Divine Ascension: Reborn as a God of Power-Chapter 80: The Fates (Part 1)

Far above the mortal world and far beneath the halls of Olympus, in a place untouched by time or flame, the Loom of Fate spun ceaselessly.

No fire reached here.

No blade ever had.

Here, only the thread of destiny and life mattered.

Threads of every color and thickness wove endlessly in spirals and curves, some brilliant gold, others shadow-black. They intersected, diverged, merged, split again. Each shimmered faintly with life, each sang with the echo of a name. Gods. Mortals. Beasts. Dreams. Kings. Unborn children. Every soul had its thread—and every thread had its fate.

And the three sisters sat as they always had.

Clotho, the youngest, radiant in her stillness, spun the new threads into being from the void. Her spindle danced with colors never seen by mortal eyes. She hummed softly as she worked—an ancient song without beginning or end.

Lachesis, the middle sister, measured the thread. Her fingers, skeletal and precise, moved like clockwork over the lengths she assigned. Each thread passed through her grasp, and she judged its weight, its tension and its truth.

And then there was Atropos.

She was the eldest as well as the more silent of the three. Her shears gleamed, always ready—always waiting.

She did not hum or move unless it was time.

But today, it was not the clicking of shears that halted the room—it was Lachesis who frowned.

"...Clotho," she said, eyes narrowing. "There’s something... wrong."

Clotho paused, fingers still spinning a bright golden strand.

"What is it?" she asked, her voice was quiet.

Lachesis did not answer at first. She tilted her head, looking down at the tapestry unfurling beneath the Loom. It stretched endlessly across the chamber floor—an ocean of woven time. She followed the pattern with her finger until she found it again:

A thread, it was glowing faintly red-gold.

It should have bent left—toward death. Toward conclusion.

Instead... it turned upward and climbed.

"That thread," Lachesis whispered. "It doesn’t belong here."

Clotho leaned over, squinting. "Akhon’s?"

Lachesis nodded slowly. "It changed."

"Atropos hasn’t cut it."

"I know. But I didn’t measure it that long. It was not meant to cross that line."

Atropos finally looked up.

She said nothing, but her hand twitched on the shears.

Together, they stared.

The thread of Akhon, once thin and limited—a divine initiate meant to burn bright and fade—was now swollen with extra lengths. Foreign ones as they were not measured, nor spun.

And more terrifying still... they didn’t recognize the weave anymore.

Other threads were beginning to coil around it—gods, monsters, mortals. They were being pulled toward this changed strand, deviating from paths the Fates themselves had woven thousands of years ago.

Zeus. Hades. Hermes. Athena. Even Hera. All were bending—orbiting—the red-gold thread like planets to a new sun.

Clotho’s voice wavered. "I never spun that much."

"I never measured that length," Lachesis added.

"...And I did not spare him," Atropos said softly.

For the first time in eons, the thread was alive beyond their hands.

They stared as the tapestry buckled—subtly at first, then more violently. Patterns began to distort. Some minor threads vanished completely. Others thickened unexpectedly, burning brighter.

Something was interfering.

Clotho stepped away from her spindle.

"Is it one of us?" she whispered.

"No." Said Atropos.

Lachesis traced the interference again.

Where Akhon’s thread should have intertwined with his fate—divine martyrdom, death before ascending—it had jumped the track. Someone—or something—was helping him rewrite his pattern as it unraveled.

"I don’t understand," Lachesis muttered, trembling now. "He should’ve died already. His fate was sealed at the beginning of the war. He was never meant to reach the throne of Zeus."

"And yet he did." Clotho whispered.

Atropos rose from her place. Her shears, still gleaming, now trembled faintly in her hand.

They had cut gods.

They had ended eras.

But now the fabric before them resisted her. The thread had buried itself too deeply. If she cut it now, the rip would pull hundreds—thousands—into the void with it.

"He is creating his own weave," Clotho whispered.

"No," said Lachesis. "He isn’t alone. He couldn’t have done this alone. None could have."

They all turned to the thread again and then they saw it.

Another color. It was faint and hidden, but it was visible for them. Woven through Akhon’s, like a second heartbeat.

It was purple and it didn’t seem from divine origin, less from mortal origin.

It was something else.

"What is that?" Clotho asked.

Lachesis reached to touch the purple weave—and withdrew her hand with a hiss.

Her fingers smoked.

That thread had burned her.

"That... doesn’t belong to this loom," she said. "It doesn’t belong to this world."

The silence thickened.

Even the tapestry stopped shifting for a moment.

Atropos stepped forward and pressed her palm against the vibrating strands.

Her voice came low and heavy.

"...We are not the only ones weaving anymore."

Clotho shivered. "Another Fate? That’s impossible."

"No," Atropos said. "Something older. I think I know who is behind this, but I have doubts."

The three sisters looked at one another.

For the first time in recorded time, they were uncertain.

