Reincarnated As Poseidon

The battlefield smelled of brine and blood.

Broken weapons lay scattered like driftwood, and the ground itself was slick with seawater where no sea should ever have reached. The clash of gods had reshaped the land—mountains shorn into cliffs, valleys drowned in salt pools, the very air vibrating with divine aftershocks.

At the center of it all, Poseidon stood with his trident planted into the wet earth. His chest rose and fell steadily, his breaths not ragged but resonant, like the ocean itself had settled into his lungs. The scars of battle marked his arms and shoulders, but his gaze was steady. Calm. Eternal.

Before him, the remnants of three gods' power hung in the air—flickering embers of divinity dispersing into mist. The tide had claimed them.

But victory was not without its weight.

The battlefield was quiet now. Too quiet.

Mortal soldiers, those who had survived at the edges of the divine confrontation, watched from afar. Some trembled in awe, their weapons lowered, eyes wide with terror. Others fell to their knees, whispering prayers not to their own gods, but to the one who had conquered.

"Poseidon," they whispered. "Lord of the sea… Drowned God reborn…"

He heard them. Every word sank into the currents that flowed around him. Every whisper was another droplet feeding the flood of his return.

Yet Poseidon's expression did not soften. He was no longer the boy Dominic who might have doubted or faltered. He was the sea given shape—and the sea did not bend to prayers. It only received.

The Watcher of Tides, battered but alive, limped forward from the ruined lines. His robes were soaked, his face pale, but his eyes—oh, his eyes burned with something close to devotion.

"You've done what no mortal, no god, dared," the Watcher rasped. "Three gods… swept away like driftwood."

Poseidon turned his head slightly, the faintest acknowledgment. "The sea does not count the drift it claims. Why should I?"

The Watcher bowed lower, the gesture trembling between reverence and fear. "Because now, lord, Olympus will count them for you."

---

In the Heights of Olympus

Even as he spoke, Olympus stirred.

Far above, where the mountain peaks gleamed with immortal fire, the gods convened in fury. The Council's great amphitheater thundered with divine voices, the marble trembling under the weight of rage.

"Three more!" cried Hera, her crown of stars blazing with wrath. "Three more of our kin swept beneath his waves!"

Ares slammed his fist against his bronze shield, sparks flying. "Then we strike harder! We march as one! Let the earth itself drown with him if need be."

Athena's voice cut sharp and cold. "And if we fall as they did? Three gods, Ares. Not weaklings, not nameless. Three who stood and were unmade. Do you imagine your war-spear will fare better than theirs?"

The chamber seethed. Some gods raged, others whispered, but all felt the same truth tightening around their throats: Poseidon was no longer a threat rising—he was a storm fully formed.

Zeus, seated high upon his throne, spoke at last. His voice rumbled like thunder over distant seas.

"He is no longer the boy. He is not merely the vessel. He is Poseidon."

The name carried weight, even here. It echoed against marble, against fire, against the hearts of immortals.

"And Poseidon," Zeus continued, lightning crackling in his beard, "will remember what it means to make Olympus his enemy."

Cut to the battle arena

Poseidon pulled his trident free from the earth, the motion casual, as though ending the battle had been no more effort than drawing breath. The water pooled at his feet surged upward in answer, swirling around him like serpents.

The Watcher dared another question. "What will you do now, lord?"

Poseidon gazed toward the horizon. Beyond the broken land, beyond the scarred mountains, he could feel it—the weight of Olympus turning its gaze upon him. Their fury, their fear, their hunger to destroy him. It pressed down like a storm above the surface.

What would he do?

He smiled faintly.

"The same as the tide," Poseidon said at last. "I will rise. Again. And again. Until no wall stands against me."

The Watcher's heart pounded at the words. They were not boast. They were inevitability

But deep, deeper still, below the mortal seas and the divine skies, something stirred.

In the Abyssal Rift, where the oldest memories of the ocean slept, voices whispered. Not mortal, not divine, but older. The fragments of drowned kings, of forgotten leviathans, of storms that once ruled before Olympus had names.

And they spoke one name only.

"Poseidon…"

The water around him trembled faintly, an echo of that deeper call. Not warning. Not threat.

Recognition.

Back in the amphitheater, the council's fury sharpened into decision. Zeus raised his scepter, the bolt of authority itself, and the hall fell silent.

"Olympus will not wait," he declared. "The drowned god rises. Then Olympus shall rise against him."

Ares grinned, hungry for war. Athena narrowed her eyes, already calculating. Hera's lips thinned, knowing the balance of power was fracturing.

And far at the back, in the shadows of the council, Aegirion—the young god of tides—remained silent. His trident trembled faintly in his grasp, but not with fear.

He remembered the boy. He remembered Dominic.

And he wondered if Poseidon was truly only the sea—or if, somewhere within, a tide yet remembered its human heart.

Poseidon walked from the battlefield, each step leaving ripples on ground that should have been solid. Mortals parted before him, some dropping their weapons entirely, others too stunned to move. None dared stop him.

The sky was strangely calm now. The clouds had broken, the stars shone above, and the moon's reflection followed him in every pool, every puddle. It was as though the heavens themselves bent to mirror his stride.

He knew Olympus would not wait long. They would send more than three next time. They would come with armies, with thunder, with fire.

But Poseidon was not afraid.

The tide did not fear the shore.

It only returned to it. Again and again. Until the stones were worn smooth, until the cliffs themselves fell.

Poseidon tightened his grip on the trident.

"Let them come," he murmured.

And far above, Olympus answered with the first growl of thunder.

The war between sea and sky had only begun.