Divine Ascension: Reborn as a God of Power

Akhon awoke to the sound of birdsong, a sound so ordinary and yet so grounding that for a moment he wondered if everything—the reset, the struggle against Chaos, the breaking and weaving of reality—had been nothing more than a fever dream. The light that filtered through the temple's open windows painted golden bars across the stone floor, warm and inviting. Outside, he could hear the faint hum of Kaeron's market, voices haggling, laughter drifting, and the rhythm of hammers against wood. Life was returning, steady and unbroken.

He sat up slowly, feeling the ache in his bones. It wasn't a physical wound but a weight—an echo of the divine strain he had carried through the confrontation with Chaos. His body was whole, but his spirit carried scars. Yet when his gaze fell upon the familiar sight of his chamber—simple offerings at the altar, a vase of fresh flowers left by one of the villagers—he felt the rare comfort of normality.

"Lord Akhon," a voice called from the entrance. It was one of the younger villagers, a boy who had once trembled just to be near him. Now, he entered with a smile, carrying a basket of fruit. "The people wanted you to have this. They say… they say Kaeron stands because of you."

Akhon accepted the basket with a quiet nod, but instead of pride, he felt humility. "Kaeron stands because its people chose to believe. That faith is what carried us all."

The boy blushed, muttered something about returning to his chores, and darted out. Akhon smiled faintly. Even in the shadow of gods and chaos, mortals found reasons to live, to persist. That, more than any divine power, was what mattered.

Later, he stepped outside, greeted by the familiar scent of pine carried down from the hills. The Hesperides were waiting not far from the temple. Aegle, bright as ever, was already tending to the small garden they had helped cultivate. Erytheia sat on a stone, pretending indifference but sneaking glances to make sure he had noticed her presence. Hesperia knelt by the stream, letting the water run over her hands, serene and thoughtful.

"You finally decided to join us," Aegle said cheerfully, wiping her hands on her dress. "We were beginning to think you'd stay locked away in that chamber, brooding like one of the elder gods."

Akhon chuckled softly. "I needed a moment to remember what quiet feels like."

"Quiet doesn't last forever," Erytheia muttered, though her voice lacked the sharp edge it usually carried. "Not with Olympus breathing down your neck. And not with Chaos lurking somewhere in the folds of reality."

"Perhaps," Akhon admitted, his gaze drifting toward the distant horizon where Olympus lay hidden behind clouds. "But even gods need moments of peace, Erytheia. If we live always in preparation for the storm, we forget why we fight to begin with."

Her eyes flickered at his words, and she turned away, pretending to scold Aegle for overwatering the plants. But her silence spoke of agreement she would never voice aloud.

The day passed gently. He walked through Kaeron, listening to the chatter of the people. A baker sold warm bread, the smell tempting even his divine senses. Children ran through the streets, wooden swords clashing in imitation of heroes. An old woman offered him a blessing as he passed, her eyes full of tears that spoke of memory restored. They remembered the reset, the void, the brush with annihilation. Yet they smiled, choosing life.

That evening, as the sky burned orange, Hermes arrived. Not with pomp or announcement—simply a ripple in the air, and then he was there, leaning against a tree as though he had been waiting all day.

"You look different, Akhon," Hermes said with a sly grin, though his eyes carried warmth. "Less like a newly-born god scrambling for footing, more like one who's lived a thousand years and finally learned to breathe."

"Perhaps I learned a few things," Akhon replied. "Though I still wonder if I was meant to stand among you."

"You stood against Chaos," Hermes said, walking closer. "You stood when Olympus faltered, when even Zeus feared. That makes you one of us—whether you like the company or not."

Akhon met his gaze, then laughed quietly. "If I am one of you, then you are the only one I would call my friend."

Hermes grinned wider at that. "Careful, Akhon. Speak so plainly and you'll have Aphrodite teasing you, Ares challenging you, and Hera trying to use you for her schemes again."

"Then I will answer each as I must," Akhon said. "But today, I am only grateful—for you, for the Hesperides, for the mortals of Kaeron. For the chance to live in a world where the sun still rises."

Hermes studied him for a long moment, then clapped a hand to his shoulder. "Keep that gratitude, my friend. The gods… we forget it too easily. And when Chaos stirs again—and it will—you'll need that strength more than any weapon."

Night descended, stars shimmering above like fragments of eternity. Akhon sat by the temple, the Hesperides nearby, Hermes lingering longer than he usually did. For the first time in what felt like an age, there was no crisis, no council, no looming shadow. Only the sound of laughter, of wind in the trees, of life returning.

Akhon closed his eyes and let himself believe—if only for this night—that normality was not a fragile illusion, but a gift worth protecting.

