CHAPTER 327: CHAPTER 326-HALLOW QUEENS.

"Did you set up a meeting for me?"

Azrail asked as he looked at the hidden Goddess, to which Hera replied.

"I did. He said he will be free in 4 hours, and be careful of how you deal with him. For all I make fun of him, Hephaestus is not a fool. He won’t fall easily for any tricks up your sleeve."

Azrail nodded his head.

"I understand. Don’t worry. I won’t be making it obvious. If I could have planned myself to reach till here, then I can stay in character till I get what I want."

Azrail’s words were laced with confidence, to which Hera just mentally noted.

"You better not screw up, or else you know the consequences, right?"

"Yes, I do."

Azrail replied directly, then asked.

"How about a guide for the 4 hours to take me through the inner workings of the faction?"

His words being heard, a moment later, a figure appeared in the vast hallway, right next to the upper throne of Hera. The figure coalescing into a beautiful, stunning woman whose looks would definitely cause a massive mental fracture even in the higher 2nd realm that Azrail came from, not to mention the 1st realm he is in.

’One of Hera’s trusted angels born from her own creations.’

Azrail’s eyes felt a sudden shift to it as he gazed at the woman who appeared, shining blonde hair that fell like a waterfall to her back, yet defied the simple cascade of mortal gold.

Her face was not merely beautiful; it was a deliberate asymmetry that somehow perfected symmetry.

One eye burned a deep celestial sapphire, the other a molten ember-gold, both ringed by thin filaments of living starlight that pulsed gently with her heartbeat. A slender, branching sigil of liquid mercury traced from the outer corner of her left eye across the bridge of her nose, vanishing beneath the opposite cheekbone; it moved when she blinked, re-forging its pattern anew each time.

Her skin was not porcelain or bronze but an opalescent alloy of both. From her shoulder blades unfolded not feathered wings but articulated lattices of translucent alabaster and rose-gold. When furled, they formed an elegant, segmented cape that hummed with restrained power; when half-spread, each "petal" revealed etched runes that glowed in soft choral tones, projecting faint holograms of ancient celestial maps that rotated lazily around her silhouette.

Her attire rejected every convention of Olympian finery.

She wore a sleeveless, high-collared bodice of midnight void-cloth. From her hips cascaded an asymmetrical skirt of overlapping crystalline plates, thin as spider silk yet unbreakable, each plate etched with microscopic fractals that rearranged themselves into new geometries with every step. One side fell to her ankles in a sharp, angular train; the other rose in a daring slit to mid-thigh, revealing leggings of liquid mercury that shifted between solid and fluid, catching and scattering the hall’s torchlight into silent auroras.

Around her throat coiled a living choker: a slender serpent of pale fire that occasionally lifted its tiny draconic head to taste the air with a forked tongue of pure white flame. At her wrists, cuffs of blackened star-iron bore embedded geodes that cracked open like eyes when she gestured, releasing motes of slow-falling stardust that dissolved before touching the floor.

Her presence altered the space around her; the marble beneath her bare feet, for she wore no shoes, bloomed with hairline veins of soft gold that faded moments after she passed.

"This is Charmeine. She will guide you more around the places for the timeline."

With just those last words, the two of them were whisked away, as Azrail and Charmeine appeared in a more enclosed hallway, leading straight. There was a starlight-like arrangement in the ceiling, while certain calm whispers were spread around. First, Azrail focused his eyes on Charmeine, looking at the beauty who was looking back at him with almost a blank gaze.

’So this is her, the first among the connections and the first betrayer.’

Azrail’s thoughts were sharp as he spoke in a low voice

"Nice to meet you. My name is DeathMark. So how will we begin?"

Azrail let his words hang with casual politeness, but internally, he was fully alert. His tone wasn’t overly warm, not excessively distant just enough to show respect, enough not to sound intimidated.

Charmeine continued to stare at him with that clean, unreadable expression. For a second, she said nothing. Silence stretched like invisible silk.

