Divine Ascension: Reborn as a God of Power

The scent of blooming ambrosia filled the air as Hera walked slowly through the marbled colonnades of the new Olympus, her fingers brushing gently over the golden ivy that climbed the smooth pillars. The air was still—calm, perfect, without the clamor of war, without the biting edge of betrayal or politics. This was how it was always meant to be. A pantheon in harmony. A world without cracks.

She stopped at the edge of the central garden, overlooking the radiant expanse of sky where clouds rolled lazily across a canvas of endless blue. The sun bathed the garden in golden light, and for a moment, she closed her eyes and simply listened.

Birds chirped melodiously among the trees. Somewhere, soft laughter echoed between the marble corridors. Even the fountains sang with grace and balance.

This is peace, she thought.

Not the illusion of it—the temporary treaties and brittle truces of the old age—but real peace. One where Zeus did not scheme, Poseidon did not rage, and even Hades, reclusive and withdrawn, joined their conversations with warmth in his tone. Hera had seen them together only days ago, their faces lit by the glow of ambrosia wine, speaking not as rival brothers, but as family. That alone would have been impossible in the world before.

Her steps carried her toward the western wing, where the statues of the Twelve stood. She glanced over each one, pausing briefly at her own likeness. She looked regal, powerful, her head high, the folds of her robe carved with divine precision.

But it was the thirteenth statue that caught her attention—Akhon.

There he stood, lightning in hand, strength in his pose, his eyes carved as if he were peering into eternity. The newest god in Olympus, or so everyone believed. Power and electricity, son of Zeus, beloved by many.

A soft pang touched her heart—not regret. She had long learned to keep that emotion at bay. It was a different feeling now. Relief, perhaps, that he no longer remembered.

He walked Olympus with grace and poise again. No more questions. No more digging. No more threats of collapse. That other life—Kaeron, the Hesperides, the invasions—was all dust now. The mist had taken it all, like waves pulling footprints from the sand.

And yet, even now, Hera still didn't fully understand why he mattered so much to the one who made this all possible.

She sat by a crystalline bench beside a cluster of red-petaled lotuses and looked out over the hills of light that rose behind the palace. The thought returned to her.

The being—the Mist—had approached her not with threats, but with promises.

Promises of unity. Of perfection. Of order.

Hera had been skeptical at first. Gods had tried to reshape the world before. They had failed.

But this one had not come with brute force or ambition. It came with control, with design. It offered her a vision of Olympus as it should have been: undivided, eternal, admired by mortals and unburdened by time or memory.

At first, she hadn't even wanted Akhon to be part of it. Why include the one god whose presence unraveled so many plans? But the Mist had insisted. Gently. Firmly. As if it needed him.

And now, Hera watched him walk beside Athena in the distance—laughing, nodding, relaxed. Just like any other young Olympian noble.

Akhon didn't remember the pain in his voice. The rage when he discovered the illusion. The fire in his eyes when he said he would tear it all down to reclaim what was real.

Now he was smiling. The world was in balance.

Still, Hera couldn't help but wonder.

Why him?

Why not erase him entirely? Why bring him back at all?

The Mist hadn't told her. It had left her with that one answer she despised more than any:

"You wouldn't understand."

She took a deep breath and stood up, pushing the thought aside. Everything was working. The pieces were aligned. If the Mist had secrets, they were not her burden to carry. Not anymore.

She strolled deeper into the gardens where nymphs tended the orchards and dryads laughed among the branches. It reminded her of the earliest days of Olympus, before the Titanomachy, when even Kronos still watched the stars in silence.

In many ways, this was a return to that time—but cleaner, clearer. The messy parts, the memories, the rebellions… all were gone.

"Lady Hera," a voice called softly.

She turned to see Hesperia, carrying a tray of fruit and honeyed wine. She bowed respectfully.

"Would you care for something sweet? It's fresh from the orchard."

Hera nodded. "Just the wine."

Hesperia poured delicately and stepped back. She looked… content. Not like a rebel or a servant of Némesis. Here, she was only another courtly attendant.

"You enjoy your work?" Hera asked, not out of interest, but from a passing curiosity.

"Yes, my queen. Every day is peaceful. And the palace is more beautiful than I could have imagined."

That much was true.

She watched the nymph go and took a sip of the wine. It tasted like roses and moonlight.

Still, in the corner of her mind, something stirred. The fates were gone. The threads had been sealed. The world was perfectly arranged… and yet she felt the smallest tremor in the foundation.

Akhon.

He had stopped asking questions. But how long would that last?

Hera glanced again toward where she'd seen him with Athena. They were gone now, perhaps walking the upper terraces or dining in the golden halls.

