I Am Zeus

The first strike did not come from Olympus.

It came from the edges of the world.

Mortals called it dawn, but every god knew better. The sky over the eastern seas bled red without a sun. The air thickened, the winds froze, and then the sound came. Not thunder, not flame. Something deeper. Like stone breaking under the skin of the earth.

That was how the Primordial War began.

The War of the First Light.

The Breaking

At first, mortals thought it was an eclipse. Farmers in Attica dropped their plows and stared. Fishermen in Rhodes pulled their nets and prayed. But then the horizon itself cracked.

A jagged line split the morning, running from sea to sky, glowing with pale fire. The waters heaved as if pushed by an unseen hand. From that wound in the world poured shapes—too vast to be mortal, too raw to be divine.

The first army of the Primordials had come.

From the rift spilled Ymir's brood—giants of frost, their limbs mountains, their breath colder than death. They carried glaciers on their shoulders, throwing them like stones into the sea. The water froze in seconds, trapping ships where they floated.

Behind them rose Apsu's children, the Deep Serpents. Each the size of rivers, scales shining black-blue, their eyes glowing like sunken stars. They hissed, and the sea bent to them.

Above, shadows gathered. Erebus himself did not come—but his wraiths did. Cloaked in living dark, they slid across the air, choking out the dawn.

And at their head, a voice split the rift:

"Bring Olympus to its knees."

The war had begun.

The mountain shook long before the armies reached it.

Hermes was the first to see. He blurred through the skies, golden light ripping the clouds as he reappeared in the council hall, chest heaving.

"They're here!" he shouted. "From the east—the frost, the deep, the shadow—they're marching straight for us!"

The thrones flared alive at once. Athena slammed her spear down, her maps flickering bright. Ares leapt to his feet, blade already raised, a feral grin breaking across his face. Poseidon rose, the sea dripping from his shoulders. Hades stood without a word, his cloak flaring shadows.

Zeus did not move at first. His hand rested on the railing, his storm silent. Only his eyes sparked faintly.

"Then Olympus answers," he said.

The council scattered, every god racing to their stations. The muses sang war-hymns to rally the lesser spirits. The winds howled, charging to the skies. Nymphs and river gods armed themselves with blades of their own waters. The mountain itself shuddered as Hephaestus's forge roared awake, sending fire into the sky.

And Zeus lifted his hand.

Lightning spread from his fingers, racing up the heavens, splitting the storm open. His voice rolled like thunder.

"Olympus marches!"

The First Clash

It began at the shores of the Aegean.

The frost giants waded in first, glaciers on their backs. They hurled them toward the islands, shattering entire coasts. Mortals screamed, their temples splintering under ice.

But then the sea rose.

Poseidon surged from the depths, trident blazing. The ocean bent to him, waves towering higher than the giants' heads. With one sweep, he struck a glacier mid-flight, shattering it into shards that rained harmlessly into the water.

"Not my seas," Poseidon growled, his voice shaking the tide.

The Deep Serpents hissed, circling him. They struck, their bodies wrapping around the waves. But from the sea rose chariots of foam, driven by sea-gods, carrying spears tipped with coral fire. They clashed against the serpents, turning the water into a storm of blood and salt.

Above, Athena descended, her bronze shield shining, her owl screaming overhead. She landed at the cliffs, soldiers of Olympus rallying behind her. Her voice cut the chaos like a blade.

"Hold the line!" she cried. "Every step they take is a grave you dig for yourself!"

Her spear flashed, piercing a frost giant's eye. The beast toppled into the sea, waves crashing high. The army of Olympus roared, their morale blazing at her side.

At the front, Ares finally broke free.

He charged across the battlefield, his blade burning with Surtr's essence, fire dripping like blood from the edge. His roar echoed across the war, drowning even the giants.

"COME!" he bellowed. "COME DIE BY MY HAND!"

He crashed into the frost horde, each strike splitting armor, each swing cracking mountains of ice. He laughed as he carved, his face wild, crimson fire dancing in his eyes.

