Ancestral Lineage - Chapter 477

Capítulo 477: The Underworld

The Underworld, as ruled by Thanatos, was not hell. That misunderstanding alone had gotten countless beings erased.

Hell implied punishment, fire, screaming, judgment. Thanatos had no interest in theatrics. The Underworld was older than morality, older than the gods who argued about good and evil. It was the place where conclusion itself resided.

Not death as violence, but Death as inevitability. Under Thanatos, the Underworld was vast, silent, and terrifyingly orderly.

It did not rot. It did not decay. It settled.

The sky there was a cathedral of dim ash and starless void, layered like translucent silk curtains drifting endlessly. No sun. No moon. Light existed only when allowed. Shadows did not stretch; they clung, obedient and still.

The ground was neither stone nor soil. It was memory compacted into substance. Every step echoed faintly, not with sound, but with the weight of lives that had ended. It was said that if one listened too closely, they would recognize their own future footfalls beneath their soles.

Rivers flowed through the realm, but not with water. They carried time that had finished moving. Souls did not drown in them; they slowed, stilled, until resistance itself became pointless. Crossing one without authority meant forgetting why you had ever wanted to cross in the first place.

Structures rose throughout the Underworld like monuments carved by patience rather than hands. Obelisks of bone-white crystal, bridges made of blackened light, halls that stretched farther the closer you approached them. Nothing there was hurried. Nothing needed to be.

At the center of it all was Thanatos’ dominion.

Not a palace, but a still point.

A vast circular expanse where the Underworld folded inward, like reality bowing to acknowledge something final. No throne sat there, for Thanatos did not reign by posture. When he wished to appear, the realm itself adjusted to hold him, forming stone, shadow, or void into whatever shape best suited the moment.

When Thanatos was present, the Underworld became quieter and resolved. Souls no longer struggled. Ancient wraiths lowered their heads. Even rogue gods learned stillness.

This was because Thanatos was not merely its ruler.

He was its function.

The laws of the Underworld were extensions of his will. Distance bent according to his focus. Time slowed or halted depending on his mood. Escape was not prevented by walls or gates, but by realization. Those who opposed him did not feel fear at first. They felt certainty.

Certainty that the story was over.

Unlike other gods who demanded worship, Thanatos inspired none. There were no prayers here. No bargains. No miracles. Only acceptance, or resistance so futile it redefined despair.

And yet, for all its dread, the Underworld was not cruel.

Souls that arrived at peace were allowed rest so deep it bordered on oblivion. Souls burdened by regret were given time to shed it, grain by grain, until only essence remained. Reincarnation, dissolution, and preservation, each fate was administered without favoritism.

Thanatos judged nothing.

He simply measured when existence had finished making sense.

That was why challengers feared him more than tyrants, why gods hesitated to speak his name, and why Lamair’s final journey was not a battle for power, but a confrontation with an authority that did not need to win.

To face Thanatos was to stand before the end of all arguments.

Lamair was the Death Primogenitor, the origin of all undead races, including ghouls, liches, zombies, skeletons, wraiths, ghosts, dark souls… all monsters and beings under the undead category. He was also the Ancestor of Death, a title which held more depth that even Ethan, who assigned it to them, could still not comprehend to the fullest.

Ancestors, in general, were the first beings, say Fathers or Parents of the concepts they embodied.

The current Ancestors chosen by Ethan were Blood, Death, Spirits, Will, Balance, Chaos, Origin, Divinity, Order, Frost, Lunar, and Life.

So far, Trevor and Lamair are the ones who have gotten very close to unlocking the full power of their ancestral concepts, but they lacked one thing.

Their Core.

The core of each Ancestor was different. For Trevor, it was to ascend his rightful throne as the Blood Primogenitor and the Ancestor of Blood in the presence of all blood-concept-related beings: vampires, dhampirs, oni, etc.

For Lamair, it was to get the strongest god of Death to acknowledge him as the one and true Ancestor of Death, a being only second to the Primordials.

The requirements to gain the core of each Ancestor were insane, to say the least.

That also brought up the question of who Ethan really was.

As the one who chose them, what did that make him? A god or something more?

…

The Kael’Dri family stood within the heart hall of the estate, a vast ceremonial chamber carved from obsidian-veined stone and ancient bonewood. The ceiling arched high above them like the ribcage of some primordial beast, inscribed with runes that pulsed faintly in funereal purple. Soul-lanterns hovered in measured symmetry, their flames steady and silent, as if even fire understood this was not a moment for noise.

Every member of the family was present.

Not standing casually. Not leaning. Not whispering.

They stood straight, shoulders squared, expressions solemn in a way that went beyond grief or pride. This was the look of people witnessing history sharpen itself into a single, irreversible point.

At the center of the hall stood Lamair.

He was utterly still.

The Jade-Tier artifact set clung to him like it had been forged from his destiny rather than metal. The armor was dark, not pitch-black, but a deep void hue that swallowed light and returned it as muted violet reflections. Purple sigils traced the edges of the plates in slow, rhythmic pulses, like a heartbeat syncing with his own existence. Each pulse carried weight, ancient, patient, observant.

The gauntlets encasing his hands were massive and brutal, yet elegant in their balance. Veins of glowing amethyst ran along the knuckles and wrists, responding faintly to his breathing. The twin axes rested crossed behind him, their enormous crescent blades linked by a thick, rune-etched chain that dragged softly against the ritual circle carved into the floor. They radiated a restrained violence, a promise waiting for permission.

Around his brow sat the headband, simple in shape, profound in presence. It pressed gently against his forehead, anchoring his essence, stabilizing the death-aligned energy that trembled beneath his skin.

And then there were the horns.

Long. Black. Curved like abyssal crowns pulled from myth itself.

They rose proudly from his temples, etched with faint, naturally formed patterns that glimmered with the same purple resonance as the artifacts. They were no longer hidden, no longer suppressed. They marked him not as a prince of something lesser, but as a being standing at the threshold of becoming inevitable.

Lamair’s eyes were calm.

Not brave. Not defiant.

Calm in the way only someone who had already accepted every possible ending could be.

Around him, the air itself was changing. The ritual circle beneath his feet was alight with layered sigils, death glyphs older than any empire, inscribed personally by Lamair over the course of years. Each symbol began to glow one after another, forming a slow, deliberate cascade, as if the Underworld itself was reading his intent before deciding whether to answer.

Ethan stood at the foremost edge of the family line.

His expression was unreadable to anyone else, but Lamair knew it well. Pride. Worry. Resolve. And something painfully close to letting go. Ethan’s power was suppressed, locked down with painstaking precision, yet the pressure of his presence still weighed on the hall like a silent promise: if this goes wrong, reality itself will pay the price.

Trevor stood just behind him, arms crossed tightly, jaw clenched. None of his usual humor surfaced now. His eyes traced the runes, the artifacts, the horns, memorizing everything, as though afraid this image would be the last version of Lamair he would ever be allowed to remember.

Others watched in their own ways. Some with awe. Some with fear. Some with reverence.

No one spoke.

Because this ritual was not a ceremony of departure.

It was a declaration.

Lamair was about to step into the dominion of Thanatos, not as a trespasser, not as a challenger, but as a successor candidate. The Underworld would test him, measure him, and attempt to reduce him down to necessity alone.

And if he succeeded, the artifacts would bond.

The axes would evolve.

The armor would rewrite itself alongside his soul.

And Lamair would no longer walk among the living as merely family.

He would return as Death acknowledged.

The runes reached full luminance.

The hall held its breath.

And Lamair took his first step forward.

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