Chaos’s Daughter: Sweet But Psycho

Chapter 42: Scheming

The silence in the throne room stretched taut—like the moment before a glass shatters.

Every god and goddess sat frozen, backs ramrod straight, expressions somewhere between reverence and abject panic. Even Dionysus, who was normally halfway into his second wine bath by now, had sobered up enough to hide behind a nymph statue.

Hespera floated forward with the calm certainty of someone who knew the room belonged to her.

And the room knew it too.

The marble under her feet refused to echo. The columns straightened. The walls stopped creaking. Even the ambrosia in the goblets stopped swirling—as if Olympus itself feared to distract her.

She halted at the base of the dais where the thrones of the Twelve stood in gleaming, desperate defiance.

Zeus sat upon the highest of them, gripping his lightning bolt like a stress toy. His hair was still slightly frazzled from their last encounter. His beard? Singed at the tips. His eyes? Wide. Definitely sweating under the toga.

Hespera tilted her head. “You look rough, Thunderpants.”

Zeus bared his teeth like a dog. “You stabbed me! Me! No one has ever stabbed me before.”

“You flirted with me after being disguised as my niece,” she replied sweetly, fluttering her eyelashes. “Be glad I didn’t neuter you. And you can't tell me no one has wanted to stab you before. I'm not sorry to tell you Zeus, but you're a very unlikeable guy.”

A suppressed snort echoed across the chamber. Hermes was covering his face. Athena’s lips twitched. Artemis looked too satisfied.

Hespera turned her gaze to the thrones, one by one.

Apollo, reclining with forced casualness, swallowed.

Aphrodite blew her a kiss. “You’re prettier than the rumors.”

“I know,” Hespera purred. "I have met your Roman counterpart and I have to say Ditey... she's prettier."

Aphrodite’s face twisted in fierce wrath. "How dare—"

“Anyway.” Hespera waved her hand dismissively, turning her back on Aphrodite mid-snarl — a move that in any other scenario would’ve triggered divine war.

The goddess of love actually sputtered. Sputtered.

“You—! You dare—!”

“Oh, hush, Ditey,” Hespera cooed over her shoulder. “It’s not like you invented beauty. You just… exploited it better than most.”

Aphrodite rose to her feet, radiating so much offended vanity that even the air seemed to pout. “You insufferable chaos-born harlot!”

Hespera turned, mock-gasping as she clutched her chest.

“You say that like it’s an insult. Chaos-born harlot is practically my business card.”

Apollo gave a sharp wheeze of laughter before quickly hiding behind his lyre when Aphrodite shot him a glare.

Poseidon leaned forward on his trident. “Still full of attitude, I see. What happened to all that divine decorum you used to parade around with back in the old days?”

“Oh, Uncle Saltwater, that died along with my patience,” Hespera said sweetly, snapping her fingers to conjure a perfect tiny seashell… which immediately shattered in her palm. “But don't worry. I kept the sarcasm.”

Athena raised a brow. “And your respect for tradition?”

“Filed somewhere between 'irrelevant' and 'dead to me,’” Hespera replied, smiling brightly. “Also in the trash.”

Hermes scribbled furiously. “Hespera vs. Literally Everyone” was the new header.

Artemis crossed her arms. “You walk in here slinging insults like arrows and expect what? Cooperation?”

Hespera tapped her chin thoughtfully. “Well… no. But I do expect entertainment. And speaking of slinging insults, did you know that my twin had a fling with your Roman counterpart? Even had a kid. And here I thought you two pledged chastity or whatever. Eternal virgins, right? Guess that’s off the table, huh Arty. Lesbian sex still counts afterall.”

She then winked at the Greek huntress, earning wrathful hate in Artemis.

Hespera glanced sideways at Ares, who was watching the entire exchange with unrestrained glee and a mouthful of ambrosia chicken.

“Ares,” she said, “good to see you’re still pretty and useless.”

He choked. “I’m the god of war!”

“You’re the god of raging testosterone,” she replied. “War is just how you flirt. Athena’s way better at war.”

