Chapter Eight: Underworld Incorporated


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    Tomorrow. The word hung in Jace’s mind like a blade suspended by a thread, sharp and inevitable. Tonight, though, he lay on his cot, staring at the jagged dance of shadows across the ceiling. The dim glow of his quarters cast everything in muted gray, the only splash of color the faint black smudges staining his fingertips.


    Ink, dark and stubborn, clung to his skin—a relic from the journal entry he’d poured himself into. His fingers bore the marks of hasty scribbles, crossed-out lines, and moments of hesitation where the quill had hovered too long over the page.


    In a world of vibrant magic, where gods shaped existence with a word and monsters shattered reality on a whim, it was strange that something as mundane as ink could unsettle him. It wasn’t blood. It wasn’t ash. Just ink. Yet the way it streaked his fingers, etched into the grooves of his skin, made him pause. Not because of what it was, but because of what it meant.


    The ink was a reminder of the words he’d written—half-formed thoughts, desperate questions, and fears he couldn’t quite bring himself to say aloud. Proof that no matter how far he’d come, no matter the power he’d claimed, he was still human. Still fumbling with fragments of understanding, trying to stitch them together into something that made sense.


    He pressed his fingers together, smudging the ink further, feeling the slick, tacky texture grind between them. He let out a long, slow breath, as if he could exhale the weight of it all.


    The divine notification had come earlier, the sterile ping of the system as unfeeling as a factory bell.


    You are requested in the Underworld Offices before the Winter Games departure. Prepare.


    Prepare for what? Jace had no idea. Something awful, probably. It usually was.


    He sat up, dragging a hand through his hair and shaking off the fog of half-finished thoughts clinging to him like cobwebs. The faint tang of iron and ozone hung in the air, a lingering reminder of the summoning ritual he''d been working on earlier. The room still felt charged, like the echoes of his magic hadn’t quite settled.


    He was experimenting—trying to mold weapons out of aether, shaping them into something tangible, something deadly. It was easier said than done. Ever since he Ranked up to Silver and unlocked Affinities for both Soul and Truth, he’d felt… sharper. The power coursing through him came with new insights, sure, but also new frustrations. His abilities listed on the Character Sheet were just the tip of the iceberg, the parts the System acknowledged because he was finally starting to grasp them. The rest? Those he’d have to figure out on his own. Trial and error. Heavy on the error.


    He’d figured out something most Travelers didn’t: the System wasn’t some benevolent force handing out powers like candy, or even dishing out EXP. It didn’t grant anything. All it did was measure what was already there, tallying it up and filing it neatly so his mind could make sense of this bizarre new world.


    The System didn’t give him power—it just labeled it, organized it, and tried to help him not lose his grip on reality. The System wasn''t the cause, but rather, the effect.


    Lately, he’d been focusing on Soul Swords—blades formed from his will, drawn from the aether like molten light. For a few seconds, they felt real in his hands, humming with a power that was almost intoxicating. But they never lasted. The swords would flicker and vanish, draining his reserves faster than he could stabilize them.


    The real issue was his aether pool. He wasn’t just burning through it for the swords; a hefty chunk was being siphoned off constantly to fuel his Ring—the White Raven Familiar. It was still recovering, its essence fractured from the last battle it had, so many years ago, and the only way to nurse it back to full strength was to keep feeding it.


    It hurt—both his pride and his progression—but it felt worth it.


    Still, as he flexed his fingers and felt the telltale tingle of aether sparking beneath his skin, he couldn’t help but wonder how much longer he could afford the cost.


    He checked its status, the progress bar crawling upward at an infuriatingly slow pace.


    89% replenished.


    Close, but not close enough.


    He checked his inventory, fingers flicking through the menus with the ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times. Each item, neatly cataloged by the System, appeared in glowing rows before him—armor, weapons, tools, even the odd trinket he wasn’t sure why he’d kept. He scrolled past the heavier sets, shaking his head. Too bulky. Not practical.


    Finally, he settled on a suit that struck the right balance: lightweight, reinforced, and versatile enough for both combat and travel—it was something Twig had custom made for him. The material shimmered faintly as he selected it, the System automatically equipping it with a soft hum of aether.


    He gave himself a once-over in the mirror. Dark hair, perpetually tousled, framed stormy gray eyes that stared back at him with a weariness he couldn’t quite shake. His face was lean, the kind of leanness born from too many skipped meals and too many nights spent running or fighting. His body told the same story—hardened by necessity, sharpened by survival.


