Reincarnated As Poseidon

The sea was not calm that night.

Even when it seemed still on the surface, the abyss below was in turmoil. Currents clashed like beasts, trenches cracked with the groan of ancient stone, and the very floor of the ocean quivered with something long forgotten.

And Poseidon—once Dominic, now fully enthroned in his reborn divinity—stood on the edge of that abyss, his trident raised, his gaze fixed downward into the blackness.

Because something was calling.

Not mortal.

Not god.

Older.

The war against the gods had carved its wounds into the realms. Olympus smoldered, its marble temples cracked, rivers of ambrosia staining the once-perfect skies. The blood of gods had fallen to earth and poisoned whole valleys. Mortals whispered of omens, of storms that had no source, of oceans that no longer obeyed the moon.

And in the hollow silence after the battles, Poseidon did not feel victory.

He felt the pressure.

The council of gods might have fractured, but whispers had reached him: three more pantheons had stirred, sensing his rise, sensing the tilt of balance. The Norse had seen their runes flare, the Egyptian halls of Duat shook, and in the far east, the Jade Heavens had begun to murmur.

Every throne was watching him.

And that was when the abyss began to move.

Poseidon knelt, pressing his hand to the black water. The seabed groaned beneath, the sound traveling through the water like thunder. For centuries, the abyss had been a prison, sealed with chains not of iron but of godly decree.

But tonight, the seals cracked.

From below, a voice rose. Not words. A hum. A call that shivered through bone and marrow, through tide and trident.

Poseidon's grip on his weapon tightened. "You waited long enough," he muttered, his voice low, reverberating through the sea. "But I am not the boy. I am not the vessel. I am the sea itself."

The abyss answered.

A fissure tore open across the trench floor. From it, ancient water spilled—darker, heavier, older than anything in the mortal seas. It coiled upward like smoke, taking vague shapes: beasts, serpents, faces with teeth sharp enough to shear stone.

Thalorin's essence.

Not fully gone. Not fully silent.

Poseidon inhaled, and the ocean inhaled with him. The tide pulled harder against the fissure, but instead of retreating, the abyss exhaled.

And out of it came a shape—massive, coiling, endless.

It was no god. It was no mortal beast. It was memory turned into flesh, nightmare given water and scale. Its body shimmered like glass but broke light like obsidian. Eyes opened along its length—thousands of them, blinking in chaotic unison.

The sea shook as it roared, though the sound was nothing like sound—it was pressure, force, the crushing weight of the deep pressing against Poseidon's chest.

And still, Poseidon did not flinch.

"Do you seek to claim me?" Poseidon's voice cut through the deep. His eyes burned with oceanic fire. "Or to test me?"

The beast coiled higher, blotting out what little light remained. It loomed like a mountain of water, ancient hunger dripping from every pore.

And then it spoke.

Not with words, but in Poseidon's mind. A voice that was both whisper and avalanche:

"YOU ARE THE SEA. BUT THE SEA WAS MINE."

The abyss exploded.

Water crashed in every direction, currents so strong they tore coral from stone, shattered trenches, and sent tsunamis racing toward distant shores.

Poseidon's trident met the beast's coiled strike, the impact shaking the ocean floor. Shockwaves rippled upward, splitting the surface miles above. A whirlpool opened in the mortal world, dragging whole fleets into its throat.

Poseidon spun, his form wreathed in waves, each movement turning the ocean itself into his weapon. Spears of condensed saltwater lanced out, shattering through the beast's hide.

But the abyss-creature healed as fast as it was struck. Its body reformed, water stitching over wounds like living scar tissue. Its eyes glowed in madness.

"Thalorin's spawn," Poseidon hissed. "You think yourself heir to a throne that was broken."

The creature struck again, fangs large enough to bite through mountains snapping shut around him. But Poseidon's trident blazed, slamming upward, holding the bite apart. Cracks split the beast's teeth, and Poseidon shoved with the force of the sea itself, throwing the monster back into the fissure.

But it did not retreat.

It laughed.

In the darkness behind the creature, Poseidon saw it—shadows, coiled deeper than the beast, whispering, watching.

Thalorin's essence.

Not fully slain.

Not yet.

It whispered: You cannot drown what is already drowned.

Poseidon snarled, power erupting around him, the ocean itself bending at his command. "Then I will unmake you."

Far above, mortals felt the battle.

Coastal cities watched in terror as the sea pulled away from their shores entirely, exposing seabeds for miles. Fish flopped helplessly on the sand, ships keeled over in the mud. Children cried as priests screamed at people to run.

And then the sea came back.

A wall of water rose on the horizon, blacker than night, taller than mountains. It blotted out the stars, carrying lightning within its belly. And at its center, Poseidon's form was visible, battling the abyssal horror, both figures like gods of destruction.

"Poseidon!" the people screamed, half in terror, half in awe.

The wave crashed.

Whole kingdoms vanished

Olympus

On the broken ruins of Olympus, Zeus's throne still smoldered. But gods remained—wounded, watchful, wary.

Aegirion, his young trident burning with tide-light, stared down at the mortal world. "He battles the abyss itself…"

Nymera, goddess of shadows, whispered: "No… he battles himself. The sea does not forgive what it buries."

And from the edge of the council, Seraphin's flames flared. "If he survives this, he will not only be Poseidon. He will be more. And then, nothing—not Olympus, not Asgard, not Duat—will stop him."

The gods exchanged glances, fear glimmering in their immortal eyes.

For the first time, the pantheons considered the same unthinkable question:

What if the drowned god wins?

Below, Poseidon's trident blazed brighter, drawing in power from every tide across the world. Seas answered him. Rivers surged inland. Lakes boiled upward in devotion.

He struck once, and the abyss-creature split in two.

It screamed, collapsing into whirlpools and shadow.

But as it fell, Thalorin's whisper grew louder. You are not free. You are not king. You are what I left behind.

Poseidon's eyes narrowed. "Then watch as what you left behind becomes what you fear most."

He thrust his trident into the fissure.

The abyss cracked open wider.

And light—pure, oceanic, world-drowning light—erupted from Poseidon, consuming the trench, consuming the creature, consuming the very whisper of Thalorin itself.

For a moment, the sea went silent.

And then—

The world tilted.