Divine Ascension: Reborn as a God of Power

As Akhon reached out, the glowing thread descended like a curious serpent from the stars above. It hovered just above his palm, pulsing softly. When his fingers finally brushed it, the entire chamber went silent — the visions on the walls faded, the echoes vanished, even the distant hum of divinity ceased.

Then the thread twitched.

Not away from him — into him.

It slid between his fingers, wrapping around his wrist like a sentient tether. Light exploded in his mind's eye, a cascade of memories and impressions not his own: silver scissors clashing, rivers turning against their flow, hands weaving timelines with trembling fingers. A scream of defiance, not pain. And three voices, calling not for help… but for witness.

Akhon gasped.

When his eyes opened again, he was no longer in the chamber.

The thread had pulled him through a veil, one not seen by the eye but sensed by the soul — and now, he stood in a place that felt outside Olympus, outside the world. The sky was gone. The ground wasn't stone or earth, but strands — an infinite web of threads beneath his feet, all of them tense and shivering like nerves about to snap.

And in the center of that woven plane, bound by thick cords of gold and shadow, were the Fates.

Three women, ancient and immense in presence even though their bodies were gaunt with exhaustion. Their hands were frozen mid-motion — Lachesis, clutching a half-measured thread; Clotho, reaching to spin the next strand; and Atropos, with her blade poised an inch above a knot that pulsed with untaken breath.

They were still alive. Their eyes moved slowly. But their mouths could not. Their limbs did not twitch. They were trapped in the moment before the next destiny was chosen — an eternal pause.

Akhon stepped forward, heart pounding.

"Fates!" he called. "I found you. I—"

A shiver ran across the threads beneath his feet. Then the air grew cold — not in temperature, but in weight. The divine sense in him, the spark that the gods had acknowledged, flared in warning.

Something stirred.

From behind the bound Fates, a haze of purple mist rose like smoke from a dying star. It coiled upward, slow and sinuous, until it formed a vague humanoid shape — tall, regal, and wrong. No face, no features, just a silhouette where eyes should burn but didn't, and a voice that slithered directly into the mind.

"So… you are the one they whisper of," it said.

Akhon instinctively summoned power to his hands — golden light flickered around his fingers, radiant and defiant. "Who are you?"

The mist chuckled. "They never told you? Ah… perhaps they were wise to keep secrets from you. But even secrets unravel in time."

"You're the one who did this to them."

"Of course," it said simply. "They were… in the way. Always spinning. Always measuring. Always cutting. Such power, and yet such restraint. Disappointing."

The mist floated closer, drifting just over the bound goddesses.

"I watched you, Akhon. Watched as your flame sparked from the faith of mortals. As Olympus turned its gaze to you. As she—" the mist's form flickered, warped by something like contempt, "—wrapped you in illusions and promises. But not I. I waited."

Akhon narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

"Because you are unwritten," said the mist. "You are born of threads not spun by these crones. Not measured. Not cut. A flaw… or a blessing. That is yet to be seen."

The mist extended a tendril toward the web beneath them. "You were not part of the design. And now, you threaten it. What happens when something outside the weave begins to pull?"

Akhon looked to the Fates — all three of them stared at him now, their eyes full of desperation. Not just pleading for help — pleading for him to understand.

"You fear what I could become," Akhon said.

"I fear nothing," replied the mist, still calm. "But I recognize… potential. And potential must be… guided."

"Is that what you think this is?" Akhon growled. "Guidance? Imprisoning the Fates? Holding the loom hostage? If you fear chaos, you've only created more."

The mist's body rippled. "Order will rise. One way or another. Olympus teeters. The mortals murmur your name in shrines now. Even Nemesis dares to rewrite laws. And you, little spark, are at the center."

Akhon stepped forward, golden power crackling brighter in his hand. "Then let them murmur. Let the old gods panic. I didn't ask to be born outside the threads. But now that I am, I'll carve my own path — and free those you bound."

The mist leaned close, its edges hissing against the golden aura that surrounded him.

"I have waited long," it said, almost wistfully. "And I will wait longer, if needed. You cannot slay mist. You cannot cut smoke."

Akhon raised his hand. "No, but I can burn it."

In a flash, divine light surged from his palm like a lance, striking the web and sending ripples through the tapestry of fate. The mist recoiled, its form unraveling at the edges, voice rising into a shriek of static and rage.

But before Akhon could strike again, the thread around his wrist pulled sharply.

Not away — down.

The floor beneath him opened, threads unweaving like a mouth, and Akhon fell — not through space, but through possibility.