The loom spun on, but the thread now moved outside their reach.

The loom shuddered again.

Not visibly. Not in a way mortals could see. But the three Fates felt it—a ripple, subtle yet terrifying, running beneath the very threads they wove. Like a tremor under skin. Like something deep inside reality beginning to rot.

Lachesis stepped back from the great tapestry, her measuring cord unspooling in her hands.

"This shouldn’t be happening."

Her voice, usually even and cold, now cracked slightly.

Clotho’s hand trembled on her spindle.

"I’m watching entire threads reweave themselves," she whispered. "Mortals becoming immortals, gods shifting their domains, timelines reversing in knots I never spun. This..." Her voice dropped. "I see it now, all this...this war wasn’t meant to happen. It was never part of the pattern."

Atropos said nothing, but her lips were tight, her gaze locked on the corrupted red-gold strand: Akhon’s thread, still glowing unnaturally bright in the heart of the loom, wrapped now in that alien purple weave that none of them could touch.

"The balance was set," Lachesis murmured. "Zeus was to rule until the twilight age. And Nemesis wa never meant to exist, something is happening."

Clotho nodded quickly. "Akhon wasn’t meant to live past the siege of Kaeron. Hesperia shouldn’t be here. Even Zagreus wasn’t meant to rise, nor he was destined to be Zeus son. His betrayal... none of that was destined."

"But it has happened," Atropos said. Her shears hovered midair, unused. "And the consequences are unraveling everything."

The tapestry rippled again.

They watched in horror as threads they’d woven millennia ago began to decay—entire lifelines shriveling or mutating. The destinies of cities warped. Bloodlines collapsed. Gods began splitting—diverging across timelines, some still loyal to Olympus, others defecting in echoes they’d never approved.

"Someone has rewritten the laws," Clotho said. "And they’ve used Akhon to do it."

"No," Lachesis said darkly. "They’ve hidden themselves behind him."

She gestured at the purple thread, still humming inside the red-gold one.

"We can’t trace it, we can’t touch it. And worse of all—we can’t unmake it."

Atropos turned her gaze to the great loom.

In all of time, the loom had only one purpose: to spin the fate of the cosmos. And until now, no thread—no individual, no god, not even Kronos in his rebellion—had escaped it.

But Akhon had. Yes, with external help, but still...

And now, so many threads were being pulled toward him, entangled and devoured by this new trajectory.

It was not simply a deviation, more like an infection.

"This war should have never begun," Lachesis repeated, her voice tight with panic. "Zeus was never meant to fight Poseidon. Athena was never meant to bleed. The Olympians were meant to fall quietly, centuries from now, replaced by mortal belief—not war. And Hera was never meant to lead a rebellion."

The loom buckled again.

A thick snap echoed through the chamber.

One of the divine-born threads—Ares—had fractured. His line bent sideways. No longer heading toward battle-glory and sacrifice... now fated for madness.

Clotho backed away from her spindle. "It’s happening faster now."

"If it continues," Lachesis added, "the tapestry won’t bend anymore—it’ll break."

The three sisters stood in silence.

Their immortal minds processed eternity in moments.They calculated permutations, alternative weaves, theoretical resets.

None of them worked, except one.

And even thinking it made the loom itself seem to pause.

Atropos spoke first, her voice barely audible.

"We restart the thread."

Clotho turned slowly. "...No one has ever restarted a thread."

"It is forbidden," Lachesis whispered. "To rewind a life back to its origin... is to risk shattering the lives it’s touched."

Atropos didn’t look away. "And yet, it is the only path we have."

The idea hung in the air like ash.

They had cut threads. Spun them. Measured them. But they had never once restarted one—reset a soul, unwoven its memories, erased its rise, and placed it back at its beginning.

Doing so would not just affect Akhon. It would wipe away the war. The alliances. The betrayals. Even the divine shifts happening across Olympus. Everything born from his survival would vanish.

But the alternative...

"...If we don’t act," Lachesis said softly, "then fate itself becomes irrelevant."

"And we become obsolete," Clotho finished.

Atropos stepped forward.

Her shears hovered over the thread.

But instead of cutting, she pressed the tip of the blade into the weave—just enough to prepare it, to mark it.

The purple thread pulsed angrily.

Like it knew, they were trying to erase it.

Whatever was behind the interference—it was watching.

Clotho gasped. "Did it just... resist?"

Atropos gritted her teeth. "Yes. It’s sentient."

Lachesis turned to the loom again. "If we do this, we must do it soon. Before it anchors further. Before the thread becomes its own loom."

Clotho whispered: "We’d be unmaking everything he’s changed."

Atropos answered with iron calm.

"Then let him try again."

And the Loom of Fate trembled—for the first time in creation—not from the will of gods or war, but from doubt.

The Fates had made their first uncertain step...

...toward a power they no longer fully controlled.

Follow current novels on (f)reew𝒆bnovel