Chapter 309: The First Blow
The world had grown strangely quiet.
Not silent—no, silence was absence, emptiness. This was not that. This quiet was full, like the pause between heartbeats before the strike, like the still ocean holding its breath before it swallowed a fleet.
And all knew why.
Poseidon had walked through blood, through war, through the chains of the council, and now he stood upon a shoreline no mortal map dared draw. The Abyss yawned before him—a trench so deep the world itself bent around it, a scar left from the gods’ first betrayal when they had bound Thalorin.
And tonight, that scar pulsed.
The ocean above it did not ripple. It bent. The very horizon seemed to tilt downward toward the wound, dragging sky and current alike. Even the stars overhead warped, as though afraid to shine too brightly upon what stirred below.
Poseidon’s trident gleamed faintly, catching the light of the warped moon. His grip was steady, but his gaze was distant, as though listening to a whisper only he could hear.
> "Call it."
The voice was Thalorin’s, the drowned hunger that lingered still in Poseidon’s blood.
"You know what waits. You know the gods cannot stop it. But you... you can open the door."
Poseidon did not answer at once. His eyes traced the mortal coast behind him—villages lit by torchlight, soldiers watching from trembling walls, priests clutching their icons as though prayer could stop the tide. They had already begun calling him names. Drowned King. Stormbringer. Lord of Judgement.
None dared call him savior.
And perhaps they were right not to.
---
The Gathering
From the shallows, a host began to rise. They were not mortals. Not living. Not even the shades of the dead. These were the Forgotten, drowned legions left to rot in the Abyss centuries ago when the pantheon had declared their lives unworthy. Rusted armor still clung to their bones, seaweed woven into their hollowed sockets. They marched with the tide, silent, endless.
The first wave knelt before him, skulls bowing, blades held downward. Behind them, the next row did the same, and then the next, until the horizon itself seemed to bend with the weight of their obeisance.
The Abyss had given them to him.
The Abyss remembered who it served.
Poseidon’s jaw tightened. He had asked for no crown, no army of bones, and yet here they stood. His very presence had woken them.
Behind him, the mortal captains panicked. "It’s a curse!" one screamed. "The sea vomits up its damned! We must burn them before they reach the walls!"
"No," whispered another, eyes wide, "look—look at them. They kneel to him."
And that truth spread faster than fire ever could. Fear twisted, reshaped. The drowned army was not here for conquest. They were here for him.
---
The gods could not ignore this any longer.
Lightning split the warped horizon, not from storm but from divine decree. Three figures descended, their auras blazing brighter than constellations:
Zephyros, the Lord of Judgment, wings cutting the air into razors.
Seraphin, Flame of the Pantheon, her fire burning even beneath the sea spray.
Nymera, Shadow-Walker, cloak of night curling into shapes too sharp to be called smoke.
Their arrival turned the sea to glass, heat and fury boiling the tide around them. The drowned legion hissed, their brittle bones steaming, but Poseidon lifted a hand and the water cooled, protecting them.
Zephyros’s voice boomed. "You have broken the seals. You have raised the Forgotten. This is treason against the council. Against creation itself."
Poseidon’s gaze flicked upward, steady, unyielding. "I do not kneel to your council. I do not answer to your decrees."
Seraphin’s flames twisted higher. "Then you will answer to judgment."
And without another word, the sky tore open. Fire and lightning hurled downward, shadows stabbing like blades. The three gods descended together, divine fury meant to erase him in a single strike.
Poseidon did not move.
He inhaled.
The ocean rose with him.
And when he exhaled—
—the Abyss itself screamed.
A column of black water surged upward, swallowing the divine attacks whole. Fire hissed out, lightning cracked apart, shadow bled into nothing. The sea was not merely water tonight—it was will, it was weapon, it was him.
The clash shook the trench walls, stone cracking far below, ancient chains groaning where they had once bound Thalorin.
---
Struggle in the Deep
The battle did not stay above.
Zephyros dove, his wings slicing currents into blades that could flay mortal armies in a single pass. Poseidon countered with whirlpools, pulling the god downward, forcing judgment itself to taste drowning.
Seraphin unleashed pillars of flame, burning so hot they turned whole leagues of ocean into vapor. Poseidon turned the steam against her, wrapping it into choking fog that blinded her light.
Nymera struck from angles unseen, her shadows lashing like venom. But every strike that pierced Poseidon’s flesh only spilled more seawater, never blood, and each drop became another weapon.
The drowned legion surged forward, skeletal spears stabbing, broken shields raised. They were brittle, yes—but they did not die, and they did not fear. For every hundred shattered, another hundred clawed their way from the Abyss.
The gods realized too late: this was not a skirmish. This was war.
---
Poseidon’s Rise
At the battle’s heart, Poseidon finally raised his trident. The sea stilled, the drowned froze, even the gods paused as the weapon drew in every ripple of power.
"Listen well," Poseidon’s voice rolled through the deep, a tidal roar that carried into mortal dreams and divine halls alike. "I am not your vessel. I am not your mistake. I am not Thalorin reborn. I... am Poseidon. The sea incarnate. The abyss given breath."
And with a single strike, he drove the trident into the seafloor.
The world tilted.
The trench walls shattered, chains snapping one by one. From the deepest black surged a lightless pressure, so vast it bent the spine of reality. The Abyss opened wider.
The gods recoiled. Even they, in their fury, felt the weight of what was being unleashed.
Zephyros’s wings faltered. Seraphin’s fire guttered. Nymera’s cloak writhed like a dying thing.
And above, on the coast, mortals felt it too. Many fell to their knees, unable to breathe, saltwater filling their lungs without drowning them. Priests screamed in ecstasy and terror alike. Children whispered the name in their sleep.
Poseidon stood unshaken at the center. This was not possession. Not madness. Not Thalorin’s will.
It was his.
The sea was no longer chained.
And the Abyss would never sleep again.
---
The Reckoning
The three gods staggered backward, blood dripping from wounds they had never thought they could sustain. Their attacks had not killed him. Their decrees had not bound him.
And worse—he was still rising.
The drowned host roared, soundless yet thunderous. The mortals on the coast wept. And deep within the divine halls, more gods stirred, realizing too late that this was no longer a rebellion.
This was ascension.
Poseidon, Lord of the Abyss, had declared his throne.
And the world tilted toward him.