Reincarnated As Poseidon

The waves that beat against the cliffs of the mortal coast were no longer natural. They rose and fell in rhythm to a pulse deeper than storm or moon. Every crash of water against stone echoed a heartbeat—Poseidon's heartbeat—stretching across oceans like a tether binding the world to his will.

On that morning, the sea itself seemed restless. Fishermen abandoned their nets, not because of storm clouds, but because the fish refused to come close to shore. The waters hissed with unnatural life, serpentine currents twisting beneath the surface. Somewhere beneath, Poseidon stirred—his consciousness woven into every tide, every wave, every drop of salt that kissed the earth.

And above, Olympus prepared its counterstroke.

The marble halls of Olympus thundered with voices. Gods bickered, their anger and fear spilling into the golden chambers. Lightning crackled along the vaulted ceiling where Zeus sat on his throne, his hand resting against the haft of his thunderbolt. His jaw was tight, his gaze shifting often toward the churning horizon visible through the open colonnades.

"He drowns cities without a spear raised against him!" cried Athena, her grey eyes sharp. "Mortals no longer pray to us—they whisper his name instead. If left unchecked, he will unravel the very balance of worship."

Apollo, standing with his lyre discarded at his side, nodded grimly. "And it is not only prayers. His presence warps nature. Rivers flow backward, wells brim with brine, and even the winds carry the taste of salt. This is not dominion. This is infestation."

Ares slammed a gauntleted fist against the council table, snarling. "Then enough words! Let us march. Let us test if he bleeds!"

But Hera's voice, smooth and venom-laced, cut through the chamber. "Do not mistake him for a mortal foe. He carries Thalorin's essence. Even drowned, that monster was feared among us. Poseidon is not only returning to power—he is becoming something new. Something beyond his former chains."

Zeus finally rose, his aura dimming all others. "He must be met. Not with hesitation. Not with fear. If Olympus does not stand, Olympus will drown."

Silence answered him. Every god in the chamber knew the weight of those words.

"Then it is decided," Zeus declared. "The council of war will be led by three. Myself, Athena, and Ares. Together we will break him."

But in the corner, cloaked in shadow, Hades' eyes glimmered faintly. He said nothing, but a thin smile curled at his lips. For if Poseidon rose too far, Olympus would fracture—and in the cracks, the lord of the underworld always found room to grow.

Poseidon's eyes opened beneath the deep. The abyss responded in kind. Every current turned toward him, bowing, circling, weaving his strength tighter. He was no longer merely resting in the sea—he was the sea.

Through the water, he felt Olympus' decision. Gods planning war. He did not need spies, nor prayers carried upward. The ocean itself carried whispers to him.

"They come," Poseidon murmured, his voice reverberating through leagues of saltwater. Around him, leviathans stirred, their scales flashing like broken shards of night. Ancient creatures long forgotten by mortals uncoiled at his side. He raised a hand, and they calmed, circling as sentinels awaiting command.

For a moment, his gaze turned inward, toward the core of himself where the shadow of Thalorin still lingered.

They fear you.

The voice was a current inside him, dark and endless.

Not for what you are. For what you are becoming.

Poseidon did not deny it. His mortal shell was gone, his name reclaimed, but the union of his essence with Thalorin's abyss had twisted him into something greater than either alone. He was not merely Poseidon reborn. He was a tide never seen before, unbound by the old chains Olympus once placed upon him.

He clenched his trident, its prongs shimmering with abyssal light. "Let them come."

The sea swelled above, black clouds gathering as though the sky itself bowed to his defiance.

By the time Zeus, Athena, and Ares descended from Olympus, the mortal harbor chosen as their battleground was already half-submerged. The people had fled inland, leaving behind only the echo of prayers that no longer reached the heavens.

The sky split with thunder as Zeus arrived, lightning forking into the sea and boiling the surface into steam. Athena descended in a blaze of silvery light, her shield gleaming like a fallen star. Ares followed, armored in bronze fire, his war-cry shaking the shore.

The water parted before them—then surged back with crushing force.

Poseidon rose from the deep. Not walking. Not flying. Simply emerging, as though the ocean itself had decided to stand upright. His trident burned with abyssal glow, his form wrapped in armor woven from kelp and coral, darker and heavier than any mortal metal. His eyes, fathomless and tidal, fixed on the gods before him.

"So," Poseidon said, his voice carrying across sea and sky alike. "The Olympians crawl from their mountain to drown once more."

Zeus lifted his thunderbolt. "Brother, there is still time to yield. Return to your prison, and we may yet spare what is left of your essence."

Poseidon's laugh was not mortal. It rolled like thunder through trenches and chasms. "Yield? To chains that shattered when I opened my eyes? To gods who built their thrones on the bones of the drowned? No, Zeus. It is you who shall yield."

Without another word, the sea leapt.

Ares charged first, blade blazing red-hot as he cut a path through the waves. Poseidon answered with a sweep of his trident, a wall of water crashing down with such force it snapped the god of war's spear in half. Ares roared, dragged beneath the tide, before bursting free, blood streaming from a gash across his arm.

Athena's strategy was swift, her divine spear darting like a serpent. She struck for Poseidon's heart, but her thrust bent away, the water itself refusing to let the weapon near its master. She spun, deflecting his counterstroke, but the sheer force drove her back across the surface of the sea.

Then Zeus unleashed his storm. Lightning cascaded, splitting sky and sea alike, striking Poseidon head-on. The blast turned the ocean white, steam billowing skyward, mortals miles inland crying out as their windows shattered from the sound.

When the light cleared, Poseidon still stood. Smoke curled from his shoulders, but his grin widened. He raised his hand, and lightning bent downward, caught in coils of saltwater, and hurled back toward the heavens.

"Your sky feeds my sea," Poseidon said. "Every storm makes me stronger."

Zeus' expression tightened. For the first time, doubt flickered in his immortal eyes.

The battle raged for hours. Waves taller than mountains rose and fell. Islands cracked. Leviathans breached, slamming into gods with fury not seen since the age of Titans. Poseidon fought like the ocean itself—unyielding, endless, patient and wrathful all at once.

But three against one, even for a god, bore weight. Wounds began to show. Cuts across Poseidon's arms where Athena's spear had bitten. Burnt flesh where Zeus' thunder had seared. Blood, dark as midnight, staining the waves.

And yet, Poseidon smiled through it all.

"Do you see it now?" he asked, his voice shaking the horizon. "You are not fighting a brother. You are not fighting a god. You are fighting the abyss itself."

As he spoke, the sea beneath them deepened unnaturally. What had once been shallow harbor became a pit, pulling ships and stone towers alike into a trench opening wider and wider. From that trench, shadows stirred—ancient things, forgotten even by Olympus. Eyes opened in the deep, glowing like lanterns in the abyss.

Zeus raised his thunderbolt again. "Then we end this here, before your madness spreads!"

Poseidon lifted his trident in answer, abyssal power surging so violently the sea screamed.