That night, after the charity event, I sat alone in my office, surrounded by the dim glow of hovering energy crystals on the ceiling. Lyra had left long ago, and the other nymphs had gone home to rest. It was just me and the steady whisper of divine winds threading through the corridors. Olympus at night was always beautiful in its quiet way—as if thousands of years of power, glory, and intrigue all settled into stillness in that moment. I gazed out at the sky, and suddenly, an indescribable emptiness welled up inside me.
How long had it been since I'd thought about my past?
People often think gods are born perfect, already wielding power, already carrying eternal light within them. But that's not true. We have childhoods too, years of uncertainty and wandering, and pains too deep to put into words. I wasn't born amid thunderclaps or blazing lightning, but in a silent storm—the day the skies of Olympus tore open, and the energy of the old generation faded.
I am the child of Aetherius, the last god of the fourth generation—the god of pure energy and the sky beyond skies. They say he belonged neither to Olympus nor the mortal world, but was the embodiment of the universe itself. My mother was Callindra, a Titaness imprisoned since the Titanomachy, whom Zeus had pardoned for her ultimate loyalty. She possessed unmatched beauty: hair white as frost, eyes deep blue like the abyss of time. Their love was forbidden, for Zeus had decreed no union between divine and Titan blood. But they defied it in secret, and I was the result—a half-god, half-Titan child, carrying unstable energy, half light, half dark.
I didn't grow up in gleaming palaces, but in a hidden space between sky layers, where there was only wind and light. My mother nursed me with flower nectar and lullabies in the language of the winds, while my father taught me to control pure energy—something only a few gods ever understood. Back then, I didn't grasp why my father always looked at me with eyes full of both love and fear. He often said, "Atheon, you carry a power that cannot be measured. If you don't control it, you'll destroy everything you touch." I laughed it off, thinking it was just a warning. But I was wrong.
I remember the year I turned twelve, the first time I lost control. I saw an injured bird lying at the base of a cliff. I wanted to heal it, just as my father had done. But instead of healing, the energy inside me erupted, incinerating the entire forest around it. When the flames died, only ash and wind remained. I knelt amid the ruins, hands trembling. My mother embraced me, but I saw my father's gaze from afar—the look of a god realizing his child carried both salvation and destruction.
In the years that followed, my father began teaching me to compress energy, to listen to the "pulse of the universe" within me. He said all energy has its own rhythm, like the heartbeat of the world. If I could sync with it, I wouldn't be controlled by power—I'd control it. I trained for centuries among solitary stars, in the silence of the cosmos. Sometimes, I felt like I was no longer a child, but an extension of space itself. I learned to create light, matter, vibrations that slowed time. My father said I'd touched the boundary of "Divinity"—something the fourth generation achieved after millennia of existence.
But then tragedy struck.
When I was eighteen—just barely an adult by divine standards—Zeus discovered my existence. He raged, for the child of Aetherius and a Titaness threatened Olympus's balance. Zeus sent Hermes with orders to arrest my father for trial. I remember that day vividly. Lightning shattered the sky, divine troops surrounded our home. My father told me to flee, but I refused. I wanted to stand by him. The clash between the two gods was like an apocalyptic storm. Zeus and Aetherius—light and pure energy—collided, shaking the heavens. In the end, my father was defeated. But before dissolving, he transferred his entire core energy to me, whispering:
"Don't fear your power. One day, it will save all of Olympus."
Light consumed him, and I never saw my father again.
Zeus spared my mother but banished her from Olympus forever. I was kept, but not as a revered god—more like a monitored entity. For centuries afterward, I lived under Athena's supervision—the goddess of wisdom tasked with educating and controlling me. She was the first to teach me to "think like a god, not like a force." Under her guidance, I studied philosophy, strategy, art, and even human psychology. She often said, "Power without wisdom is just a weapon. Wisdom without compassion is merely a shadow." I've carried those words with me ever since.
But my youth wasn't peaceful. Despite my efforts, the old-generation gods regarded me with suspicion. They called me the "child of chaos," the "nucleus of collapse." I was barred from rituals, forbidden from contact with mortals. Many nights, I stood on temple rooftops, gazing at the lights of the mortal world, wondering if anyone down there knew my name. Those lonely nights forged a will that no power could break.
When the "Divine Rebirth War" erupted—the transition between the fourth and fifth generations—I was summoned to the battlefield for the first time. Olympus was threatened by entities from the Void, where old energy dissolved into chaotic waves. Many gods fell, including Poseidon and Hephaestus. Zeus, though still king, was weakened by age. I remember that day: as Void forces stormed the Grand Hall, the sky shattered, and everything plunged into darkness.
I hadn't planned to fight, but when I saw Athena gravely wounded, something ignited inside me. I released the seal my father had taught me, letting the energy flow free. The sky blazed. I felt every particle of energy swirling around me, every pulse of space. I reached out, and in an instant, the entire Void army shattered into billions of light fragments. The world fell silent. When the light faded, I stood amid a field of glowing ash, while every other god—even Zeus—stared at me in disbelief.
From that day, they called me "Atheon—the Core Toucher," the first of the fifth generation to reach what ancient gods termed "Absolute Energy." I was appointed Guardian of Olympus, protector of order between worlds. But that glory brought no joy. Inside, I felt hollow, for every time I gazed at my power, I saw my father's shadow. I wondered if he was proud—or if he saw me repeating his fate, devoured by my own strength.
For thousands of years after, I fought in countless battles. I defeated the resurrected Black Dragon Typhon, sealed the Tartarus abyss a second time, saved the mortal world from Chronos's falling star collision. Each victory boosted my fame, but distanced me further from myself. When Zeus declared the "Fifth Generation"—the era of fame—I had become a living legend. But instead of continuing as a war god, I retreated, starting a small company with nymphs, because I wanted to understand mortals—what made them love, hate, believe, and forget.
I thought it would heal me. But the deeper I immersed in the world of fame, the more I realized I was losing what my father and Athena had taught: the true meaning of divinity.
I remember once, in a dream, I saw my father again. He stood amid the universe, light surrounding him, his voice echoing like wind: "Your true power lies not in fame or faith. It lies in seeing through both." When I woke, I was crying—an emotion I'd thought gods had long forgotten.
Now, looking back on my journey, I realize: I'm not the strongest because I have the most energy. I'm the strongest because I've lost the most. Lost my father, my mother, my innocence, my faith that power could make everything better. I became the strongest god of the fifth generation not through raw might, but through the will to survive—by never letting the darkness within conquer the light.
I lift my head to the night sky, where my father's stars still shine as brightly as ever. I know that though Olympus is modern now, though fame has replaced faith, deep down, what keeps us gods isn't power—it's memory. It's remembering who we are, and why we exist.
I whisper softly, as if to myself:
"I'm still hearing the pulse of the universe, Father."
The light from the crystals around me flickers, then merges with the wind. In that moment, I feel a strange peace, as if all of Olympus is listening too.
Tomorrow, I'll return to work, to meetings, to fame. But tonight, in this stillness, I am just Atheon—the son of Aetherius and Callindra, who journeyed through millennia of light and shadow to find himself.
And perhaps, in that memory, I truly touch the power my father spoke of—the power of one who understands the value of existence.