Finally, she spoke. Her voice was soft, smooth, and completely neutral — but there was a hidden gravity underneath, as if every syllable was filtered through a mind that calculated a thousand silent vectors before it allowed sound to exist.

"Follow me."

That was all. She turned, her crystalline skirts shifting slightly like silent glass. Azrail began walking beside her — not behind her. That itself drew subtle attention.

Even here, around very powerful women, hierarchy was instinctively observed. Most beings who walked with a daughter of Hera would take a half-step behind her, even without realising they were doing it. Azrail did not.

Charmeine didn’t react on her face, but the space between her brows softened a fraction of a tiny micro-expression as if she had mentally noted it. Azrail noticed how her steps were noiseless. She walked barefoot, marble pulsed faint lines of gold under her feet that faded after each step like roots of light searching for soil.

Meanwhile, his boots made small muffled taps. They walked. The hallway was long, straight, and dim-lit with suspended globes of starlight embedded inside the ceiling — like constellations. The temperature was pleasantly warm, not oppressive, not cold. The air felt slightly perfumed with a sweet, almost golden scent — honey and metal.

The whispers that drifted through the air weren’t exactly sound. They were more like the residual imprint of thoughts left in the architecture. Azrail felt eyes.

They were not alone.

....

The first area — the gallery of forgotten queens.

Charmeine slowly tilted her chin to the side, indicating the archway to their right.

"This is the first area."

Azrail turned his head slightly and saw through the arch — and paused for half a heartbeat.

Inside that massive open chamber, statues went on and on, far enough that the horizon blurred. Tall marble women, all divine in posture, Hera’s first priestesses, first battle-maidens, first high consorts. But none of these women were remembered in Olympus. In the real timeline, their names were lost — replaced by stories and myths that erased their existence.

Here, in the All-Realm, Hera had carved them back into eternity. Charmeine continued:

"The Gallery of Forgotten Queens. Hera preserves the legacies of the women whose influence was erased."

Her tone changed slightly, still cool, but now there was a faint melancholy in the base note. Azrail recognised it immediately. There was grief in her voice — deep, hiding under the steel. He didn’t ask about it. Charmeine kept walking. Azrail followed.

The next corridor they entered had walls that weren’t walls — but liquid gold. Inside the flowing gold, ghost-images of past negotiations flickered in chronological order. Queens, goddess-level entities, titans, and things not meant to be named — negotiating with Hera. Some deals were signed with blood. Some with sacrifices. Some with marriage. Some with oaths.

Azrail glanced at Charmeine:

"And I assume this is where you archive all alliances Hera forms?"

She didn’t nod. She didn’t break stride.

"...Yes."

A long pause.

Then:

"All history here is real-time synchronised with the physical reality. We do not invent symbolic structures — we reflect them."

Azrail raised a brow.

"That is terrifyingly efficient."

"Correct."

Charmeine’s voice never warmed. But again Azrail caught the small flicker in her sapphire-gold eyes. Something behind her eyelids tightened for a brief second. Her resentment — the one he wasn’t allowed to talk about yet — was not against him.

It was for a different direction. He marked the pattern internally, but like a well-trained apex predator, he gave no sign.

They passed another intersection, and at that point, the friction finally exposed itself. Three angels were speaking together near the side, armoured in ceremonial celestial skins — light-black with violet fractal trims — all women, all tall, all powerful.

They turned as Azrail approached. Their eyes narrowed. Azrail could feel it immediately. This wasn’t a welcoming faction. This was a heavily defended, deeply prideful all-female bastion — and the first man was now walking inside their holy territory wearing a black death-cloak and introducing himself as "DeathMark".

Every primitive muscle-memory in their blood wanted to reject his existence.

Azrail faced them calmly, not challenging, not bending. Their eyes went to Charmeine. Charmeine didn’t stop. Charmeine didn’t show emotion. But those three women instinctively stepped back by one half-step as she passed. It wasn’t fear — it was recognition of rank. And because Azrail walked beside her, they gave him space too.

Azrail internally smiled. He had walked through deeper infernos. This place wasn’t going to intimidate him.