    But there was more now. Power thrummed beneath his skin, subtle but undeniable, a spark that hadn’t been there before Terra Mythica. It didn’t erase the scars or the sharp angles of his frame, but it added something else—something otherworldly.


    Jace adjusted his robe, the black fabric clinging to him like shadow, the faint emblem of the white raven glinting on the back.


    “Good enough,” Jace muttered, flexing his fingers and rolling his shoulders as the suit adjusted to his frame. He wasn’t sure what he’d need to face, but he wasn’t about to show up unprepared.


    He straightened the moonstone pendant around his neck, letting out a slow, measured breath to steady himself. The Prismata Shard, its soft silver glow pulsing in time with his heartbeat, felt cool against his skin. It wasn’t just jewelry or some flashy bauble. The shard could be worn or absorbed into him, its essence becoming a part of his very being. For now, he preferred to keep it external—something tangible to anchor him.Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.


    The pendant was more than a focus; it was a lifeline. A tether to the magic he was still struggling to fully control, a conduit that bridged his raw potential with the reality-bending forces of Terra Mythica. Without it, his power felt like a wild beast, barely leashed. With it? He had a chance to hold the chaos in his hands, to shape it, to wield it.


    He checked over his status screen, glances quickly at his progress.


    Silver Rank One.


    It sounded impressive until you realized how far there was to go. Two Words of Power. That was it. Two Words, two Affinities, barely enough to scrape by in a world crawling with gods and monsters. He’d been practicing, trying to combine them, trying to unlock something greater. Progress came slow.


    The Fields Below stretched before him, an endless maze of caverns and tunnels carved into the heart of Mount Olympus University. When Jace had first arrived, this place had been little more than a forgotten corner of the campus, a neglected shrine for a god no one cared to worship anymore.


    Now, it was alive.


    Jace might’ve been the only official Chosen of Hades, but ever since they’d allowed Hecate—the goddess of magic—to plant her banner under the same roof, the Fields Below had undergone a transformation that was impossible to ignore.


    What had once been little more than a desolate afterthought was now thriving. Hecate’s presence had drawn students like moths to a flame, swelling their ranks into the hundreds. Each newcomer brought their points and ambitions, reshaping the Fields into something both awe-inspiring and distinctly underworldly.


    The caverns gleamed with crystals that pulsed faintly, as if the walls themselves had veins of living stone. Sanctuaries bathed in shadow sprouted up, places where whispers seemed to gather like secrets waiting to be uncovered. Then there were the gardens—if you could call them that—glowing softly with an otherworldly light. The plants looked more like something conjured from a fever dream than anything natural, their twisted blooms teetering between beautiful and unsettling.


    Hecate’s influence was everywhere. Subtle, but impossible to miss. She had taken the Fields from a forgotten corner of Mount Olympus University to a sprawling, darkly vibrant labyrinth that hummed with life—and, let’s be honest, a fair amount of menace.


    Jace couldn’t help but admire her handiwork. He might’ve been Hades’ chosen, but Hecate had turned the Fields into something people wanted to be a part of. If he was being honest, it felt less like he was running the place and more like he was just trying to keep up with her.


    Jace moved through the labyrinthine passages of the Underworld, the sound of his boots on stone echoing softly in the dim silence.


    Wisps of light and shadow flitted past him—spirits, their forms insubstantial and shimmering, like faint memories of something lost. Hades had always been clear on his disdain for the undead, calling them an affront to the natural order. But spirits? Souls caught in the fragile space between existence and eternity? Those, he welcomed.


    Ahead, the faint glow of torchlight marked the entrance to the Underworld Offices, flickering like a neon sign beckoning him into something he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to deal with. Jace’s dorms, tucked deep beneath Mount Olympus, had a direct path to the offices. Convenient, sure, but stepping into the place was always an exercise in surrealism.


    The door creaked open, and he strode into what could only be described as the Underworld’s version of an office building. Rows of cubicles stretched out before him, the gray dividers worn and sagging slightly. Each desk held the relics of bureaucracy: yellowing stacks of parchment, quills that scratched at papers of their own accord, and glowing, ethereal screens displaying arcane symbols that defied translation.


    The spirits were everywhere. Some hovered at desks, their translucent forms flickering as they shuffled phantom papers or tapped at ancient keyboards that gave off faint whispers instead of clicks. Others floated through the aisles, carrying stacks of files that never seemed to shrink, their expressions a mix of focus and quiet resignation.