She whispered softly, almost to herself, "Let him stay happy this time."

And then she walked away, the Queen of Olympus under a sky that never darkened. Alwаys rеаd frоm thе sоurсе: М|V|LЕ4МРYR.

However, suddenly she felt how a cool breeze swept through the air, brushing against her veil, and she closed her eyes. She knew he was coming. Not a god, not a titan, but something far more ancient. Something even she had never dared to name aloud in earlier eras.

"You never call ahead, do you?" she said without turning around.

From the shadows, the presence emerged. Not with steps, but with an absence of sound — a void sliding through reality itself. The purple mist rolled in from the columns, swirling gently into a vague shape that spoke without a mouth, its voice ancient and smooth, like polished obsidian.

"I find formality rather tedious, Hera. You of all should know this by now."

She sipped from her goblet, forcing her tone to remain light. "I assumed you'd want to gloat. Now that he's... peaceful."

The mist pulsed slightly, the faintest echo of amusement within it. "He believes he's always been a god of Olympus. Son of Zeus. Loyal. Content. Just as you envisioned."

"Not quite as I envisioned," she corrected, narrowing her eyes. "I never asked for his mind to be erased entirely. I just wanted him… still. Not undone."

"Ah," said Chaos, his form swirling around a marble pillar like smoke tasting the air. "But you didn't object when it became necessary. And you knew, even if you didn't say it, that he would never accept this world if he remembered the old one."

Hera clenched her jaw but said nothing. That was the truth — a truth she had avoided staring at for too long.

"Tell me," she asked, "why was he so important to you? You made me change the entire Olympus to include him — even when I argued he didn't belong here. That he would reject it. Why?"

The mist was silent for a moment. Hera had asked this before, many times in their long collaboration, and always the answer had been vague, cryptic, unsatisfying.

But this time, the mist changed. Its form shifted, condensed. The swirls began to spiral inward, folding in on themselves until the cloud dimmed and shaped itself into the silhouette of a man — tall, featureless, wrapped in robes of shadow and energy. A flickering crown of void hovered above its unseen head.

Hera's breath caught in her throat. "You're taking a form…?"

"After all these years," Chaos said calmly, "I believe you've earned the right to see who you've been working with."

She stepped back instinctively, her divine senses overwhelmed by the intensity of the being now taking shape before her. Not a god. Not a titan. Not even something she could place within the cosmic order of creation.

"You're not part of this world," she murmured.

"No. I am older than the titans and the gods alike. I am the stillness before the spark. The endless potential before the first thought. I am what came before... and what waits after."

"You're Chaos," Hera whispered.

He inclined his head. "A name mortals gave me. But not inaccurate."

A thousand questions surged to her tongue, but Hera forced them back. She was not some trembling nymph discovering magic for the first time. She was Hera, Queen of Olympus. Even if her ally was… what he claimed.

"So why Akhon?" she asked, her voice firm again. "Why him, specifically? He was a rising god, yes. But not essential. Not irreplaceable."

"You misunderstand," Chaos said. "It is not what he was. It is what he could become. In the original thread of existence, Akhon was not bound to Olympus. He was destined to surpass it."

Hera frowned. "Surpass? What do you mean?"

"His potential was… unique. Born of a mortal realm yet ascending beyond it through raw belief. He was not given divinity — he earned it, shaped it, made others believe. That type of power isn't bound by the rules of Olympus. Not even by the rules of Fate."

"And that threatened you?" Hera asked cautiously.

"Not threatened," Chaos replied. "But intrigued. Inspired. I do not fear gods, Hera. I forged the clay they were sculpted from. But I saw in Akhon the spark of a future I could not predict — and that, to me, is sacred."

"So you needed him controlled," she said bitterly.

"I needed him close. And you were the key to that. You gave him a home, even if it was an illusion. You gave him a role. And now, he is resting. The storm has passed."

Hera turned her gaze back toward the horizon. She wanted to feel relief — but she didn't. Not fully.

"And if he remembers?" she asked.

Chaos didn't answer immediately. Instead, he floated to the edge of the balcony, where reality shimmered just beyond the veil of Olympus.

"If he remembers," he said at last, "then we will see what he becomes. And whether Olympus can hold him."

His form began to dissolve again into mist, fading like a dream upon waking.

"One last thing, Chaos," Hera said before he vanished entirely. "If you could see that far into his future… why let him forget at all?"

The mist pulsed one final time, almost thoughtfully.

"Because I wanted to see what kind of god he would become without burden."

Then, he was gone.

Hera stood alone again, the goblet in her hand now warm and untouched. The world she had built still glittered beneath her feet, perfect, ordered, serene.

But now, even with its perfection, the shadows seemed deeper than before.