Divine Ascension: Reborn as a God of Power

There was no path.

No divine trail, no footprints carved by time or ritual. The land before Akhon was wild and untamed, as if even the earth itself recoiled from being walked upon. Yet he moved forward, undeterred.

The mountain loomed ahead — larger now, though still cloaked in a strange mist. It shimmered faintly, like it didn't belong, like it had been stitched into this world from another. And that was precisely why he knew it was real.

Something had responded to his offering.

Something older than Hera's illusion.

With each step, the world behind him grew quieter. Olympus, with all its flawless geometry and soft golden glow, seemed distant now — as though he had already crossed some invisible threshold. The air grew cooler, thinner. The chirping of birds faded into silence. Even the wind held its breath.

He passed through a grove that seemed caught mid-wither. The trees were still alive, but their bark had grown dark and cracked. The flowers here were pale imitations of the ones higher up in Olympus — not lifeless, but real. Their scent was faint and earthy, nothing like the perfumed sweetness that clung unnaturally to the utopia he had left behind.

For the first time since waking in this false paradise, Akhon felt the weight of the world again — the resistance of the ground beneath his feet, the rhythm of his own breath, the dull ache of muscles strained by travel.

He welcomed it.

Then, a voice.

Gentle. Soft as falling leaves.

"You shouldn't be here."

He stopped, muscles tensing instinctively. He looked around but saw no one.

"Who's there?" he asked, his voice steady.

The silence returned, but only briefly.

From behind one of the twisted trees, a figure stepped out. Clad in silver-gray robes that shimmered like woven moonlight, a woman stared at him with eyes far too old for her youthful face. Her hair was white as bone, braided in a single coil that fell to her waist.

"You've stepped outside the design," she said, not with anger but concern. "They won't like that."

Akhon frowned. "They?"

She tilted her head, almost curious. "The ones who hold the loom now. This world isn't governed by the old hands anymore."

"You're not one of the Fates, are you?"

A brief smile ghosted her lips. "No. But I serve something close."

He took a cautious step closer. "Then you know where they are."

The woman didn't move. "Why would you seek them?"

"To undo this," Akhon said, gesturing around them. "This false world. The utopia. I didn't ask for it. None of this was right. And I don't believe it was meant to be."

For the first time, her expression darkened. She looked at him, not with anger, but pity.

"There is no 'meant to be' anymore. The thread was cut. What you had, what you remember — it was unraveling long before they remade it. Hera simply caught the pieces." The genuine article resides on M|V|L&EMPYR.

"She didn't do it alone," Akhon muttered. "She said she had help. Someone — or something — powerful. More powerful than I could imagine."

The woman nodded slowly. "She was right."

Akhon's voice dropped. "Then why am I still here? Why keep me?"

To that, she said nothing. She merely turned and began to walk deeper into the mist, as though expecting him to follow.

After a moment, he did.

The terrain became jagged, and the air heavier with each step. The mountain no longer looked like something divine, but something primordial. Its base was wrapped in roots as thick as ships, and its face bore carvings — not of gods, but of threads. Endless, swirling patterns of woven linework, spiraling toward a dark entrance in the stone.

She stopped before the entrance.

"They won't see you. Not yet."

Akhon's brow furrowed. "Then what am I supposed to do?"

"Walk," she said simply. "Climb. Seek."

He stared into the cave. It pulsed faintly with a reddish glow, like embers deep within a dying fire.

"If I keep going… will I find them?"

"Maybe," she said. "Or maybe you'll find something older. Something forgotten. Not even they know how deep the weave truly goes."

Before he could ask more, she was gone — vanished like morning mist.

Left alone, Akhon stood at the entrance, staring into the darkness. For a moment, he hesitated. The safety, the ease of Olympus beckoned like a memory. But it was false. All of it. Even Aegle's warmth. Even the stars Hera had offered him to watch from the terrace. None of it was his.

This… this pain, this uncertainty — this was real.

He stepped into the cave and it swallowed him whole.

The cave consumed light like a living thing.

