Chapter 137: Atlantis 3
The water sang to him.
It wasn’t just the crash of the waves or the hiss of foam breaking across jagged rocks; it was an unending hymn—low, rumbling, ancient. Every current carried whispers, every droplet seemed alive, swirling with memory and power. Dominic—no, Poseidon—stood barefoot on the black sand shore of a forgotten isle, staring at the horizon where the sun bled gold across the ocean.
For the first time since his reincarnation, he didn’t feel like he was borrowing another man’s name. The sea bowed to him, rolled for him, breathed with him. He was Poseidon. And yet, deep within his chest, Dominic’s fragile heart still beat—a reminder of mortality, of hospital beds and chemotherapy and the cruel ticking of a life cut short.
The tide rose and lapped at his ankles. With it came visions:
—A trident buried beneath molten stone.
—Chains wrapping around gods.
—And his own reflection, crowned in coral and shadows, his eyes glowing with the abyss.
Poseidon clenched his fists. "So this is what it means to be a god," he murmured. His voice carried strangely now, heavy, resonant, as if the ocean itself repeated every syllable.
But with power came unease. Every vision seemed to hold both promise and ruin. Somewhere in the folds of his soul, Thalorin stirred—the ancient essence that had claimed him as its vessel. The being’s voice was not always clear, but today it was undeniable.
"Do you feel it now? The hunger of the sea? The boundless expanse? You are not mortal anymore, Dominic. You are me, and I am you."
Poseidon grit his teeth. "I am not you. I am more. I will not be your puppet."
The sea darkened for a heartbeat, as though disapproving. Then silence.
---
A Visit from the Depths
A sudden disturbance rippled through the water. At first, Poseidon thought it was a storm forming far offshore. But the pressure building beneath the surface was alive—like something vast and ancient clawing upward from the abyss.
The sea split, not violently, but reverently. From the depths rose a figure draped in seaweed and shadow, her hair a living cascade of green, her eyes glowing with bioluminescence. Amphitrite.
She glided across the waves as if they were marble floors, her expression unreadable. The goddess of the sea—his supposed consort in the myths Dominic once studied—stood before him.
"You wear his face well," she said, voice flowing like water over stone. "But you are not the Poseidon I knew."
Poseidon straightened. The waves behind him surged as though to defend him. "The old Poseidon is gone. I am what remains."
Her gaze lingered on him with a strange mixture of sorrow and curiosity. "And yet you carry him. His rage. His storms. Even his love. Tell me, Dominic—mortal boy reborn as a god—will you embrace what you are, or will you drown in it?"
The challenge in her words stoked his pride. "I am not drowning," he said firmly. "I am rising. The gods above in Olympus plot against me already. If I am to survive, I must claim what is mine."
Amphitrite tilted her head, as if weighing him. Then she raised her hand. From the waves behind her emerged a chest of coral and pearl, bound in seaweed chains. With a flick, it opened, revealing a weapon forged of storm-forged bronze and pulsating crystal.
The trident.
It radiated power so raw that the air trembled. Poseidon’s breath caught. Every tale, every carving he had once seen as Dominic, seemed to pale in comparison to the truth. The weapon was alive, singing, demanding.
But Amphitrite’s voice cut through the awe. "To wield it is to embrace the sea in its entirety. Its wrath. Its chaos. Its unyielding hunger. Once you take it, there is no return to what you were."
Poseidon stepped forward. The waves roared louder. The sea itself urged him closer. Yet doubt clawed at him—Dominic’s doubt, the voice of the boy who had wanted only a quiet life beyond suffering.
"I..." His fingers hovered above the trident’s shaft. "I don’t know if—"
"Take it."
Thalorin’s whisper surged through his veins like lightning. "It was mine before the Olympians even dreamed. Take it, and let Olympus tremble."
Poseidon shut his eyes. He thought of Olympus—their mocking laughter, their schemes, their arrogance as they sat above mortals like puppeteers. He thought of Zeus’s throne, untouchable. He thought of how they would soon see him as nothing more than an accident, a mistake reborn from the sea.
And he thought of himself, once frail, bald-headed in a hospital bed, wishing for one more day.
His hand closed around the trident.
---
Awakening the Storm
The ocean convulsed.
The moment his skin met the weapon, the horizon erupted. Waves towered into the sky, lightning forked across the heavens, and the ground beneath the shore quaked. Power, infinite and suffocating, flooded him—waves crashing through his veins, storms burning into his mind. His body glowed, tattoos of shifting water and storm forming across his arms and chest. His hair whipped wildly, eyes glowing an impossible blue-green.
He screamed, not in pain, but in defiance, and the world answered.
The sea bent to his will.
When the chaos stilled, Poseidon stood taller, steadier, the trident in his hand like an extension of his soul. He could feel every current in the world, every ripple, every creature beneath the waves. The oceans were his veins. The storms his breath.
Amphitrite bowed her head slightly, though her eyes held a glimmer of unease. "Then it is true. You are Poseidon reborn."
Poseidon turned to the sea, raising the trident. The waves obeyed, parting, revealing glimpses of abyssal trenches and forgotten cities. He saw Atlantis—not as myth, but as reality—its ruins glowing faintly in the depths.
"I am no longer Dominic," he said, voice thunderous. "And I am more than the Poseidon you remember. I am the sea itself."
But even as he spoke, Thalorin’s laughter echoed faintly in his skull. A reminder that his ascension was not entirely his own.
---
Shadows of Olympus
Far above, Olympus stirred. Though Poseidon could not see it, his awakening sent shockwaves through the pantheon.
Zeus, seated on his throne of lightning, felt the tremor first. His eyes snapped open, a storm brewing in their depths. Hera gasped, her knuckles white as she clutched her scepter. Athena narrowed her gaze, already calculating, already plotting.
The gods whispered among themselves, their voices laced with both fear and greed. "The sea has awoken." "Poseidon has returned." "But is it truly him?"
Zeus rose, thunder cracking across the heavens. "Whoever he is, he is not the brother I knew. This... usurper will learn that Olympus does not bow to pretenders."
Back on the shore, Poseidon felt their attention like a spear to his back. He raised the trident higher, daring the heavens to look upon him. For the first time, he did not flinch beneath their gaze.
"Let them come," he whispered. "Let Olympus send its storms. I will show them who truly rules the sea."
The waves thundered in agreement.