Reincarnated As Poseidon

The battlefield was no longer a plain, nor a mountain, nor a sea.

It had become all three at once—a twisted collision of realms bent by divine fury.

Fragments of Olympus cracked overhead, golden marble falling like meteors. Below, waves taller than fortresses slammed against jagged cliffs, their spray freezing into shards of ice midair as foreign godly domains clashed. The air itself warped, heavy with energy so dense it could crush mortals by proximity alone. This was no longer a fight of warriors—it was a war of forces meant to shape creation.

At the center of it all stood Poseidon.

No longer hidden, no longer mortal, no longer hesitant. His trident pulsed like a living star, veins of abyssal light crawling along its prongs. Every breath he took exhaled storms. Every step spread tide-ripples across the battlefield that distorted reality.

And before him stood three gods who had sworn to end him.

Zephyros, God of Sky and Judgment, struck first. His voice tore through the chaos like thunder:

"The heavens deny you, Drowned King!"

Lightning erupted from his hands—not a bolt, but a storm given form. Thousands of spears of light rained down in a perfect net meant to pin Poseidon in place.

The sea rose to meet them. Not as water, but as jaws. Every droplet split into serpentine maws, snapping shut around bolts of judgment, swallowing them whole. The air reeked of ozone and brine as divine lightning fused with abyssal water.

From the shadows, Nymera, Goddess of the Moonless Dark, struck next. Her form dissolved into ink, spreading across the ground like a sea of night. Tendrils coiled around Poseidon's ankles, eager to drag him into an endless pit of silence. She whispered from everywhere at once:

"Drown… not in sea, but in void."

But Poseidon's eyes gleamed, ocean-blue burning with abyssal black. His reply was calm, almost cruel.

"Void is only sea without tide."

He wrenched his arm, and the water around him surged downward. The battlefield buckled, cliffs caving in as a vortex formed beneath his feet. Nymera's shadows screamed as the current pulled at them, ripped apart by undertow stronger than her void.

The third came last, and with greatest weight—Aegirion, young god of tides, the very one who had once pitied Poseidon, now forced to raise his weapon against him.

His trident met Poseidon's.

The sound was not metal against metal—it was ocean against ocean. Two tides colliding, crashing, consuming everything between. The clash split the battlefield into halves, one side roaring upward in towering waves, the other side collapsing into abyssal trenches. Mortals across distant shores felt their harbors tilt, unaware they were mere echoes of a godly battle.

The three pressed in, their combined weight staggering. Lightning tore at his flanks, shadows gnawed at his limbs, and Aegirion's trident pressed against his chest, each strike ringing with bitter desperation. Yet Poseidon did not falter.

He laughed.

The sound was not mocking—it was tidal. A roar that made the sea itself tremble.

"Three against one," Poseidon said, forcing Aegirion back a step. "Do you think yourselves noble? Or are you afraid?"

"Afraid?" Zephyros snarled, wings unfurling into storms. "We fear not you, drowned god. We fear what you carry—Thalorin's hunger."

Poseidon's smile hardened. "Then you should fear the truth: Thalorin is not what I carry. Thalorin is what I have become."

The ground split. From the chasm surged water not blue, not green, but abyssal black shot with starlight. It writhed upward like the veins of a dead god returning to life. And from within it, whispers came—old, heavy, endless.

The three gods staggered, their domains cracking at the edges. Even they, in all their arrogance, had not expected this much awakening.

For a moment, Aegirion hesitated. His trident lowered, his voice raw.

"Poseidon! Listen to me! You are not only abyss—you are man as well! I saw him in you. Dominic. He—"

The abyss roared in answer, nearly knocking him from his feet. Poseidon's gaze softened, almost imperceptibly. For a single heartbeat, Dominic's memory flickered behind those ocean-black eyes. The laughter of Kaeli. The taste of mortal salt air. A boy's dream of freedom.

Then it was gone.

"Dominic was the shell," Poseidon said. "The ocean has no need for shells. It only needs depth."

With a flick of his wrist, the abyss surged, smashing into Aegirion with force enough to drag him across the battlefield. Only by digging his trident into stone did the younger god stop himself from being consumed entirely.

Zephyros and Nymera pressed in at once.

The sky-god unleashed his full storm, turning the battlefield into a hurricane of blinding white bolts. Nymera merged with the tempest, shadows hiding within lightning strikes, attacking from every impossible angle.

Poseidon stood in the center.

Lightning tore at his flesh. Shadows slashed at his soul. But still, he held.

He raised his trident—and drove it into the ground.

The battlefield collapsed.

Not physically. Not spatially. Foundationally.

For a moment, sky, shadow, and tide inverted. The gods found themselves beneath the sea, lungs crushed by water that was not water, but will. Poseidon's domain had expanded—not as a storm, but as an abyssal throne.

Here, under his tide, he was no longer equal. He was sovereign.

"You fight me on Olympus's soil," Poseidon said, his voice echoing in every drop. "But you forget—I am the sea. And the sea is everywhere."

The gods reeled.

Zephyros tried to summon air but found it drowned. His lightning sputtered in Poseidon's waters, every bolt swallowed. Nymera tried to melt into void, but the abyss devoured her shadows as though they were nothing more than silt. Aegirion struggled to hold his footing, his trident shaking under Poseidon's crushing pressure.

And Poseidon? He advanced.

Step by step, as waves parted around him like courtiers before a king.

He raised his trident again, abyssal light crawling to its tips. "This is your judgment. Not from the skies. Not from the shadows. From the sea that birthed you all."

He swung.

The abyss roared outward in a tidal wave so vast it split Olympus itself, shattering marble, drowning light. The gods screamed as they were hurled backward, their forms battered by currents they could not master.

When the wave finally receded, three figures lay broken amid the ruins. Still alive. Still gods. But defeated—for now.

Poseidon stood above them, his trident dripping with black starlit water, his gaze cold.

"Tell your council," he said, voice low but carrying like thunder. "Tell them the abyss has risen. And it does not kneel."

Silence.

Even Olympus seemed to listen.

The three gods dragged themselves back, battered but not slain. None dared approach again. They had seen too much, felt too much. Poseidon had not simply fought them—he had claimed the battlefield as his own, reshaping reality to match his abyss.

Above, the constellations flickered uneasily, their order disturbed. Below, across mortal harbors, seas tilted once more, tides rising where they should not.

And Poseidon?

He turned, his eyes narrowing toward the horizon. Not at Olympus. Not at the mortals. But at the deep, unseen prison beyond all realms. The place where whispers called louder every day.

The Forgotten Tides.

He had not broken them free yet.

But soon.

Very soon.