Divine Ascension: Reborn as a God of Power-Chapter 83: Theomachy (Part 20)

The sky had cracked hours ago.

What remained above Olympus was not a firmament but a swirling void of torn clouds, thunder arcs, and falling debris from temples that no longer stood. Towers were dust. Thrones were splinters. Oceans boiled in the air. The battlefield had shifted into the high plateau, where only the strongest dared to remain.

There—Zeus, bloodied but unbroken, stood with storm wrapped around him like armor.

To his left: Poseidon, rising from a sea he had summoned to drown the peak itself, riding its surge like a living tempest.

And to his right: Hades, shadows coiling across his obsidian armor, the Helm of Invisibility flickering on and off, his scythe dragging ash through the marble that cracked beneath their feet.

They didn’t speak.

They didn’t need to.

Words were no longer weapons here.

Only power was.

Zeus struck first. With a roar that shattered the last remaining column of the central temple, he hurled a bolt not from the sky, but from himself—an ancient, golden lance of primal electricity shaped like a spear. It screamed across the battlefield.

Poseidon caught it midair with his trident, forcing it to twist with a vortex of compressed sea pressure. But even deflected, it exploded on impact behind him, vaporizing an entire cliffside and throwing up a tidal wall a mile high.

Hades emerged from behind a ripple of black air—one moment invisible, the next solid—and slashed his scythe toward Zeus’s flank. The blade struck the king’s shoulder, not cutting skin but soul, sending an echo of agony through his divine core.

Zeus turned, grabbed Hades by the throat, and hurled him straight through three crumbling statues of Titans.

Poseidon answered with the sea.

A pillar of churning ocean, thick as a mountain root, launched skyward and slammed into Zeus like a hammer. The impact dragged him across the stone floor, leaving a canyon of shattered marble in his wake.

But he didn’t fall.

Zeus rose from the wave, his eyes white.

Arcs of lightning spiraling across his chest and limbs.

And then the sky collapsed.

He lifted both hands, and thunder answered.

A grid of jagged lightning bolts formed a storm cage around Poseidon and Hades. Each line of electricity seared the air, bending reality with its force. The pressure dropped so violently that even gods felt their ears pop.

Poseidon snarled, slammed his trident into the stone, and summoned a surge of ocean from beneath Olympus itself. Sea broke through marble, tore open chasms, and flooded the sacred mount—salt meeting lightning, roaring with elemental hate.

The wave surged against the storm cage.

Clashing forces screamed.

Lightning boiled the sea.

Steam exploded in all directions.

And in that rising mist, Hades moved.

He didn’t run. He flowed.

A blur of shadow.

He appeared behind Zeus again—this time silent—and drove his scythe toward the king’s spine.

But Zeus was faster.

He turned and grabbed the blade mid-swing, with bare hands. Blood hissed on the metal. The god of death looked surprised—only for Zeus to headbutt him so hard the helmet of invisibility cracked down the middle and shattered into black shards.

Hades hit the ground, skidding, shadows leaking from his body like smoke.

Poseidon launched next.

He leapt through the mist with a cry, trident forward, and collided with Zeus in a titanic clash of muscle and divine will.

The shockwave flattened a half-mile radius. A whole cliff face crumbled.

They grappled.

Zeus swung, Poseidon parried with the haft of his weapon, and the two traded blows like meteors. Every strike sparked storms. Each parry birthed whirlwinds. The plateau beneath their feet became a crater.

Hades, rising with slow menace, raised a hand.

The shadows obeyed.

Not just from around him—but from within every crack, every corpse, every ruined statue. Black chains of pure death energy slithered across the battlefield and lashed toward both his brothers.

Zeus turned too late.

One chain coiled around his arm. Another caught his neck.

Poseidon tried to twist away, but his leg was snagged. The ground beneath him turned to liquified bone.

The chains pulled.

The shadows screamed.

And then Zeus bellowed—a wordless, wrathful cry—and burned through the bindings with a full-body pulse of storm. The force detonated outward in a divine shockwave, reducing Hades’ shadows to ash and throwing Poseidon across the broken field like a ragdoll.

Zeus rose from the crater, bleeding from his chest, panting like a beast—but still standing.

His cloak had been torn. His crown cracked. His hands were scorched. But his eyes burned with endless will.

Across from him, Hades climbed from the wreckage. His scythe was broken at the haft, jagged now. His breath was ragged.

Poseidon stood last.

Bruised, wet and with his trident scorched at the tips.

All three stood again.

None willing to fall.

