Reincarnated As Poseidon

Not merely a man, not merely a god, but the tide itself given form. His trident gleamed with a light that was not sunlight—it pulsed, rhythmic, alive, as if each beat echoed the heart of the abyss itself. Waves crashed upward behind him where no sea should exist, curling into towering walls before slamming down across the scarred earth. The gods who faced him stood in defiance, yet even their eyes betrayed unease.

Zephyros, God of Sky and Judgment, hovered above with his golden wings spread wide, thunder gathering in his palms. Beside him burned Seraphin, Goddess of Flame, her aura a column of fire scorching the air around her. And in the shadows beyond the broken ridges moved Nymera, Goddess of Darkness, her figure shifting and vanishing as though she were made of living night.

Three gods. One Poseidon.

The war had reached its crescendo.

---

Clash of Gods

Zephyros struck first. With a single word, lightning cascaded down, branching like the veins of heaven. The world shuddered under the strike, and for mortals far below watching the storm, it seemed the sky itself had chosen to kill the sea.

Poseidon raised his hand. Water surged upward—not from rivers, not from oceans, but from the air itself, from the blood of the land, from the sweat of the earth. The lightning speared into the torrent, scattering into harmless sparks that hissed and vanished against the flood.

"Your storms are borrowed, Zephyros," Poseidon's voice rolled like thunder at the ocean floor. "Mine are born."

Before the Sky God could respond, Seraphin lunged. She became fire incarnate, a comet streaking across the battlefield. Her blade, wrought of pure flame, seared even the water around her, turning Poseidon's waves to shrieking steam. She struck for his chest with fury enough to split mountains.

The trident met her blade. Sparks exploded in a corona of fire and water. The shockwave tore through the ruins, flattening what little still stood.

Poseidon twisted, catching her arm with a sudden surge of current that solidified into chains of brine. They coiled up her wrist like serpents, hardening with every heartbeat.

"You burn," he said coldly. "But fire drowns as easily as men."

She screamed, her flames bursting outward, breaking the chains with sheer heat. The backlash scorched the trident's haft, blackening its steel, but Poseidon only smiled grimly as he let the flames sear him.

For every burn, the sea whispered back: Take it. Make it ours. His flesh knit, water pouring into the wound and carrying away the fire's sting.

And then Nymera struck.

Darkness swept over the battlefield. The sky, already storm-choked, turned blacker still, suffocating the horizon. Nymera's voice was not a shout, not a command—it was a whisper, brushing against every ear, threading into every thought.

"You are not the sea. You are only its echo. And I silence echoes."

The ground beneath Poseidon dissolved into shadow. Black tendrils erupted upward, grasping his legs, pulling him into nothingness. Around him, the battlefield tilted—not water, not fire, not storm, but absence.

For the first time, Poseidon faltered.

It was not a physical strike. It was memory. The abyss whispered to him—the Rift where Thalorin had once been sealed. Chains of void. The cold silence of imprisonment. The loneliness of a god forgotten.

The shadows coiled around his arms, his chest, his throat. Nymera's power pressed hard against his mind, trying to split the man from the god, Dominic from Poseidon.

For a heartbeat, the trident dimmed. The waves stilled.

And then—Poseidon laughed.

Low, booming, the sound of breaking waves against cliffs.

"You think the abyss frightens me?" His voice cut through the dark like a blade. "I AM the abyss. I drank the silence. I wear it as my crown."

The shadows cracked. Water surged outward, flooding the void Nymera had summoned, filling absence with presence, silence with roar. The darkness shattered like brittle glass under an ocean's weight.

Nymera reeled back, her lips slick with blood, her cloak of night ripped away.

---

The Abyss Opens

Poseidon lifted his trident high. The sea responded. Not just here, not just in this battlefield—but everywhere. Across the world, tides shifted. Oceans boiled. Rivers reversed their flow. Entire coastlines trembled as though waiting for command.

The gods braced. Even united, they felt it—that this battle was no longer local. Poseidon was opening something vast, something older than Olympus, older than the pantheon.

"Stop him!" Zephyros roared, hurling another bolt. Seraphin flared, her fire blazing white-hot. Nymera, weakened but unyielding, raised walls of shadow again.

The trident struck the ground.

And the world screamed.

A fissure tore through the battlefield, not into earth, but into ocean. A wound in reality itself spilled forth impossible water, endless and heavy. The Abyss—the Forgotten Tides—had been opened.

From it, shapes moved. Not men. Not gods. Things older. Beasts made of current and storm, leviathans whose eyes glowed with drowned suns. Their bodies stretched like mountains, their scales like continents.

The gods froze. Even Seraphin's fire wavered in their presence.

"You fight me," Poseidon said, his voice layered now, Dominic's grief beneath Thalorin's hunger, both wrapped in Poseidon's divinity. "But I am no longer one. I am every depth you chose to bury."

The leviathans roared, their cries shaking Olympus itself.

And the war truly began.

---

A Fractured Sky

Zephyros spread his wings, summoning the skies themselves. Storm after storm cascaded down, bolts as thick as towers lashing into the ocean beasts. Their scales split, their forms writhing—but they did not die. For every wound, water poured back into them, reshaping flesh, remaking bodies.

Seraphin burned hotter, throwing herself into the tide, cleaving through one leviathan's neck with a blade of white fire. Its head fell, crashing into the flood—yet even as it sank, the head dissolved into waves, its body rising again as if reborn.

Nymera, her strength faltering, wove her shadows into snares, tangling the beasts, slowing their advance. Yet even she felt the truth gnawing at her mind—this was not a fight that could be won.

Poseidon strode forward, each step parting the flood, each word reshaping the battlefield.

"The Abyss has opened," he declared, raising his trident once more. "You sought to chain me, to name me vessel, to bury me in silence. But chains rust. Silence drowns. And your thrones will sink with you."

The flood surged higher, reaching toward the heavens. The gods braced themselves, each bleeding, each gasping, their divine light dimming under the abyssal roar.

And Poseidon's laughter rolled across creation like a storm that would never end.