From the side, Erytheia casually raised a scorecard: “10/10”

Khrysothemis added, “Mother’s on fire today.”

Zeus finally snapped. “Silence!”

Hespera blinked. Then cupped a hand to her ear.

“I’m sorry, I couldn’t hear you over the sound of your over inflated ego. I almost pity that wife of yours. Almost. She did allow all your infidelity to continue after an millennia or so. I understand she's the goddess of marriage, but there should be a line that can't be crossed.”

Hespera narrowed her eyes as Zeus surged to his feet, lightning crackling up his arm like a tantrum wrapped in ego. The sky above Olympus darkened again, thunder howling through the cracks in the ceiling like a stormdog begging for attention.

“Oh, put it away, Sparky,” she drawled, not even flinching. “You throw one tantrum every time someone doesn’t stroke your—uh, staff. Honestly, if I wanted to hear thunder and disappointment, I’d go talk to my ex lover... who just so happens to be Arty's kid as well.”

A low oooohhh rippled through the hall. Even Dionysus spat out his wine laughing.

Athena exhaled sharply through her nose.

Artemis, still red from the Roman twin comment, snapped, “How dare you sprout such lies?!”

Hespera turned to her with faux surprise. “Oh, was it not true? Damn. Guess I just hallucinated her baby photos. My bad.”

Artemis growled. Growled.

Aphrodite, not to be outdone in the wrath department, stood again with divine fire blooming around her. “I am the most beautiful—!”

“You were,” Hespera said sweetly, cutting her off with surgical precision. “But you peaked somewhere between Helen and Instagram.”

The room gasped.

Ares dropped his ambrosia chicken.

Apollo clutched his lyre like it might protect him.

Even Poseidon had scooted slightly away from his family, eyes flicking toward the door like he might bolt.

“ENOUGH—” Zeus bellowed.

“Yes, I think that's enough.”

The voice wasn’t loud. But it cut through the chaos like a knife through wax.

Everyone stopped. Every divine head turned.

And there she stood—

Hestia.

Radiant in her simplicity. A warm white robe, hair pinned back in gold filigree, soft eyes glowing with the steady light of a hearth untouched by war.

She didn’t shimmer. She didn’t blaze.

She simply was.

And every god in the room remembered exactly why the eldest sister of the Olympians was not to be ignored.

“I will not have my dining hall become a battlefield,” Hestia said, walking forward with graceful resolve. “Not today. Not for pride. Not for wounded egos.”

Zeus opened his mouth again, but Hestia didn’t even look at him.

“Put the bolt down, brother,” she said, already turning away. “Your chicken is getting cold the more you talk.”

He froze.

Then obeyed.

Hespera tilted her head slightly. A smirk curled her lips, but it was less cruel now. A little more… respectful.

Hestia stopped beside her.

“Hespera Eveningstar,” she said warmly, as if she weren’t surrounded by barely contained deicide, “Will you be staying for dinner?”

There was a beat.

A pause.

Then Hespera gave a slow shrug.

“Well, that depends,” she said, rubbing the back of her neck. “Do you have strawberry cake?”

Hestia smiled.

“Three kinds.”

Hespera grinned. “Then yes. I’ll stay.”

The gods sighed in silent relief.

Zeus slumped back into his seat, mumbling under his breath.

And Hespera—Chaos incarnate, firestarter of the divine—followed Hestia like a surprisingly well-behaved hurricane toward the dining hall.

~?~

The Feast of Fates was one of Olympus' oldest traditions — a symbolic gesture of unity, diplomacy, and power.

The long table stretched beneath an open sky, framed by marble columns laced with vines and burning braziers. Platters of celestial fruits, meats glazed with ambrosia, and goblets of wine enchanted to swirl without ever spilling lay waiting.

And at the head of it all, seated like she owned the feast — was Hespera.

Still glowing from her fun, sharp-eyed and elegant, her twelve wings folded behind her in perfect celestial symmetry. She laughed lightly as Erytheia told a story about accidentally setting a river god’s beard on fire. Kuroka was curled in her lap, tail flicking against Hespera’s stomach, purring as she fed her fig slices dipped in pomegranate syrup.

