Reincarnated As Poseidon

The battlefield was no longer a place. It was an idea.

Where once there had been sky, earth, and ocean, there was now only ruin: shattered constellations bleeding across the heavens, fractured mountains groaning under impossible weight, and seas boiling as they rose and fell with each clash of divine will.

At the center of it all stood Poseidon.

Not the boy. Not the vessel. The god. His trident dripped seawater that hissed like acid when it touched the cracked marble ground. His hair, black as a storm-drenched abyss, whipped in currents no wind commanded. The ocean itself circled him—torrents hanging suspended midair, drawn into his orbit like planets to a star.

Before him, three gods staggered:

Zephyros, lord of skies, one wing scorched, lightning dancing desperately in his grip.

Seraphin, goddess of flame, her fire dimmed to embers, every breath ragged but defiant.

Nymera, goddess of shadows, her cloak torn, blood seeping into her own shifting darkness.

They had come together, bound by the council's decree. Together they had been meant to cage him. But together they now looked less like jailers and more like prey.

---

Clash of Elements

Zephyros struck first.

His wings beat with such force the air itself cracked. Bolts of white lightning cascaded down in jagged spears, tearing sky from ground, each one carrying enough power to split mountains.

Poseidon raised a single hand.

The bolts bent. Water rose like translucent serpents, swallowing them whole. The lightning vanished, drowned within globes of seawater that floated lazily around him before collapsing into steam.

"Your storms," Poseidon said, voice echoing as though carried by endless tide, "are nothing without the sea to birth them."

He thrust his trident forward. A tidal wave erupted from nothingness—no ocean nearby, yet still water appeared, summoned by his will. It crashed against Zephyros, swallowing sky and wing alike. The god of judgment screamed as his feathers blackened and snapped, his body flung across the ruined field.

Seraphin roared in answer.

Her body ignited, flame turning white-hot, hotter than mortal suns. With both hands she conjured a spear of pure fire and hurled it with all her divine might. It screamed through the battlefield, cutting rivers of molten earth in its wake.

Poseidon did not move.

The water around him rippled once. The fire met it—and died. Steam exploded outward, cloaking the field in a choking fog. When it cleared, the spear was gone, and Poseidon still stood unscathed.

"You burn," he said softly, almost mournfully, "but even your fire was born to die in my depths."

Seraphin's knees buckled. For the first time in her immortal life, her flames flickered with fear.

Then Nymera struck.

Her shadows did not roar, did not blaze. They whispered. They slithered. From beneath Poseidon's own feet, darkness crept upward, twisting into spears, claws, fangs—every fear, every unspoken terror, dragging him downward.

For a heartbeat, the ocean stilled.

But then Poseidon's eyes opened fully.

Not blue. Not green. Depthless black, flecked with stars. The abyss stared back at Nymera.

Her shadows froze.

And then, in horror, she realized—they were not her shadows anymore. They bent, turned, and bowed toward Poseidon. Her own power betrayed her, streaming back into him like rivers to the sea.

"Darkness," he murmured, "is only the ocean with the light gone."

Nymera gasped, blood spilling from her lips, as her stolen shadows wrapped around her throat.

Zephyros struggled to rise, wings dripping seawater. "We… are the council… we hold dominion!"

Poseidon stepped forward, each stride shaking the world. "You hold fragments. Splinters of what you once were. I am not a fragment. I am not a dominion."

The trident struck the ground.

The battlefield split. Water gushed upward from the crack—no river, no source—just ocean bursting through reality. It swallowed the marble plains, dragged broken constellations down, and pulled the three gods with it.

They fought.

They burned.

They screamed.

But the sea only tightened. Every thrash, every cry was muffled by endless saltwater filling their lungs. Immortal bodies twisted, writhing against currents that no god could command.

Above them, Poseidon stood on the only solid ground left, waves bowing at his feet.

"You called me a threat," he said, voice carrying through the drowning roar. "You were right. I am not here to preserve your order."

His eyes narrowed.

"I am here to end it."

With one final surge, the ocean closed. The battlefield went silent save for the hiss of receding waves.

When the waters finally parted, the three gods lay broken.

Zephyros's wings were torn and sodden. Seraphin's flames guttered out, leaving her shivering and pale. Nymera's shadows had abandoned her entirely, leaving her frail, exposed, and gasping.

They were not dead. Not yet. But they were shattered.

Poseidon looked down at them. For a moment, there was no triumph in his gaze. Only sorrow.

"Once, I might have stood among you. Once, I might have been content to be a brother to the skies, a rival to fire, a companion to night. But the sea does not wait. The tide does not kneel. And I…"

His voice deepened, thrummed with abyssal weight.

"I am the tide."

He turned away. The ocean followed him, draining back into the fractures of the world, leaving ruin in its wake.

Behind him, the gods coughed and choked, broken yet alive. Perhaps he had left them so on purpose. Perhaps to serve as witnesses. Or perhaps as warnings.

Far above, Olympus stirred. The pantheon would not forgive this humiliation. The council would not let him walk unchallenged.

But Poseidon no longer cared. His eyes lifted to the horizon where mortal lands lay waiting. He could already feel the rivers bending toward him, the lakes trembling, the seas roaring his name.

The world was beginning to remember.

---

Closing Beat

As he stepped into the void, Poseidon whispered—not to gods, not to mortals, but to the sea itself:

"Rise."

And in answer, waves began to gather on every shore across the world.

Arise from the shadows