28 EPILOGUE
Following the fall of Zeus, a revived Metis stopped the war by pleading to her daughter, Athena. The aftermath of the conflict left at least six gods dead, including countless monsters, giants, and those in between. Naturally, the world below also suffered casualties, not to mention property damage unlike anything seen in history. Some of these damages were beyond repair, what with Mother Gaea succumbing to sleep eternal.
A press conference revealed that Zeus, in his lifelong bout with Chaos, had fallen under its influence, and was little by little being overtaken by the malevolent power. Hera had known for a while, and dreading a failed marriage, secretly plotted with both Hades and Poseidon in case the situation spiraled out of hand. Apollo suspected as much, but was unable to oppose the king due to his past transgressions.
Ginrius was crowned king when Hades—true to his nature—declined the post, claiming how the Underworld sufficed for him. In honor of the fallen Thanatos, he was to wholly embody death by wielding the scythe that now bore his essence. Some things really weren't meant to change—at least not that much anyway.
Other assignments did not stray too far from the source material: the mother-daughter tandem of Demeter and Persephone heralded famine and pestilence respectively; and Ares, with the departure of Athena and Metis to the cosmos, at long last serving as the definitive icon of war. The rest of the divinities pretty much just resumed office the next day: Dionysus jumped straight into event organizing and Hecate still ministered all magical affairs. In compliance to the celestial labor code, those opting retirement were issued severance pay in one form or another (pocket dimensions, eternal glory, effigies for the modern world, etc.).
Olympus was abandoned. To keep better watch of the threat Chaos imposed, Ginrius moved H.Q. closer to it, up in the void by the neighboring commercial complex. This made for a more seamless transition between Apollo and the Moon goddesses on their shifts, meaning better protection for the new world in the works.
Yes, the old world was abolished too, in favor of a new one. The old flat was inherited by the surviving creatures from the war, and led by the providence of Python, Othrus, and Zis. It underwent a very ominous name change, but revealing it at this point would ruin the story's final twist.
The new earth was designed solely for mortal occupation, where hopefully, the need for heroes would be nil. All it took was some mass brainwashing, stockpiles of immigration paperwork, and cosmic architectural discipline. Between all the divinities working toward this goal, the new planet was up and running in no more than seven days. This version was spherical in design, which worked in tricking its denizens to limited infinity, and furthermore, eliminating classic maritime tragedies like falling off edges, back-and-forth expeditions—the whole shebang.
Meanwhile, up in his new seat, the king also had one—erm, two more reasons to celebrate. His spouse, Minea just gave birth to twins, who heralded not just hope but happiness for the new reign. The pantheon gathered around them in ecstasy, the new breed of celestial beings to succeed the titans and gods before them.
Ginrius smiled at the eldest of his many children to come, both golden-haired and every bit as beautiful as their mother. It was elating to affirm that unlike his twisted relatives, he didn't have the slightest inclination to marinate and devour them.
"What are we going to call them?" Minea inquired. They were too embroiled with everything else to bother with family planning.
"You conceived them… Aren't you more qualified to come up with their titles?" Ginrius looked to Hades for sage advice, but contrary to the vast wisdom displayed before, his response was but a nuanced shrug.
At this, Minea donned her still sheepish, timeskip smile. "Is the god of creation fresh out of ideas already? If so then the universe is doomed…"
Suggestions of course, came like a forty-day flashflood, all of them traditional and reminiscent of the world as they knew it. But in the end, none mattered save from that of the father's, who was silently racking his upgraded consciousness for something more fitting—something new.
After everything that's happened, it amazed him how stumped he was on something relatively trivial—in comparison at least to holy wars and mythical monster hunting. But after a while, the idea washed over him like the first light of dawn: names that strayed from the norms of the past, fit for heralds of the brand new testament.
"Mikal…" Ginrius began, sweeping the twins a glance from the more stoic, sleeping one, to the other who stared back at him with fire. It just rolled out of his tongue from there. "No, Michael… Michael and Lucifer…"
