Reincarnated As Poseidon

The battlefield still smelled of ozone and salt.

Broken tridents, charred feathers, and the dust of shattered marble floated on the surface of the sea as though the gods themselves had bled into the tide. The storm that had raged for hours finally began to scatter, leaving streaks of moonlight through the torn clouds.

And in the center of it all stood Poseidon.

Not as Dominic, not as a vessel, but as the god he had become—the sea incarnate, his form luminous with power drawn from the abyss and the heavens alike. His chest rose and fell like the ocean tide, each breath heavier than thunder. The wounds carved across his arms and torso still bled faintly, glowing with brine instead of mortal red.

Around him floated silence.

The three gods who had challenged him—Athreus of the Sky-Lance, Selara the Flame-Harbinger, and Dreon the Serpent of Reefs—lay scattered in ruin. None dead, but broken enough that Olympus would feel their absence. Their divine ichor colored the waters, staining it with silver, gold, and green.

Poseidon closed his eyes, listening.

The sea whispered. Not the mortal waves, but the deeper current—the memory of the tide itself. It spoke to him of weakness in Olympus's ranks, of cracks in the divine throne that had ruled the world for millennia.

"They thought me a vessel," Poseidon murmured. His voice rolled across the waves like a command. "They thought me a prison. But I am the ocean they chained. And I do not forgive."

The tide answered. Every shipwreck moaned. Every drowned ruin groaned with awakening power.

---

The Mortal Shore

Far across the coast, survivors of the drowned cities watched the sea with terror. They whispered his name not as a god to worship, but as an inevitability to endure.

"Poseidon rises."

"The drowned king has returned."

"Pray the tides leave us standing."

Fishermen abandoned their boats. Merchants sealed their harbors. Priests of rival currents struck their bells until the clappers cracked, hoping to drive the god's influence back. But nothing slowed the creep of the sea.

In one village, a girl woke screaming from a dream of waves climbing her walls. And when she opened her shutters, she found the water already at her doorstep

On Olympus, the storm Poseidon left behind reached the heavens themselves.

The great marble spires trembled with the weight of the council's fury. Zeus's throne crackled with lightning, every strike scorching new veins across the sky.

"You failed," Zeus roared at the three broken gods dragged before him. "Three of you, against one who should not even exist—and yet you crawl back defeated!"

Selara coughed flame, her hair still smoldering. "He was… no longer a boy. No longer a vessel. He is Poseidon."

Zeus's grip tightened on his thunderbolt, and for a moment the heavens themselves bent. "Poseidon was banished. Erased. How does a drowned god return?"

Athena's voice cut through the chamber, sharp as bronze. "Because you left the ocean unguarded. Because you believed chains were eternal."

The gods muttered among themselves, half in fear, half in hunger. A returning god meant imbalance, but also opportunity.

And beneath their murmurs, Hera's voice whispered like silk: "Then it is war. Olympus must reclaim the seas before the drowned throne swallows more."

Back in the abyss, Poseidon descended to the trench where light could not follow. The water here was heavy, crushing even for gods, but it parted for him as easily as air.

He lowered himself onto a throne of black coral that had not been touched since the age of myths. Tentacles of deepwater kelp curled around the seat, recognizing their master.

For a long moment, Poseidon said nothing. He simply sat, the pressure of the abyss molding around him.

But then his eyes opened—two whirlpools that glowed with the memory of storms—and he spoke to the silence.

"Olympus will come again. They will send their blades, their fire, their thunder."

His fingers curled around the armrest, gouging deep cracks into the coral.

"Let them. For every strike they send, I will answer with a tide. For every city they build, I will claim ten beneath the sea."

The abyss pulsed in response. Far above, waves began to beat the shores harder, in rhythm with his vow.

Yet not all voices in the sea bowed willingly.

From the trench's far end, a shadow stirred. Larger than any leviathan, darker than any night. Its eyes opened like lanterns in the void, and the trench itself seemed to recoil.

The being that had slumbered since before Poseidon's rebirth spoke with a voice like breaking glaciers:

"You wield the sea as your weapon. But the sea is not yours alone."

Poseidon rose slowly, his presence filling the trench. "Who speaks against me?"

The shadow unfolded, revealing the colossal outline of Pontus—the primordial sea itself, father of waves, older than Olympus, older even than Poseidon's first reign.

"I speak," Pontus rumbled. "And I warn you, god-king reborn: your path leads to ruin. For in claiming the sea, you awaken hungers buried deeper still."

Poseidon's jaw tightened. He could feel the truth in Pontus's words—the pull of Thalorin, the abyssal essence that still swirled in his veins.

But he did not flinch.

"Then let hunger rise," Poseidon declared. "For I am the one who will wield it."

The trench quaked. The sea groaned. And Pontus's laughter echoed, low and endless, through the black waters.

On Olympus, the decree was signed.

"By order of Zeus, king of gods," the herald's voice rang across the shining halls, "the armies of Olympus march upon the sea. The drowned throne will be shattered. Poseidon will be ended once more."

Columns of divine warriors formed, shields gleaming with celestial runes. Chariots of storm clouds wheeled into the air. The sky darkened, not with rain, but with fire and steel.

And at the head of them all, Zeus lifted his thunderbolt, voice shaking the world:

"This time, the sea will not rise. This time, Poseidon drowns."

Far below, on his throne of coral, Poseidon raised his trident.

The sea answered with a roar.

And for the first time since his rebirth, he allowed himself a smile.

Let Olympus march. Let them hurl their thunder and their pride.

The tide was already his.

And the tide could not be stopped.