Divine Ascension: Reborn as a God of Power-Chapter 77: Theomachy (Part 17)

Ash floated like snow over the remains of the amphitheater.

Columns that once held sacred relics lay split in half. Statues of long-dead figures stared blankly from shattered pedestals, faces marred by heat and debris. The sky boiled a dull crimson, thick with smoke and the aftershock of divine magic. All of Olympus was shaking—but here, silence reigned.

Then a soft sound broke it. Most specifically, the crunch of armored boots on debris.

Athena dragged herself to her feet from the cracked crater. Blood matted her hair. Her right pauldron was gone, her chestplate warped and cracked from Hestia’s last assault. She leaned against a fallen altar for a moment, gasping, before shoving off and taking one shaky step forward.

She didn’t speak.

Across from her, Hestia stood still.

She was barefoot on scorched marble, wrapped in flickering bands of fire and will, she didn’t flinch. Her robes—once soft and flowing—were now streaked with soot and blood. Her eyes, normally warm, had cooled to embers.

Then Athena lunged.

Her body obeyed muscle memory even as fatigue howled in her bones.

She moved low—too low for someone as exhausted as she was—and swept a punch toward Hestia’s knee, trying to unbalance her.

Hestia sidestepped.

The flame at her heel erupted as she spun and kicked, fire spiraling from her foot like a whip. The blow struck Athena in the side, throwing her into the fractured base of a statue. Stone crumbled on impact.

Athena gritted her teeth and pulled herself upright again.

Hestia didn’t wait this time.

She raised her hands and summoned two arcs of flame, lancing them forward like burning spears.

Athena ducked—barely. One blast grazed her shoulder, singing through armor and flesh. She let out a grunt of pain, but retaliated with a shard of divine metal she’d picked up from the rubble—hurling it with the force of a catapult, that screamed through the air.

Hestia caught it mid-flight with an open palm.

The metal melted in her hand, dripping into glowing droplets.

She stepped forward and Athena charged to meet her.

Their clash was quiet—a storm without thunder. Hands. Elbows. Knees. Each blow fueled by millennia of doctrine and belief.

Athena struck high—Hestia blocked with a wrist wreathed in heat.

Athena went low—Hestia leapt, spun, and launched a knee into her opponent’s jaw.

The war goddess reeled, but not for long.

She twisted and slammed her shoulder into Hestia’s chest, driving her back across the stone.

Then, they broke apart as smoke billowed between them.

Athena’s breaths came shallow and sharp, every one laced with pain. Her arms trembled. Her knees wobbled.

But her eyes... her eyes still burned with clarity.

She would not fall.

Hestia’s gaze softened—but only slightly.

She raised her arms again, this time drawing from deep within—the sacred flame, the source of all hearths and homes. Fire burst from her back like wings. The temperature around them spiked instantly, distorting the air. Even stone began to glow underfoot.

Athena raised a makeshift shield—part of a broken statue—just as a torrent of flame engulfed her.

The world turned white.

Wind roared. Fire howled. Smoke rose in pillars that reached the broken sky.

When the light faded, Athena remained standing.

But barely.

Her skin was raw and blistered. Her makeshift shield had melted, fused to her arm like slag. Her body trembled.

She took one more step.

Hestia appeared in front of her in a blink.

And slapped her across the face.

The blow wasn’t just physical—it was an eruption of divine force, focused in a palm of pure inner fire.

Athena flew backward again, rolling across cracked ground, leaving streaks of ichor and smoldering cloth in her path.

This time, she didn’t rise immediately.

Hestia approached slowly.

Each footstep left glowing footprints behind.

Athena finally groaned and pushed herself up to one knee.

She was still trying to stand.

Even now.

Even after everything.

Hestia paused a few feet away.

Her expression wasn’t anger. Nor pity. Just... a deep, weary grief.

She extended her hand—not in attack—but in offering.

But Athena shook her head.

And surged again.

Hestia didn’t wait this time.

She caught her mid-charge with both hands and drove her knee into Athena’s ribs. Bone cracked. Breath fled. Before Athena could collapse, Hestia twisted and flipped her to the ground, pinning her with an elbow across the throat.

Athena gasped, clawing at her wrist.

But her strength... was gone.

The war goddess struggled for a few more seconds, until her limbs stopped resisting.

She lay there—chest rising and falling, face smeared with blood, too stubborn to black out.

Hestia released her and stood.

She didn’t turn her back.

Not on Athena.

Not on family.

