Chapter 333: Mount Aetna :The forge of Gods
The path to the lair of Hephaestus was unlike any journey across land or sea. It was neither sky, nor water, nor stone, but all three woven together in a realm that only gods could traverse.
Mount Aetna rose before Poseidon, its peak bleeding rivers of fire that split the clouds in crimson. The mountain groaned with every breath of magma, its smoke curling into shapes that almost seemed alive.
To mortals, this would have been death incarnate—a place where skin would blister, eyes boil, and bones turn to ash before the first step. But to Poseidon, it was a forge calling to his divinity. The sea within him recoiled against the mountain’s fire, yet it was drawn, compelled, pulled like a tide by the god of smithing himself.
Hephaestus waited.
Poseidon walked the ashen path with the Pitchfork of Hades slung across his back. The weapon thrummed with a hunger that even he could feel. It was no ordinary relic—it carried echoes of the underworld, its prongs resonating with a death-song that whispered in every heartbeat.
Each step closer to the forge made the pitchfork heavier, as if it resisted the fire. But Poseidon’s hand was steady. He had faced gods in battle; he had drowned cities; he would not be denied steel when he needed it most.
When he reached the mouth of the mountain, the air itself seemed to split. Heat warped the stone, shadows wavered like living spirits, and then—
The voice.
"Who dares carry the trident of death into my forge?"
The cavern mouth expanded as if inhaling, and from within the fire emerged Hephaestus. His form was not that of a handsome god of Olympus but the twisted smith: broad shoulders blackened with soot, one leg crippled and dragging sparks, his eyes glowing like molten iron. In his hand, he held a hammer longer than most mortals were tall.
Poseidon’s eyes locked with his. "It is I. Poseidon."
The name rolled like thunder through the cavern. The flames dimmed, recognizing the sea-god’s weight.
Hephaestus squinted, then spat sparks into the ground. "The drowned god walks again. Olympus trembles, and now you come to me. Why?"
Poseidon unslung the pitchfork and set its prongs into the volcanic stone. The mountain groaned as if in pain at its touch.
"I need a weapon. Not forged of mortal iron or celestial bronze. Something greater. A blade that can cleave the very bond between gods."
Hephaestus’s laughter rang like anvils smashing. "And why should I forge such a thing for you, sea-king? The council whispers your name as enemy. Zeus would strike me from the sky if I gave you steel."
Poseidon’s expression did not change. His voice carried the weight of oceans.
"Because when the council comes for me, they will come for you too. Zeus will not spare the crippled smith. You build their weapons, but they never honor you. They use you. I will not."
The forge crackled at those words. For a moment, silence stretched, save for the hiss of magma sliding down the mountain’s throat.
At last, Hephaestus leaned on his hammer. "And what would you give me, Poseidon? Every god bargains. Even the sea cannot drown debt."
Poseidon reached into the water that was not there, summoning from his will a relic long hidden: a shard of coral glowing with abyssal light, plucked from the Forgotten Tides he had claimed. He placed it before Hephaestus.
"This," Poseidon said. "A piece of what the pantheon fears. Forge it into the steel. Bind it with the pitchfork of Hades. Together, we will create a weapon not of Olympus, not of the sea, not of the underworld—but something beyond them all."
Hephaestus’s molten eyes widened. He reached out, not to touch, but to feel the relic’s aura. His breath caught, ragged and excited, like a smith who had found the perfect ore.
"You dare bring me this?" His voice shook with awe and greed. "This coral is not of mortal sea. It is abyss-born. It is... eternal."
Poseidon said nothing. His silence was agreement.
Hephaestus grinned, teeth sharp as nails. "Then let us forge."
The forge roared awake. Bellows of fire breathed, anvils screamed, and chains rattled as though the mountain itself was enslaved to Hephaestus’s will.
Poseidon laid the pitchfork of Hades upon the anvil. Its prongs thrummed in protest, whispering curses from the underworld. When Hephaestus brought his hammer down, sparks shot into the cavern like stars, each carrying a scream from the dead.
Again and again, the smith struck. Each blow bent not just metal but the essence of death itself.
Poseidon stood beside him, summoning torrents of seawater to temper the strikes. But this was no ordinary water—it was pulled from the deepest trench, black and heavy, where no light had ever touched. Every hiss of steam rose like ghosts howling through the forge.
Hours bled into days. Days into nights. No measure of mortal time existed in the mountain. Only the ringing of hammer against god-metal, the hiss of sea against flame, the roar of the abyssal coral fusing into the steel.
The pitchfork of Hades bent, shifted, reshaped. Its three prongs pulled together, fusing into a jagged spine of blackened silver. Hephaestus’s hammer broke twice, reforged itself, and struck again. Poseidon’s waters nearly boiled away, but he summoned more, endless as the tides.
And then—the weapon was born.
The Abyssal Fang
It lay on the anvil, steaming, alive. A weapon that was neither trident nor pitchfork, neither sword nor spear. It was all of them at once—shifting with the will of its wielder, a shape born from death, sea, and fire.
The Abyssal Fang.
Its core pulsed with abyssal coral, glowing with a hunger that no mortal eye could bear. Its edges whispered in tongues forgotten, promising ruin. And at its center, it carried the memory of the dead, the echo of the underworld itself.
Poseidon reached for it. The weapon leapt to his hand as if it had waited all eternity to return.
Hephaestus stepped back, sweat streaming down his scarred arms. His hammer drooped. "It is done. A weapon for the end of gods."
Poseidon lifted the Abyssal Fang. Its weight was perfect. Its power roared within him, singing to the tides of his veins. With it, he could strike not only mortals and gods—but the bonds that chained worlds.
He looked at Hephaestus. "You have my word. I will not forget your forge when Olympus burns."
The smith god only chuckled, dragging his crippled leg back toward the molten heart of his lair. "Then go, sea-king. Wield it. And may the world survive your tide."
Poseidon left Mount Aetna with the Abyssal Fang in his grasp. The seas bent to him as he descended the fiery slopes, waves rising to greet their master.
But already, he felt it.
Eyes.
Olympus knew.
The moment the Fang was born, the gods above stirred. Their thunder rumbled across the skies, their flames kindled, their spears crackled with lightning. The council would not wait long.
Poseidon’s grip tightened on the Fang. He had drowned cities. He had broken chains. He had shattered the bell of drowning.
Now, with a weapon that even gods would fear, he would march against Olympus itself.
The tide was coming.
And no wall, mortal or divine, would hold it back.