Divine Ascension: Reborn as a God of Power-Chapter 85: Theomachy (Part 22) - Death

Zeus remained kneeling.

One knee buried in shattered marble. One hand still clutching the spear of sea-glass protruding from his thigh. His chest rose and fell with labored effort. Blood—thick, golden, divine—poured from open wounds, trailing down his arms in molten ribbons.

The thunder no longer obeyed.

It cracked faintly in the distance, erratic, fading—like a storm retreating across the horizon.

His fingers twitched, reaching for something that wasn’t there.

Poseidon stood across from him, battered and grim. His trident hung low, its prongs chipped and humming. Salt water poured from the curls of his beard, the ocean itself still circling him like a tired serpent.

To the side, Hades stepped forward. His glaive was cracked, but still pulsing with obsidian light. His armor had shattered in places, revealing flesh burned black with divine fire—but his eyes were seeing clearly and were focused.

Zeus didn’t bother to look up.

He was no longer fighting. He just couldn’t.

His strength—colossal, thunderous, terrifying—had been bled dry after hours of fighting against his two brothers.

What remained was a god without lightning. A king without a throne to come back.

Poseidon’s steps echoed across the broken stone.

He came to stand before his brother. They locked eyes—one more time. The memories of wars past, of alliances forged in Titan blood, of centuries ruling side by side—all passed between them, unspoken.

The memories of another time, a better time before being enemies, when they were allies, when they were family.

Without uttering a single word, Poseidon lifted his trident.

Zeus didn’t move. Even when he knew that no acting now would be his end, he didn’t even twitch a muscle.

He kept himself on the same position and just accepted it.

Memories rapidly invaded his mind, from his good times with his brothers and sisters, his childhood, his time with his mother, his sons, his wife, who he regretted how he treated her, he remembered some of his lovers and even remember his daughter, his favorite one, Athena.

She wasn’t his favourite because of her strenght or her wisdom, she was the favourite because Zeus thought she was the only one of his descendants to be a better ruler and god than him.

Unfortunately he wouldn’t be able to tell her.

With that thought on his mind, the King of gods, just closed his eyes and accepted his destiny while his brother lifted his trident.

Not as mercy. But as consequence.

Squelch!!

The strike was clean.

The trident plunged through Zeus’s chest, piercing through armor, bone, and the divine core at the center of his being.

After stabbing it, light bursted outward from the chest of his brother.

It wasn’t bright or warm.

It was more like a cold brilliance—like the stars winking out one by one. Like a constellation bleeding to death.

Zeus gasped, a final breath rattling in his throat.

And then—

Hades stepped in.

He brought his glaive down in a sweeping arc and severed Zeus’s head from his body.

It fell in silence.

The crown of Olympus rolled across the marble, dented and smeared in golden ichor, coming to rest at the edge of a broken dais.

The body of Zeus collapsed slowly, crumpling like a statue undone by time. It fell forward, heavy with centuries of war, rule, and sin. The light drained from it in gentle pulses—each one fainter than the last—until only stillness remained.

The world shifted.

Reality seemed to felt the abscense of his King.

Birds in distant skies veered from their flocks. Rivers surged then stilled. Volcanoes far across the world trembled in brief mourning. And all the faithful around the world felt the loss of the King of all.

In the realm between realms, the Fates froze.

Their hands stopped mid-weave. The Loom cried out like a wounded beast—three strands snapping in one pulse. And yet... something else held the thread in place.

A presence, that was still watching and still interfering.

But even it, for a moment, seemed to pause.

Because Zeus was dead.

The King of Olympus.

The Lord of the Sky.

The last thunder faded into silence.

Poseidon dropped his weapon.

The trident clanged against the stone, trembling for a moment before lying still.

He stood over the body for a long time. His chest burned with exhaustion. His muscles ached. His soul screamed. But his face remained calm.

"It had to be done.’ He thought.

Hades stepped beside him. He didn’t look at Zeus—only ahead, toward the battlefield still raging beyond the crumbling temples.

