Reincarnated As Poseidon

The battlefield was no longer bound to mortal soil.

The clash of gods had torn reality's skin, and now Poseidon stood where oceans bled into the sky, where stars drowned in saltwater. Each breath he took rippled outward, dragging the tides higher, pulling the abyss closer. The world tilted with him, the balance fraying like a sail in a storm.

Three gods had fallen already, their essence dissolved into the roiling waves. But the council was relentless. For every deity that broke, another pressed forward, wielding fragments of creation's law like weapons forged to slay him.

Yet Poseidon—no longer Dominic, no longer a vessel—was unshaken.

He stood in the center of the storm, trident gleaming with abyssal light, his hair wild with seawater and wind, his gaze burning like twin whirlpools. Around him, mortals would have seen only ruin. But here, in the rift between worlds, he was ascendant—every surge of water obeyed, every pull of gravity bent toward his will.

---

The Arrival of the Triarchs

From the torn heavens above, three figures descended.

Not minor gods. Not the lesser arbiters who had already tried and failed. These were Triarchs—the eldest, the ones who had shaped order itself when the seas were first divided.

Erythros, the Red Depth, cloaked in currents of blood, his spear a coral fang sharpened on the bones of leviathans.

Calythene, the Shimmering Tide, her body veiled in prisms of light and foam, wielding chains of pearl forged to bind ocean itself.

Morak, the Abyssal Judge, armored in obsidian scales, carrying a hammer that weighed as much as drowned continents.

Their arrival stilled the chaos for a breath. Even the raging storm bent slightly, pausing, as though reality itself recognized the weight of their presence.

Poseidon's lips curled.

"So the council sends architects now. Not pawns. How generous."

Erythros's voice was deep, resonant, and sharp as undertow. "You are no god, no man. You are a mistake given flesh. We are here to correct it."

"Correct?" Poseidon raised his trident, and the waves beneath him lifted like a continent rising from the deep. "The only correction needed is the one that washes this false pantheon from existence."

Calythene's chains clinked softly, though the sound reverberated through the rift like thunder. "We bound you once. We will bind you again. You are a memory that should have remained drowned."

Morak slammed his hammer down, cracking the ocean floor beneath them. "Enough words. Let judgment begin."

The first strike came swift.

Erythros hurled his spear. The crimson weapon split through layers of water, igniting them red, boiling them into steam. Poseidon swept his trident to meet it—the clash detonated like a sunken volcano erupting, sending shockwaves through the abyss. Mortals miles away would feel it as earthquakes along their coasts.

Calythene struck next, her pearl chains darting like vipers. They didn't just bind—they erased. Wherever the links coiled, water ceased to exist, vanishing into nothingness. They lashed for Poseidon's arms, for his throat, for his heart.

He laughed.

The sea bent outward at his command, and the chains faltered for a breath too long. He seized them, yanking her forward, and hurled her body across the trench. She struck against Morak's obsidian shield, both tumbling into the chasm below.

But their unity was not so easily broken.

Morak rose, hammer glowing with crushing gravity, dragging Calythene upright with one hand. Together, they surged again.

The rift exploded with force. The abyss roared.

---

The Mortals Who Watched

Far above, through shards in the veil, mortals glimpsed fragments of the war. Sailors in distant seas saw whirlpools tear open beneath clear skies. Fishermen dropped nets only to find them burn with unearthly light. In drowned cities, survivors clung to rooftops as waves formed shapes of colossal figures clashing far below.

Bards would later sing of "the night the stars drowned." Priests would whisper of "the hammer that split the tide." But for those who lived it, there were no words—only awe and terror.

Poseidon's name spread like storm surge. No longer forgotten. No longer a relic. It was on every tongue, prayed in fear, shouted in desperation.

And the sea answered.

Morak brought his hammer down again. The blow struck Poseidon squarely, forcing him into the deep. The pressure would have crushed mountains, but Poseidon grinned through it. He let the abyss take him—then he rose with it.

A geyser of black water erupted, swallowing Morak whole. The Judge's scales cracked as the pressure turned against him.

Erythros dove in, spear carving whirlwinds, piercing the geyser's heart. Bloodred water boiled around Poseidon, but he twisted through it, trident meeting spear. The two gods locked, faces inches apart.

"You are strong," Erythros growled.

"I am inevitable," Poseidon answered.

He drove his knee upward, shattering Erythros's chestplate.

Calythene's chains struck again, wrapping around his trident, tugging with impossible force. This time, Poseidon did not resist. He let the weapon go.

The chains pulled it back toward her—and Poseidon appeared beside her, faster than the tide's turn. His hand closed around her throat, squeezing, eyes burning like abysses.

"You would bind me?" His voice was a storm. "You are nothing but foam."

He slammed her through the ocean floor.

For all their might, the Triarchs faltered. Not because they were weak, but because Poseidon had become more than the drowned god they remembered.

He was rebirth and ruin combined. Dominic's humanity—the vessel's will—burned quietly within him still, fueling a determination the old Poseidon had never known. It was not merely hunger that drove him. It was vengeance. It was justice twisted sharp enough to cut the heavens.

Morak staggered, raising his hammer for another swing. But Poseidon caught it mid-arc, muscles straining, veins glowing with oceanic light. He wrenched the weapon aside, driving his trident back into his own grip, and thrust.

The blow pierced Morak's obsidian armor, shattering the judge's heart.

A silence spread.

Morak's body dissolved into salt shards, sinking into the abyss.

One Triarch had fallen.

Erythros roared, his spear flaring with blood-red currents. Calythene shrieked, her body reforming from shattered foam, chains whipping with desperation. Together they struck in fury, twin storms tearing at Poseidon from every side.

But fury was not enough.

Every wound they inflicted closed with flowing water. Every chain they cast snapped beneath his will. The sea itself betrayed them, obeying Poseidon instead.

"You fight the tide," Poseidon said, voice echoing across the rift. "And the tide has no master but me."

His trident spun, catching both their weapons in one sweeping motion. With a twist of his wrist, he flung them outward, casting them across the abyss like broken shells.

And then—silence.

Poseidon raised his trident high, and the abyss answered.

The chains that had bound Thalorin, the old drowned power buried in the deepest trench, shattered. Ancient whispers, darker than gods, flooded upward. The sea became a choir of voices, each one screaming, praying, laughing, drowning.

The abyss was free.

Poseidon's form glowed brighter, his aura vast enough to drown continents. The Triarchs stared, broken, their unity shattered.

They realized, too late, that the war was already lost.

Poseidon had not only defeated them. He had claimed the abyss itself.

---

He lifted his trident, eyes blazing with power no pantheon could cage.

"From this day forward," he declared, voice shaking the foundations of both sea and sky, "the abyss has no chains. I am Poseidon—lord of the drowned, breaker of gods. And none shall stand against the tide."

The waters surged outward, carrying his words across realms. Olympus trembled. The mortal world shuddered. Even the stars seemed dimmer.

The abyss had broken free.

And war was only beginning.