Kampe struck like a living storm.
Her twin serpent tails lashed forward, each snapping with the force to sunder mountains. Her claws carved through the blackened stone of the Underworld, splitting the earth as she lunged at Hades. Reality itself seemed to tremble beneath her monstrous fury.
But Hades did not retreat.
He moved.
The air cracked as he stepped forward, his motion so absolute, so final that the Underworld bent to accommodate him.
Kampe's claws raked through empty space.
Hades was above her now.
His Soul Sword burned in his grip, its spectral edge howling. The blade was not metal, not divine steel, but something older. It was forged from the very essence of the dead, pulsing with the weight of souls long lost. A blade that did not simply cut—but severed.
Kampe roared, twisting mid-air, her hundred glowing eyes locking onto him.
"Child of Cronus," she hissed, her voice a blend of a thousand tortured cries. "You cannot kill what the Titans have forged."
Hades' gaze was unmoved. "I don't need to kill you."
The Soul Sword fell.
Kampe screamed as the blade carved through her essence. It did not tear flesh—it tore being. The very fibers of her existence shuddered, frayed, and began to unravel.
For the first time in eons, Kampe knew fear.
The Underworld was rejecting her.
The moment the Soul Sword struck, the realm responded. A great abyss opened beneath her, chains of black fire coiling from the void. They latched onto her limbs, dragging her down—not to death, for she could not die, but to something worse.
Tartarus.
The prison of the Titans welcomed her return.
Kampe's final roar echoed through the abyss, then—silence. The Underworld stilled.
Hades turned, his blade still humming with the remnants of her severed existence. He did not look back. The challenge had been answered. His rule was absolute.
And the Titans would know it.
This solidifies Hades' power, showing the might of the Soul Sword and his absolute control over the Underworld.