Their bodies were battered. Their power diminished. But they had fought for eons before mortals even walked upright. And they would fight again.

The storm above rumbled once more. The sea below hissed. And death gathered again at the edges of the battlefield.

Round three had begun.

Zeus leapt first.

A column of wind launched him forward like a javelin. Sparks of lightning spiraled around his fists, converging into a concentrated bolt as large as a siege spear. His body cut through mist and ruin, a living missile.

Poseidon met him in midair, trident spinning.

And the weapons collided.

The impact blew a hole into the sky. Actual space cracked—clouds sucked upward in a vortex, revealing the void of the upper firmament. What remained of Olympus’ peak splintered beneath them, tumbling like falling teeth into the canyons below.

Hades moved in shadows again—faster now, no longer toying with stealth. His steps rippled the battlefield. With every blink of existence, he was elsewhere—above Zeus, behind Poseidon, in between.

His strikes were scalpel-like, aimed at joints, ribs, exposed flesh beneath cracked divine armor.

Zeus took one across the ribs and retaliated with a spin of lightning that bent the battlefield into a glowing spiral. The air ignited. Hades vanished a heartbeat before it scorched through his form.

Poseidon, seeing the king distracted, called the sea again—not water, but primal ocean, the deep abyss untouched by mortals, where titanic beasts stirred and light could not reach. The black waters obeyed his roar.

From the shattered plateau, a wave miles high surged into the sky, folding and coiling into the shape of a serpent—its scales forged from ocean pressure, its mouth lined with coral fangs. A weapon. A godborn tide given shape.

Zeus turned—too late.

The serpent hit him full force.

He disappeared inside the beast’s crushing body. The ocean smashed the mount, erasing cliffs and broken temples. Lightning tried to fight its way out, flashing inside the translucent depths—but the abyss was thick and ancient.

Then—

The sea exploded outward.

Not evaporated—repelled.

Zeus hovered in the air above the wreckage, drenched in blood and fury. Stormlight bled from his eyes, but it was unstable now. Wild. He had burned through half his divine reserves and still hadn’t broken them.

He screamed, and the sky responded.

The stars moved.

The heavens opened.

From above, twelve columns of divine judgment fell—bolts thicker than towers, each shaped like celestial spears, carved with primordial runes. These weren’t lightning anymore.

These were punishments.

Poseidon raised his trident, summoned every barrier of tide and shell and salt—and the bolts shattered them like reeds. He flew backward, bones breaking audibly, crashing through three ruined halls before he finally stopped.

Blood trailed from his mouth.

His eyes narrowed. He wasn’t finished. But his breath came slower.

On the other side, Hades used the distraction to emerge from the earth—rising like a revenant behind Zeus. He didn’t wield his broken scythe now, but a massive axe of obsidian and soul-stone, forged in the lowest pit of the underworld. It fed on suffering.

He swung.

Zeus blocked—but barely.

The impact split the sky again. This time, stars fell—burning as they crashed into the war-torn peak, igniting divine forest and crumbling what few structures remained. The energy was too great to be contained.

Reality bent.

Time stuttered.

For a heartbeat, everything froze. Even the gods.

Then Hades whispered a command, and his axe absorbed the stillness—twisting time around its edge. He moved again before Zeus could restart, slashing thrice in blinks of distorted chronology.

The cuts landed.

One across the king’s back—blood arced into the air.

Another to the thigh—armor cracked.

The third—

Was caught.

Zeus roared and shattered time’s grip. With his bare hand, he ripped the blade from Hades’ grasp and threw it into the void. His fingers glowed white with heat.

He struck Hades across the chest with an open palm, and the shockwave alone threw the Lord of the Underworld twenty meters, skipping across stone like a thrown stone.

Poseidon rose again—limping now, but with fury unmatched.

He slammed the trident into the ground and summoned the seabed itself. Massive crusts of coral and stone from the ocean floor burst upward, carried on columns of tidal energy. They surged toward Zeus like battering rams.

Zeus stood defiant, opened his arms wide—and called thunder not from above, but from inside.

His body arced and expanded with raw power. Every vein lit like starlight. He became a walking cataclysm.

He punched the seabed attack—and the entire front half of the battlefield detonated.

The mountain was gone. Just gone.

A hole remained.

A pit of falling ash, molten stone, and screaming wind. The center of Olympus had become a crater of annihilation.

Poseidon flew back, breath knocked from his lungs.

Hades, barely up, saw Zeus glowing in the epicenter, breath heavy, arms limp—but eyes still alive with fury.

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