Divine Ascension: Reborn as a God of Power

Akhon walked alone along the winding marble path that curved through Demeter's lush garden—an edenic place far more orderly and cultivated than the one he remembered. No weeds, no wild overgrowth. Just rows upon rows of blooming flowers, golden grain swaying gently even without wind, and trees laden with ripe fruit that seemed almost too perfect.

But none of it brought comfort. He wasn't here for beauty.

He was here for Erytheia.

She had to be here. If what Athena said was true—that Erytheia served Persephone during Demeter's absences—then the garden was the place to search.

"Let this be the time," Akhon muttered, brushing a hand along a tall stalk of wheat as he passed. "Let her remember something."

He stepped around a flowering arch and stopped.

In a small open clearing at the center of the garden, a young woman sat on a stone bench. She had skin like fresh snow, hair the shade of onyx flowing down her shoulders, and a crown of flowers nestled in her locks. Persephone.

Akhon's breath hitched. Even in his reality, she'd been radiant. But this version… she carried a joy he hadn't seen before. A purity untouched by grief.

Persephone looked up and smiled when she noticed him.

"Lord Akhon," she greeted with a soft tone. "You honor our humble garden with your presence."

Akhon bowed slightly, then stepped closer, cautious. "I didn't expect to find you here."

"Where else would I be?" she replied with a tilt of her head, genuinely puzzled. "The seasons are calm, the earth is at peace. Mother and I have much to tend."

Akhon sat beside her, still observing her, uncertain. "What of Hades?"

Persephone blinked, her brow furrowing slightly. "Uncle Hades? I haven't seen him since the last solstice. Why?"

His jaw tightened. "You were never… taken to the Underworld?"

Her confusion deepened. "Taken? Gods, no! Why would such a thing happen? Hades is grim, but he would never do such a thing. Besides, Mother would never allow it. I stay here, where I belong." Your support on M|V|L8EMPYR keeps this series going.

Akhon turned away, his mind spinning. This place wasn't just an illusion or utopia—it was a complete rewriting of divine history.

"Are you all right?" Persephone asked gently.

"I came here looking for someone," he said slowly. "One of your attendants. A nymph. Her name is Erytheia."

Persephone lit up. "Ah! Yes, Erytheia is somewhere nearby. She was tending the grove. You just missed her."

Akhon stood. "Do you mind if I search for her?"

Persephone gave a graceful nod. "Of course not. She's usually by the olive trees, on the southern slope."

He thanked her with a strained smile and made his way along the indicated path. His heart pounded. Of all the Hesperides, Erytheia was the most skeptical. The most sharp-tongued. If anyone would recognize something was off—it had to be her.

He found her kneeling beside an olive tree, carefully trimming its branches. Her crimson hair was tied up in a braid, and her pale hands moved with gentle precision.

"Erytheia," he said, his voice cracking slightly.

She turned and smiled politely. "My lord Akhon."

He studied her face, but there was no flicker of recognition beyond what he might expect from any lesser deity. Just courteous professionalism.

"You don't remember me, do you?"

She paused, tilting her head. "Of course I remember you. You are one of Olympus' highest gods. I was present during your last festival, and I've heard my sisters speak well of your gardens."

"No," Akhon said, stepping closer. "I mean truly remember. The other world. Kaeron. The Hespérides. You, Hesperia, Aegle—you weren't gardeners or servants. You were guardians. Warriors."

Erytheia blinked slowly, like someone listening to poetry in a language they barely understood. "I think you're mistaken. I am no warrior, my lord. I've served Lady Persephone for centuries. I'm proud to tend her groves. As for… Kaeron? That's a ruin in Arcadia, is it not?"

Akhon clenched his fists. "No. Not a ruin. A city. It thrives. We built it. Together."

She stood then, softly brushing the leaves from her knees. "I'm sorry, Lord Akhon. Perhaps the stress of Olympus' duties has worn on you. I can prepare something calming, if you'd like."

He stepped away, breath shallow. "No. I… I shouldn't have expected otherwise."

Before she could reply, he vanished in a flash of divine light.

---

The light of the false Olympus felt no different than the real one. That was what disturbed him most.

Even now, with his heart heavier than ever, Akhon couldn't help but admire the view as he walked through the marble corridors toward his quarters. The sun hung perfectly in the sky, frozen in eternal late afternoon. Wind stirred lazily across hanging gardens. Incense wafted through air that was never too hot or too cold.

