed, distant but sharp. There were more. Ixion, spinning on his wheel of flame, screaming eternally. Tityos, massive and bound, screaming as two vultures gorged on his regenerating liver. The Danaids, dragging leaking jars uphill with hopeless expressions, their water always seeping out.
"Feels like a museum of 'Don't Be This Guy,'" I said.
Clarisse didn't laugh.
Her eyes were focused. But I could tell.
Something was chewing at her.
Then the monsters came.
They didn't announce themselves. Just rose from the blood-rock like bad thoughts—regenerated horrors of the ages.
A Minotaur dragging a double-bladed axe the size of a surfboard.
Two Gorgons, hissing, their hair a jungle of snapping vipers.
A Cyclops, not the friendly Tyson kind, but the ogre sort, fists like wrecking balls.
And behind them—Drakons. Long, writhing serpent-beasts armored in obsidian scales, eyes glowing with ancient hate.
I sighed. "You'd think Hell would be more subtle."
Clarisse spun her spear. "You want subtle, go fight in Elysium."
"Fair."
The monsters lunged.
Clarisse moved like a storm. Her spear blazed, lightning crackling with every thrust. She vaulted over the Minotaur, slammed her heel into its snout, and spun midair, driving her blade into its shoulder.
It screamed.
I held up my palm. The chains uncoiled like twin serpents.
[BERSERKER GAUGE – 75% ACTIVATED]
The red aura flared around me like a sunburst.
I leapt into the fray.
First strike—Flame Whiplash. My chain seared through the air, catching the Cyclops in the chest. The impact exploded in a blast of fire, launching him backward into a rock wall that cratered.
The Drakons surged toward me, hissing.
I slammed the chains into the ground—Scorched Sweep—and flame burst in a 360-degree arc, searing the beasts mid-lunge.
Clarisse spun beside me, face tight with focus.
But she was off.
I noticed it mid-swing. Her reactions slowed. Her movements sharper, yes, but also angrier.
She roared and plunged her spear through the Gorgon's chest. The other hissed and lunged at her—but I caught it midair and slammed it into the ground.
"Clarisse!" I shouted. "Head in the game!"
She didn't answer.
Just snarled and threw her spear through the Minotaur's eye. It disintegrated in a flash of gold.
I stood beside her, chest heaving, red glow still pulsing around me.
More monsters rose—dozens now.
They didn't stop.
Endless.
Tartarus was recycling its pain.
I clenched my fists.
Fought through the waves.
Three Drakons down. Two Cyclopes crushed. I smashed a Gorgon with my bare hands, wrapped my chain around the next one and tore it in half. Not even exaggerating.
Clarisse kept fighting.
But she was fighting like someone chasing something that wouldn't be killed.
She screamed. Thrust. Blocked. Parried.
And still looked unsatisfied.
Ten minutes later, the floor was littered with ash and steaming bone.
I was panting. Burned. Covered in monster slime.
Clarisse was bent over, hands on her knees.
I walked up, chains dangling.
"Hey."
Nothing.
"Clarisse."
She looked up.
Eyes stormy. Breathing sharp.
I lowered my voice.
"You're becoming a liability."
She blinked. "What?"
"You're flaying around, not noticing that you're about to die."
Her face twisted. "You don't know what you're talking about."
"Yeah, I do. I know exactly what it's like to want him to look at you.."
I put a hand on her shoulder.
"Look at me."
She did.
"You're one of the strongest demigods I've ever seen. Ares strongest warrior. But if you keep swinging at ghosts, you're gonna miss the real enemy."
She looked away.
I stepped back.
"And besides," I added. "Only one of us is allowed to make stupid decisions. That's my brand."
She snorted.
Finally.
"Thanks," she muttered.
"No problem," I said. "I'll invoice you for emotional labor later."
We moved forward, more careful now.
Down through a corridor of molten stone. Into silence. Deeper.
Then, finally, we found them.
Three thrones of blackened iron.
Three colossal figures, seated in silence.
Brontes. Massive arms like tree trunks, eyes glowing like twin furnaces.
Steropes, leaner, lightning coursing through his veins.
Arges, wide and still, face calm but power radiating from him like a dam about to burst.
The elder Cyclopes.
The original smiths.
The reason gods had weapons.
They opened their eyes.
In perfect unison.
Clarisse stopped walking.
I took a step forward.
"I'm here to break you out."