Reincarnated As Poseidon

Poseidon raised his trident, his voice rolling like the crash of ten thousand waves:

"Three lights against the abyss? Then drown, and learn that even suns sink."

The heavens convulsed.

Zephyros was first, his storm-spear piercing the sky, streaking down like a world-ending javelin. Poseidon caught it on the shaft of his trident, the impact shaking reality itself. Waves below rose higher than mountains, capsizing fleets that had never even seen the gods above.

Seraphin followed, fire pouring from her hands in rivers that turned the clouds molten. Poseidon swept his arm, and the fire parted—not extinguished, but smothered in walls of water that hissed and screamed. Steam blasted outward, boiling the rain before it touched the ground.

Nymera came last, shadows swallowing the sea itself, silencing Poseidon's roar, deadening the thunder. In her darkness, even his trident seemed to dull, its light fading.

But Poseidon smiled.

And with a single step forward, the silence broke

The sea was not calm.

Not anymore.

The silence that had followed the clash with the divine trinity was broken by the restless groan of the deep, as though the ocean itself strained under the weight of something buried far below. Even Poseidon felt it. His body—divine, unyielding—was unshaken, but his spirit stirred uneasily.

For the first time since awakening, he was not certain if the voice calling to him belonged to himself… or to the abyss that had once consumed gods.

The mortals on the shore had already fled. The city he drowned lay in ruins behind him, abandoned, whispering only with the ghosts of salt and stone. The tides reflected no stars, only shadows. And deep within that shadow, something pulsed.

A drumbeat.

A hunger.

A reminder.

Thalorin.

The name throbbed in his bones like a second heartbeat. The drowned abyss, the first tide. It was no longer slumbering.

On Olympus, their eyes turned downward.

Zeus himself leaned over the reflecting pool carved from lightning glass. The scene within showed Poseidon standing at the shattered coast, his trident gripped loosely, his eyes unfocused as the ocean swirled unnaturally around him.

"He resists," Zeus said, his voice low, dangerous. "But the abyss calls him still."

Athena stepped forward, her golden armor gleaming under torchlight. "Resists? Or delays? The mortal shell is gone, Father. He is Poseidon now. But within him, the seed of Thalorin is swelling. You know what that means."

Hera, ever regal, brushed her hand across the pool's surface. The waters rippled, showing the drowned city again, its spires broken like snapped bones. "Mortals whisper his name already. Some as god, some as curse. The tide of belief grows. If it continues, his strength will not only rival yours, Zeus… it may surpass it."

The King of Olympus said nothing, but the storm in his eyes betrayed him.

Ares, laughing at the edge of the council chamber, slammed a gauntleted fist against his chest. "Then enough of councils and words. Let me march! I will bring my spear, and I will split him apart before he can drown another city."

"You tried once," Athena said coldly. "You failed."

The laughter died.

And Zeus's hand tightened on the arm of his throne. "We cannot delay. The abyss beneath Poseidon stirs again. If Thalorin returns…"

No one finished the thought. The last time that name had risen, gods had perished.

Poseidon closed his eyes, sinking into the call. He let the ocean's song swallow him. He had thought himself its master, but tonight it reminded him: no god commanded the abyss.

Images slammed through his mind—visions of drowned temples, of screaming gods dragged beneath black waters, of mortals who once worshiped Thalorin with blood and chains.

And then he saw it.

A throne. Not his. Not Olympus's. But something carved from bone and barnacle, seated in the abyssal dark, waiting.

Poseidon's eyes snapped open. Salt spray lashed against his face. His grip on the trident trembled.

"I am not your vessel," he growled into the night. His voice made the sea foam. "I am not your shadow. I am Poseidon."

But the answer came not in words—only in another pulse from the deep. Louder. Hungrier.

The earth shook.

The drowned city cracked again as a fissure opened beneath its streets, spilling black water that reeked of rot and salt. From within it, whispers rose—thousands of voices crying in unison, worshiping a god that had not yet walked the surface.

The abyss was rising.

Kaeli, the last survivor of the harbor's priesthood, stood at the cliffs above. She had seen the city die, seen the bell toll, seen Poseidon drown her people. And yet… she still stood.

Why?

Because she felt it. She knew, even if the others could not name it: this was not merely Poseidon's wrath. This was something older, more terrible, something that had used him to open its prison.

Her shaking hands pressed the shell-talisman at her neck. "Lord of Seas," she whispered, voice breaking. "If there is any of Dominic left in you… resist it. Do not let it claim you."

Her prayer was carried by the wind, but whether Poseidon heard, she could not know.

The fissure widened. From its depths, tendrils of black water stretched upward like grasping hands, each dripping with barnacles that pulsed like beating hearts.

Poseidon thrust his trident downward.

The sea obeyed. Waves collapsed inward, crashing upon the fissure, sealing it beneath a mountain of water. For a moment, the whispers dimmed. For a moment, the abyss was silent.

But Poseidon knew.

This was not victory. Only defiance.

The abyss was awake now. It would not return to sleep.

And Olympus—watching—would not wait for him to fall.

When Zeus rose from his throne, thunder shook the mountain.

"Summon them," he commanded. "The hunters, the war-bringers, the chains of Tartarus. We strike before he becomes more than a god."

Athena hesitated. "And if he already is?"

Zeus's eyes turned toward the horizon, where storms gathered around the drowned coast.

"Then Olympus itself will drown with him."

Poseidon stood alone on the shore, staring at the black fissure he had forced shut. The water around him trembled, not with his will, but with anticipation—like the sea itself was waiting to see which god would rise: the ruler of tides… or the abyss reborn.

And in the silence, that pulse came again. Stronger. Closer.

Thalorin was no longer content to whisper.

The abyss was stirring.

And all the world would feel its hunger.