Instead, she stepped away and lit a small fire in the center of the broken temple, letting it burn steady—an old ritual, a reminder.

She knew Athena would survive.

She just didn’t know what would remain of her when she stood again.

But Athena didn’t know how to stop.

She pushed her hand against the fractured stone and rose again—one knee at a time, like a wounded beast refusing to die. Her mouth bled, her breath rasped, her skin scorched and blistered from the previous blast, but her eyes were still sharp. Not wild. Not furious.

Just focused.

Even stripped of her weapons, her shield, her tactics—she was still Athena, goddess of resolve, of battle born from thought. Surrender was never written in her code.

Hestia turned, slowly.

She had hoped Athena would stop. Hoped the last exchange had been enough to convince her that this was no longer her fight. That the lines had shifted. That peace sometimes meant letting go.

But peace and Athena rarely met eye to eye.

No words passed between them.

Athena launched herself forward again, teeth clenched against pain, one arm clutching her ribs while the other swung low. She moved like an exhausted soldier in a war already lost, still trying to carve meaning from broken pride.

Hestia did not retreat.

She met the charge directly, stepping into the blow, catching Athena’s fist with one hand and using the other to press her palm into the war goddess’s chest. A silent pulse of sacred flame pushed outward.

Athena flew backward.

Again.

She crashed against what was left of a colonnade, sending debris in every direction. The column tilted, then collapsed in a thunder of marble and dust.

But before the rubble fully settled—she burst out again.

Blood running down her chin, her left arm now limp, but still she ran.

She sprinted.

A shriek of defiance cracked the air—not from her lips, but from the divine energy she forced into her own muscles. Her aura sparked in erratic pulses, no longer smooth or precise, but jagged and desperate.

She tackled Hestia, shoulder-first, and they both crashed into the earth.

The impact sent a plume of dust and fire high into the sky.

Athena was on top, one knee against Hestia’s abdomen, one arm raised with a piece of stone gripped like a dagger.

Hestia’s expression didn’t change.

She caught the weapon.

Her palm blistered instantly from the force Athena tried to drive down, but she held it firm. Her other hand ignited, searing with concentrated divine flame.

She pressed it against Athena’s ribs.

Athena screamed through her teeth.

The flame didn’t just burn flesh. It burned the lie of invincibility—the idea that will alone could conquer all.

She rolled off, smoldering, coughing black smoke.

Hestia rose slowly, eyes dimmed. Her skin cracked in places, glowing ember-bright between seams. She was burning her inner fire now—the ancient hearthlight, the sacred spark she never unleashed in battle.

This was not vengeance, this was restraint, fraying.

But somehow Athena stood again.

Every motion was a tremor. Her right foot dragged and her vision blurred. But she charged anyway.

Not with elegance, nor tactics.

Just with force.

Hestia braced and let the war goddess slam into her, the two of them crashing through scorched ruins. Fire met muscle. Ash met steel will.

They rolled and fought.

They wrestled like mortals.

Athena tried to pin her but Hestia reversed.

Athena kneed her in the side—Hestia answered with a palm strike to the throat, stunning her for half a breath.

Long enough.

She raised both hands, flame spiraling in rings, and ignited the very air between them.

A contained eruption sent Athena flying one final time—this time far, far across the plaza. She smashed through what remained of a shrine wall and rolled to a halt near the edge of the cliff, where Olympus dropped off into the void of divine space.

She didn’t move for a full ten seconds.

Then, groaning, coughing, cursing some god or herself—she tried to rise again.

Hestia walked slowly toward her.

Each step left burning footprints in the marble.

Athena forced herself upright, one leg barely working. Her body was no longer hers. She was moving through the echoes of a warrior too proud to collapse.

Hestia stopped in front of her and raised one hand again.

This time, not to attack.

The flames receded slightly. The aura dimmed.

Athena stood trembling, eyes bloodshot, fists still clenched—even though she could barely raise her arms.

Her knees buckled.

She collapsed onto them, breath sharp and erratic.

Her pride kept her upright, but just barely.

Hestia reached down and, gently, pressed her palm to Athena’s forehead—not to burn, but to calm. The fire from her touch sank into Athena’s skin like warmth drawn from a hearth on a cold night.

Athena’s muscles slackened and her jaw unclenched.

The last of her strength fled like smoke in wind.

She didn’t pass out.

But she closed her eyes and for the first time in centuries, she rested.

Hestia exhaled and finally let her own fire fade to embers.

Around them, Olympus still burned and crumbled.

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