Reincarnated As Poseidon

The battlefield was no longer a place of men and gods. It was a wound carved into reality itself.

The sea boiled black as if Poseidon's fury had turned water to molten iron. The air was filled with the sound of breaking tides and the screams of the three gods who still dared to stand before him. Yet even as their blood seeped into the sea, they refused to kneel.

Above the shattered waves, Olympus itself leaned close, as though watching with bated breath. The stars dimmed, clouds twisted into spirals, and lightning licked the horizon—but none of it belonged to Zeus. This was Poseidon's storm, born not of the sky but of the abyss.

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The Three Gods' Last Stand

The first to rise again was Theron, God of Storms, his silver trident cracked in half, his chest split open where Poseidon's tides had torn flesh. Blood mingled with the seawater, glowing faintly with divine ichor. He coughed, spat, and still lifted his arm.

"You may be the sea incarnate," Theron growled, "but even oceans drown in storms."

He raised his hand to the sky, summoning tempests with the last scraps of his strength. Dark thunderclouds surged across the heavens, veins of lightning flashing, rain pounding down with meteoric force. For a moment, the storm rivaled Poseidon's tide, colliding in violent sheets of power.

But Poseidon only turned his gaze upward, and the rain stopped in midair. Droplets froze, suspended like glass beads, each trembling in his will.

"Storms are nothing but passing moods," Poseidon said coldly, his voice rolling like a trench's depth. "The sea does not fear rain."

With a flick of his wrist, every suspended droplet elongated into blades of liquid steel. They fell in an instant—piercing through Theron's body. His scream tore across the waves before he fell silent, sinking beneath waters that closed over him like a grave.

---

The second, Caldras, God of Flames, burned with wild desperation. Fire erupted from his wounds, his body a furnace refusing to die out. The water hissed and steamed where he stood, vapor rising into a scalding fog.

"You think water smothers fire?" he roared. "But flame is eternal. Even in darkness, we burn!"

His body exploded outward in a pillar of flame, a burning sun rising from the sea. Entire leagues of water evaporated in seconds, and the battlefield turned into a cauldron of boiling vapor. Mortals watching from distant shores fell to their knees, blinded by the light.

For a heartbeat, even Poseidon's form shimmered within the blaze. But the god of the sea did not retreat. He simply reached into the inferno, and the fire bent.

Like serpents pulled on invisible chains, Caldras's flames twisted around him, forming a spiral vortex—and then plunged downward into the abyss, snuffed out by depths no flame had ever touched.

Caldras screamed once, twice, and then vanished into darkness. Only steam remained.

The third god, Nymera, Goddess of Shadows, did not strike. She lingered at the edge of the battlefield, her body made of mist and void, her eyes like cold moons. Her cloak of shadows stretched across the waves, hiding her form within ten thousand phantoms.

"Even seas end in night," she whispered, her voice carried by echoes. "You are vast, Poseidon, but you cannot hold what you cannot see."

Her shadows rushed forward, drowning the ocean in black. The world vanished into silence. No waves, no light, no sky. Only Nymera's abyss stretched in every direction, a false world spun from shadow.

For a moment, Poseidon was alone.

Then the water beneath his feet pulsed.

The false world cracked.

And in one breath, Poseidon's will shattered Nymera's illusion. His voice carried through every shadow, making the darkness tremble.

"You dare show me abyss? I am abyss."

A tidal vortex roared to life, ripping through shadow and tearing it apart strand by strand. Nymera screamed as her body was pulled into the whirlpool. Her form broke, scattered, and was dragged into Poseidon's endless waters.

When the sea stilled, nothing remained of the three gods but ichor dispersing in the waves.

Far above, in the halls of Olympus, the gods watched in silence.

Zeus sat on his throne, his face pale, his lightning dimmed. Hera clutched the armrest of her seat so tightly that cracks formed in the marble. Athena's lips pressed thin, her eyes flicking with something close to fear.

"Three gods," she whispered. "Three, undone in a single night."

Hermes shook his head. "No… not undone. Devoured. Their domains… they've been absorbed."

Indeed, the seas below surged not only with water but with storm, flame, and shadow. Poseidon had not merely killed. He had claimed.

Zeus slammed his fist down, thunder cracking through Olympus. "This ends now! If Poseidon is allowed to ascend unchecked, none of us will remain. He will not be brother—he will be tyrant."

But even as he spoke, the other gods shifted uneasily. The memory of Poseidon's tide weighed heavy. The abyss that had pulled their kin down still rang in their ears.

"Would you challenge him yourself, Lord Zeus?" Hera asked, her voice sharp.

Zeus faltered. He looked away.

Back on the battlefield, Poseidon stood over the silent waters. His body gleamed with power stolen from the fallen gods. His eyes burned with tides that had no shore.

But then—something deeper stirred.

The sea beneath him rumbled. Not from his will. From something older. Something he had woken.

The trench split open, and a sound like a million whales crying in unison echoed into the world. Dark tendrils of water rose, taller than mountains, writhing like the arms of some buried leviathan.

The Abyss was opening.

And in its depths, the faint shape of a colossal eye glimmered—golden, hungry, endless.

Thalorin.

The drowned king. The first sea before seas. The god who had fallen long before Olympus was born.

For a moment, Poseidon's breath caught. Was this… ally? Or usurper?

The water inside him pulsed, his veins burning as though the abyss sought to pull him under too. His trident trembled in his grip, not with weakness but with recognition.

"Do you see, Olympians?" Poseidon roared, his voice carrying to heavens. "This is not the sea you banished. This is not the god you buried. This… is what I am now."

And as he spoke, the abyss answered—its tendrils spreading outward, brushing against the world's edge, threatening to pull all creation into the deep.

Zeus rose from his throne, his thunder no longer restrained. Lightning poured down from Olympus, striking the world below.

"Enough!" he bellowed. "I will not watch Olympus sink beneath a traitor's tide."

The gods stirred. Spears were lifted, swords unsheathed, sigils blazing into life. The council had hesitated long enough.

But in their silence, a new truth had dawned: they were no longer preparing to fight Poseidon.

They were preparing to fight the abyss itself.

On the waves, Poseidon raised his trident, his body haloed by storms, flame, shadow, and tide. His eyes gleamed like deepwater lanterns.

The abyss whispered inside him, promising dominion beyond seas, beyond Olympus, beyond creation.

But his smile was cold. Calculated.

He would not be swallowed.

He would wield it.

And when he spoke again, the ocean itself bowed.

"Let Olympus tremble. Let the abyss open. I am Poseidon—the sea unending. And this world… will remember me."

The waves surged upward, a wall taller than Olympus itself. For the first time in ages, gods shuddered as mortals did.

The abyss had opened.