And all of it was a lie.

The grand doors of his personal chambers opened before him with a quiet creak. Inside, the soft scent of lavender greeted him, and the sound of a familiar voice.

"My lord," said Aegle, standing with a folded robe in her arms, her eyes lighting up at the sight of him. "You're back earlier than expected."

Akhon managed a small smile. "Yes… the meeting was shorter than I thought."

Aegle moved with her usual grace, placing the robe by the edge of the polished bed. "Shall I prepare tea? Or would you prefer the figs I brought from Helikon? They're fresh."

He hesitated, watching her. She was perfect—too perfect. Every movement refined, her tone always reverent, deferential. And yet… the warmth in her eyes, the quiet joy in seeing him—was that real? Or part of the illusion?

"No, thank you," he replied. "Just stay. If you're not too busy."

She tilted her head and smiled, sweetly confused. "I'm never too busy for you, my lord."

That hurt more than it should.

They sat together by the balcony, as they often did in this reality. Below, Olympus stretched out in impossible beauty. Beyond it, clouds rolled gently along a painted sky. Akhon said nothing at first. He simply watched Aegle pour a cup of tea for herself and sip delicately.

"You seem… troubled," she said eventually, setting the cup down with care.

He looked at her, really looked, searching for the smallest flicker of recognition. "Do you ever feel like… things aren't as they should be?"

Her brow furrowed faintly. "You mean, politically? There has been some minor unrest in Arcadia, but the Council assured—"

"No," he interrupted gently. "I mean reality itself. Like… maybe this world isn't real. That it's been changed."

Aegle blinked, clearly startled. "My lord… why would you say that?"

Akhon rubbed his face with both hands, suddenly tired. "Because I remember things that didn't happen here. I remember a world where you weren't just my handmaiden. You were… more. You weren't this distant."

She flushed lightly but laughed, polite and confused. "You honor me, my lord, but I've always served you in this capacity. Since the beginning. I don't know any other version of myself."

He closed his eyes, trying to suppress the frustration building in his chest. "Do you ever think about choice? About destiny? About the gods who weave it?"

Aegle sat back, pondering. "The Moirai?"

"Yes. Them."

She tilted her head again. "I suppose I've thought about them, once or twice. Their threadwork is absolute. But… I try not to dwell on such things. It would only make me feel powerless."

That word. Powerless.

It hit him like thunder. She didn't mean it the way he heard it, but still—it stuck.

Powerless.

He had never been that. And if what Hera said was true… then someone far more powerful had rewritten the fabric of Olympus to force him into this golden cage.

Someone had changed fate.

And if fate could be changed—then maybe it could be changed again.

"Aegle," he said suddenly, "do you know where the Moirai are now? Where they reside in this Olympus?"

She looked surprised, then a bit amused. "Well… that is a rather grim question. But yes, I believe they still dwell in the Cavern of Threads, beyond the Vale of Echoes. Few dare disturb them."

Akhon stood abruptly, pacing toward the edge of the balcony. The air seemed thinner now. Electric.

"Is something wrong?" Aegle asked, standing as well.

"No. Not wrong. Maybe… finally right."

"I don't understand."

"You don't need to," he said gently. "You've already helped more than you know."

She approached, concerned. "My lord, if you are unwell, perhaps speak to Asclepius. Or Athena. They always—"

"No!" His voice was sharper than intended. He softened. "No. I can't trust them. Not here. Not now."

He turned to face her. Aegle stood, hands clasped in front of her, unsure and trying not to show it.

"This place," he said, "this world… it's a song played slightly off-key. Beautiful, but not true. And I need to find the ones who control the tune."

"You mean the Fates," she whispered.

He nodded.

Aegle looked down, then met his eyes with something like worry—no, like affection she didn't understand. "Then… please be careful, my lord."

"I will."

And for a moment, he almost kissed her. Not out of desire—but because he missed her. The real her. The one who had fought beside him. Laughed with him. Argued with him. Cried in his arms when Kaeron burned.

But this wasn't her. Not truly.

So instead, he turned away and began to prepare.

Because if the Moirai still spun the threads of fate, then they might still remember the world before all this.

And maybe, just maybe, they could help him cut the thread that held this false Olympus together.