Chapter 308: Olympus Decides War
The Battlefield of Foam and Fire
The remains of the battlefield stretched for miles. Once a sacred coastal plain, it had been reduced to ruin. Towers of white marble lay toppled, cliffs had collapsed into the sea, and rivers of molten fire still poured from where Seraphin’s divine flames had split the earth.
But Poseidon stood unbowed at the center of it all.
Water dripped from his trident like liquid sapphire, steaming as it hissed against the scorched ground. His chest rose and fell slowly, though his wounds bled freely, glowing faintly with blue light where ichor and sea intermingled. His aura was not diminished. If anything, it was more terrifying—like a storm that grew stronger the longer it raged.
From the edges of the ruined field, the survivors of the clash trembled. Mortals—priests, soldiers, even mercenaries—had been caught in the divine battle, their eyes wide as they saw the ocean god stride across cracked earth. Some wept in awe. Others cursed in despair.
For the first time in millennia, a god walked among them not as a distant figure of prayer, but as a force of nature that tore the world open.
High above, Olympus was not silent.
The throne room of the Twelve was in uproar. The marble dome, painted with constellations of ancient victories, now trembled under the weight of arguments and fury.
Zeus himself leaned forward, his hands gripping the arms of his throne, thunder sparking along his golden veins. His voice thundered across the chamber:
"He has gone too far. Poseidon no longer hides in shadow. He has drowned cities, crushed the faithful, slain gods sworn to our seat!"
Athena, seated to his right, lifted her helm with grim calm. Her gray eyes flashed like sharpened steel. "And yet, Father, every move he makes is precise. He does not strike blindly. He chooses his battles. He sets foundations. If this continues, he will not merely fight us—he will supplant us."
Apollo, still scarred from their last clash with Poseidon’s tides, spat bitterly. "Then why do we still debate? Unleash the full might of Olympus. Call every god, every legion. End him now!"
But Hades, from his shadowed throne, only laughed softly. His cold voice slithered between the marble pillars:
"You speak as though he is still one of us... but what I see is no longer the brother you cast into the Rift. Poseidon has become something else. Something older. You might bring armies, Apollo. But armies do not drown the abyss."
His words silenced even Zeus. For though none would admit it, each of them felt it: the sea was no longer merely Poseidon’s weapon. It was his body, his breath, his kingdom.
Back at the coastline, the aftermath was not measured in divine arguments but mortal suffering.
Villages were half-swallowed by tides. Families fled inland carrying whatever they could. Sailors abandoned their ships, watching them splinter against rocks as though the sea rejected them. The drowned bell of Veyrus’s city had become a story passed in whispers, and now other harbors feared the same fate.
But among the mortals, something else stirred—something the gods of Olympus had not anticipated.
Worship.
Fishermen carved crude tridents into their boats. Mothers taught their children prayers not to the Seven Currents, not to Zeus’s storms, but to the sea itself. They whispered Poseidon’s name with reverence and fear, as though invoking it could spare them the flood.
The drowned god was becoming more than terror. He was becoming faith.
Far from the cries of mortals and the fury of Olympus, Poseidon descended into the trench once more.
The abyss welcomed him like a throne. Bioluminescent serpents coiled around him, their eyes glowing like lanterns in the black. Ancient wrecks lay scattered across the ocean floor—temples, crowns, bones of forgotten titans. All swallowed long ago.
He sank to the seabed, his trident planted before him. The weight of the battle pressed on his shoulders, but within, the ocean hummed like blood in his veins. He closed his eyes.
"Thalorin..." he whispered.
The voice came back from within him, low and patient.
You feel it now, don’t you? The fracture. Every battle you fight loosens the bindings Olympus placed. Every drowned bell tolls not for mortals, but for them.
Poseidon’s hands tightened around his trident. "I did not fight to free you. I fought because they came for me."
The abyssal voice laughed. And yet, you free me all the same. Do you deny it? Do you deny the truth?
He opened his eyes. In the reflection of his own trident, he did not see himself—he saw the abyss without end, the ancient hunger stirring beneath his flesh.
"No," Poseidon said at last. His voice was steady, though the trench groaned around him. "I do not deny. But I am not your vessel, Thalorin. I am not Dominic anymore. I am Poseidon. The sea is mine. And I will decide what rises and what drowns."
The abyss fell silent. But the silence was not defeat—it was waiting.
By the next dawn, Olympus had made its decision.
Zeus stood before the council, his hand raised, lightning wreathing his body. His decree was simple, yet absolute:
"By the law of Olympus, Poseidon is no longer a god of our seat. He is an enemy. His name is stricken from the pantheon. His worship is heresy. His existence is treason."
The marble pillars shook as his words bound themselves into fate. Sigils flared across the heavens, carried by stars, burning into mortal temples.
But Athena did not cheer. Neither did Hades.
Both knew decrees were only words.
And Poseidon had already chosen the sea over Olympus.
Back at the ruined coast, survivors pointed to the horizon. Clouds were forming—spirals vast enough to blot out the sun.
A storm was coming.
But this was no storm of wind or rain. This was the sea itself rising into the sky, dragged upward by a will that no longer cared for balance or decree.
Poseidon had begun moving again.
And Olympus, for all its thunder and flame, would have to decide: stand against the tide, or drown beneath it.