Chapter 321: WE ARE GODS
And beneath all of it, at the trench where the world’s crust gave way to abyss, Poseidon stood with eyes like darkened moons, watching the sea bend entirely to his will.
For months, he had been tested. For months, they had sent emissaries, warriors, demi-gods, assassins cloaked in divine flame. And still, he remained. His skin bore scars not from blades but from wars with gods themselves. His trident no longer shimmered silver-blue—it burned with abyssal black, as if every depth of the ocean had fused into its steel.
But he was not satisfied. Not yet.
Because now, Olympus had moved.
Far above, in the halls of white-gold where clouds formed the floors of kings, the gods gathered once more. But this was no council of debate. This was war council.
Thunder cracked across the chamber as Zeus himself stood, lightning clawing up his arms. His beard burned with static. His crown of storms flickered between shapes of cloud and flame.
"This has gone on long enough," Zeus thundered. "Poseidon dares to call himself king of the depths, but worse—he dares to lean against Olympus itself. He has tilted harbors, drowned cities, broken our decrees."
Ares slammed his blood-wet spear against the marble. "Then unleash me! Let me carve his name from history. No tide can stop steel guided by rage!"
Athena’s voice was calm, sharp as bronze. "No. We’ve seen what rage alone brings against him. Three gods have already fallen to the drowned abyss. Poseidon does not fight as he once did. He fights with something older... something beneath even his name."
The room fell into silence at her words.
Hera’s lips curved in disdain. "Thalorin."
The name slithered across the council chamber. Even the immortal walls groaned at it.
Zeus’s hand tightened around his thunderbolt. "If that drowned abomination breathes through Poseidon, then this is not a battle of kin. This is purging a rot before it consumes us all."
But Ares snarled. "Then give me command of the vanguard. I will not wait while the sea mocks Olympus."
Athena’s eyes narrowed. "You will not go alone. You, Ares. You, Hephaestus. And you, Apollo. Together, you will strike the drowned king. Three gods. Three flames. That is the will of Olympus."
Zeus raised his bolt, sealing the decree. Lightning carved the sky above mortal seas. "Go, and let the drowned one remember what it means to defy Olympus."
Poseidon had already felt it.
Standing at the trench, he closed his eyes and breathed deep. The ocean bent, exhaling with him. The sea floor cracked in long fault-lines, releasing bursts of sulfur that curled like black banners through the abyss.
"They come," he murmured. His voice did not ripple the water—it commanded it. Every syllable was a tide.
From behind him, the abyss itself whispered. Not words. Not language. Just hunger.
Thalorin stirred.
They come to end you.
Poseidon’s lips curled. "Let them."
They come with fire and forge and war.
"Then they will drown with all the rest."
Or you will drown with me, Thalorin whispered, soft and endless.
Poseidon’s grip tightened on his trident. For a moment, he felt the pull—an undertow in his very soul. A reminder that his godhood was no longer just his own. That the abyss watched him not as servant but as vessel.
But he did not bow. Not yet.
Instead, he lifted the trident, and the abyss shuddered. Currents screamed upward, slicing toward the surface like blades. From above, fishermen fled their boats as the sea bulged unnaturally high, not in storm, not in tide, but in warning.
The gods were near.
They came not as mortals would—by ship, by sail—but as meteors of divine fire.
Apollo’s chariot burned across the night, his bow already strung with arrows of flame. Hephaestus descended slower, a hulking shape of molten bronze, chains dragging from his arms like broken anvils. And Ares—Ares fell like a star of blood, spear dripping war itself, eyes burning with slaughter.
They struck the surface of the ocean together. The sea split apart, refusing to swallow them. Divine light burned a circle into the waters, an arena carved from raw godhood.
From below, Poseidon rose.
Water curled around him, shaping his frame like armor. His hair whipped with currents, his trident hummed with abyssal fury, and his eyes—his eyes carried not only the weight of seas, but the hunger of something deeper.
Ares roared first. "BROTHER! FACE ME!"
Poseidon’s voice cut through the boiling waters. Calm. Steady. Endless.
"You were never my brother. You were only a child with a blade."
Ares leapt. The ocean erupted.
The clash split the horizon.
Ares’s spear carved through the water, each thrust birthing shockwaves strong enough to topple mortal ships miles away. But Poseidon caught every strike, trident ringing against spear, each clash a quake that shook the seabed.
Hephaestus followed, his molten forge-hammer breaking against the water itself, trying to boil the tide into steam. Every strike filled the arena with boiling clouds, scalding enough to melt mortal flesh in an instant.
Apollo’s arrows cut through the steam, streaking like falling suns, each one aimed for Poseidon’s heart.
But the sea was his shield.
Every strike—arrow, hammer, spear—was swallowed by waves bending unnaturally. Water did not move to defend him. It chose to. Every drop obeyed. Every tide bent.
"Do you not see?" Poseidon’s voice thundered, rolling through the waters. "This sea is not your battleground. It is my body."
He unleashed it.
Currents roared, forming colossal serpents of water that lashed at the gods. One coiled around Hephaestus, dragging him downward into crushing pressure. Another slammed against Apollo, shattering his radiant shield. Ares, snarling, broke free, his spear spinning into a whirlwind of red storms.
"You think to drown us?" Ares howled. "WE ARE GODS!"
Poseidon’s eyes burned. "So am I."
Then the abyss lent him strength.
Not a whisper. Not a suggestion. But a surge.
Thalorin’s hunger bled through Poseidon’s veins, and the sea itself went dark. Fish died instantly. Coral bleached in a heartbeat. The arena’s waters turned to ink, suffocating light, suffocating flame.
Even Apollo’s sun flickered.
Ares froze mid-strike, chest tightening. "What is this—?"
Hephaestus’s forge-hammer dimmed, bronze groaning under pressure it was never forged to bear.
"This," Poseidon said, his voice no longer entirely his own, "is the abyss. And it does not forgive."
He struck.
The trident plunged into the sea, and the waters screamed upward. Pillars of black tide rose like mountains, crashing into the three gods. Ares was hurled back, his spear shattering against one strike. Apollo was swallowed by shadows, his bow silenced. Hephaestus fell deepest, chains ripped from his arms as the sea claimed them.
When the waters calmed, Poseidon still stood. Alone.
The three gods lay scattered, battered, broken. Not slain—Olympus did not fall so easily. But defeated.
Poseidon raised his trident high, water dripping from its tips like blood. His voice thundered across realms, to mortals, to gods, to every ear that could hear the tide:
"Poseidon rules. The sea has risen. Olympus will drown."
And above, in the halls of heaven, Zeus rose from his throne.
The war was no longer coming.
It has begun