Cronus' system: Against the gods

Who is a god? What is a god? What is a god's purpose?

These questions had been asked since the dawn of time. By mortals who feared the unknown. By rulers who sought power beyond their grasp. By warriors who wanted to defy fate itself.

Some say a god is a being of absolute power, one who transcends mortality and commands forces beyond comprehension. Others claim a god is an idea, a symbol born from belief, given strength by the devotion of those who worship.

But history has proven that gods are neither untouchable nor invincible. They bleed. They fall. And when they do, new gods rise to take their place.

A god does not simply come into existence. They are forged—by time, by legend, by the collective will of those who revere or fear them.

Some ascend through raw power, their strength so vast that the universe itself bends to their will. Others emerge through faith, their names whispered in prayer, their myths shaping the very fabric of reality.

Yet, for all their might, even gods have origins. Some were once mortal, their ambition driving them beyond the limits of their flesh. Others were forces of nature, given names and purpose by those who sought to understand the chaos of the world.

And then, there are the ones who were made. Crafted by hands both divine and profane, designed for war, for destruction, for control. These gods are not born—they are built.

Some are shaped in celestial forges, molded by the hands of beings older than time itself, infused with the essence of the cosmos.

Others are the result of mortal ambition, constructed through forbidden rituals, bound by contracts written in blood, their very existence a defiance of the natural order.

Some are nothing more than tools crafted to serve, conquer, and embody ideals beyond human reach. But power, once granted, rarely remains controlled. A god made for war does not forget the taste of blood. A god built for worship may one day demand it.

Yet creation alone is not enough. These gods must be given purpose and identity. A name, a legend, a place in the grand design. Without these, they are hollow husks, echoes of divinity without true dominion.

Some accept their roles, embracing the will of their makers, reveling in the power bestowed upon them. Others rebel, casting off their chains, seeking their own path, their own myth. It is in this struggle that they transcend mere existence, forging their own destiny, and proving that even those who are built can become something more.

For in the end, it is not just power that defines a god, it is the story they carve into the world. And whether born, ascended, or created, every god must ask the same question: Am I the master of my fate, or merely the instrument of another's will?

To be a god is to stand above. But what does that truly mean? Is it power? Dominion? Immortality?

A god is not defined by strength alone. If that were the case, the strongest warrior could claim godhood. No—a god is something more. A god exists outside the natural order, bending it to their will rather than obeying its laws. A god is sovereign.

Some rule over elements, commanding fire, ice, lightning with a mere thought. Others dominate through influence, weaving fate itself, dictating the rise and fall of empires. There are gods of war, gods of wisdom, gods of death and rebirth. Each serves a role, a function. But is that truly their purpose?

Or are they merely prisoners of their own myths?

Does a god exist to be worshiped? To be feared? To guide mortals, or to rule them?

The oldest gods were forces of nature, embodiments of things beyond human control. The sky. The sea. The storm. They were named so they could be understood, given form so they could be feared. Mortals sacrificed to them, prayed to them, begged for mercy or favor. And in return, the gods demanded obedience.

But what happens when belief fades? When temples crumble and prayers are no longer whispered?

Does a god cease to be?

Perhaps that is the greatest fear of all divine beings—not battle, not death, but forgetting. To be erased, their names lost in time, their power reduced to nothing more than a myth. A god's purpose, then, is not just to rule, but to persist. To make themselves eternal, whether through power, legend, or domination.

Some gods embrace this. They cultivate fear, making themselves impossible to ignore. Others seek worship, ensuring that devotion keeps them alive. And some… some seek to rewrite the very definition of divinity, to break free from the shackles of purpose imposed upon them.

History is littered with the corpses of gods who believed themselves untouchable. They were worshiped once, their names sung in glory, their statues standing unchallenged. Yet time, war, and ambition tore them down.

The Titans. The Old Gods. The Forgotten Ones.

Each ruled in their age. Each thought themselves eternal.

And each fell.

Why? Was it hubris? The arrogance of believing they could not be challenged? Or was it simply the way of things—that nothing, no matter how powerful, could remain unchallenged forever?

For every god that exists, there is a challenger. A mortal who dares to defy. A force that seeks to replace. Gods are not immune to the cycle of power. They, too, can be overthrown.

And so, the question remains:

If gods can be slain, if gods can be forgotten, what is the true meaning of divinity?

The old gods ruled with fear and reverence. But the world has changed.

Now, new gods rise. Not from temples or myths, but from war, technology, and power unimaginable. No longer are they bound to faith. They do not need prayers to exist, nor worship to sustain them.

These gods are forged in battle, in laboratories, in the depths of space and time. They are not content to be mere legends.

They seek absolute dominion.

And when they claim it, there will be no need for temples. No need for offerings. No need for belief.

Because these gods will not ask to be worshiped.

They will command it.

A god is one who stands above all.

A god is a force that cannot be denied.

To rule. To persist. To make the world remember their name.

Because in the end, to be forgotten… is the only true death a god can suffer.

The words hung in the air like a prophecy, ink bleeding onto parchment as the two gods sat in quiet contemplation.

Hermes tapped his fingers against the polished wooden table, his golden eyes scanning the words they had written. "Fitting, isn't it?" he mused, his voice carrying the weight of centuries. "That the ones who speak of gods are the ones least acknowledged among them."

Calliope, her fingers stained with ink, let out a soft chuckle. "Perhaps that is why we understand them better than most. We do not rule. We do not command. We are the echoes, the scribes, the witnesses."

The dim candlelight flickered between them, casting shadows upon the ancient texts that surrounded them. Scrolls, books, tablets—records of divinities long forgotten. Names that had once held power, reduced to dust and fading memory.

"We write of power, yet we hold so little of it," Hermes muttered, leaning back. "We are gods, yet even among our own, we are... lesser."

"We are not warriors, nor rulers, nor wielders of storms," Calliope admitted. "But we shape history. We immortalize those who would otherwise be lost."

Hermes scoffed. "And yet, who will immortalize us? When the last story is written, and the last hymn is sung, will we not also be forgotten? Just like the Titans. Just like the old gods before them."

A silence stretched between them. It was a question neither dared to answer. Because they knew the truth. Gods were only as eternal as their myths, and myths faded.

But then Calliope dipped her quill once more and wrote:

To be forgotten is the only true death a god can suffer.

Hermes stared at the words, his jaw tightening. Then, he reached for his own quill. "Then we shall not be forgotten," he declared. "If the new gods rise, if they seek dominion beyond belief and worship, let them. But we will ensure that their stories remain. We will write them into history, and through that, we will persist."

The parchment before them became a battlefield of ink. The gods of old, the gods of now, the gods yet to come—they would all have their place in the tale of eternity. Calliope and Hermes, the so-called weakest among them, would ensure it.

For in the end, gods did not need temples. They did not need offerings.

They only needed to be remembered.

The parchment before them became a battlefield of ink. The gods of old, the gods of now, the gods yet to come—