Divine Ascension: Reborn as a God of Power-Chapter 82: The Fates (Part 3)

Akhon stood among the ruins of Olympus.

The war thundered around him—divine screams, cracking stone, fire raining from the heavens—but in that moment, it all sounded distant. Muffled. Like the world had wrapped itself in cloth.

He blinked.

A tremor ran through his spine.

Not through the earth. Not like Poseidon’s quakes or Zeus’s thunder. This was different.

It came from within.

He staggered a step, pressing a hand to his temple. His divine senses—sharpened over the past months of battles and godslaying—flickered. His perception blurred, then twisted into something he didn’t recognize. For a heartbeat, his eyes glitched, as if the world had been rewritten mid-frame.

And then came the pull.

A soft tug, like an invisible hand brushing against his soul. Not malevolent... not exactly. But it wasn’t natural. It wasn’t from Olympus. It wasn’t even from the realms of the gods.

It felt older than that.

He gasped, stumbling to a knee.

> > [System Alert: External force detected.]

The HUD blinked open in front of him, jagged for the first time in its existence. Letters formed late. Borders flickered. The whole interface shimmered like heat over desert stone.

> > 🧿 Origin Point: Unknown

⚠️ Thread Disruption: Imminent

📉 Authority Reading Fluctuating...

❓ Memory Consistency: 97%

Akhon narrowed his eyes.

"Memory... consistency?"

The ground beneath his feet felt too light. The sky too still—despite the chaos. Even his heartbeat didn’t match the rhythm he knew. Something was out of sync. Like he’d shifted one step to the side of the world and everything was trying to pretend it hadn’t happened.

Then—

It hit him.

Not a blow, not a vision, but a presence.

It wasn’t inside his mind.

It was brushing against the very thread of his being.

He couldn’t describe how he knew—but he did. Somewhere beneath the divinity, beneath the structure of his powers, something realer than light or flesh was trembling.

A thread.

His thread.

The one the world had used to measure him. To define him. To bind him to purpose.

And now, something had tried to touch it. Maybe even tear it out.

But it had failed.

Not because Akhon resisted...

But because something else protected it.

He felt it now—like a second spine, coiled around the root of his soul. A cold warmth. A quiet gravity. It wasn’t divine. It wasn’t even alive. It simply... was.

And it was watching him.

"...What are you?" Akhon whispered.

> > [System Alert Resolved]

🧿 Thread Secured. External Access Denied.

⚠️ Divine Pattern Drift Detected

Initiating Adaptive Containment... done.

The HUD stabilized again.

The letters regained their shape. The world slowly came back into focus. Olympus trembled once more—sounds returned, flames crackled, screams echoed in the distance.

But Akhon knew.

Something had tried to rewind him.

Something had tried to unmake everything he had become—everything he had fought for, bled for, lost for.

And it wasn’t Zeus.

It wasn’t Hades.

It wasn’t any god he knew.

His hands trembled, though not from fear. From recognition.

Apparently he no longer belonged to the narrative the world had crafted for him.

And now even the keepers of fate were afraid to touch him.

He stood slowly, eyes scanning the battlefield. He saw Eros flying like a meteor across the skies. He saw Athena wounded, fire spilling from her shoulder. He saw Zagreus and Hesperia pushing through a flank of demigods.

But none of them seemed to feel what he had just felt.

None of them shivered at the edge of unreality.

Akhon wiped blood from his jaw.

"This... isn’t about Olympus anymore," he muttered.

Something greater was unfolding.

He was the center of it—yes—but not the origin.

The thread inside him pulsed once—warm and cold, divine and empty.

And in the moment after, he heard... nothing.

Not words, nor thoughts.

Just certainty.

A silence that didn’t feel empty—but full of direction.

And Akhon, for the first time in all the madness, realized that fate no longer had anything to say to him.

And whatever had taken its place...

...had only just begun to speak.

---

The chamber of the Loom had never been this quiet.

Not even in the aftermath of the Titanomachy. Not during the fall of Cronus. Not in the silence between the rise and death of empires.

This silence was different.

Not restful.

Not empty.

It was waiting.

Clotho sat cross-legged at the base of the Loom. Her spindle lay in pieces around her, broken into fine dust that refused to re-form. She ran her fingers through it again and again, but no matter how she tried, it would not answer her call. Not anymore.

