Chapter 341: Ares the God of war
Ares, god of war, clad in blood-red bronze, eyes burning like battlefield pyres.
Athena, goddess of strategy, her gaze sharp, spear shimmering with a brilliance that cut through even lightning.
Hermes, fleet as shadow and light, carrying chains forged from starlight itself—chains meant for gods, not mortals.
Three against one.
But Poseidon smiled.
Ares did not wait for words. He roared, leaping forward, his spear arcing downward with enough force to split mountains. The wave beneath Poseidon rose to meet it, swallowing the strike whole before breaking it apart into harmless spray.
"Impatience," Poseidon said softly. His voice carried, not as sound, but as tide. It entered every ear and soul around them, reminding them that they stood inside his kingdom.
Athena’s eyes narrowed. "This sea will not obey you forever, drowned one. Olympus remembers your first fall. We will ensure your second is final."
Poseidon raised a hand. The waves curved in obedience, the lightning bent its path, and the very air stiffened as though holding its breath.
"Then you will find," he whispered, "that memory is not strong enough to chain the present."
Hermes struck then—chains whistling as they unraveled, streaking like silver serpents. They lashed across Poseidon’s chest, wrapping around his arms, waist, throat. For a moment, the abyss groaned. The chains glowed, sizzling where they touched.
Ares howled triumphantly. "Now, drowned god—now bleed!"
But when the war god thrust again, his spear stopped short, as though striking solid granite. Water itself had condensed, hardened around Poseidon’s body into a crystalline armor. And then—
The chains trembled. Cracked. Shattered into salt dust.
Hermes staggered back, hand blistered, face pale. "Impossible...!"
Poseidon’s eyes glowed a deep abyssal blue. "Chains forged of light cannot bind what was born in the dark beneath light."
And then he moved.
With a single gesture, the ocean convulsed. Waves hundreds of feet tall rose, spiraling like serpents. Tentacles of water whipped outward, slamming against Ares, Athena, and Hermes with the force of collapsing mountains.
Ares roared, smashing through one with his spear, yet another struck him sideways, hurling him into the storm. Athena parried three, then four, her spear precise, cutting water as though it were silk. But each cut spilled more tide, and from every wound, the sea only multiplied.
Hermes danced between them, his speed unrivaled—but speed mattered little when the battlefield itself obeyed the enemy.
The gods had come to kill him. Yet the sea had already chosen its king.
"Ares! Hermes! Focus!" Athena’s voice rang sharp as steel. She drove her spear into the sea beneath her, sending ripples of golden light outward. For a moment, the ocean bucked, resisting the divine geometry she etched upon it.
Runes flared. A net of luminous patterns spread over the waves, an artificial battlefield superimposed upon the abyss.
"This is my realm now!" Athena declared. "Within my design, your waters answer to me!"
The sea slowed. Tentacles faltered. Even lightning seemed to hesitate, bending toward Athena’s will.
Poseidon regarded her calmly.
"Strategy," he murmured. "A beautiful lie."
He sank his trident into the ocean’s heart.
The storm screamed.
The golden net shattered instantly, ripped apart like cobwebs under floodwater. Athena’s eyes widened in shock, the recoil nearly driving her to her knees.
"You speak of design," Poseidon said, "but design is born of boundaries. And the sea—" He swept his arm wide, and the entire horizon tilted, as though the world itself leaned toward him. "—has none."
Athena’s answer was swallowed by the roar of collapsing waves.
Fury burned hotter than sense in Ares’s veins. He tore himself from the ocean’s grip, his armor dented, his body bruised, yet his spirit unyielding. His voice rose above the storm like a warhorn.
"ENOUGH!"
His divine aura flared crimson, and from his chest burst a storm of phantom warriors—shadows of every battle he had ever presided over. Armies clashed across the sea, their echoes rising as if the entire history of war now surged with him.
The tide buckled under their weight.
Poseidon turned, face unreadable.
Ares descended, spear blazing, backed by the roar of endless armies.
The strike hit.
The sea split open.
For the first time, Poseidon staggered.
The abyss peeled apart, lightning bleeding into the crack as Ares’s spear drove toward his chest.
For a heartbeat, victory seemed possible.
But then—Poseidon’s laughter, low and deep, rippled through the storm.
He caught the spear with his bare hand.
Salt crystallized along the bronze shaft, devouring it inch by inch.
Ares’s eyes widened as his weapon corroded in his grip, turning brittle, fragile, until it snapped in two.
"War," Poseidon said, his gaze piercing, "has always ended the same way. With the sea claiming what remains."
And with a flick of his wrist, a tidal vortex engulfed Ares, dragging him down into the churning abyss.
Hermes tried once more, darting forward with desperate speed. He circled Poseidon a hundred times in a blink, seeking weakness, waiting for an opening. His chains reformed, glowing, reforged by will and speed.
But Poseidon closed his eyes.
He did not watch.
He listened.
Every footfall, every ripple of displaced water, every gust of disturbed air. Hermes moved fast, but not faster than sound carried through the sea.
When Hermes struck—Poseidon’s hand was already there.
He caught the god mid-dash, fingers closing around his throat.
Hermes’s body seized, his speed nullified in a single grip. He struggled, chains whipping wildly, cutting even his own flesh. Poseidon lifted him high, unbothered by the flailing.
"You were the messenger," Poseidon said, voice like a storm dragging ships under. "Then carry this message."
He slammed Hermes into the sea. The water erupted, swallowing him whole. When Hermes reemerged, gasping, the chains he bore were gone, melted into saltwater fragments.
Athena floated alone against the storm. Ares drowned beneath waves. Hermes broken. And before her stood Poseidon—unchained, unbent, his power still rising like a tide that knew no limit.
Her hand tightened on her spear.
"This... cannot be allowed," she whispered. "If you rise, Olympus falls."
Poseidon stepped forward, the sea rising beneath his feet like a throne.
"Olympus was never meant to stand above the sea," he said. "It only forgot."
He raised his trident. The storm leaned with him.
And Athena, goddess of strategy, felt—for the first time—what it meant to fight not an enemy, but inevitability.
The abyss thundered. The storm collapsed inward. And as the sea crowned itself around Poseidon, even Olympus trembled.
The drowned god had risen.
And no council, no chain, no strategy could hold him now.
*********
Authors note
Give a magic Castle to meet authors demand for mgs and win . it’s all the author ask , thanks dear reader for your time .