He saw flashes as he fell: Kaeron burning. Aegle screaming. Olympus in ruin. A throne of stars. A blade made of severed time. And behind it all, the mist, watching.

He knew nothing was the same.

Because now the Fates were imprisoned.

And he had been seen.

Clotho, Lachesis, and Atropos hovered in place, suspended mid-motion, as if frozen in the middle of weaving a tapestry. Their eyes were open, mouths slightly parted, but their bodies didn't move. Threads wrapped around them like cocoons, as if their own work had turned against them. Their divine essence pulsed dimly, flickering like candles choked by wind.

Akhon stepped forward, heart pounding. "Fates?" he called out. "Can you hear me?"

Nothing. No flicker of recognition. No movement.

He reached toward Clotho, whose hand still clutched the spool of thread she had yet to spin. As his fingers drew close, a thick, humming vibration filled the air, and a voice echoed around him—low, resonant, and inhuman.

"You are late."

The voice did not echo in the space, but rather in his mind, as if it came from within his own thoughts. Akhon whirled around, searching for the source, but the only thing that moved was a swirling mist, creeping in from the edges of the void. It was deep violet, a color so dense it felt alive. It slithered across the air and ground, coiling in tendrils like a living fog, and then began to gather in front of him.

"I told you," the voice continued. "I waited and prepared. I silenced the spinners of fate so you would finally come. And here you are, Akhon."

He took a step back. "Who are you?"

The mist coalesced into something like a torso—vague and formless, yet unmistakably aware. Two points of glowing light blinked open like eyes.

"You don't need to know that." It whispered.

Akhon's divine instincts surged. He summoned his will, ready to strike, but the moment he did, his limbs locked in place. Not from outside force—no vines, no chains—but from within. It was as though his own body had forgotten how to move. Even his heartbeat slowed.

"What is this…?" he gasped.

"Peace," said the mist. "Isn't that what you were offered?"

The purple fog swirled around his head like a wreath, pressing against his thoughts. Akhon gritted his teeth as pressure built behind his eyes. Memories began slipping, like grains of sand falling between fingers. He felt the sensation of holding Aegle's hand, of Kaeron's gates beneath his feet, of the mountain wind on Olympus—but it was fading. Names blurred. Faces dissolved. A distant scream echoed inside him, one that couldn't reach his lips.

"Stop," Akhon managed through clenched teeth. "Stop this."

"Why?" the mist asked with something like amusement. "What do you need memory for? You had purpose once. Then you hesitated. And the world broke."

More memories crumbled. Aegle smiling in the starlight. Demeter handing him a branch of golden wheat. The children of Kaeron playing in the mud and blessing his name.

"I will give you a new name," said the mist. "A new reason. Free from doubt. Free from pain."

"No…" Akhon strained, fighting to hold onto something, anything.

But the fog pressed deeper, not just around him but within him, touching the essence of what made him divine. It wasn't pain—it was absence. The erosion of meaning. As if he were a statue and time itself was the wind grinding him smooth and faceless. Your support at MV^LEMP^YR keeps the series going.

A voice—distant, almost lost—echoed in his mind. "The stars look different when you smile," Aegle had once said. Or had she?

Another memory fought to the surface. The smell of olive groves. The laughter of the Hesperides. Hera's voice saying: We made this world for you. But it didn't make sense anymore. What world? Who was he?

His knees buckled. He fell to the ground, unmoving.

"Better," the mist said gently. "Soon you will forget even your name."

The thread of fate behind him shimmered faintly, as if reacting to his struggle. But he couldn't reach for it. His hands didn't remember how. His mind barely recalled why he had come.

Then—a flicker. Not of power, but emotion.

Anger.

The mist had stolen from him. Not just memory. Not just identity. But choice.

The fury surged like a wave in his chest, and for a heartbeat, the fog recoiled.

"You still resist?" it said, more curious than alarmed. "How quaint."

Akhon focused everything he had left on a single word. One name that anchored him when everything else failed.

"Aegle…"

The mist paused.

A crack formed in the paralysis, barely perceptible. But enough.

Akhon clung to the memory—not of the Aegle here, perfect and false, but his Aegle. The one who had argued with him. Laughed beside him. Trusted him when even he doubted himself.

The fog twisted violently, trying to smother the thought, but he held onto it like a torch in the dark.

"I remember," he whispered, voice shaking. "You can't take that."

The purple mist hissed, the lights in its center flaring like angry stars.

"You will forget," it snarled and all things went black as Akhon eyes closed.