Reincarnated As Poseidon

The battlefield above the mortal sea was no longer a battlefield.

It was an open wound in the world.

The clash between Poseidon and the gods had ripped the very firmament. Clouds spun into black spirals, lightning bled sideways, and the ocean below no longer obeyed tides. It rose and fell with the rhythm of Poseidon's breath, drawn into his will like veins pulled into a single heart.

And that heart beat louder now.

Poseidon hovered at the storm's center, trident gripped, armor slick with salt and ichor. Three gods had fallen beneath him in earlier battles; others had withdrawn to lick their wounds. Yet he knew retreat was not surrender. Olympus would never stop.

They feared him.

And when gods feared, they grew reckless.

The air went still.

Every mortal sailor who had survived the cataclysm lay flat against their decks, praying—or pretending to. They had seen enough to know that prayer was brittle before what was unfolding.

Far below, in the sunken veins of the ocean, something stirred. A whisper passed through the water like a shiver. Fish scattered. Trenches cracked.

Poseidon froze mid-air, his senses prickling. That presence—it was not Olympus.

It was older.

Thalorin.

The name moved inside his bones like a secret too heavy to carry. The abyssal god whose essence had fused with his rebirth. The hunger that even the pantheon had once chained away.

"You watch me," Poseidon whispered into the void, voice carrying across storm and sea. "But you will not claim me."

For a moment, there was no answer. Only the pulse of the waves, the churn of the heavens.

And then—

Laughter.

Not loud. Not cruel. Just endless. A tide of sound that seemed to come from every fathom at once.

Claim? No, child. I do not claim. I am already within.

Poseidon's grip tightened on the trident. "I am not your vessel. I am your successor."

Words, the abyss whispered back. But blood remembers. Water remembers. And when Olympus shatters you—ah, then you will remember too.

The voice retreated, not defeated but waiting. Waiting like pressure in the deep.

Poseidon exhaled sharply. The storm leaned with him. He had no time for ghosts. Olympus would move again.

And he would be ready.

Far above the storm line, where the clouds broke into shimmering halls of white, Zeus himself slammed his fist upon the marble dais. Lightning cracked through Olympus, rattling every column.

"Enough delay! He dares drown cities. He dares break our decrees. He dares wield Thalorin's breath as though it were his own. This Poseidon must be ended before he grows beyond even us!"

Hera's voice cut sharp across the hall. "You speak as though he is not already beyond us. Three gods have fallen. Your storms no longer break his seas. Even Ares limps from his last encounter. What will you do, Zeus? Throw lightning until the sky itself burns?"

Apollo, pale and withdrawn, said nothing. He had glimpsed the mortal prayers twisting—no longer sung to Olympus, but whispered in fear to the sea itself. Fear was faith. And faith was power.

The tide was turning.

And Zeus knew it. His fury did not hide the quiver in his hand.

"Then summon the Triarchs," he growled. "The three who have never failed Olympus. Together, they will shatter him."

The hall stirred. Whispers rose. Even gods shivered at that name.

The Triarchs: Athena, the mind that had never lost a war. Hades, keeper of shadow and the dead. And Zeus himself, lord of storm.

Not armies. Not councils.

Three thrones moving as one.

Olympus would descend.

Poseidon stood alone at the storm's heart, the ocean coiled beneath him like a beast awaiting command. He could already feel Olympus stirring, threads of divine force braiding toward him like harpoons.

He raised his trident. The water surged upward, forming a spiral wall around him, tall as mountains. It wasn't defense—it was warning. A declaration: the sea would not yield.

Mortal eyes widened as their ships drifted to the edge of this colossal maelstrom. Some captains turned their vessels away, desperate to flee. Others froze, unwilling to miss the sight of gods preparing for war.

And then Olympus came.

Three shapes tore the heavens open, stepping down on bridges of lightning, shadow, and flame.

Athena, crowned with the gleam of unbroken strategy.

Hades, his cloak dragging the silence of graveyards behind him.

And Zeus, every step cracking thunder into the storm.

The Triarchs.

Together.

Poseidon's jaw tightened. "So it is war without veil."

Zeus's voice rolled like judgment itself: "You call yourself Poseidon. But you are corruption in his skin. You will fall."

Poseidon raised his trident, water spiraling in a halo around him. "You are late, Zeus. The sea has already risen."

The first blow was Athena's. She did not hurl spears or lightning. She spoke a word. One single word that rewrote the air.

The sea stilled. The spiral Poseidon had raised froze in place, as though time itself had bowed to her command.

But Poseidon laughed. "Strategy without tide is nothing but dust." He clenched his fist—and the still water shattered, resuming motion as though mocking her will.

Hades moved next. His shadow poured downward like a curtain, swallowing the waves beneath. Sailors screamed as their ships vanished into sudden pits of black. Hands of the dead clawed upward, reaching for anything alive.

Poseidon plunged his trident into the ocean. Light surged outward, turning the dead's grasp into foam, scattering them like ash. His voice thundered: "The drowned do not serve you, Hades. They are mine."

Zeus descended last. His lightning split the horizon, burning air and sea alike. He struck Poseidon directly, a bolt thick as towers, meant to obliterate.

But when the light cleared, Poseidon stood, skin scorched, eyes blazing with endless tide.

"Brother," he growled. "Do you forget? I was storm before you ever claimed the sky."

The sea roared upward, colliding with lightning in a clash that blinded gods and mortals alike.

Beneath it all, in trenches deeper than Olympus dared peer, the abyss stirred once more.

Yes, Thalorin whispered, watching the clash of divine thrones above. Break them. Drown them. Let their bones pave the new seabed.

Poseidon ignored the whisper, driving his trident forward. Yet even he could not deny the rush—the surge of power that came when abyssal hunger aligned with his fury.

Water blackened. Waves grew teeth.

The gods above did not see Poseidon falter. They only saw the sea itself changing—into something darker, something ancient.

And they finally understood why Olympus feared not just Poseidon… but what he carried.