Reincarnated As Poseidon

The battlefield reeked of brine and blood. Broken fragments of divine weapons lay scattered across the soaked earth. The clash between Poseidon and the three gods had left the skies torn, the seas boiling, and the mortals beneath them trembling with despair.

Poseidon stood tall in the aftermath, trident dripping with liquid light. His aura surged outward like tidal waves that refused to recede. Around him, the remnants of the divine council's champions writhed in defeat. He had not merely fought them—he had drowned their pride.

And yet… silence fell. Not the silence of victory. Not even the silence before a storm.

This was something else.

The air itself shifted. A shadow darker than the night sky unfurled above the ruined coast. Runes older than Olympus burned into existence, etched across the heavens in spirals of fire and frost.

Poseidon's grip tightened around his trident. His ocean-blue eyes narrowed. "This is not Olympus's doing…"

The silence shattered.

A voice rolled across the field—deep, hoarse, ancient. It was not thunder, not sea, but something heavier. Something rooted in the bones of the world itself.

> "Enough."

The ruined battlefield bent beneath the weight of that single word. Mortals screamed as the air thickened, as if the world itself bowed. Even the wounded gods froze, their auras shrinking back like beaten hounds.

And from the darkness, he came.

A one-eyed king draped in a cloak of ravens. His spear, Gungnir, burned with runes that could carve fate itself. His single eye gleamed like a storm contained in flesh.

Odin, the All-Father, had entered the mortal plane.

The ravens circled above him, each croak heavy with prophecy. His wolves padded at his heels, their eyes glowing faintly with hunger.

"Poseidon," Odin said, voice steady, carved from centuries of battles and bargains. "So the drowned god truly rises again."

The surviving Olympians recoiled. Hera whispered in disbelief, "The Norse… what business do they have here?"

But Odin's eye was not for them. It was for Poseidon.

Poseidon's lips curved in a faint smile. His voice echoed like a tide crashing against cliffs. "Odin. I thought your realm too fractured to send its king walking here. Have you grown restless, or simply afraid?"

The All-Father's jaw tightened. "Afraid? No. But the currents of fate do not flow only through Olympus. The sea you stir threatens every pantheon. The Nine Realms tremble. The branches of Yggdrasil wither when the drowned king breathes. Do you think Midgard's fate will not be ours as well?"

The sea groaned at Poseidon's feet, waves rising as if to bear his words. "The Nine Realms have no claim upon the sea. The ocean is mine. The tide belongs to me alone."

Odin's spear tilted, its runes flaring. "Then you misunderstand. When the tide drowns Midgard, it drowns Yggdrasil. And if Yggdrasil falls, every god—Norse, Greek, or otherwise—crumbles with it."

The battlefield quaked. Between the shattered marble pillars and drowned ruins, more rifts tore open.

From one, a silver-winged figure stepped out, spear gleaming like a shard of starlight. Freyja, goddess of war and desire, her beauty tempered by cruelty.

From another, a hulking warrior with a hammer of storms strode forth, thunder shaking the heavens. Thor.

The Norse pantheon had come.

Poseidon's grin sharpened. "So the tree-suckling gods come crawling to defend their roots. Do you think your hammer and runes can cage the sea?"

Thor's eyes flashed like lightning over water. "The sea drowns men, but thunder splits it. I'll shatter your waves, drowned god."

Odin raised his spear. "This is not arrogance, Poseidon. This is necessity. The pantheons warred once before, and the scars have never healed. If you rise unchecked, you will not stop at Olympus. You will unmake the balance across all realms."

Poseidon's aura surged, his trident glowing brighter, splitting the night with arcs of oceanic power. The tide behind him rose higher, forming a wall of water that blotted out the horizon.

"Balance?" His voice thundered. "The balance is chains! I was bound once, sealed beneath the Rift. Now I breathe free. And you, All-Father, would place shackles upon the sea once more."

He raised his trident. The wall of water behind him roared, towering like a mountain, reflecting the stars like shards of glass.

"Try, then." His voice shook the earth. "Try and drown me."

The All-Father's ravens screamed. Thor's hammer cracked the sky. Freyja's spear lit with starlight. The Olympians, half-broken, staggered to their feet, torn between horror and grim satisfaction.

For the first time in millennia, the pantheons would clash.

Norse against Greek. All against Poseidon.

The first blow came not from Thor's hammer, nor Odin's spear—but from Poseidon himself.

He thrust his trident forward, and the wall of water collapsed. Not upon the mortals. Not upon the land.

Upon the gods.

The battlefield was swallowed whole in the first strike of a war that would shatter pantheons.

The sea had risen to claim half the valley, and in its shallow tides floated corpses of both mortals and demi-gods. Broken spears, shattered shields, and the remnants of divine wards crackled weakly before flickering out. The clash between Poseidon and the gods who opposed him had torn the very skin of the world—cracks spidered through the sky where lightning had split, and rivers ran backwards where his waves had overturned their flow.

Yet, even after the silence that followed the last clash, the air was thick with danger.

Poseidon stood upon the highest crest of the water, his trident in hand, its prongs glowing with abyssal blue fire. His long hair was slick with salt, his eyes cold as the ocean trenches. He did not pant. He did not stagger. The god of the sea had no need to. Every step of the tide was his breath; every rise and fall of the waves was his heartbeat.

But around him, the survivors of the pantheon did not retreat.

Three of them remained.

Athena, her armor cracked but her gaze sharp, raised her spear in defiance.

Hermes, bloodied but swift, circled like a phantom wind, blades flashing in his hands.

And Ares—the god of war—though scorched and battered, grinned with feral delight as he raised his blood-slick sword once more.

They had lost comrades. They had lost ground. But none would admit defeat.