I Am Zeus - Chapter 168: Two Birth

Chapter 168: Two Birth

The realm of Olympus spread vast across creation, thrones and domains bound together by Zeus’s storm. Pantheons that once clashed now bent beneath one law, their temples glowing as rivers of light cut across the endless sky. Peace hung heavy—not quiet, not soft, but the peace of a world too awed to rebel.

Yet beneath peace, stories were still being written. Stories that did not begin in Zeus’s throne room.

They began far from it—in blood, and in stone.

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Sparta.

The land of warriors, carved into discipline and flame. Here, long before the shadow of Olympus reached into every corner of the world, a boy cried into the night.

His name was Kratos.

Born of mortal woman, his father hidden in rumor and thunder, Kratos grew in a city that demanded strength before breath. From childhood, he was thrown into drills, his hands blistering around weapons before he could write his own name. The Spartans did not raise children. They forged soldiers.

Kratos was not spared.

His brother, Deimos, carried a birthmark across his body, crimson as war-paint. The priests whispered of prophecy—that one marked in red would bring the downfall of Olympus. And so Ares, god of war, came for him. Kratos had been a boy then, fists too small to hold even a dagger, but he remembered it—the flames, his brother’s screams, his own powerless roar as Ares tore Deimos away into chains.

That wound never healed. It carved itself into Kratos’s chest, into his fists, into his very breath. From that day, he fought harder than any Spartan child. When others slept, he trained. When others bled, he stood. He grew into a man of iron, shoulders broad as stone, eyes burning with fury he did not yet understand.

He married. He loved. For a time, he even forgot. But war was the only language Sparta spoke, and Kratos was its loudest voice. He rose through the ranks, his blade painting foreign sands red, his name feared even by those who had never seen his face. Commander, champion, then general. He carried the Spartan army on his back.

But glory carried weight. And weight bent men until they broke.

Kratos broke when he needed power most—cornered in battle, his army crumbling, he cried out to Ares. Not to Zeus. Not to Olympus entire. To Ares, the god who had stolen his brother and now dangled salvation like bait.

Chains bound his arms. Blades seared into his flesh. He became servant to the god of war, his body painted not with honor but with curse.

That was the path carved for Kratos. The Ghost of Sparta. The man who would one day tear Olympus apart with his bare hands.

Zeus did not speak of him, not yet. But in the storm’s silence, the name lingered.

Kratos.

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On the other side of the world, where mountains bent into clouds and rivers sang in endless verse, another birth stirred.

This one had no mother. No father. No mortal flesh.

It began with stone.

On Mount Huaguo, beneath skies that never knew silence, a rock pulsed with strange life. It had drunk in sunlight for centuries, soaked the rain, swallowed the breath of earth and sky. Mortals passed by and whispered prayers. Spirits kept their distance. The rock was not rock. It was a womb.

And then it cracked.

From it leapt a figure—not child, not man, but monkey. Fur gleaming like gold, eyes bright as twin stars, his laugh louder than thunder. He tumbled into the grass, already moving, already alive in ways mortals were not. He stretched, yawned, and raised his head to the heavens as if the sky itself owed him greeting.

The monkeys of the mountain gathered. They saw him not as stranger but as king. He leapt into their midst, fearless, and they followed without question. He was Sun Wukong—born not of flesh but of stone, carved by the world itself into life.

From the first day, he knew no chains.

He leapt waterfalls, dove into caves, pulled treasures from shadows. He learned the names of spirits, stole the secrets of immortality, bent the heavens to laughter. He was arrogant, unstoppable, wild. When rivers blocked him, he split them. When death reached for him, he stole its books and scratched his name away. When the heavens tried to cage him, he mocked their jade walls until even thunder blushed.

Sun Wukong was not born to kneel. He was born to tear sky and earth into toys.

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Two births.

One forged in Spartan blood, destined for vengeance.

One born of stone, destined for rebellion.

Two flames now alive in a world already trembling under Zeus’s storm.

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In the throne hall of the citadel, Zeus sat, sparks humming faintly around his shoulders. His eyes were half-closed, listening to something none of the others could hear.

Metis stood at his side, watching. “What is it?” she asked.

Zeus’s grin was faint, edged with weight. “The world stirs. Two have been born. One from Sparta. One from the East.”

“Threats?” Metis asked.

Zeus shook his head. “Not yet. But they will rise. They always do.”

He leaned back, lightning crawling across the arm of his throne. “Kratos… and Sun Wukong. Names no one knows today. Names everyone will know tomorrow.”

Metis’s eyes narrowed. “And what will you do?”

Zeus’s laughter was low, heavy as thunder. “Nothing. Not yet. Let them grow. Let them carve their fury, their rebellion, their pride. Olympus will watch. And when the time comes, the storm will decide what to keep… and what to break.”

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In Sparta, Kratos sharpened his blade. His knuckles bled as he struck against stone, his muscles burning. In his chest, a wound older than war throbbed.

In Huaguo, Sun Wukong leapt into the clouds, golden staff spinning in his hands, his laughter chasing birds from the sky.

Two stories beginning.

Two storms rising.

And far above, Zeus sat on his throne, eyes burning steady. He did not fear them. He welcomed them.

The system was gone. Olympus was his. But creation was not finished. New names would rise, some to kneel, some to shatter, and Zeus would be there when they did.

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The statues on old Olympus stood silent. Mortals prayed to marble faces, their voices carrying into the wind. They prayed for strength, for victory, for freedom.

And somewhere, their words brushed the ears of two figures who were not gods, not yet.

Kratos.

Sun Wukong.

One born to rage. One born to laugh.

Both born to shake the sky.

And the storm waited.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by AiKurou