A chorus of battle still echoed in the distance—Nemesis and Olympus tearing each other apart. But they were somewhere else now. Something older. Deeper.

Poseidon knelt, and for just a second, placed two fingers on Zeus’s forehead. His eyes closed.

Not in forgiveness, nor in grief. But in respect for his little brother.

For what was. For what should have been.

Then he rose, turned, and left the broken throne behind.

Hades followed.

And neither of them looked back.

(Meanwhile on Another Part of Olympus)

Ash drifted like snow over the broken terraces where once the sacred groves of Olympus had bloomed.

Now, the trees were blackened bones. The rivers ran red with ichor. Flowers wilted mid-growth, their petals curled and brittle from divine fire. The ground was a mosaic of burned soil and shattered enchantment.

There, surrounded by the ruin of what they both once tended, stood Demeter and Hecate.

Both barely standing.

Demeter’s robes were scorched and ragged, one shoulder slick with blood, her golden hair matted with dust and sweat. Her sickle, once silver and polished like moonlight, was cracked at the hilt. She clutched it still with shaking fingers.

Hecate’s cloak had long burned away, revealing skin laced with glowing fractures—runes of dark magic overloaded from hours of conjuring. Her staff was gone, melted to slag after her last barrage. Her left arm hung limp, but in her right hand, she held a sphere of flickering witchfire, pulsing like a dying heart.

They had fought for hours.

"You should’ve stayed with us," Hecate had whispered earlier, during a lull, blood dripping from her lips.

But Demeter had only clenched her jaw tighter. "He promised she’d come back."

Persephone. The name had never left her lips, but it was carved into every blow.

And now, the final moment loomed.

The two circled slowly in the open courtyard of a shattered amphitheater. Around them, the statues of muses lay in fragments. Every step they took echoed with exhaustion and inevitability.

Demeter raised her hand, and thorned vines cracked through the stone beneath her. They coiled up around her legs like serpents, drinking what little life still stirred in the soil. Her body glowed faintly—autumn’s twilight, the last breath of harvest before winter’s sleep.

Hecate’s eyes dimmed, but her voice—silent now—spoke through her power. The shadows behind her rippled, alive and vengeful. Phantom moons flickered above her head. She summoned her last magic not from rage... but from memory.

They had shared festivals together. Led rites. Walked through mortal dreams, guiding their children.

Now, only one truth remained:

They would die here. Together.

Demeter inhaled, and the wind shifted.

Hecate raised her hand.

The last spell formed between them.

Witchfire collided with harvest flame. Roots twisted in agony as hexes tore them apart. The air split open between them—colors not seen since creation streaked across the sky. No words. No screaming.

Just release.

The attacks struck their marks.

Demeter’s sickle sliced through the arc of Hecate’s chest, searing a golden crescent into her flesh. At the same time, Hecate’s magic lanced through Demeter’s sternum, tendrils of curse-light wrapping around her heart.

Both women staggered.

Demeter fell first to her knees, the vines she’d summoned withering instantly. Her eyes lifted to the sky—once blue, now black—and a single tear slipped down her cheek.

Persephone...

The name didn’t echo aloud but it cut deeper than any blade.

How foolish she’d been. To think Zeus—the one who had done nothing as her daughter was stolen to begin with—could truly offer redemption. To believe his word over hers, over Hecate’s.

She’d betrayed her only true ally.

And for what?

An illusion.

Across from her, Hecate collapsed slowly to her side, smoke curling from her chest wound. Her breathing came in shudders, more like fading wind than breath.

Her fingers twitched, as if reaching for something—or someone—long gone.

They lay there, no more than a dozen paces apart.

The battlefield around them groaned. The sound of stones cracking and distant explosions echoed.

But here, in this ruined grove, time slowed.

Demeter’s eyes fluttered as she took a last look on her friend. Her eyes losing their color while her chest barely moved.

Then stopped.

Hecate’s gaze faded into shadow. And then, she too, was still.

No god saw their deaths.

But from the broken stones, from the burnt roots, from the last remnants of ancient soil—a single flower bloomed.

A red poppy, trembling in the wind.

The last gift between friends.