As Akhon stepped inside, the warm glow of the false Olympus behind him faded completely. Shadows wrapped around his form, thick and heavy, like oil clinging to skin. Yet the air wasn't cold — it was still. Oppressive, but not lifeless.

His footsteps echoed against unseen walls, and his own breath seemed unnaturally loud. The faint red glow deep within the tunnel pulsed softly, like a heartbeat guiding him forward. But it wasn't a fire. It wasn't even heat. It was something older. Something watching.

The carvings on the walls continued — no longer mere spirals or threadwork. Now they depicted eyes, hands, and scissors. Ancient symbols of fate, tangled with scenes of gods falling and rising again, timelines breaking like glass, stars bleeding from unseen wounds.

Akhon brushed one of the carvings with his fingers. The stone felt… warm. Not freshly carved. Not touched by divine fire. But alive.

"They see you," a voice whispered in his mind.

He spun around. No one.

But the pressure had changed. He wasn't alone.

He pressed forward.

The tunnel narrowed, forcing him to duck under roots that had clawed through the stone ceiling like veins of a dying god. Whispers curled around his ears — not voices, but memories. Aegle's laughter. The rush of divine power. The chants of Kaeron's people. His first step into Olympus. His last step out of the mortal world.

All echoing at once.

"This isn't just a place," he muttered. "It's a test."

Suddenly, the path forked.

To the left: a tunnel shrouded in frost and quiet, the air brittle and blue. To the right: a tunnel of warmth and gold, where he thought he heard the soft crackle of firewood and smelled fresh bread.

But he knew better.

He stepped forward, forging a third path through the crumbling stone.

The mountain reacted.

The earth trembled. Loose rocks rained from above. For a moment, it felt as though the cave would collapse — and maybe it would have, for anyone else. But Akhon wasn't just walking anymore. He was resisting.

Something hissed in the dark. A gust of air that didn't belong swept past him, brushing his ear like a whisper.

"You tear what should remain woven…"

He stopped. "Then show yourselves."

Silence. Then the walls began to hum.

No — vibrate.

He turned slowly.

From the red pulse ahead, figures emerged.

Not fully formed — silhouettes of thread and shadow, with long arms and heads crowned by broken halos. Their faces were veiled by shifting strands of silk. They didn't walk. They glided.

And one by one, they pulled thread from their own bodies, stretching it between pale fingers like spiderwebs.

"You are not fated to be here," one said. Her voice was not a sound — it was a tension in the air, like a plucked string vibrating behind his eyes.

"And yet you step deeper into the Loom," said the second, drawing symbols in the air with her thread.

The third remained silent, simply watching.

Akhon took a breath. "I seek the Fates."

"They are not here," said the first.

"They have been… replaced," said the second.

"By who?"

The third spoke at last. Her voice was dust and memory.

"They who rewove Olympus. They who dream in Hera's shadow. They who do not die, but drift. You call them gods. But they are new. And they fear the old ways."

Akhon stepped closer. "Then help me find what remains. I don't want the dream. I want the truth. Even if it cuts."

The three shadows tilted their heads in perfect unison. Then, almost as if pleased, the threads they held began to hum.

"You have chosen," they said together.

And the world around him changed.

The cave twisted, expanding into a vast chamber — circular, and impossibly tall. Above him, hundreds of glowing threads hung from the ceiling like stars. Each thread pulsed with life, weaving into others, knotting, fraying, tangling.

He stepped into the middle of the chamber, and the walls came alive.

Visions surged to life in the stone.

He saw himself — not once, but many times.

One version of him died at birth. Another became a tyrant. One sat on Olympus as Zeus' heir, golden-crowned and bored. Another walked among mortals, a healer with no name. And in one final vision, he stood alone, cloaked in shadow, holding a thread that bled fire.

"You are not chosen by prophecy," said one of the shadows.

"You are chosen by defiance," said another.

"And defiance always comes with a price," said the third.

Akhon looked up at the threads.

One glowed brighter than the rest — pulsing like a second heart.

He raised his hand.

And the thread lowered to meet him.