Reincarnated As Poseidon

The last three gods who had dared to bar his path had fallen. Their broken forms had long since been carried away into the trenches, claimed by the abyss. Yet Poseidon did not celebrate. Victory was hollow. Each battle carved more deeply into him, pressing his mortal remnant further beneath the tide of what he was becoming.

"Another step," he murmured, his voice reverberating through the water. "Another chain broken."

But even as he spoke, he knew chains did not vanish—they only shifted. And deep within, something older stirred, a whisper crawling through his veins:

Deeper… lower… the abyss is waiting.

---

The Rising Tide

Far above, mortals gathered at the new shoreline that had replaced their city. What was once bustling streets was now a lagoon of drowned houses and half-submerged statues. Survivors clung to rafts, their faces pale with terror and awe.

Some whispered prayers, not to the gods of Olympus, but to him.

"Poseidon…" a fisherman muttered, clutching his child. "He has returned… not as a god to beg for mercy, but as the sea itself…"

The prayers drifted downward, reaching him. He felt them, faint sparks of mortal hope tangled with fear. They were not worship—not yet. But they were close.

Poseidon's lips curled faintly. "They begin to understand."

But understanding bred danger. For every mortal that whispered his name, Olympus sharpened its blades.

---

Olympus Watches

In the high halls of Olympus, the storm had not ceased since Poseidon's return. Clouds clawed the sky, and thunder rolled endlessly, reflecting the unease of gods who had not felt true fear in centuries.

Zeus stood at the council dais, lightning crawling over his shoulders like serpents. His jaw was clenched, his voice edged like a blade.

"He has gone too far. The seas bow to him once more. And now mortals speak his name."

Hera's eyes narrowed. "Mortals always speak names when they are desperate. Do not mistake their prayers for allegiance."

But Ares slammed a fist into the marble. "He has already slain three of our own. Are we to sit idly by while the drowned god carves through Olympus piece by piece?"

Athena, calm yet tense, studied the horizon through the temple's open columns. "This is no longer merely Poseidon. He carries the abyss with him. If Thalorin truly stirs beneath his flesh, then this war is not one of domain but survival."

Silence settled. Even Zeus did not argue.

At last, Hades—who rarely appeared at the council—spoke from the shadows. His voice was low, smooth, and cold.

"You fear the sea rising. You fear the abyss waking. But what you should fear…" His eyes glowed faintly. "…is that he has not yet chosen who he will become. Poseidon, brother… or something older, hungrier."

Zeus's knuckles whitened. "Then we end the question before the answer comes."

---

The Abyss Below

Poseidon drifted deeper. He had won battles, yes, but victories only stirred the ocean floor. And as he sank lower into the blackness, he began to feel it—an old pressure, a hunger coiled in the trenches.

The Abyss.

Not merely water, not merely depth, but memory. This was where the drowned things lay—the gods banished, the spirits starved, the bones of titans too monstrous to name.

He extended a hand. The water around his palm twisted, pulling currents inward like a spiral. The abyss answered.

A whisper coiled around him, a voice that was not voice at all.

You are close… Poseidon… vessel… heir…

His jaw tightened. "I am no vessel."

Then prove it… descend. Claim us. Or be claimed.

The pressure intensified, pressing against his ribs, against his mind. He could hear the beating of the abyss like a drum. Each thrum sent cracks of strain through his mortal body.

But he did not falter. He clenched his trident, its shaft blazing with a pale, oceanic glow.

"I will not kneel," he growled into the dark. "Not to Olympus. Not to the abyss. The sea is mine."

And with that, he drove the trident downward.

The abyss shuddered.

Something vast stirred below, and the water boiled with ancient hunger.

Above, the survivors felt it immediately. The water in the harbor rippled outward in concentric rings. Stone foundations cracked as if the sea itself was grinding its teeth.

Children cried out. Dogs howled. The priests of the Seven Currents collapsed in the streets, their shell-bells shattering as saltwater poured from their mouths.

In the flooded market square, the Watcher of Tides—still alive, still clinging to faith—stared wide-eyed at the horizon.

"He's touched it," the Watcher whispered. "He's touched the abyss. And it stirs with him."

In Olympus, thunder cracked, shaking pillars and sending sparks raining across the council chamber. Zeus's eyes narrowed.

"He dares to wake what we drowned."

Athena's hand tightened around her spear. "Then the war begins in earnest."

Hades only smiled faintly, the corners of his lips curling like smoke. "Oh, it has already begun."

Below, Poseidon's power surged outward. Waves swelled across the mortal seas, rising higher and higher. Ships were lifted like driftwood, coastlines swallowed whole. Yet at the center of the storm, Poseidon himself remained perfectly still.

His voice, carried through every drop of saltwater, echoed across realms:

"I am not your pawn. I am not your brother. I am not your forgotten god.

I am Poseidon.

And the sea answers to me alone."

The abyss roared back in answer, not in denial—but in hunger.

And above, Olympus trembled.

The battlefield stretched across the broken shoreline like a scar between realms.

Where once there had been a city—harbors, markets, temples—now only jagged stone, flooded ruins, and salt-scorched air remained. And in the center of that drowned scar stood Poseidon.

No longer the uncertain vessel, no longer the trembling mortal, but a god reborn. His trident gleamed with a light deeper than starlight, carrying the weight of the abyss itself. Waves rose behind him like vast curtains, endless and patient, as though the sea itself held its breath.

Across the fractured coast, divine figures gathered. The war was no longer whispered in chambers or spoken in prophecy—it had arrived.