Chapter 114: The Old Man of the Mountain — Death for the Divine
If judged solely by the physical impact of their clash, the battle had ended in a draw. Neither combatant had faltered, neither had yielded.
But the strike carried a weight beyond mere strength.
Each had embedded within their blow a conceptual curse—the death principle itself.
Hades, god of the underworld, embodied death as a force. His weapon bore that essence and imposed it upon those it touched.
Yet this man—this ancient, frail warrior—seemed almost more akin to death than Hades himself.
Where Hades' curse met flesh, it disappeared like a stone cast into an abyss. No ripple, no echo.
His opponent had resisted.
Was he merged with death? Resistant to its law? Perhaps even forged by it?
Hades lowered his eyes to the audience.
Among the immortal throng, a lone frail figure stood, looking as though even a slight breeze might topple him.
"Forgive me, Zeus," Hades whispered, his voice heavy with weariness. "From here on… it is yours to bear."
And that was his final utterance—spoken not to a crowd, but to a brother. The last words of the King of the Underworld before he was consumed by the death he himself once wielded.
Chapter 115: The Death That Belonged to Mankind
Hassan-i-Sabbah—the Old Man of the Mountain—had not been originally called to fight. His existence was unplanned, an anomaly summoned by fate's crooked hand.
But now that he stood on this divine stage, how could he leave without a performance?
The gods had seen him slay Hades.
They would not forget.
They would fear him.
And that was exactly what he intended.
Victory was his—not through might, but through immediate death. A conceptual strike that bypassed all forms of resistance.
Had Hades struck him with force alone, perhaps the result might have been different.
But Hassan's expression betrayed no arrogance. What he showed instead was hostility—an ancient hatred towards divine pride.
And the death of Hades, revered even among gods, would surely ignite divine wrath.
So be it. Let the gods rage.
At least now they knew—he was no ally of theirs.
The summoning, unintended as it was, granted him an escape from annihilation. He had retrieved an item from the other world: a simple box containing ten rings.
"Artifacts from that realm?" White Moon muttered, inspecting each ring under the lens of his sorcery.
He approached their power like a foreign engineer handling incompatible voltage—a delicate balance, cautious not to overload.
And then—spark.
The system responded.
Through these objects, he had reconnected with the realm beyond.
The gods, on the verge of celebration, had frozen.
Heimdall had declared the enemy dead.
But the man was gone—not destroyed.
A retreat, then?
If so, surely the victory belonged to Hades.
Heimdall's voice trembled as he received a message. His eyes glistened with emotion. His heart prepared to proclaim divine triumph.
Yet before he could speak—
"I lost."
Silence. Absolute, all-encompassing silence.
No one had truly heard it. Not with certainty. Had Hades just claimed defeat?
Impossible.
He stood alive. How could he have lost?
Understanding dawned.
For Hades, a single failure to kill—in one ultimate strike—constituted loss.
To him, perfection was not a goal. It was law. To falter at all meant the throne of death no longer belonged to him.
Ares trembled. "This—this isn't right. Hermes, say something!"
But Hermes didn't jest. Not today.
"Don't look at me," he replied, icy as the grave. "Look at him. And do not avert your gaze. It's time we witness his farewell."
Ares bit back emotion. Tears welled behind grit. He watched.
Then it came.
From the shallow wound at Hades' throat—one that should have bled dry—black-red tendrils began to spread.
Like curse marks, they crawled outward, consuming flesh.
Hades' body fractured. Cracks webbed across his form like shattering porcelain.
A heartbeat later, the King of the Underworld shattered.
Light particles drifted from his remains—nothing left to mourn.
Stillness.
The gods said nothing. The humans did not cheer.
No side could comprehend it.
"No… no, this is a lie!" Ares roared. "There's no way!"
He howled.
And then he cried.
This man, who once claimed tears were weakness, wept.
And he wasn't alone.
He turned toward the Valkyrie booth, eyes alight with rage.
"Valkyries!! Damn you—I'll slaughter you!"
"Don't shame the gods, Ares."
Hermes' voice was so sharp it stopped the war god's fury cold. For a moment, Ares didn't even recognize him.
"Still," Hermes added, sighing, "that other lord… he won't be stopped. Not by me."
Only his brother could restrain him.
And to Ares, that brother was long thought dead.
Meanwhile, on the Valkyrie platform—
"Big sister… did we… did we just win?" Gray whispered.
Brunhild nodded slowly. Even she couldn't believe it.
Victory had arrived like a phantom. Surreal. Unreal. Like waking from a fever dream.
This Old Man truly possessed death.
And those pools of godblood that spilled when he first appeared… they weren't just for show.
The more Brunhild thought of it, the more her heart raced.
What gods had he slain before arriving?
"How could he kill Hades?" muttered Reginleif, eyes fixed on the battlefield.
That black-red curse—the one that fanned out from the wound—was it poison? Magic?
For a being who governed death to die from it… what chance had ordinary gods?
Even a graze might prove fatal.
He was not just a godslayer.
He was death—for gods.
Hassan-i-Sabbah, the Old Man of the Mountain, didn't belong to humanity alone.
He belonged to the end of divinity.
And then came the verdict.
"Uh—yes, uh, in the fourth round of the final battle between gods and mankind, the winner is…"
Heimdall's voice cracked.
"…Hassan-i-Sabbah, the Old Man of the Mountain."
Thus ended Ragnarok's fourth match.
Chapter 115: The Echo of Hades' Fall
The Great Temple fell silent.
The screens still flickered.
Hades—one of the greatest obstacles to recovering the lost world—had perished.
And that assassin… he was stronger than anyone had imagined.
Had they not flung him away via artifact before his awakening, who knew how many more would've fallen?
His escape had been fortunate.
Summoned before cosmic oblivion could consume him, he now stood validated as humanity's champion.
No doubts now.
But what kind of human was he?
Who could slay Hades?
The implications rippled.
If one such god could fall, so too could the rest.
This man—this anomaly—might become a greater threat than Hades ever was.
Thankfully, his allegiance was clear.
He was no ally to the gods.
And that truth alone sent tremors through divine ranks.
The balance tilted.
Their hatred, their grief—it now surged toward the humans.
Toward apocalypse.
Just then, new intel arrived.
"Adamas, commander of the underworld armies, has left the Abyss."
"He's headed for the heavens—rage blazing."
Cheers erupted.
Before they faded, more news followed:
"Poseidon has left his stronghold."
"He seeks vengeance for his brother."
Exultation blossomed.
One revelation after another drove away the shadow Hassan had cast.
No matter how powerful he was… he was one man.
The gods?
They were legions.
And now, legions were preparing for war.
The dusk had ended.
But the end of days… had only begun.