Chapter 280: Three have fallen. More will come.”
The battlefield still reeked of ozone and salt.
Shattered marble lay across the drowned plain where three gods had fallen. Their bodies had already dissolved into divine light, leaving only the bitter tang of ichor in the air. The mortals who had dared to witness the clash from distant cliffs were silent, some weeping, some kneeling, as though unsure whether to mourn their gods—or worship the new one who stood in their place.
Poseidon.
No longer Dominic. No longer vessel. No longer fragmented between boy and abyss.
The sea-god walked barefoot across the wreckage of the divine arena, the waters parting beneath his step as though the ocean itself bowed with each stride. His trident gleamed, etched with runes that pulsed faintly, as if they too were drinking from the blood of the gods he had slain.
Yet for all his triumph, there was no smile on his lips.
Only silence.
Only the hum of the tides inside his chest, pounding like a second heart.
"Three have fallen. More will come."
The voice was not his own, though it spoke from within. Thalorin’s abyssal whisper. The drowned king whose essence had bound itself into him from the Rift.
Poseidon’s grip tightened on the trident. "I am not your heir. I am not your shadow."
"You are both," Thalorin answered smoothly. "Every time you draw from the depths, you borrow my hunger. Every time you drown a city, you echo my reign."
The sea trembled at the words. The mortals who watched shivered as a sudden cold swept across the shoreline.
Poseidon inhaled sharply and forced the whisper back, though it was never gone.
He turned to the sea, his eyes glowing a pale, storm-lit blue. Waves surged outward in recognition of his will, scattering the wreckage of divine power across the horizon.
"They will come again," he muttered. "Olympus will not rest."
---
On Olympus
High above, where white marble palaces gleamed against the heavens, Olympus stirred like a nest of hornets.
The fall of three gods had sent ripples through the pantheon. Torches burned with blue flame, heralding a state of divine war. The council convened in the Hall of Twelve, where the throne of Zeus himself blazed brighter than any.
Hera sat beside him, lips curled in disdain. Athena leaned forward, her grey eyes calculating, already tracing strategies across the map of mortal realms laid before her. Ares slammed a fist against his shield, demanding retribution.
"Three gods dead!" he bellowed, his voice shaking the pillars. "And by whose hand? A usurper! A mortal dredged up from the Rift, poisoned with Thalorin’s taint!"
"He is no mortal," Athena corrected coldly. "He is Poseidon now. And that makes him more dangerous than we care to admit."
Zeus’s eyes—like storms bound within flesh—narrowed. "He dares call himself by that name. He dares raise the seas against us."
Hera’s voice cut like a blade. "And he dares win."
The words silenced even Ares.
For in Olympus, victories mattered more than titles.
Back upon the mortal shores, Poseidon stood alone.
Mortals were gathering around the edges of the battlefield, whispering prayers, some in fear, some in reverence. A boy no older than twelve fell to his knees in the sand and pressed his forehead against the rising tide. Others followed. Soon, an entire crowd was bowing, chanting his name.
Poseidon turned toward them.
He had not asked for their worship. He had not sought to replace the gods they had lost. Yet their voices rang with desperation, with hope, with belief.
And belief... was power.
The trident trembled in his hand as if recognizing the truth. The prayers flowed into him, not like Thalorin’s abyssal hunger, but like fire catching on driftwood.
Poseidon exhaled slowly. He could feel Olympus watching. He could feel the weight of the pantheon’s rage pressing upon the horizon.
But for the first time... he did not feel small.
He felt inevitable.
Far offshore, the sea spiraled. Clouds finally marred the perfect sky, black and heavy, gathering as if drawn to his pulse. Lightning forked between ocean and cloud, not wild, but precise, striking points where divine remnants still lingered.
A sign.
A warning.
"They will strike soon," Poseidon murmured. "Not with three... but with twelve."
The crowd of mortals gasped, though they did not understand.
A woman from the harbor stepped forward, clutching her drowned child in her arms, tears streaking her face.
"Great lord," she whispered hoarsely, "if the gods mean to kill us all, then let us die with your name on our lips. We will follow you, not them."
Her words spread like fire.
"Poseidon!" voices cried.
"Lord of the Sea!"
"Breaker of Olympus!"
Their cries rose in a single tide, echoing across the ruins, echoing into the storm itself.
And Poseidon, though wary, let it stand.
For war was no longer only between gods.
The mortals had chosen.
In the Hall of Twelve, the storm’s echo reached.
Zeus rose from his throne, thunder crackling along his shoulders. "So be it. If mortals kneel to him, then they are traitors to Olympus as well. We will drown their faith in fire and lightning."
Hera smiled thinly. "You forget yourself, husband. The sea cannot be burned. And lightning strikes but once. He is patient. He is tide."
Zeus turned his fury on her. "Then what do you suggest?"
Athena rose, her eyes gleaming. "We do not fight him as gods of Olympus. We fight him as gods of war. United. Not three. Not twelve. All."
The council stirred, murmurs swelling into a roar.
It had been centuries since Olympus last declared total war. Not since the Titans had such words been spoken.
And yet, here they were again.
The trident pulsed in Poseidon’s hand as though it had overheard.
He looked to the storm-darkened horizon, where he knew Olympus gathered. His reflection rippled across the tide, no longer human, no longer fractured. His hair whipped like seafoam, his eyes glowed like drowned moons, and the aura of abyssal sovereignty cloaked him like a mantle.
"I was born into chains," he murmured. "Raised as a vessel. Cast as prey."
The sea rose behind him, towering, listening.
"No more. If Olympus comes, then Olympus will break."
He raised the trident, and the ocean bent like a beast awaiting its master’s command.
Above, thunder cracked.
Below, the abyss stirred.
And between them, Poseidon stood, the weight of the tides his crown.