Nike flew above him, wings blazing, cutting arrows into wraiths of Erebus before they reached him.

"You'll burn out!" she shouted.

"I AM WAR!" Ares howled, cleaving a giant in half. "I DO NOT BURN—I BURN OTHERS!"

From Olympus, the sky lit red.

Hephaestus stood at the heart of the World Forge, Cyclopes at his side, their hammers falling in rhythm. Sparks rained like meteors, each strike birthing weapons not seen since the Titan War.

Shields of fire. Spears tipped with lightning. Chains forged from abyssal ore.

The first volley launched—dozens of meteoric weapons raining down on the battlefield, striking giants, binding serpents, searing wraiths into smoke. The ground trembled under the rain of divine steel.

Hephaestus's voice bellowed through the mountain.

"Fight, Olympus! Every blow you strike, I will arm!"

The Cyclopes roared, their one eyes blazing like suns.

And above it all, Zeus moved.

He stood at the peak of Olympus, his crown of storm glowing faint. He raised his hand, and lightning bent around him, but it was not the same lightning as before.

The sky itself quivered when he called.

Bolts rained from the heavens, not sparks but spears—massive lances of storm that tore through giants, splitting them to bone. Each strike carved canyons into the sea. Each roar deafened the world.

Yet even as he struck, his chest tightened. His veins burned, the Primordial power clawing harder. The abyss. The fire. The sky itself. They wanted to rip free.

Zeus forced it down, jaw clenched, sweat on his brow.

If he lost control now, Olympus itself would shatter.

So he struck carefully, precise, never unleashing the full storm. And no one—not Athena, not Poseidon, not even Hades—saw the struggle behind his calm face.

While the skies burned and seas raged, the underworld answered.

Hades rose from the shadow of a broken island, his bident humming with death. He raised it once, and the ground split open. From the cracks poured legions of shades—armies of the dead, called from every age.

They surged at the frost giants, climbing their legs, dragging them down. They poured into the serpents' mouths, choking them from within.

Hades's cloak spread wide, a storm of black feathers swallowing wraiths whole. His voice was cold, steady, but merciless.

"You wanted to trespass," he said. "Then walk my kingdom."

And the battlefield became half graveyard, half ocean.

The Turning Point

For hours, the war raged. The seas boiled, the skies split, the mountains cracked under the weight of gods and giants.

But then—the rift widened.

From the wound in the world, more came. Tiamat's brood, her monstrous children, their wings blotting the sky. Nuwa's weavers, spirits of chaos stitching storms into nets. Anshar's horizon bent, cutting across the battlefield like a blade.

Olympus staggered.

Athena's shield cracked. Poseidon's waves slowed. Even Ares stumbled, blood and fire dripping from his armor.

The Primordials had not come fully—but their shadows were endless. And their numbers grew.

Olympus was drowning.

Zeus's Choice

At the peak, Zeus watched. His storm raged, his chest heaved, his veins burned. He could feel it—the Primordial authority begging to break loose. Cosmic law. Sky Sovereign. World Breaker.

If he released it, the rift itself could close. The armies would burn in an instant. Olympus would win the day.

But the cost—

The mountain might fall. The gods might shatter. The world itself might crack.

He closed his eyes. His hand trembled. Lightning crawled across his veins.

"Not yet," he whispered.

He clenched his fist. Forced it back down. The storm screamed inside him, but he caged it still.

Instead, he raised his voice, his thunder rolling over battlefield and sea.

"Olympus! Stand!"

His words sparked the mountain itself. The earth shook, the sky flared, the seas surged again. Every god heard, every soldier felt it.

And they rose.

The battle did not end that day. It raged into night, into another dawn, the rift spilling more, the gods bleeding but holding. Olympus bent but did not break.

Mortals would remember it forever. The day the seas froze, the skies split, the dead walked, and Olympus itself shook under the weight of the first ones.

They called it the War of the First Light.

Because it began at dawn, with a crack in the sky.

But for the gods, it was something else.

The beginning of the end.

The Primordial War had begun.

A/N

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