Lachesis stood nearby, unmoving. Her golden cord—once precise, ever-measuring—was now colorless. It hung limp at her side like an untuned instrument. She had tried to remeasure Akhon’s thread moments after the force intervened.

It had recoiled.

Burned her hand.

Even now, a faint scorch mark lined her palm—a thing that should have been impossible. Nothing within the Loom ever harmed its keepers.

Until now.

Atropos remained at the highest tier of the dais, behind the Loom. Her shears rested across her lap, closed but no longer sharp. She hadn’t spoken since the resistance came.

She hadn’t needed to.

They were no longer in control.

"Have you ever felt it?" Clotho finally asked. Her voice was faint, like a whisper drifting across cold water.

Lachesis looked down at her sister.

"Felt what?"

"The loom pulling away from us."

A pause.

"No."

Clotho lifted her hand and gestured to the tapestry unfurling before them. It was still spinning—but not by their will. Threads moved with unnatural rhythm. Intersections formed and unraveled faster than Lachesis could read. Decisions were being made within the weave, without them.

"This isn’t weaving anymore," she murmured. "It’s dreaming."

Lachesis glanced at her. "Don’t speak like that."

"Why not?" Clotho looked up. "What would you call a tapestry that defies its maker? That thinks for itself?"

Atropos’s voice finally came, dry and low:

"It was possessed."

The word carried weight. A foreign word in this chamber. One never spoken. Not once.

Clotho stood slowly. "Then what has possessed it?"

Atropos did not answer. But her gaze flicked toward the void that had opened hours ago behind the Loom. It had since closed, the blackness receding like a tide. But its memory remained. The weight of it.

"It wasn’t just a will," Lachesis said, almost to herself. "It was the will from a being far older than us and far older that existence itself."

Clotho shook her head. "There is no one ilder than us."

"That’s what we were taught," Lachesis replied. "Not what we proved."

The tapestry shimmered again. A new deviation. Clotho’s eyes caught it—just for a blink. Akhon. He had changed again. His thread pulsed faintly in defiance of the loom’s cadence, its red-gold light now darker, almost garnet, but stable. Too stable.

Too... independent.

The thread knew it was being watched.

It was adapting to pressure. Developing a logic of its own. A rhythm unlike anything they had woven.

"I think..." Lachesis began slowly. "I think it’s not just him anymore."

Clotho turned to her.

Lachesis pointed to several nearby strands—minor gods, mortals, even monsters. Each now tangled with Akhon’s. But not entangled in chaos—more like drawn to him. Caught in the orbit of a new star. He wasn’t simply pulling strings.

He was becoming a center.

A point around which narrative bent.

And worse... the purple thread still hummed at the core of it all. Faint and steady.

"It’s spreading," Clotho whispered.

"Then we stop it," Lachesis said, too quickly.

"With what?" Clotho asked, raising her hands. "I can’t spin. You can’t measure. Her shears won’t cut."

Atropos remained silent but her hand tightened slightly on the shears.

"I didn’t say I wouldn’t try again," she muttered.

Clotho looked toward the void again—the space where the resistance had manifested. The place where everything they understood had briefly blinked out of meaning.

"If we act too soon, it will stop us again."

"Then we wait," Lachesis said.

"For what?"

"For a window. A gap. Anything."

Clotho stared into the shifting weave. Akhon’s thread was already miles ahead of them now—wrapped in momentum, direction, intent. Something else was guiding it, yes—but she could no longer tell if he was resisting or embracing it.

"He’s too deep," she said. "Even if we stopped him now, we don’t know what he’s touched. How many paths were altered."

Lachesis exhaled slowly. "Then we don’t stop him."

Clotho blinked. "What?"

"We observe how it answer."

Atropos glanced over. "You want to let him continue?"

Lachesis stepped forward, arms crossed. "We were almost unmade when we interfered. Whatever that force is, it allowed Akhon to remain after we tried to erase him. It claimed him. If we force its hand again, it may not just strike back."

"It may rewrite us," Clotho finished quietly.

Atropos stood. Her shears remained in hand, but lowered.

"Then we will watch."

"Yes," Lachesis said. "And wait."

"And if the infection spreads?" Clotho asked.

Lachesis met her gaze. "Then we do the one thing we’ve never done."

"What’s that?"

"...We adapt."

The Loom spun on, untouchable.

And far below, the world of gods and mortals twisted around a single man whose thread no longer obeyed.

This content is taken from (f)reewe(b)novel.𝗰𝗼𝐦