Divine Ascension: Reborn as a God of Power

The grand halls of Olympus shimmered beneath the late afternoon light, their golden pillars catching the rays of the descending sun. Akhon's steps echoed through the marble corridors, his mind heavy with doubt and fragments of memories that didn't quite fit into the world he now walked.

Everything looked right. It felt right, on the surface.

But beneath the polished surface of this "perfect" Olympus, cracks were showing. No one remembered what he did. No one remembered Kaeron. The Hesperides had been scattered like leaves in the wind, stripped of their roles and identities. And the gods—gods who should have been at odds—moved through Olympus like the closest of kin.

He turned a corner, following the sound of laughter, low and regal.

There they were.

Seated beneath a blooming laurel tree in one of Olympus' elevated gardens, three figures lounged in easy conversation: Zeus, with his thunder-bright eyes and a goblet of ambrosia in hand; Hades, clad in silks darker than midnight, swirling wine in his cup with detached amusement; and Poseidon, bare-chested, sea-salt clinging to his skin, letting out a hearty laugh that echoed off the polished walls.

Akhon stopped just before stepping into view, his brow furrowing.

That… wasn't right.

In his reality, these three couldn't stay in the same room for longer than a heartbeat without accusations, veiled threats, or outright war. The last time he had seen Zeus and Hades in the same space, the entire northern sky had turned red with lightning and flame.

And now… they were like old friends at a festival.

He stepped forward at last.

"Dear father and uncles," he said smoothly, "what a rare sight."

All three looked his way at once. Zeus smiled broadly, Hades gave a polite nod, and Poseidon tilted his head in curiosity.

"Akhon," Zeus greeted. "You missed the feast earlier. Hestia outdid herself with the roast boar."

"I'll try not to make a habit of it," Akhon replied, offering a half-smile. "May I join you?"

"Of course," said Hades, gesturing to an open marble bench. "We were reminiscing about the stars over Delos. You always liked that topic, didn't you?"

Akhon sat down slowly, eyes drifting between them. Their ease, their laughter—it made his skin crawl.

"Forgive the question," he said after a moment, "but something's been on my mind lately. The Fates—Clotho, Lachesis, Atropos—do any of you know where I might find them?"

The laughter died down slightly, though not entirely. Zeus raised an eyebrow. "The Fates? What an odd concern for a god in your position. You rarely mingled with them, even before."

"True," Akhon admitted, watching their expressions carefully. "But I've been… curious. About the fabric of destiny. How much of our lives are woven before us, and how much we truly shape."

"Philosophy now?" Poseidon chuckled. "Maybe you have been spending too much time with Athena."

Akhon forced a smile. "Guilty as charged."

The three gods exchanged vague shrugs and cryptic smiles, as if Akhon had just asked them for directions to the stars themselves.

"The Fates?" Poseidon asked, raising a brow. "They do not simply grant audiences."

"They're not even in Olympus anymore," Hades added, arms crossed. "They vanished years ago. Or so the whispers go."

Zeus simply nodded, thoughtful. "They still weave, of course. Somewhere. But no one sees them unless they want to be seen."

That answer frustrated Akhon more than it helped, but he masked it behind a calm nod. "Thank you."

Zeus gave a small wave of his hand, already turning back to the discussion they had resumed before his interruption—something about dolphin routes and celestial fish markets. Akhon left them behind, stepping out into the wide marble hallway that overlooked the silvery horizon.

He leaned against the edge of the balcony, letting the cool wind brush against his face. The fake Olympus—the utopia crafted to hold him—was too perfect. Too polished. He looked up at the sky, then down at the golden paths winding through sculpted gardens and glimmering halls. Somewhere beneath all this grandeur was a truth hiding, and if the Fates really still weaved, they would know.

The journey had to start now.

He turned away from the palace and walked with purpose. Aegle had said something earlier, offhanded, that lingered in his mind like a riddle:

"Threads unravel if you pull at them hard enough. But maybe that's what makes them real, right?"

