Divine Ascension: Reborn as a God of Power

The sanctuary was still, its ancient pillars veined with ivy, as though time itself had forgotten the place. Aphrodite paced in silence, her golden hair catching the torchlight as the fire cracked against stone. Hermes leaned casually against one of the crumbling columns, but his eyes darted like restless sparks, scanning every shadow. Ares stood at the center, arms crossed, his presence heavy as an unsheathed blade.

They had waited long enough.

When Hera finally appeared, her steps were slow, as if every stride cost her something. Her face bore none of the imperious mask she usually wore on Olympus. Instead, she looked carved down, stripped of her armor, carrying the weight of knowledge none of them shared.

"You found me," she said, her voice tired but steady. "I should not be surprised."

Ares took a step forward, eyes narrowing. "Enough hiding. You know who's behind this—the erasure of the Fates, the veil over our memories. Take us to him."

Hermes tilted his head, his grin sharp, but his tone softer. "We don't have the luxury of riddles anymore, Lady Hera. Every hour he hides, Olympus rots further. You know where he is."

Aphrodite's gaze was different—less demanding, more searching. "You wouldn't be this torn if it were anyone else. That means you know how dangerous he is. That means you know we don't stand a chance."

Hera's lips pressed into a hard line. She looked away from them, past the ruined walls and out into the open night sky where the stars swirled, quiet witnesses to her torment.

"You don't understand," she whispered. "If you go to him, you won't return. None of you."

Ares scoffed, stepping closer. "I'd rather die with a sword in hand than rot under someone else's leash. Tell us, Hera. We're not asking."

She turned on him suddenly, her eyes blazing with something that was not anger but desperation. "You think this is a matter of courage? Of brute defiance? You cannot fathom what he is. I can barely endure the thought of his presence—and I've stood beside Chaos itself."

Hermes straightened, his usual smirk fading. The gravity in Hera's words struck him more deeply than he wanted to admit.

Aphrodite moved closer, her tone quiet, coaxing. "Then help us. Don't leave us blind. You said it yourself—Chaos is not untouchable. If even Chaos can be threatened, then the world itself hangs on this. You can't carry this alone, Hera."

Hera closed her eyes, her breath faltering. Regret pressed at her chest, heavy as a chain. She thought of Zeus's rage, of Poseidon's suspicion, of the lies she had sown like poisoned seeds. She thought of the whisper that had come to her in the dark, the promise of control, the assurance that she alone would see Olympus remade.

And she thought of the truth: that she had bartered with something far older, far hungrier than even the gods.

Finally, she whispered, "You don't understand. He does not simply rule through fear. He rewrites. He bends the fabric of memory, of truth itself. The more you fight him, the more he twists you into his design. Even Zeus cannot stand against him—not truly. You would be lambs walking into the jaws of a beast older than time."

Ares's jaw clenched, his fists tightening until his knuckles went white. "Then what do you suggest? That we kneel? That we live as shadows of ourselves while he devours everything we are?"

Hera looked at him, and for a moment her face cracked with raw pain. "I suggest survival. I suggest patience. Because facing him now is suicide."

Hermes stepped forward, his voice suddenly sharp. "You're afraid. I don't blame you—but fear won't save Olympus. We need to act."

Aphrodite reached out, placing a hand gently on Hera's arm. "You know where he is. You know how to reach him. If you won't fight, then guide us. At least give us the chance to choose our own fate. Isn't that better than letting him erase every choice we ever made?"

For a long moment, Hera said nothing. The silence was thick, almost unbearable. Her heart pounded in her chest. She could feel his presence even now, like a distant hum in her veins, the mark of their bargain that had never fully faded.

If she betrayed him, there would be consequences.

If she refused, though, these three would not stop. They would find their way to him eventually, blind and unprepared, and their blood would be on her hands.

Her resolve cracked. Her voice trembled. "Very well. But you must swear to me—you will not raise your hands against him. Not yet. You must see him first. You must understand what you're dealing with before you decide. Promise me this, or I will not take you."

Ares snarled in frustration, but Aphrodite's hand rose, pressing against his chest. She met Hera's eyes and nodded. "We promise. Lead us."

Hermes exhaled slowly, though his eyes were still sharp, calculating. "Fine. But if we see even a sliver of weakness in him, I won't hesitate."

Hera's shoulders sagged. The oath was meaningless—she knew what fire burned in their hearts. But it was enough to move the moment forward. Enough to shift destiny another step closer to the abyss.

She turned toward the deepest recess of the sanctuary, toward a passage hidden beneath a collapsed arch. As she moved, the air itself seemed to shiver, heavy with something older than the gods, as though the path was not a place but a wound cut into reality itself.

"The one who did this," she said quietly, her words a confession, "he is not of Olympus. He is not even of this age. He is the Forgotten One—the Weaver. It was he who unspooled the threads of memory, who bound the Fates in silence. To look upon him is to doubt even your own name."

Aphrodite shivered, but she steadied her voice. "Then let us see him."

Hermes's grin returned, though thinner, more brittle. "We've been chasing shadows long enough. Time to meet the one pulling them."

And Ares, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword, muttered under his breath, "If he thinks he can strip me of myself, he'll learn just how much blood it costs."

Hera did not answer. She only walked, every step echoing like a dirge.

