Chapter 315: Sky Against Sea
The battlefield no longer resembled earth.
The skies above Olympus were blackened with stormclouds so vast they swallowed constellations whole. The land beneath the mountain groaned as rivers shifted, dragged toward the sea that had risen higher than mortals had ever seen. And upon the slope of Olympus itself, where marble temples once shone like beacons of order, only ruin and fire now remained.
And at the heart of it—Poseidon stood.
The trident in his grip pulsed with tidal fury, its prongs dripping not with water but with the raw essence of the abyss. His eyes glowed, two abysses reflecting endless oceans. Mortals watching from leagues away whispered in terror, for every swing of his weapon sent shockwaves through both land and sea.
But he was not alone.
Three gods remained standing against him—scarred, bloodied, yet unbroken.
Zephyros, Lord of Sky and Judgment, his golden wings tattered but still alight with searing lightning.
Nymera, Goddess of Shadows, her cloak torn, her form flickering like smoke against the storm.
Aegirion, the young God of Tides, water swirling desperately around his trident as though the sea itself hesitated between master and betrayer.
The clash was no longer just battle. It was a reckoning of gods.
---
The Shattered Silence
The silence before the next strike was deafening.
Smoke rolled across the battlefield, curling through shattered columns and burned soil. Mortals who had been dragged into the chaos dared not breathe. Even Olympus itself seemed to hold its breath.
Zephyros stepped forward, his voice booming with the weight of divine decree.
"Poseidon! You’ve drowned cities, torn open the Rift, and defied the council. Surrender, or Olympus itself will bury you!"
Poseidon tilted his head, seawater dripping from his hair, his expression unreadable.
"You mistake the tides for rebellion," he said, voice like crashing waves. "I am not defying Olympus. I am replacing it."
The storm answered his words with a roll of thunder so loud the mountain trembled.
Nymera moved first. She vanished into smoke, shadows splintering into a hundred blades. They struck from every angle—above, behind, through the cracks in stone.
But Poseidon merely lifted his hand.
The air filled with water. Every shadow that sought to pierce him was met with liquid walls, droplets forming barriers sharp as glass. The blades dissolved in salt, and Poseidon’s counterattack came like a flood bursting from a shattered dam.
Nymera reappeared, coughing brine, her body hurled backward by the sheer force.
Aegirion caught her, his jaw clenched tight. He could still see Dominic—the boy he once knew—in those ocean-black eyes. But Poseidon gave him nothing now. Only inevitability.
Zephyros screamed, wings unfurling. Lightning rained down in spears, each bolt heavy with judgment. They fell like a celestial execution, splitting the battlefield into craters of scorched glass.
Poseidon raised his trident.
The bolts met the sea’s fury head on. For every strike of lightning, a tidal wave answered, towering higher and higher, until the battlefield itself seemed caught between two elements. Sky clashed with sea, thunder with surf, and the world quaked from the collision.
Mortals collapsed to their knees far below, some screaming prayers, others covering their ears as if the sound alone could kill them.
But the gods kept fighting.
At last, Aegirion lunged. His trident struck true, slipping past Poseidon’s guard, burying itself into his side.
The crowd of mortals gasped. Even Nymera’s eyes widened.
But Poseidon did not fall.
He turned slowly, water dripping from the wound, and gripped the younger god’s weapon with his bare hand.
"You strike me," Poseidon said softly, voice almost mournful, "as though you’ve forgotten who gave you the tides."
Aegirion trembled. He could feel it—the tide inside him responding, bending, yearning toward Poseidon. His own divinity was not his. It had never been his.
Poseidon twisted the trident, ripping it free from his flesh as though the wound meant nothing. The sea surged, wrapping around Aegirion’s throat like a serpent.
"You are a child playing with waves," Poseidon whispered. "Do you truly believe Olympus made you? It was me. Always me."
Aegirion gasped, his power flickering. For a heartbeat, he seemed about to drown where he stood.
But Zephyros roared, wings beating, and hurled a gale that severed the water’s hold.
"Don’t falter!" the sky-god thundered. "He’s not the sea you knew—he’s Thalorin’s shadow!"
At that name, Poseidon’s expression shifted. His lips curled into something between a smile and a snarl.
"Thalorin?" His laugh was hollow, echoing like caverns filled with tide. "Yes, he is part of me. But you still do not understand. I am no shadow. I am the abyss given flesh."
The ground split. The battlefield buckled as water poured upward from cracks that should have been dry. It wasn’t just sea—it was ocean without bottom, ancient, cold, and hungry.
From that abyssal surge, shapes moved. Hands too long, eyes like drowned stars, whispers of forgotten gods swallowed by tides.
Nymera staggered back, horror etched across her face. "He’s opening the Forgotten Depths..."
Zephyros raised his blade of lightning high. "Then we seal him here and now—even if Olympus burns with him!"
Blood in the Water
The battle became chaos.
Lightning cracked the sky, shadow slashed through flood, and tidal waves surged higher than Olympus’s peaks. Poseidon strode through it all like a storm given form, every movement fluid, every strike of his trident bending reality around it.
Zephyros met him blow for blow, wings charred and bleeding, his judgment blazing in each strike. Nymera struck from the edges, cutting through shadows of her own making. Aegirion fought desperately, torn between loyalty to the sea and his oath to Olympus.
Every clash spilled ichor into the rising flood, the battlefield reeking of divine blood. Mortals far below prayed louder, for they knew: this was not just a war of gods. It was the unraveling of order itself.
At last, Poseidon drove his trident into the ground.
The battlefield tilted. Mountains bent toward the sea. Oceans howled as if dragged closer by invisible chains. The three gods staggered, their balance ripped away as the world itself leaned under his command.
"You still cling to Olympus," Poseidon’s voice roared over the storm, "but Olympus clings to nothing! I am the foundation. I am the tide. And the tide does not ask permission—it takes."
His aura surged. His wound closed. His eyes blazed brighter than before.
The three gods realized the truth in unison.
They were not fighting a vessel.
They were not fighting a shadow.
They were fighting Poseidon—the abyss, the sea crowned in blood, the drowned god reborn.
And he was winning.
---***"""
Authors Pov
The battlefield quaked, Olympus trembling under the storm’s wrath. Zephyros raised his blade one final time, Nymera vanished into living shadow, and Aegirion’s tides swirled in desperate defiance.
But Poseidon only smiled.
The next strike would decide not just the battle—
but the future of gods and mortals alike.