Reincarnated As Poseidon

The skies cracked. Zeus's laughter rolled like thunder across the firmament.

"Arrogant drowned god. You call yourself Poseidon, but you are nothing more than a reborn husk with borrowed power. Do you truly think you can defy Olympus itself?"

The mortals covered their ears, for the sound itself shook their bones. But Poseidon only raised his trident, the waters bending closer around him like serpents waiting to strike.

"I am not your drowned memory," he replied. His eyes glowed with abyssal fire. "I am the tide that remembers. The sea that cannot be bound. You named me a husk, Zeus—yet here I am, standing where your champions fell."

Lightning flared, splitting the clouds. For an instant, a colossal silhouette—Zeus's astral form—loomed, wreathed in flame and storm.

"Then let Olympus answer you," Zeus bellowed.

The battlefield trembled as three new figures descended.

Not demi-gods. Not fragments. True Olympians.

Ares, god of war, whose armor dripped with eternal carnage.

Athena, goddess of wisdom, her eyes cold, her spear sharp enough to split fate itself.

And Hades, lord of the underworld, clad in shadows so deep they swallowed the very horizon.

The mortals screamed as the air itself grew heavier. The three gods landed, their combined presence turning the coast into a graveyard before the battle had even begun.

Poseidon felt the pressure crash down on him, heavier than mountains. But the sea behind him surged, rising to match. He planted his trident into the earth, the ground cracking open into salt and brine.

"So it will be war, then," Poseidon said. His voice was calm, but the ocean itself trembled.

Ares stepped forward first, grinning like a beast let loose. "No words. Just blood." His sword flared with red flame, forged from the cries of every soldier who had ever fallen.

Athena moved beside him, calculating, unblinking. "You will fall, drowned one. You are too unstable. Too dangerous. A storm cannot be allowed to rewrite Olympus."

But Hades said nothing. His gaze lingered on Poseidon's eyes, as if searching for something behind them.

Poseidon smirked faintly. "Three gods against the sea? Then let us see if you can outlast the tide."

The war began in silence.

Then Ares roared.

The god of war struck first, his blade cleaving downward with the force of an army's charge. The sand exploded, but Poseidon's trident met it, water hardening into a shield of impossible density. The shockwave sent mortals flying backward like leaves in a storm.

Athena followed, her spear piercing through currents, angling for his heart. Poseidon twisted, water dragging him aside, and the spear only grazed his arm—yet even that left a cut deeper than mortal steel could inflict. Divine blood spilled, glowing faintly against his skin.

And then came Hades.

The ground beneath Poseidon turned to shadow. Hands—skeletal, pale, endless—rose from the blackened earth, clawing, grasping, dragging. For a moment, Poseidon felt the weight of death itself coil around his ankles.

But he roared, his power exploding outward. The sea surged into the shadows, washing them away, drowning even death itself. "You will not claim me!"

The waves slammed against Hades, driving him backward a step. It was not victory—but it was defiance.

The gods regrouped, their divine light burning against the ocean's wrath. Mortals could no longer look upon them; their very eyes wept blood from the sight. Yet Poseidon remained, his trident spinning, his aura swelling like the abyss.

"You think I fear your unity?" he growled. "The sea does not fear the land. The sea consumes it."

Ares lunged again. Athena flanked. Hades's shadows closed once more.

And Poseidon met them all—

The ocean itself his armor, his fury a storm without end.

The ocean was no longer calm.

It heaved and writhed like a living thing, each swell bending to Poseidon's heartbeat. The horizon was fractured, bleeding light as though the sky itself feared what it was forced to witness. Mortal ships had already abandoned the seas; only gods now walked these waters.

Three crowns had fallen into the tide in the battles before: the crown of flame, the crown of winds, and the crown of shadows. Yet the gods still came.

For each that died, another emerged. They refused to accept the truth—that the sea was no longer theirs to dictate.

Poseidon stood upon a surface of water hardened into glass by his will. The trident in his hand glowed, veins of blue lightning racing along its shaft. Around him, the sea rose into pillars that bent into arches, forming a cathedral of waves. This was not Olympus. This was not the Azure Seat. This was his domain.

And his enemies dared to step upon it.

---

The Arrival of the Next Hunt

A storm split open above him, clouds spiraling into a wound in the heavens. From it descended three more gods—ones who had not yet tasted his wrath.

First was Thaleon, God of the Hunt, his bow strung with a cord of living wind. His cloak of eagle feathers snapped as he landed lightly on the water, as if the sea itself bent to cradle his feet.

Second came Myrrha, Goddess of Chains, draped in iron links that coiled around her arms like serpents. Each link shone with sigils of binding, wards older than cities. Her face was unreadable, her eyes like locked vaults.

Last was Kaelith, God of Stars, a being whose skin shimmered with constellations, as though his very body were carved from night. He carried no weapon—his gaze was weapon enough. Whole navies had once lost their way at sea under that gaze.

The three fanned out, circling him. Predators, each one. But Poseidon was no prey.

"You've made quite the graveyard, sea-king," Thaleon said, voice dripping with disdain. He nocked an arrow tipped with the bone of some forgotten beast. "Do you know how many crowns you've shattered? How many pillars of Olympus now lie rotting beneath your tide?"

Poseidon tilted his head, trident resting at his side. "Not enough."

Myrrha's chains rattled as she stepped forward, dragging long lines across the water's surface. "You've forgotten your place. The sea was never meant to rule—it was meant to serve. You, drowned god, are a reminder of why it must remain bound."

Poseidon's laughter was deep, rolling, tidal. "You call me drowned, and yet it is you who flounder in my waters. You, who breathe by my leave. Remember this, chain-bearer: it is not the sea that serves—it is the sea that chooses."

Kaelith's starlit eyes narrowed. "Then let us see what the sea chooses when faced with the heavens."

Above, the stars themselves bent, constellations shifting into a spiral of burning glyphs. The night was no longer sky—it was his weapon.