Reincarnated As Poseidon

Zephyros moved first, his voice thunder.

"Poseidon—you overstep!"

Lightning spears rained from above, countless bolts, each heavy with divine judgment. Mortals who once prayed to him would have fallen to their knees at the sight. But Poseidon did not kneel.

He raised his trident.

The ocean roared.

Each bolt was swallowed, turned to sizzling foam. Water rose into serpents, snapping at lightning, devouring it like meat. And as the last bolt struck, Poseidon spun his weapon, hurling a tidal spear that split the heavens.

Zephyros was thrown backward, his wings scorched with brine.

But before Poseidon could press, Nymera was there—behind him, around him, everywhere at once. Her blades sought his throat, his heart, his spine. Shadows hissed, laced with poison meant to unravel even a god's essence.

For the first time, Poseidon bled.

Dark streaks coiled along his arm where her daggers pierced. His ocean recoiled, hissing, as if the shadows themselves were venom seeping into the tide.

But Poseidon did not falter. He caught one of her wrists, water swirling around his fingers, and crushed until her shadowform shattered into fragments.

And then Seraphin came.

Her flame was no ordinary fire. It was godfire, ancient as the first star. When it struck the waves, the ocean screamed, boiling into pillars of steam that blackened the sky.

"Your sea ends here!" she cried, her blade of flame cutting arcs across the battlefield.

Poseidon roared back. His trident met her flame-sword, water and fire colliding in explosions that cracked the rift itself. Steam blinded them both, but his voice carried through:

"The sea ends nowhere!"

---

The Ocean Turns Red

As the three gods circled, Poseidon staggered for the first time. Shadow-poison burned inside him, lightning scars sizzled across his chest, and fire gnawed at his weapon. His blood mixed with the sea beneath—blue-green ichor spilling into waves that hissed with divine energy.

And yet, the ocean answered.

Every drop of his blood became a tide. Every wound, another storm. The sea itself fed on his pain, swelling higher, darker, until it was no longer water—it was wrath.

The mortals far below screamed as their coasts vanished, harbors shattered, entire fleets lifted into the air before being dashed apart like toys. The ocean was no longer a border. It was a weapon.

"Fall, Poseidon!" Zephyros thundered again, diving down with both arms raised, lightning forging into a hammer of judgment.

But Poseidon caught it. With one hand. His trident braced, water spiraling around him like armor.

"You think judgment belongs to you?" Poseidon growled, his voice layered with something deeper, something older. "I was judgment long before you wore your crown."

And with a twist, he shattered the lightning hammer into sparks.

---

The Tide Shifts

For a moment, the three gods hesitated. The vessel they thought fragile now fought as their equal. Worse—he was learning. With every strike, every wound, Poseidon's power adapted. The shadows no longer sank so deep. The fire no longer burned so freely. The lightning no longer struck so true.

Nymera narrowed her eyes. "This… this is not just Poseidon."

Seraphin spat, flames dancing wild. "Then what is he?"

Zephyros, wings scorched and pride wounded, already knew. His voice was grim. "Thalorin. The drowned abyss. He bleeds through."

At that name, the air trembled. Even the ocean paused, as if remembering its first fear.

But Poseidon only smiled, blood on his lips.

"Names are for mortals. I am more than Poseidon. More than Thalorin. I am the tide you buried, the sea you caged. And I—"

He lifted his trident, the sea rising with him, waves so tall they scraped the clouds.

"—I will not be drowned again."

---

The Breaking Point

The battle raged into madness.

Every strike shattered realms. Waves devoured mountains, shadows split the horizon, fire carved scars into the sea that boiled for miles. The sky itself cracked, stars flickering in and out as the gods tore reality apart in their war.

Poseidon struck Zephyros from the sky, his lightning crown broken. He drowned Nymera's shadows in pure abyss, binding her daggers in chains of salt. He clashed with Seraphin so fiercely that fire and water fused into storms of molten rain, falling on mortal lands below.

Mortals prayed. Some to Poseidon. Most to anyone who would listen. But no god answered. All were watching. All feared what the outcome would mean.

And then—Poseidon fell to one knee.

The shadow-poison had spread deeper. The fire burned hotter. The lightning still crackled in his bones. His breath came ragged, the ocean trembling with him.

The three gods stood over him, battered but unbroken. Together, their voices rose.

"For the balance of the realms—fall!"

They struck as one. Flame, lightning, shadow.

The rift split wide. The sea howled.

And Poseidon disappeared beneath their strike.

---

The Sea Holds Its Breath

For a heartbeat, silence.

The ocean stilled. The air cooled. The gods lowered their weapons, panting, bleeding, but alive.

"Is it done?" Nymera whispered.

"No," Aegirion's voice answered—from the council far above, watching through the rift. His trident shook in his hand, eyes wide with dread. "You cannot kill the sea."

The water beneath them trembled. A whisper echoed through every drop.

I am not gone.

The tide surged upward, not as wave, not as storm, but as a colossal hand, fingers of water wrapping around all three gods at once. Their eyes widened as they realized too late—

The sea had only been holding its breath.

Authors note**"

The chapter closes with Poseidon rising once more, his wounds glowing like molten coral, his power now beyond what even he had commanded before. And for the first time, the gods understood—this was not merely a god reborn.

This was inevitability.

The battlefield had no horizon.

The seas themselves had risen into a storming dome, waves colliding against waves until the sky vanished and only walls of water remained. In the center stood Poseidon—his form towering, his hair whipping like seaweed in the gale, his eyes glowing with abyssal light. Around him drifted wreckage of divine steel, shattered wings, and clouds of blood that did not sink but hung suspended, as if gravity itself bowed to his command.

The gods had thrown everything at him. Armies. Tempests. Blades forged in Olympus itself. Yet Poseidon still stood.

But now, three figures emerged from the vortex