Reincarnated As Poseidon

Seraphin, Goddess of Flame, leapt forward, her entire body igniting into a sun-born inferno. She hurled spears of fire down upon the waters, each impact turning waves into billows of steam that scalded mortals and immortals alike.

Nymera, Goddess of Shadows, slipped through the veil, her body scattering into a thousand silhouettes that encircled Poseidon. Her daggers, forged from the darkness of the first night, stabbed at his flesh, seeking cracks in his divinity.

And Zephyros himself descended, wings outstretched, lightning wreathing his hands.

For a moment, the world seemed to explode.

Fire and shadow clashed against water, lightning speared down, and the drowned plain became a cauldron of power. Mortals who had not already fled screamed as they were caught in the aftershocks, entire villages crushed beneath the divine struggle.

But when the storm cleared, Poseidon still stood.

Steam poured off his body where fire had struck. Shadow daggers dripped from his skin as though stabbing the ocean itself. And though lightning had burned trenches across the battlefield, they were filled in at once by his surging tide.

His trident swept outward.

The spiral sea surged, rising into three colossal serpents of water, each roaring with the voices of drowned gods. They lunged at Seraphin, Nymera, and Zephyros in turn.

The goddess of flame screamed as the serpent coiled around her, steam hissing as her fire clashed against the suffocating waves.

Nymera scattered into shadow, only to find the serpent biting into every reflection of her, devouring even her illusions.

Zephyros struck his lightning into the heart of the serpent that came for him, splitting it apart—only for the water to surge together again, hungrier, stronger, endless.

Poseidon's voice carried through it all.

"You fight like children who fear the dark. But you have forgotten—the sea is the dark."

---

Olympus Trembles

Far above, in the high halls of Olympus, the other gods watched through scrying pools and fractured mirrors.

The great council chamber shuddered as though Poseidon's tide pressed even against their sanctum. Statues cracked. Holy fires sputtered. For the first time in an age, the gods of Olympus felt fear.

"This cannot be allowed!" cried Hera, rising to her feet, her jeweled crown trembling with fury. "He has broken the balance. If he continues, Olympus itself will drown!"

But Aegirion, seated among them, did not rise. His young face was pale, his trident lying idle at his side. He remembered Dominic—the boy, the vessel, the one who had once smiled at him in the Rift. He remembered mercy where there should have been none. And now, watching Poseidon tear the battlefield apart, he could not help but wonder: Was this always inevitable? Or did we force him to become this?

"Enough!" boomed Zeus at last, his voice shaking the chamber. "If Poseidon rises, Olympus falls. Summon the full pantheon. If gods must die, then gods will die. But he will not claim the heavens."

The decree echoed like thunder.

And far below, Poseidon felt it.

The ocean inside him stirred, tasting the fear of Olympus like blood in the water.

---

The Sea's Retaliation

Back on the battlefield, Poseidon raised his trident high. The drowned plain shifted. What had once been earth became nothing but water—an endless, depthless expanse beneath the feet of gods.

Zephyros faltered, wings beating frantically as he realized there was no ground left to stand upon. Seraphin's fire sputtered as the tide closed in, suffocating her flames. Nymera's shadows thinned, stretched into nothing against the sheer vastness of the ocean.

"You call me a threat," Poseidon said, his voice rolling like thunder across the waves. "But you forget—I am older than Olympus. I was before your thrones, before your councils, before your judgments. The sea remembers what you bury."

He slammed his trident into the water.

The ocean roared.

From its depths rose the shapes of things long forgotten—colossal leviathans with eyes like abyssal lanterns, serpents of coral and teeth, drowned warriors wrapped in seaweed and barnacles. The Forgotten Tides had answered his call.

The gods froze.

For the first time, they realized they were not fighting a god. They were fighting the ocean itself.

---

The Breaking Point

Seraphin screamed as one leviathan's jaws closed around her flame. Her divine body flickered, fire struggling against the crushing deep. She wrenched free, but half her form guttered, leaving her stumbling and weakened.

Nymera tried to retreat into shadow, but the leviathans saw her even there. They tore through her illusions, dragging her back into the open, her cloak shredded, her mouth spitting blood.

Zephyros alone still stood firm, lightning blazing, wings outstretched. He met Poseidon's gaze, fury burning in his golden eyes.

"You think yourself eternal?" he roared. "You are a tide. And all tides recede."

Lightning speared down, striking Poseidon square in the chest.

The battlefield exploded.

For a moment, all was blinding white.

When the light faded, Poseidon stood amidst the wreckage, chest scorched, blood running down his arm. His breath came ragged. For the first time, he bled.

But his eyes… his eyes burned brighter than ever.

"Perhaps," he said softly. "But I do not recede alone."

The tide surged higher.

And the gods screamed as the ocean swallowed them whole.

The battlefield still reeked of godblood.

The sands were no longer white but black, stained by ichor and mortal blood alike. Broken tridents, shattered spears, and fragments of divine armor lay scattered in heaps across the coast where Poseidon had stood against Olympus.

But the war was far from finished.

Above him, the heavens trembled. Storm clouds shaped like colossal faces stared downward, watching, judging. Zeus's thunder coiled silently in the distance, waiting to strike. Hera's veil shimmered like a curtain of stars, hiding her schemes. And from the deepest shadows of the firmament, Nymera, Goddess of Night, whispered curses no mortal ear could survive.

Poseidon stood tall amidst it all.

His chest heaved, the mark of Thalorin still glowing faintly along his veins, but his aura did not waver. The sea behind him rose like a throne, waves curling into shapes that mirrored his will. The mortals who had survived the flooding knelt in terror, unsure whether to worship him or beg for mercy.

He spoke—not to them, but to the gods who dared still loom.

"You sent three against me," Poseidon's voice echoed like a tide grinding cliffs to dust. "And still I stand. Tell me, Olympus—will you send them all, or will you come yourselves?"