Reincarnated As Poseidon

The battlefield was no longer recognizable.

The island where three gods had once descended upon him lay shattered—reefs split apart, beaches drowned, and the very earth broken into jagged shards that barely held together. Smoke rose from fissures, mingling with the cold mist of the sea that had risen unnaturally high.

And in the center of that ruin stood Poseidon.

He was not bleeding. He was not broken. But the weight of the clash pressed upon him like an iron crown. His chest rose and fell slowly, each breath drawing tides toward him as if the sea itself inhaled in rhythm with its master.

The corpses of gods did not lie in mortal form; instead, their essence scattered, dissolving into the sky like fading constellations. Only their weapons remained—cracked, trembling, still humming with fragments of divinity.

Poseidon lowered his gaze to them. A trident of obsidian-black coral. A scepter wrapped in dying fire. A helm made of storm-forged steel.

The spoils of war.

The sea curled around them, and with a single gesture, Poseidon claimed them. The weapons sank into the tide, dissolving into streams of power that coiled around his form.

Not trophies. Fuel.

The moment the last fragment sank into him, his aura rippled outward in a tidal surge so massive that the surviving mortals on distant coasts felt their knees buckle. Fishermen dropped their nets. Sailors wept openly, whispering the same word as though it had been forced into their throats.

"Poseidon…"

The name spread like contagion, carried not by voice but by current, until even the temples of rival gods trembled.

---

The Mortal Ripple

In the drowned city of Veyrus, survivors crawled across rooftops and broken bridges, their world now nothing but water and silence. But when the wave of power spread, they fell to their knees, pressing their foreheads against the wet stones.

Not in fear.

In worship.

A drowned priest, his robes clinging to his skin like kelp, raised his hands high. "He does not abandon us! He drowns us, and yet he saves us. He takes, and yet he crowns us. He is our god. He is Poseidon!"

The chant rose, ragged and desperate, yet undeniable.

"Poseidon! Poseidon! Poseidon!"

The drowned bell had tolled the city's death, but now its silence was filled by a new rhythm—the pulse of worship, spreading like wildfire across broken coastlines.

For the first time in centuries, the sea god's name was spoken not as a curse, but as a prayer.

---

Olympus Reacts

Far above, in Olympus's gleaming halls, the golden thrones of the divine council quaked.

Zeus sat unmoving, thunder eyes narrowed, jaw clenched. He had felt gods fall before. He had killed some himself. But this… this was different.

"Three at once," he growled, voice shaking the marble columns. "He does not merely kill. He claims."

Athena, cloaked in wisdom and war, leaned forward. "You cannot ignore it anymore. Poseidon is not a half-returned relic. He is a sovereign. He has stepped into his crown."

Ares bared his teeth, fists clenching. "Then let me march against him! Let me rip his ocean throne apart!"

But Hera's cold laughter cut across the chamber. "Fool. Did you not feel it? The sea bows to him now. You would not fight a god—you would fight the tide itself. And tides have no mercy."

Even as they bickered, a messenger—one of Hermes's lesser spirits—burst into the council chamber, drenched in seawater though no rain had touched Olympus.

"The mortals kneel!" the spirit gasped. "The drowned cities—those who survived—they chant his name. He is building worship. He is building a pantheon of his own."

At that, silence fell.

For gods, worship was not mere adoration. It was fuel. It was immortality. It was the chain that bound their existence to eternity.

If Poseidon was reclaiming mortal prayers… then he was no longer a threat.

He was a rival.

Zeus rose from his throne, thunder cracking behind him. "Then war it shall be. Prepare Olympus. The storm has returned."

---

The Abyss Within

Yet, even as Olympus raged, Poseidon stood upon the fractured battlefield and felt another voice within him.

Deeper.

It was not the ocean's song. Not mortal worship.

It was Thalorin.

The abyss without bottom. The hunger that had always been within him.

You have tasted blood, the voice whispered, slithering through his veins like icy brine. Three gods drowned in your tide. Do you feel it? The ease with which you swallowed them? This is only the beginning.

Poseidon closed his eyes, steadying himself. The sea obeyed him, but the abyss tempted him. Every victory made its whispers stronger, more intoxicating.

Claim Olympus, Thalorin hissed. Dethrone Zeus. Shatter the heavens. The sea belongs above as much as below. The crown of storms is only the first crown. Take the world. Drown it all.

His hands trembled—not with fear, but with the weight of choice.

And for the first time, Poseidon realized something chilling:

It wasn't only the gods who would hunt him.

It was himself.

As dawn broke, the shattered island vanished beneath the waves, erased by the sea. No mortal would ever set foot there again.

But when Poseidon emerged from the surf, trident in hand, the water shaped itself into a crown upon his brow. Not forged of metal, not carved by priests, but wrought of pure salt and storm.

It pulsed with the heartbeat of the ocean itself.

He had not asked for it.

He had become it.

Poseidon looked toward the horizon, where Olympus's peaks glimmered faintly through the clouds.

The war of gods was no longer looming.

It had already begun.

The battlefield had not yet settled. The echoes of crashing waves and broken skies still hung heavy in the air, as though the world itself was waiting to see if it would live or die by the hand of a single god.

Poseidon stood at the heart of it all. His trident gleamed wet with ichor—not mortal blood, but the molten essence of gods who had dared challenge him. Each drop that hissed against the ground carried power enough to drown entire kingdoms. His chest rose and fell, every breath dragging the tides closer, swelling rivers, breaking coasts hundreds of leagues away.

The three gods who had faced him lay scattered. Aegis, god of fortresses, knelt bleeding among shattered stones; Elyra, goddess of winds, struggled to keep her body from dissolving into the very storms she commanded; and Veyrus—once chancellor, now ascended pretender—lay half-conscious, coughing saltwater as though the ocean itself had turned against him.

And yet… none of them were dead. Not entirely.