Divine Ascension: Reborn as a God of Power
Chapter 88: Theomachy (Part 25)

Chapter 88: Theomachy (Part 25)

Time shattered the moment they moved.

A single heartbeat.

That was all it took for the world around them to fall away—no rubble, no flames, no collapsing Olympus. Just open air, cracked sky, and two blurs of godspeed clashing mid-flight.

Eros struck first.

He darted in a streak of rose-gold light, wings slicing the air behind him like twin blades of emotion. His spear was not forged of metal, but of compressed passion—solid, glowing, and vibrating with barely-contained pressure. He aimed for the shoulder, then switched mid-strike for the heart, then again for the gut, each motion too fast to follow.

Hermes met him in the blink between seconds.

His sandals didn’t touch the ground. Wind twisted beneath him like a serpent as he deflected the first blow with the flat of his dagger, pivoted around the second, and struck Eros across the ribs with the hilt on the third. Sparks flew, golden and white, as divine skin met enchanted steel.

They separated.

An aftershock thundered through the ruined court behind them, only now catching up to their speed. Marble cracked. Columns trembled.

Then they moved again.

This time together.

To any observer, it would’ve looked like streaks of starlight crashing midair. They vanished and reappeared across the battlefield—above, below, around. A spiral of speed, each strike followed by counters, feints, dashes. Arcs of light, wind, and kinetic energy tore through the already-ruined temple square.

Eros spun midair, wings flaring out to halt momentum. He twisted the spear behind his back, then hurled it forward in a tight, spiraling bolt of force.

Hermes vanished just before it struck.

He reappeared at Eros’s blind spot, blade aimed for the shoulder.

But Eros grinned—he’d expected it.

A pulse of pink energy erupted from his body, the raw manifestation of broken hearts and unspoken desire. It hit Hermes point-blank, sending him crashing into a statue’s remains. The explosion shattered the base and sent divine debris in every direction.

Hermes landed on one knee, chest heaving.

Blood—silver and blue—dripped from his brow.

Eros hovered above him, breathing hard.

There was no hatred between them. Actually they were once friends on the past, Eros have been one of those pranked by Hermes when he was little, so he developed some sense of duty to teach him when he learned the kid could do some of the things he could.

Hermes vanished again.

When he reappeared, his expression had changed.

No more hesitation.

The dagger spun in his hand, glowing white-hot with speed enchantments drawn from the primordial winds. He moved—no, slipped—between moments, a blur of godly acceleration. His strikes were relentless, mathematical. Every cut was calculated to disable—not kill. To disarm. To subdue.

But Eros was not simply a pretty god with a bow.

He was the primal incarnation of emotion in its purest form—love, lust, obsession, rage, heartbreak.

He parried, redirected, countered—his movements born not of logic, but of instinct, of feeling.

He took a cut across the cheek.

Then caught Hermes’s wrist on the next strike.

On that moment they locked eyes. Both of them breathing hard.

Then they clashed again.

This time, higher—up into the open stormclouds swirling over Olympus. Lightning flashed, thunder cracked around them, but the battle was faster than the storm. They fought like comets colliding, shockwaves booming through the clouds, divine silhouettes flashing in and out of reality.

Hermes slashed upward. Eros batted it away and slammed an elbow into Hermes’s side.

Hermes twisted, grabbed Eros’s wrist, used his momentum to throw him downward—back toward the ground.

Eros righted himself just in time, skimming inches above the marble, carving a furrow through the battlefield. He flared his wings, stopped, and launched straight back up.

They met again midair. This time, both struck.

A knee into ribs.

A dagger into shoulder.

A headbutt that made the sky cry.

They flew apart, breathing hard, floating above what remained of the battlefield.

Eros’s armor was cracked, ichor dripping.

Hermes’s tunic was torn, a limp in his right arm.

But they were both still standing.

Lightning arced between them as the wind howled.

Still, no words.

There was no need.

They had once flown together—Eros through hearts, Hermes through the world.

They had danced in celebration, laughed in temples, drunk ambrosia until sunrise.

Now, they clashed as enemies.

Because Olympus had fallen apart, because they were on opossing sides of the war.

Because cammaderie no longer meant unity.

And mostly because loyalty now demanded war.