But not everyone was amused.

At the far end of the table, clustered in quiet, calculated discussion, were five figures.

Zeus. Hera. Artemis. Apollo. Dionysus.

And the plan was already in motion.

“She’s dangerous.” Hera's voice was clipped, her golden goblet held in a death grip. “She mocked the throne, insulted us, and dares to speak of rewriting the divine balance.”

“She is Chaos,” Zeus growled. “Not metaphorically. Not mythologically. Literally. If she is allowed to move freely—Olympus will fall.”

Artemis, stone-faced, nodded. “We’ll do it during the feast. She’s distracted. Vulnerable. My arrow can pierce the heart of anything living.”

“And the wine,” Hera added, “will carry the poison of Lethe’s bloom. Silent. Painless. Absolute.”

Apollo hesitated. “She hasn’t done anything yet—”

“She will,” Artemis cut in coldly. “You know it.”

Zeus glared. “Apollo. You will play. Disarm her with your song.”

The god of light looked away.

“And Dionysus?” Hera asked.

The wine god sighed. “I’ve enchanted the drink. She won’t smell it. She won’t taste it. But… it’ll work.”

Zeus’s voice rumbled like the beginnings of a storm.

“If the poison fails. If the arrow misses. I will end it myself.”

~?~

Back at Hespera’s table, the mood was light, deceptively casual.

Aigle animatedly recounted how Ladon once accidentally ate a so-called hero who had spent twenty minutes monologuing about his destined glory before even reaching the garden. Khrysothemis was howling into her absinthe, and Erytheia was drawing increasingly obscene caricatures of Zeus on a napkin made of condensed stardust.

But Hespera?

Hespera’s eyes weren’t on her daughters.

Her gaze drifted—just for a second—to the long table across the feast.

Where five gods whispered behind golden goblets and carefully folded smiles.

Where betrayal glinted in the stem of a wine glass.

Where plans were being made.

An amused smirk danced across her lips like the curve of a blade being unsheathed.

And then—

It vanished.

Replaced by a soft, vacant expression as she raised her cup to her lips.

A sip.

A hum.

“Hmm,” she murmured, the wine rolling on her tongue like prophecy. “It’s about that time I tried that racial skill out.”

She tilted her head slightly, feeling the poison begin to bloom like a black lotus in her chest.

Her eyes shimmered with something beyond comprehension.

“Properly this time.”

Her fingers relaxed. The goblet slipped from her hand.

And before anyone could react—before even Kuroka could twitch toward her—

Hespera collapsed.

Dead weight. Eyes glassy. Breath gone.

Her body slumped sideways against her chair, arms limp, wings drooping like dying stars.

~?~

Far beyond the fractured threads of the DxD universe, past the limits of angels and demons, gods and myths—within the timeless, dreaming folds of the Dimensional Realms—the air shuddered.

And the laughter stopped.

Chaos, the Primordial of Formless Unmaking, froze mid-cackle.

Their heterochromatic eyes, one abyssal silver, the other blinding gold, flared with ancient knowing. The eternal swirl of chaos upon their forehead pulsed softly—reactive.

Death stirred next.

Veiled in a void-black dress adorned with skulls and wearing a wide-brimmed hat like a crown, her violet eyes narrowed beneath the newly made hat (this one had a magenta feather). Where she stood, the veil between life and afterlife thinned. She smiled faintly, lips curling like the edge of a sickle.

Rebirth, dressed in ceremonial reds with silver hair spilling around obsidian horns, scowled. His mismatched gold and garnet jewelry clinked softly as he rose to his feet, the divine heat of reincarnation dancing off his skin like wildfire caught in mourning.

They all felt it.

The pulse.

The fracture.

The flare of power both ancient and new.

She had died. Again.

But this time… something changed.

The next evolution had been triggered.

The three beings who bore soul-bonds with her—by blood, by love, by creation—felt the cataclysmic shift ripple through the fabric of what was and what should never be.

Chaos blinked slowly. Then grinned. “Yay~. The Fragment I left in her… finally integrated! She’s finally a living echo of—"

"—?>????v.”