    Occasionally, a ghostly figure would pause to tidy up a desk or scribble something on a scroll, their movements precise and deliberate. Whatever tasks they were performing, they did so with purpose—purpose Jace couldn’t quite make sense of. Maybe they were cataloging souls, balancing ledgers of life and death, or filing complaints about the conditions of the River Styx ferry service.


    It was unnervingly mundane for a place that existed between worlds, but it brought an odd kind of order to the chaos. And maybe that’s why Jace didn’t entirely hate it. Here, in the heart of the Underworld, there was structure. A hierarchy. Rules.


    The ghosts didn’t speak to him as he passed, their silence a constant hum in the air. But their presence grounded him. They were a reminder that even in the dark, even in the strangest corners of existence, there was a kind of logic. A rhythm.


    Up ahead, Jace spotted Jerry, his ghostly form faintly shimmering in the dim light. A small grin tugged at Jace’s lips—it was good to see him. For all the chaos in the Underworld, Jerry had a way of making the place feel a little less heavy.


    Jerry—a ghostly figure with more personality than most mortals—was in the middle of what could only be described as a car-crash-in-slow-motion attempt at flirting with Barbara, the Underworld’s receptionist. Barbara, with her towering beehive hairdo and sharp, cat-eye glasses, had perfected the art of looking unimpressed.


    “...and, uh, I was thinking, maybe we could grab a coffee sometime?” Jerry stammered, his voice oscillating between hopeful and please-stop-this-now panic.


    Barbara arched one impeccable eyebrow. Her lips twitched, hovering somewhere between amusement and the kind of exasperation that could peel paint. “I’ll think about it,” she said, her tone cooler than a midnight ferry ride across the Styx.


    Jerry turned at the sound of Jace’s footsteps, his face lighting up.


    “Jace! Perfect timing! Been a while, huh?” Jerry called out, his translucent form flickering slightly as he jogged to meet him. Falling into step beside Jace, he floated more than walked, keeping pace effortlessly as they headed toward the elevator.


    “Jerry,” Jace said, smirking as he took in the scene. “How’s the love life?”


    Jerry let out a dry laugh. “You know how office romances go. Got a bit of a Will-They, Won''t-They thing going as always.”


    Jace just smiled.


    Jerry floated backward a few inches, his hands spread wide in a theatrical shrug. “Love is a marathon, not a sprint.”


    “Bit of a treadmill, in your case?”


    “Harsh,” Jerry said, grinning faintly. “But fair.”


    "I''m sorry, I''m just kidding, Jerry. You''ve got this," Jace said, smirking. "She said she’d think about it. That’s progress, right?"


    Jerry’s face lit up, his translucent form shimmering faintly. “Yeah, another hundred years or so, I think we might have a real date.”


    The two of them moved down the dimly lit aisle, passing cubicles where spirits flickered in and out of view. Jace gestured toward one particularly frantic spirit, whose attempts at organizing files were hampered by the fact that they kept slipping through its intangible hands. “Busy day in the afterlife?”


    Jerry chuckled, the sound hollow and echoing like an empty hallway. “Oh, you’d be surprised. End-of-cycle quotas, reincarnation petitions, complaints from hauntings—it’s all part of the job. And don’t even get me started on the bureaucracy around exorcisms.”


    “Sounds thrilling,” Jace said.


    “Oh, it’s a riot,” Jerry said in genuine excitement.


    As they reached the end of the aisle, the Underworld Elevator loomed before them. Its black iron doors were intricately carved with glowing sigils, each one pulsing like a heartbeat.


    Jace smiled and clapped Jerry on the shoulder out of reflex, only to pause mid-motion when he remembered Jerry was a ghost. He half-expected his hand to pass through—but it didn’t. Instead, there was resistance, a faint but solid presence. His Soul Affinity flared, a sudden surge of awareness coursing through him, and the realization hit: he could touch ghosts.


    “Good luck, Casanova.”


    Jerry saluted, a half-hearted wave of his hand as Jace stepped into the elevator.


    “Oh! Remember, Jace,” Jerry said, his voice echoing faintly as the elevator doors began to slide shut. “The only difference between ordinary and extraordinary is that little extra.”


    Jace snorted, shaking his head as the doors sealed with a soft thunk, separating them. He leaned back against the cool iron of the elevator and pressed the single button engraved with Hades’ sigil. The doors slid shut with a whisper, sealing him in as the elevator began its smooth, silent descent.


    “Down we go,” Jace muttered, bracing himself for whatever came next.


    Girl from Ipanema played softly, and Jace found himself nodding along to the familiar tune.