Reincarnated As Poseidon

Hermes had always been a shadow among giants. Zeus thundered from his throne, Poseidon shook the seas, Hades whispered in the underworld… but Hermes? He was the whisper that traveled between them, the messenger who knew more than he should, yet never held the power to act openly.

At least, not until now.

The Council of Olympus had been split since Poseidon's resurgence. Some called him a danger, others whispered of him as a balance long overdue. The drowned cities, the storms across mortal harbors, the tolling of bells that no priest had rung—all pointed to his growing dominion.

Hermes had seen the fracture lines clearer than most. And he had learned long ago that cracks in divine order were opportunities.

Tonight, he stood alone in the Hall of Echoes, the place where the voices of gods lingered even after their owners departed. Here, the marble walls shimmered with faint glyphs of long-past decrees, whispers of forgotten oaths curling in the air like smoke.

He pressed his hand to one sigil, feeling the echo of Zeus's command centuries ago—ordering Poseidon's banishment into the Rift.

"Funny," Hermes murmured, his lips curling into a sly smile. "We send him into exile, and he returns not weaker, but stronger. Makes one wonder whether the chains were truly his… or ours."

The air shifted.

From the shadows stepped a figure robed in deep indigo, her hair braided with silver serpents. Nyx, primordial goddess of night. Few dared to speak with her—fewer still survived lying to her.

"You think yourself clever, messenger," Nyx said, her voice like velvet dragged across broken glass. "But you linger here too often. Spinning threads you do not yet understand."

Hermes tilted his head, grin never faltering. "On the contrary, Lady Night. I understand better than most. Poseidon is not a tide we can stop. He is a tide we must ride."

Nyx's black eyes narrowed, starfire glittering in their depths. "You would betray Olympus?"

"Betray?" Hermes feigned shock. "I serve Olympus as I always have—faithfully. But one must consider… loyalties are not eternal. Zeus will not rule forever. Poseidon grows with every drowned city, with every mortal who whispers his name in fear. If Olympus opposes him blindly, it may fracture beyond repair. If someone—say, a certain humble messenger—positions himself between the two…"

He trailed off, letting the implication hang.

Nyx studied him in silence. Finally, her lips curved into a faint, knowing smile. "You weave your web well, Hermes. But remember—those who weave too many threads eventually strangle themselves."

And with that, she melted back into the darkness.

Hermes exhaled, his grin fading into something sharper. "Perhaps. But the trick, my dear Nyx… is making sure someone else gets strangled first."

While the gods debated in Olympus, Hermes' true work was already taking root among mortals.

Disguised as a weary sailor, he walked the flooded streets of Corinthos, the city Poseidon had tilted into his domain only weeks before. The people here no longer prayed to the Seven Currents or the Sky Father. They left offerings of salt and coral at every doorstep, whispering Poseidon's name with awe.

Hermes knelt at a shrine of driftwood and seashells. The offering bowl overflowed with coins—bronze, silver, even gold. Mortals were pouring their wealth into Poseidon's name willingly.

He chuckled. "Fear is a stronger coin than love."

A voice cut from behind him. "Blasphemer. Do not mock the Sea Father."

Hermes turned to see a young priestess, barely more than a girl, her robes soaked to the hem. She carried a trident-shaped staff and looked at him with eyes burning with newfound devotion.

Hermes smirked. "And who taught you to speak so boldly, child?"

"Poseidon speaks in my dreams," she said without hesitation. "He told us the old gods cannot save us. Only he can."

Hermes' smile faltered.

This was new. Mortals receiving dreams directly from Poseidon? That was more than influence—it was infiltration. Poseidon's will was bleeding past temples and shrines, threading itself directly into the minds of believers.

Which meant Zeus was losing his grip faster than Hermes had calculated.

He gave the priestess a theatrical bow. "Then perhaps I should listen more closely to your Sea Father. But remember, child—when gods fight, mortals drown first."

Her gaze didn't waver. "If he wills it, then drowning is our salvation."

Hermes walked away, but her words gnawed at him.

Poseidon wasn't just a rival god returning to claim old dominion. He was changing the fabric of faith itself. Fear was no longer fear—it was worship. Worship that grew hungrier the more mortals despaired.

And Hermes realized with a thrill—and a tremor of unease—that he was standing at the edge of a world about to tilt.

---

Back in Olympus

When Hermes returned to Olympus, he found the council in uproar. Thunder cracked outside the marble halls as Zeus bellowed, his voice shaking the pillars.

"POSEIDON defies us again! Another city lost, another harbor drowned! And you sit here squabbling like hens while he builds an empire beneath our noses!"

The gods roared back, some for war, others urging caution. Athena argued for strategy, Ares demanded blood, Demeter fretted over ruined fields. The council was chaos incarnate.

And Hermes?

He slipped silently between them, whispering into ears as he passed.

To Athena: "War will drain us. Perhaps we should… redirect Poseidon's anger."

To Ares: "Your glory waits if you face him first. Imagine the songs they'll sing."

To Demeter: "Your harvests rot because Zeus refuses to act. Poseidon at least feeds his."

Every word was a thread. Every whisper a seed. And as the council descended into further discord, Hermes smiled faintly.

The gods thought themselves unshakable. But all it took was a trickster with the right words in the right ears, and Olympus would devour itself from within.

And when that happened?

Hermes would be standing in the middle of the ruins, untouched.

Or so he hoped.

Because deep within the halls of Olympus, Poseidon's voice was beginning to echo even here. Not in words. Not yet. But in the trembling of the marble, in the faint scent of salt that clung to the air.

The sea was rising.

And Hermes, trickster though he was, could not be certain whether he was weaving the web… or walking straight into Poseidon's tide.