Chapter 283: war not yet in his favor.
The sea was burning.
Salt spray hissed as fire streaked across the waves, each ember biting into the water like venom. Above, the sky split with thunder, three divine figures still standing tall upon the battlefield of tide and storm.
Zephyros, the God of Sky, bled from his shoulder where Poseidon’s trident had torn through him, yet his golden eyes still blazed with judgment. Seraphin, Goddess of Flame, burned brighter with every wound, her crimson hair alive with wild, snapping sparks. Nymera, cloaked in shadows, drifted like a wraith, her voice low and venomous, weaving curses into the air.
Together, they had stood against Poseidon and endured.
But the ocean had not yielded easily.
Waves the height of citadels had been summoned. Trenches split wide beneath the sea. Storms blackened half the horizon. For every blow the gods struck, Poseidon had answered with fury tenfold.
And yet—he still felt the strain.
Water coiled around his frame, his body rising from the ocean as if carved from the tide itself. His chest heaved with the weight of the battle. The new name he bore—Poseidon reborn, no longer mortal, no longer Dominic—was carved in the fear trembling across the gods’ faces. But their unity held, and Poseidon knew what this meant.
A war not yet in his favor.
The waves quieted around him, though his trident still pulsed with abyssal light. "You fight as if your thrones are worth drowning for," he said, his voice echoing like the crush of mountains beneath the tide. "But Olympus has already tilted. You cannot stand forever against the deep."
Zephyros spat blood into the sea. "And you cannot claim the mortal realm while we yet breathe."
Seraphin’s flames flared higher, searing the mist. "You retreat, sea-god, because you know this truth: you are not whole. You are strength without stability. A tide that can rise, but not stay."
Poseidon’s gaze sharpened, stormlight burning in his pupils. Shadows curled at the edges of his trident. "Do not mistake retreat for surrender."
With a crash, the ocean itself heaved, parting into a chasm. The abyss opened beneath him like a wound, and the water swallowed Poseidon whole.
The gods steadied themselves against the sudden silence, watching as the endless sea sealed shut once more.
He was gone.
But the storm did not end.
---
Beneath the Abyss
Far below where sunlight had never reached, Poseidon emerged into the black. His form unraveled, merging seamlessly with the water until he was indistinguishable from the sea itself. His wounds bled salt, his chest ached with pressure, but his will did not waver.
He drifted into the abyssal trenches, deeper than any mortal had ever dreamed, deeper than most gods dared to tread. There, in the stillness, he allowed himself to breathe again—not as a man gasping for air, but as the ocean itself inhaling the silence of the world.
He could still hear them above. Their words. Their unity. Their arrogance.
And he knew the truth.
He had been close. One strike more, one tide higher, and the goddess of flame would have drowned in her own fire. Nymera had nearly dissolved beneath his waves. Even Zephyros had staggered beneath the abyss pressing on his lungs.
But not yet. Not now.
His body was strong, his will stronger—but he was not whole. The godhood he now carried was still forging itself into his flesh. The abyss within him was vast, but not infinite. He needed more time. More dominion. More belief.
"Patience," the deep whispered. His own voice, echoed back at him from the water’s pulse. "The tide retreats only to gather strength again."
---
The Mortal Shores
While Poseidon withdrew into the abyss, his influence lingered on the surface.
The harbors where he had fought remained drowned. The seawalls that once defied the tide lay in ruins. Mortals staggered through flooded streets, clutching what remained of their homes, whispering prayers they no longer dared to direct toward the sky.
They prayed to the sea.
And the sea listened.
Every whispered plea for mercy, every terrified cry for safety, every curse spat against the absent gods—all of it sank into the water and returned to Poseidon. Each word was fuel. Each breath a tide.
Already, he could feel their devotion, unintentional though it was. The mortals had no choice but to kneel to the sea. And the sea was him.
---
In the Abyssal Court
Poseidon’s retreat carried him deeper, until he reached the drowned ruins of his ancient court—an amphitheater of broken marble, swallowed by black coral and draped in kelp. Pillars leaned, statues of forgotten kings lay toppled, yet still the place pulsed with memory.
He walked across the silt, his trident dragging behind him, leaving trails of luminous light in the water.
Here, he had once been betrayed. Here, he had once been broken.
Now, he had returned.
Shadows stirred at the edges of the ruined court. The remnants of drowned spirits, chained to the abyss, rose to greet him. They whispered his name—not Dominic, not mortal, but Poseidon—with voices like shifting currents.
He lifted his trident, and the whispers became a tide of reverence.
"You followed me into the dark," Poseidon murmured, voice thick with power. "Now I raise you again. Not as shades. Not as forgotten. But as heralds of the deep."
The drowned spirits bent low, their forms reshaping, growing teeth of coral, eyes of abyssal fire. His army, his shadows. The tide would march with him.
---
On Olympus
While Poseidon gathered strength in the abyss, Olympus itself was far from calm.
The three gods who had faced him returned battered and bloodied, collapsing into the marble council chamber. Their wounds dripped ichor, their faces pale.
Yet their eyes were sharp.
"He is no vessel," Nymera hissed, her shadows flickering wildly. "That was not Thalorin alone. That was Poseidon—risen, reborn, and claiming."
Seraphin slammed her flaming hand on the table, sparks flying. "We struck with everything, and he still walks. If he retreats now, it is not for defeat. It is for war."
Zephyros leaned forward, his golden eyes grim. "Then Olympus must prepare. No longer whispers. No longer decrees. We march against the sea itself."
But as their voices rose, none could ignore the truth. The sea had risen higher than Olympus had planned for. And for the first time in centuries, gods felt the creeping touch of dread.
Poseidon stood alone in the abyss, his trident glowing faintly in the dark. Around him, his drowned court whispered. Above him, Olympus sharpened its blades.
The war had only begun.
But the sea was patient.
And Poseidon knew: the tide always returned.
With greater fury.
With greater hunger.
With inevitability.