Chapter 320: Enough of your debates. Let me march.
The sky over Olympus was wrong.
It had always been golden—woven from threads of sunlight that never dimmed, eternal proof of the gods’ dominion. But tonight, those radiant veils cracked. Storm-lights pulsed beneath them, flashes of cobalt tearing through the heavens like jagged wounds. Every strike echoed with a single name the gods dared not say aloud.
Poseidon.
The drowned god had returned.
The Assembly Fractures
The Grand Amphitheatre of Olympus, usually a place of vanity and debate, had become a war room. The marble tiers were filled with gods, demigods, and spirits, each whispering in alarm. Their voices rose like crashing waves until Zeus himself slammed his sceptre upon the dais.
"Enough." His voice boomed, thunder rolling in its wake. His eyes burned like twin suns, but even those suns looked uneasy. "The seas rise against us. Entire cities drown without storm or quake. You all feel it. The silence before each surge. The hum beneath the world. Poseidon has awakened."
Some flinched at the name. Others clenched their fists.
Hera’s face was stone, but her knuckles were white against the marble rail. Athena adjusted her helm, hiding the flicker of fear in her eyes. Ares grinned, though his jaw tightened at the edges—battle was his answer to all things, but even he remembered the last time the abyss nearly broke Olympus.
It was Apollo who finally spoke, golden voice ringing sharp: "We sealed him. We cast him into the Rift beyond time. How is this possible?"
A shadow slithered across the floor. Nyx, the Primordial of Night, stepped from it like smoke given form. Her voice was velvet, but every syllable carried weight.
"Because you sealed a god’s body. Not his tide. The mortal shell drew him back. And now that shell is gone."
Gasps rippled through the chamber.
"Gone?" Hera hissed. "What do you mean—gone?"
Nyx’s eyes glowed faint silver. "There is no Dominic. There is no vessel. There is only Poseidon now."
The amphitheatre fell silent. Even Zeus’s breath hitched at that.
Far below Olympus, in the mortal world, the sea itself convulsed.
The ruins of drowned cities lay hushed, but beneath the waves, their silence broke. Statues toppled as ancient coral shattered. In those depths, a tremor pulsed outward—a heartbeat felt across continents. Fishermen collapsed on their decks, clutching their skulls. Whales breached in terror, beaching themselves in droves. Rivers reversed course, pulled toward the sea as though answering a sovereign’s call.
And in the trench deeper than light, Poseidon opened his eyes.
The abyss bent around him.
He rose slowly, not with flailing anger but with inevitable certainty. His trident thrummed in his grip, the ancient runes blazing. His gaze cut through leagues of water, piercing straight toward Olympus.
"They decree war," Poseidon murmured, his voice low tide and thunder combined. "So be it. Let Olympus remember why they feared the sea."
Around him, the abyss stirred. Shapes older than Olympus itself began to rise—leviathans whose names mortals had long forgotten, chained in slumber since the age of chaos. Their chains snapped like twigs. Their eyes glowed with abyssal fire.
Poseidon extended his hand. The sea itself bent to him, drawing strength into his form until he towered like a living tidal wave. His laugh reverberated through trenches and reefs alike.
"This time, no Rift will bind me."
The amphitheatre erupted.
"If he has truly shed his vessel—" Athena’s voice cut sharp. "—then we face not just a god, but an ocean given will. He will not stop."
Ares slammed his spear against the floor. "Then we meet him head on! Enough of your debates. Let me march."
"March?" Hera snapped. "What good is marching when the battlefield itself drowns? Poseidon will not fight on your terms, war god. He never has."
Zeus raised a hand, silencing them. His gaze swept across the chamber, heavy with storms. "Then we fight on his."
The declaration froze the air.
"Father—" Athena started, then stopped.
Zeus’s voice carried finality. "We summon the Triad. Three shall descend, chosen by Olympus, to meet Poseidon directly."
Ares’s grin widened. "At last."
Athena’s jaw tightened. "This is folly."
But the choice was not hers. One by one, the names were called, carved in divine decree.
Ares, God of War.
Apollo, God of Light.
Athena, Goddess of Strategy.
Together, they would descend. Together, they would meet Poseidon in open battle.
The decree was sealed in thunder.
That night, as mortals huddled in fear from rising tides, the heavens split.
Three streaks of fire tore down from Olympus, crossing the sky like falling stars. They crashed into the sea’s horizon, sending up plumes of steam that blotted the moon.
Ares rose from the waves first, armour blazing crimson, spear dripping fire. He laughed, the sound harsh and eager.
Apollo emerged next, radiant, his bow already drawn, shafts of sunlight shimmering in the night. His light forced back the storm clouds, for a moment giving mortals hope.
Then came Athena, calm, cold, her presence steady. Her shield glowed with silver sigils, her helm lowering as her eyes searched the endless black sea.
The water rippled. Then parted.
Poseidon emerged.
Not a man, not entirely. His form blurred between flesh and tide, his body a cathedral of waves that shifted with every heartbeat. The trident in his grip seemed forged from the first storm, every rune glowing like chained lightning.
"You descend," Poseidon said. His voice made the sea quake. "You dare descend."
Ares pointed his spear, laughing. "And we’ll drag you back to the Rift, sea-scourge."
Poseidon tilted his head. "No. This time, you drown with me."
The sea closed above them.
The battle began.
The sea did not sleep anymore.
From the coasts of mortals to the heavens of gods, every current, every tide, every drifting stream of salt carried one pulse. It was not the beating of waves. It was a heart. A god’s heart.
Poseidon’s heart.
The world itself seemed to tremble with it. Mortals woke from drowning dreams, hearing surf in their ears though they lived leagues inland. The gods watched their fountains twist in rebellion, water bending to a rhythm older than Olympus.