So they charged again with no hesitation nor pause, nor even intentions of holding back, because both of them knew each other enough to know the other won’t hesitate to attack.

And as their weapons met again with thunderous force, the heavens wept for them both.

Two gods meeting on the air with a force capable of emulating a thunder on sound.

Also they were two brothers in soul.

Fighting in a war neither of them wanted to be, but they had to.

The next clash was chaos.

Eros twisted into a feint, spear arcing low. Hermes moved to dodge, but a stray blast from a distant explosion—some collapsing pillar of Olympus or divine backlash—threw off his balance for just a moment.

That was all it took. His movement faltered.

Eros’s spear was already on a path for his ribs, the tip vibrating with divine force.

But Hermes stumbled sideways—and Eros missed.

Just barely.

His eyes widened—too late.

Hermes’s elbow caught him under the chin.

The strike hadn’t been aimed. It hadn’t even been intentional.

But it landed clean.

Eros’s head snapped back, vision flooding with light, his body spiraling midair.

He hit the ground with a dull, cracking thud, his spear dissolving into ambient particles. His wings twitched once—then went still.

Hermes hovered above him, panting, stunned.

"...Shit."

He dropped to the ground, kneeling beside Eros. His heartbeat hammered in his ears as he turned the god of love over gently, checking his pulse.

He was till alive, he was only inconscious.

Not dead. Not yet.

Hermes let out a breath and sat back on his heels. His fingers trembled—partly from fatigue, partly from what had just happened. He hadn’t meant to win. He hadn’t even really believed he could.

But he’d landed the final blow.

And now Eros—his friend—was down.

"Forgive me," Hermes whispered.

He stood slowly, body aching, eyes scanning the sky.

The battlefield had changed again. The chaos had quieted in the distance. A new, heavier silence now settled over the broken throne halls of Olympus.

He turned toward the sound of approaching footsteps—slow, deliberate, echoing off cracked marble.

Two figures emerged from the ruined archways of the upper tier, stepping into view through the smoke.

Poseidon.

Hades.

Both were bloodied, ichor staining their armor in thick trails. Their eyes glowed with power—but also fatigue. The battle had cost them.

Behind them, the bodies of Apollo and Athena lay crumpled in the rubble. Still breathing, but broken. Athena’s shield was shattered. Apollo’s radiant form flickered, like a dying star trying to burn just a bit longer.

Hermes froze.

Poseidon’s gaze found him first.

His trident rested over his shoulder, and his steps were slow but unwavering. "Hermes."

Hermes straightened, swallowing thickly. "They’re alive?"

"Barely," Poseidon answered. "We didn’t kill them. It wasn’t necessary."

"Yet."

That word came from Hades, his tone colder, devoid of remorse. Shadows still coiled at his feet like snakes, drawn toward the wounded gods nearby.

Hermes moved instinctively, stepping between the brothers and the unconscious Eros.

"You’ve done enough," he said. "They can’t fight anymore."

Neither of the elder gods replied at first.

Poseidon’s eyes dropped to Eros’s unmoving form. "He challenged you?"

Hermes nodded.

Poseidon sighed. "Loyalty makes enemies of us all."

Hades said nothing, but the look in his eyes was worse than words—empty, decisive, a god that had crossed too many lines to look back.

Hermes lowered his gaze to Apollo, then Athena. His heart cracked.

They had given everything. Everything.

For Olympus. For Zeus. For pride.

And now Zeus was dead.

The fight had shifted.

Hermes wasn’t sure what side he was on anymore. He had only joined put of duty with his father, but now...he didn’t know anymore.

Poseidon took another step forward, his voice gentler now. "Hermes, you don’t have to fight anymore. The war is decided. The mountain is ours."

Hermes didn’t move.

He looked again at Eros—crumpled, beautiful, divine.

Then at Athena, barely breathing.

At Apollo, flickering like the last warmth of a sunset.

And the pit in his chest deepened.

"I know," he said finally. "But if I stop now... then what was all this for?"

Poseidon said nothing.

Hades turned and began walking toward the edge of the ruins, into the smoke.

He didn’t wait for Hermes to follow.

Poseidon lingered for a moment longer, watching him.

Then he turned as well, leaving Hermes alone among the fallen.

The war hadn’t ended, it had only changed shape.

And Hermes stood in the middle of it, his hands stained by fate.