Divine Ascension: Reborn as a God of Power-Chapter 81: The Fates (Part 2)

A slow, rhythmic pulse vibrated through the stone beneath the Moirai’s feet—like a heartbeat not their own. The strands stretched and curled with unnatural motion, as though some unseen hand were playing with the weave while they watched.

Clotho let the spindle stop in her fingers. For the first time in memory, she didn’t add a new thread to the world.

"That war..." she said quietly, "was never part of the design."

Lachesis didn’t respond immediately. Her measuring rod hung limp at her side. She was still watching the crimson-gold thread—the one spiraling in a direction none of them had laid out. Akhon’s thread. It curved upward and outward, changing everything around it.

Even now, it wrapped around gods that should’ve never crossed his path. Entwined with Hesperia, Zagreus, Hermes, and now—the war itself.

Lachesis exhaled through her nose. "I’ve run every permutation. None of them include this battle."

"We wrote an age of slow decline," Clotho murmured. "Not collapse."

"Zeus was to fade across time," Lachesis agreed. "Not burn."

They turned to Atropos.

Still silent, still watching the trembling light of the altered strand. Her shears rested loosely in one hand, but she hadn’t raised them.

"You’re thinking it too," Clotho said.

Atropos didn’t look away from the loom. "It doesn’t belong anymore."

Lachesis ran her fingers just above the red-gold weave. "It shouldn’t have gotten this far."

"He was supposed to die at Hades hands or maybe at Kaeron facing Athena," Clotho added. "Even that survival was... already an anomaly."

Now she reached for her spindle again, but she hesitated.

"...It’s not just Akhon anymore," she said. "There’s something else buried deeper and feeding the divergence."

"The purple thread," Lachesis said.

"Yes."

They all stared at it—woven tightly through Akhon’s, shimmering with a wrongness that was impossible to define. It wasn’t divine, wasn’t mortal. It wasn’t even thread in the traditional sense.

It felt like something outside the loom forcing itself in.

"I tried to read it," Lachesis muttered. "It burned my hand."

"Then it’s not Fate," Atropos said flatly.

The silence that followed was unlike their usual stillness. There was no comfort in it. No symmetry. Just the quiet of realization. Something had entered the system they had ruled since time began—and it had brought chaos.

The loom flickered again.

Dozens of minor threads snapped—mortals, mostly. Some demigods. A handful of Titans. Gone in a single pulse. Their fates didn’t unravel so much as disappear.

Clotho’s eyes narrowed. "It’s accelerating."

Lachesis gave a slow nod. "Whatever’s inside him... it’s rewriting too quickly. And we can’t trace the source."

Atropos lifted her shears an inch. "We restart the thread."

Neither sister responded at first.

Clotho stared at her, searching her face for hesitation.

"You’re serious?"

Atropos didn’t blink. "If we don’t, the tapestry fractures."

Lachesis looked back at the path Akhon’s thread had taken—looping around gods, causing splinters in the future. Where once there were clear lines, now only fog remained. Probabilities. The unknown.

"We’ve never restarted a thread," she said. "Not once."

"Which is why it might work," Atropos replied. "It hasn’t been corrupted yet. It’s the only thing the intruder wouldn’t expect."

Clotho paced slowly around the loom’s perimeter, the spindle forgotten in her hand.

"To rewind it would mean wiping everything and everyone. Every change."

"Yes," Atropos said.

"And if it fails?"

Atropos finally met her eyes.

"Then we cut the whole thing."

The weight of those words echoed in the chamber. Not a threat—just a fact.

Lachesis stepped toward the loom again. "We’d need to isolate the corruption. Separate Akhon’s original fate from what it’s become."

"We don’t even know where the infection begins," Clotho said.

"We’ll find it," Atropos replied. "The thread remembers."

Clotho didn’t argue. Instead, she reached out—not to spin, but to trace.

The red-gold thread quivered under her fingers. It knew. It resisted. The purple light inside it flickered, and for a heartbeat, the loom itself screamed.

All three Moirai stepped back.

"...It’s aware of us," Clotho whispered.

Lachesis nodded grimly. "That should be impossible."

"It isn’t," Atropos said.

For the first time, her voice held something beneath the surface: concern.

If whatever force had entered Akhon could perceive the Fates themselves, could defend its presence... then the risk was higher than a single broken thread. It meant someone was challenging the entire system.

Clotho looked to her sisters.

"So we reset him?"

"We prepare the sequence," Atropos said.