---

The days passed, one blending into the next, and for the first time in what felt like centuries—though it had only been months—Akhon began to live without the constant hum of looming disaster in his mind. The people of Kaeron welcomed the return to stability as though it were a divine gift, and in truth, perhaps it was. Fields that had been left half-tended during the uncertainty were now alive with the steady rhythm of work. Children's laughter spilled through the streets, unburdened by whispers of gods and forgotten wars. Even the council resumed its orderly debates, arguing about trade and irrigation rather than survival against divine threats.

Akhon found himself adjusting to this slower current, as though he had been holding his breath for far too long and could now finally exhale. In the mornings, he walked through the streets not as a god elevated above them, but as a figure recognized, respected, and greeted with warmth. The villagers bowed, yes, but they also smiled, waved, even dared to ask him questions as if he were one of their own. Some asked for blessings on their newborns, others for guidance with disputes. He no longer felt the urgent weight of needing to prepare for Chaos's shadow. It was strange, almost disarming, to feel human concerns take priority again.

One morning, as he crossed through the marketplace, he was stopped by a woman holding a basket of figs. She pressed it into his hands before he could protest.

"You saved us," she said simply. "Take this, my lord. A small gift."

Akhon smiled, inclining his head. "I only did what was necessary."

"And that," she replied, "is why we trust you."

The exchange lingered in his mind as he continued on. Trust. Not fear, not obligation. Genuine trust. It was something no divine council meeting could ever grant him, something that bound him to these people more tightly than any decree of Olympus.

Life with the Hesperides had also shifted. They too were settling into their own version of normality, though each in their own way. Aegle was almost inseparable from Akhon now, walking with him through Kaeron, her golden hair bright beneath the sun as if it carried its own light. Erytheia tried to act aloof, claiming she found village life "tedious," yet her laughter often rang out as she sparred with local youths eager to test their strength against a daughter of the evening. Hespéria, quiet as ever, took to tending the small gardens outside the city walls, cultivating herbs and flowers, claiming it was a way to keep a piece of their sacred grove alive here in the mortal realm.

At night, Akhon would sit with them outside the small temple the villagers had built in his honor, gazing up at the constellations. For the first time, those stars did not feel like distant reminders of enemies plotting in silence. They felt like stars—silent, eternal, steady.

Yet the adjustment was not without its challenges. A god who had wielded the power to shift fates did not simply forget. At times, Akhon caught himself scanning the horizon, waiting for the impossible, his mind rehearsing strategies for battles that would never come. More than once, Aegle caught him staring too long at the sky.

"You're thinking again," she teased gently, leaning against his shoulder. "Don't. Just be here."

"I am here," he answered, though the words felt heavier than he wished.

She took his hand, intertwining her fingers with his. "Then prove it. Live like the world isn't ending. Because right now, it isn't."

Her words were an anchor, pulling him back to the present. He realized then that adaptation was not about erasing the past, but about choosing not to let it rule every moment.

The weeks deepened into a rhythm of seasons. Kaeron's council grew more efficient under his quiet guidance. Disputes over land were solved without bloodshed, trade with nearby towns flourished, and even festivals began to return. During one such festival, the people lit lanterns at dusk, filling the sky with drifting lights that shimmered like stars. Akhon stood at the center of it, watching the faces of mortals uplifted not by fear or divine spectacle, but by joy. He felt something stir in him that was almost fragile—contentment.

The gods on Olympus, too, were slipping back into their own routines, and though their eyes still turned toward the mortal realm from time to time, Akhon felt no intrusion. It was as though they were allowing him this space, acknowledging silently what he had endured, and what he had given. Hermes's visit had left a lingering warmth as well, proof that he had true allies even among the immortals.

One evening, as the sun bled into the horizon, Akhon walked alone through the olive groves beyond the village. The air was filled with the scent of earth and leaves, and his steps were slow, deliberate. Here, away from watchful eyes, he allowed himself to reflect.

He had fought gods, outwitted monsters, and faced Chaos itself. Yet this—this quiet walk, this peace—was perhaps the harder victory. Because it required him to relinquish vigilance, to accept that life could continue without his constant intervention.

And perhaps that was the truest form of faith.

When he returned, Aegle was waiting at the door of the temple, arms crossed, pretending impatience.

"You vanish like a shadow," she scolded. "You'll worry them if you keep wandering."

Akhon smiled faintly. "I was only walking."

She studied him for a moment, then softened. "You're learning, aren't you?"

"Learning what?"

"How to be… ordinary."

The word caught him off guard, and he let out a quiet laugh. "Yes," he admitted. "Perhaps I am."

And in that moment, he realized something profound: surviving Chaos had not been his greatest trial. Learning to live after, to allow the world to be ordinary again—that was the true challenge. And it was one he intended to meet.