Because she knew, with a certainty that hollowed her bones, that when they reached him, nothing would ever be the same again.

---

The underworld corridors were darker than any place Aphrodite had ever dared to tread. Not even Hades' realm, with all its shades and rivers of sorrow, carried this kind of weight. The air seemed to resist movement, as if it were thick with memory—memories stripped, devoured, and hidden away by the one they had come to face.

Hermes' sandals barely skimmed the stone as he led the way, the faint golden light from his caduceus fighting to push back the darkness. His voice was low, tense, stripped of his usual careless humor. "We're close. The air bends here… as if reality itself is trying to keep us out."

Ares' hand tightened around his spear, knuckles pale against the bronze shaft. The God of War's usual confidence was there, but it was strained—forced. He knew better than to underestimate something that could erase the will and memories of Olympus. "Then we push harder," he muttered. "If this thing has been pulling the strings all along, I want to see its face before I bury my blade in it."

"Don't be a fool," Hera's voice cut from behind them. She had agreed, reluctantly, to lead them this far. Her steps echoed slower than theirs, every movement heavy with hesitation. "You think your weapons matter against him? Against Chaos? You won't bury anything in him. He is not flesh. He is not form. He is what was before all form."

Aphrodite glanced at her, eyes sharp with suspicion. "And yet you've protected him. Lied for him. Watched while he chained the Fates and shackled Olympus. Why?"

Hera's jaw tightened, but she didn't answer. She couldn't—not without confessing the burden Chaos had placed on her shoulders, the whispers of his promise that had sounded so much like salvation, so much like inevitability.

But there was no time for recriminations. Because even as the last word left Aphrodite's lips, the path ahead shuddered and opened into a vast chamber, impossibly wide and impossibly tall, its ceiling lost in blackness. At its center was not a throne, nor an altar, but a tear in existence itself.

It writhed like a wound in reality—colors that had no name, shadows that bent the wrong way, light that did not illuminate but consumed. From that wound, something stirred.

A voice came, not in sound, but in every thought, every heartbeat, every instinct:

"So. The children crawl to their parent."

The air broke around them. Hermes stumbled back, clutching his head as his own memories flickered in and out—faces he knew dissolving, moments unraveling and reforming. Ares growled in pain, forcing himself to stand against the pressure, even as visions of forgotten wars surged through his skull. Aphrodite's eyes watered as images of love, countless loves, were pulled from her, tested, weighed, and tossed aside like petals in the wind.

Chaos was not a being. Chaos was the void before being.

And yet—shapes moved in the wound, sometimes like hands, sometimes like wings, sometimes like a crown.

"Turn back," Hera whispered, trembling. Her voice cracked—not with command, but with desperation. "You don't understand. He cannot be fought. He cannot be stopped. He is what remains when all else fails."

But Ares spat blood onto the floor and raised his spear anyway. "Then we'll make him fail first."

The wound widened.

The chamber shook.

And from within Chaos came laughter—mocking, amused, inevitable. "Your defiance is meaningless. Did you think memory is yours to keep? Did you think choice is real? I erase, and you obey. I erase, and you forget. I erase, and you are mine."

Hermes fell to his knees, clutching Pandora's Box tight to his chest. His voice was strained, desperate, but clear. "Now, Aphrodite!"

She hesitated. Her hands shook as she reached for the box. The artifact pulsed with an ancient dread, older than Zeus, older than Titans, older than the earth itself. Opening it once had nearly drowned the world in horrors. To open it again, against Chaos himself, could mean something even worse.

Hera's eyes widened. She stepped forward, almost pleading. "Don't! You don't know what that thing will unleash!"

"We know," Aphrodite said, voice breaking—but resolute. She looked at Hermes, then Ares, and together they nodded. "And we also know we have no other choice."

The lid of the box cracked open.

The chamber screamed.

From Pandora's Box surged not one curse, not one horror, but a torrent of raw existence—the very despair and hope of mankind, the chaos of mortality itself. The force rushed toward the wound, battering against Chaos' form, pulling it inward, folding reality around him.

Chaos' voice thundered, furious now, for the first time shaken. "You would bind me in the filth of mortals? You dare?"

Ares roared back, driving his spear forward—not to strike, but to push the force of Pandora's Box deeper into the wound. "Better filth than you!"

Hermes staggered to his feet, wings on his sandals burning with unnatural light as he forced the seal shut, driving the box's energy into Chaos' essence. "Hurry—before he breaks free!"

Aphrodite, tears streaming down her face, clutched the lid with both hands and whispered a prayer not to any god, not even to herself, but to the mortals below who had always believed, always endured. She snapped the lid shut.

The world broke.

There was silence—deafening, absolute.

The chamber was empty.

The wound was gone.

And Pandora's Box lay sealed once more, trembling in Hermes' hands.

The three gods staggered, breathless, barely standing. The darkness had lifted, though the air still felt fragile, as if reality itself had been stitched together too quickly.

Ares was the first to speak, voice hoarse. "Tell me we did it. Tell me the bastard's gone."

Hermes stared at the box, his face pale, sweat dripping down his temples. "Gone… or caged. For now."

Aphrodite touched her chest, still feeling the weight of that void pressing against her heart. Her voice was quiet, uncertain. "But for how long? You saw him. That was not death. That was a pause. He will not stay bound forever."