"If we’re wrong..."

Lachesis didn’t finish the sentence.

Because they weren’t wrong. They knew that something was breaking free of Fate and it seemed as Akhon was its vessel.

The loom shimmered again.

The threads hissed softly—like the fabric of reality whispering its protest.

The Loom responded first.

Threads fluttered, delicate as breath. The golden weave of fate pulsed in preparation, trembling under the decision the Moirai had dared to make.

Restart the thread.

It was not a command spoken aloud, but an agreement sealed in action. Clotho steadied her spindle, Lachesis drew her measuring cord to trace back Akhon’s original path, and Atropos brought the tip of her shears down—not to cut, but to split the thread. To peel away the new from the old.

The purple corruption trembled. The red-gold light beneath it flickered.

The chamber itself held its breath.

Clotho pressed her hand to the starting point of Akhon’s original weave, feeling for the spark of first purpose—his birth as a minor divinity, his dreams, his sacrifice at Kaeron. The thread recognized her. It pulsed in response.

"There," she whispered. "I found the point before deviation."

Atropos raised the shears.

"This is the moment we unmake everything after," Lachesis said. "The war. The throne. Even his name might change."

Atropos did not answer.

Her blades were halfway closed when the silence broke while the Loom stopped spinning.

The weave held frozen—like a statue mid-motion.

Even the breath of threads, the flickering light, the song of fate itself... ceased.

Clotho looked up.

Lachesis took a slow, cautious step back from the loom.

The spindle in Clotho’s hands crumbled into dust.

"...No," she whispered.

The red-gold thread moved—but not by their will.

It curled, almost lazily, folding itself away from Atropos’s shears like a serpent drawing back from a blade.

A dark pressure descended. There was no visible presence. No form. No voice. But something stood between them and the thread now. Something vast, ancient, and utterly still.

The space behind the loom deepened into black. Not shadow—void. The absence of concept. The unmaking of purpose.

And from that void, a ripple passed through the Loom.

Not through the threads—but beneath them.

Under the foundation of the weave.

Like something walking under ice.

Atropos stepped back.

The shears in her hand refused to close.

Lachesis clutched her cord tightly, watching the measuring marks fade from the surface—wiped clean.

"I can’t see the length anymore," she said. "I’ve never seen that happen. I’ve never seen—" Her voice broke.

Clotho tried to conjure a new spindle.

Nothing came.

The void behind the loom expanded slightly. Not loud, not aggressive. Just present. As if to remind them, calmly, that they were not alone.

Something else had entered the chamber of destiny.

And it did not come as a guest.

"We’re being watched," Clotho whispered. Her voice was dry now.

Atropos moved her hand again, tried to reach for the corrupted thread, but a cold resistance pushed against her fingers—not hard, not painful. Just... final.

Like touching a sealed tomb or a door meant never to open again.

"This isn’t interference," Lachesis said, her face pale. "It’s dominion."

The word hung in the air like frost.

Dominion.

Not just over Akhon.

But over fate.

Something had claimed authority in the one place it never should have touched.

Clotho shook her head. "No being—not god, not titan, not primordial—can rewrite fate without our hands."

"But this doesn’t rewrite," Atropos said at last.

Her voice was soft. Not fear. But awe.

"This watches. It waits. It weaves nothing—and yet everything bends around it."

The purple strand pulsed again.

And then...

It moved. All on its own.

It wound tighter around Akhon’s thread. Not erratically, not with haste—but with intention. The precision of a hand older than time.

And when it had finished, the corrupted thread shut itself off.

Like a door closing.

Lachesis dropped her measuring cord.

Clotho, unable to feel the weave, fell to her knees.

Atropos lowered her shears.

"...It has sealed him," she said.

Clotho raised her head, eyes wide with something unspoken.

"Then we can’t restart him."

"We can’t change him," Lachesis said, voice hollow.

Atropos watched the void settle.

And then, for a heartbeat, she imagined she heard it.

Not a voice.

But a thought.

He is mine now.

She said nothing.

She did not tell the others.

She just backed away from the loom.

The sisters stood in silence as the chamber returned to motion—the threads resumed their slow spin, the breath of fate returning.

But they didn’t touch it.

They had tried to correct the future.

And something greater had denied them.

Something that did not belong to gods or titans or stars.

Something that had no shape.

No name.

Only the promise of chaos.

The Moirai, who had once believed themselves eternal...

...understood now that they had met something more.

And it did not fear their scissors.

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