At the time it sounded like a poetic comment about garden ivy, but the moment he heard it, something sparked. Threads. Unravel. Real.

Maybe she hadn't meant it that way. Maybe she did.

But it was enough.

He passed through the long halls of Olympus, silent and tall like the bones of an eternal beast. No one stopped him. No guards stood watch. The gods here were too comfortable, too at ease in this made-up paradise. No one expected rebellion in paradise. My Virtual Library Empire (M|V|LE1MPYR) thanks you for reading at the source.

Akhon descended through paths of clouds and staircases made of light. His destination wasn't clear, but he remembered the old tales. The Fates never stayed still. They wandered between the lines of reality. But they had been known to favor old crossroads, where choices and destinies converged.

He left Olympus behind, traveling down from its ethereal height to where the divine world touched the mortal. The skies turned softer, tinged with morning hues. The perfect air turned crisp. The first realm he passed through was not unfamiliar—Delphi, or something like it. But the Oracle's temple was silent, empty, the flames cold.

He approached the altar, ran his fingers along the ancient stone. No ashes. No prophecies. The priestess here had not spoken in years, if ever.

"Not here," he whispered to himself.

He moved on.

Past forests of glassy trees and rivers that ran backward through time, Akhon wandered, searching for signs. A tangle in the thread. A thread of gold in the air. A whisper.

But he found only perfection.

An orchard tended by nymphs who smiled but said nothing. Villages with no hunger, no illness, no struggle. Statues of the gods posed in serene triumph.

He passed a child who sketched with golden chalk on white stone. Her drawing was of a serpent biting its tail.

"Ouroboros," he murmured.

The girl smiled but didn't respond.

Akhon kept walking.

Days might have passed. Or minutes. Time was strange here.

He sought out places where fate should have gathered—battlefields, burial sites, altars. But they were all too clean. Whitewashed by a world that didn't allow imperfection.

The more he searched, the more he noticed the sameness.

No shadow seemed to cast longer than it should. There was no withering flowers and fear seemed to have gone extinct.

It was paradise on Earth but for some reason everything seemed like it was still.

Artificial.

Finally, on the slope of a quiet valley, he found something unusual: a tree twisted in half, its bark blackened by lightning. The grass around it had not grown back. A scar in paradise.

Akhon knelt and touched the charred wood.

It pulsed. Although, it did that only once.

But it was enough.

On that place, clearly was a break. So that meant that the Fates might pass there.

He left an offering at the tree's base—a small, jagged coin he carried from the real world, worn from Kaeron's early days. He pressed it into the bark.

"If you can hear me," he said quietly, "I need you. I need truth. I need the thread that leads me home."

The wind stirred and the grass shivered.

But no voice or presence came.

He stood slowly and looked to the horizon.

If the Fates moved in shadows, then he would move with them. If they passed by broken places, then he would seek out every scar in this too-perfect world.

Akhon turned from the blackened tree, the weight of his silent vow settling over him like a second skin. The wind no longer felt still—it whispered now, soft and low, rustling through the distant hills as though carrying a secret.

Then he heard it.

It was like a thread's hum.

Faint and delicate. But completely unmistakable.

Not a sound exactly—more like a tension in the air, like when two opposing forces pulled at the same string, stretching it across realms.

He paused, his senses sharpening.

Far ahead, beyond the golden fields and perfect orchards, a mountain stood that hadn't been there before. Shrouded in mist. It was quiet and frankly out of place.

Akhon narrowed his eyes.

No road led to it. No name marked it.

And yet…

It felt old. Older than Olympus. Older than this illusion.

Perhaps a place where the Fates had once passed—or still did.

He adjusted his cloak, tightened the grip on his spear, and walked forward.

Not toward glory.

But toward a question that no god had dared to ask in this place:

What happens when the threads themselves want to be cut?

And with that thought in his heart, Akhon's journey truly began.

He would find them, even if it qas the last thing he did. And he would undo whatever this place was.