Chapter 279: Into the Trench
The ocean was no longer silent.
Every current carried whispers. Every tide bore weight. The deep itself had begun to tremble, not with storms, but with something older, something that felt like a gaze pressing outward from within the water.
Poseidon stood upon the shattered cliffs of Atheron, his trident lodged into the stone, waves bowing beneath him as if the very sea sought comfort in his presence. His hair lashed in the salt-wind, his eyes reflecting abyssal light that was not wholly his own.
Behind him, the ruins of the city lay in silence, half swallowed by the tide. Survivors—those few who still breathed—cowered among broken walls, staring at him with mingled awe and terror. They did not speak. They dared not. The god they once prayed to was no longer the protector of harbors. He was something sharper, more inevitable.
And above, the sky cracked.
Three rifts burned open like wounds. From them descended chains of radiance, each link forged by divine decree. Olympus had spoken.
Poseidon’s jaw tightened as he turned his gaze upward. He had expected this. He had heard the council’s verdict whispered through the water itself. "Exile. Containment. Erasure." Words that meant death, if the gods could enforce it.
From the first rift descended Zephyros, the Sky-Judge, wings blazing with celestial fire. His voice boomed like rolling thunder:
"Poseidon. You walk where you should not. The sea is yours no longer."
From the second rift came Nymera, the Shadowed One, her cloak dripping with darkness deeper than trenches. Her eyes glowed white, yet hollow, as though all light bent inward.
"You drowned balance with your awakening. You will drown no more."
From the third came Seraphin, the Flame-Sovereign, wreathed in burning spirals that turned rain itself to ash.
"Thalorin hides in you. For that alone, we burn your name from the stones of Olympus."
The air shook with their combined arrival. Mortals fell prostrate on what land remained, shielding their eyes from the sheer brilliance.
Poseidon withdrew his trident from the stone with a slow scrape. Water surged upward, coiling around his form like serpents waiting for a signal. He did not shout, nor flare his power wildly. Instead, his voice was low, like waves rolling beneath moonlight.
"Three gods against one tide? You think numbers will anchor the sea?"
Zephyros leveled his golden spear. "This is not judgment by strength. This is necessity. You are no longer a god of the sea—you are its abyss."
Nymera’s cloak stretched outward, shadows bending toward Poseidon. "And we will seal the abyss."
Flames erupted from Seraphin’s palms, spiraling into a wheel of fire. "Before it consumes all."
The three gods struck at once
Lightning shattered the air, flame roared like a sun reborn, and shadows cut the ground from beneath Poseidon’s feet.
The cliffs disintegrated. The survivors screamed and fled as titanic forces collided.
Poseidon raised his trident. The sea surged upward in a wall higher than mountains, intercepting the firestorm. Steam burst skyward, blanketing the battlefield in scalding fog. From the fog, tendrils of shadow lashed, slicing toward him.
Poseidon twisted his weapon, water solidifying into crystalline shields that absorbed the cuts—but each impact left fractures spreading like veins across his defenses.
Above, Zephyros descended in a storm of thunderbolts, his spear aimed straight at Poseidon’s chest. The impact split the air.
Poseidon caught it—barehanded.
Lightning tore across his arm, burning flesh, yet he did not release his grip. His voice, cold as trenchwater, echoed:
"The sky breaks when it meets the sea."
With a surge, the water beneath them rose in a colossal spiral, dragging both combatants into its cyclone. Zephyros’s wings crackled, his lightning struggling to hold against the crushing pressure.
Nymera’s shadows coiled within the whirlpool, freezing parts of it in darkness. Seraphin’s flames roared, vaporizing entire sections into boiling storms.
The ocean itself became battlefield and weapon.
From the ruins, Veyrus and a handful of drenched priests watched in despair. The sight was beyond mortal comprehension—gods battling, not as distant myths, but as raw forces ripping reality apart.
One priest fell to his knees, tears streaming. "The world ends... the sea fights the sky, fire, and shadow alike. None can stand in such war."
Veyrus’s eyes narrowed. He saw not only destruction, but revelation.
"No," he whispered. "This is not the end. This is the birth of a god greater than Olympus."
Poseidon fought, but the tide inside him surged beyond his own command.
The whispers in his veins thickened, forming words.
Let me in.
You struggle with chains, but I am the abyss. With me, you are unending.
It was Thalorin’s voice. Old. Patient. Hungry.
Poseidon staggered as Zephyros’s spear tore across his chest, blood scattering like rubies into the sea. Seraphin’s flames seared his side, burning deep. Nymera’s shadows wrapped his legs, dragging him downward.
For the first time, he felt the weight of three Olympians pressing him into the deep.
Yield, the abyss whispered. And I will break them all.
His grip on the trident trembled. His eyes flickered—blue ocean, then black void.
"No," Poseidon growled through gritted teeth. "Not yet. The sea is mine."
He slammed the trident into the ocean floor.
The world convulsed.
A trench tore open beneath the battlefield, swallowing entire cliffs. Water cascaded downward like a collapsing world. The three gods leapt back, wings, fire, and shadow straining to escape the pull.
But Poseidon did not rise. He sank willingly, dragging the battle into the abyss itself.
The mortals saw only the sea closing above. To them, it was finished.
But beneath, in the black where no light dwelled, the real war began.
Here, Poseidon was not weakened. Here, every current bent to his will. Shadows faltered in the pressure, flames suffocated, lightning scattered like broken sparks.
Still—the three Olympians pressed him. They moved as one, relentless, unyielding.
The abyss roared in his blood. One word, Thalorin whispered. One breath, and they will drown forever.
Poseidon’s heart pounded. His trident shone like a star in the black, and with each strike, the trench itself seemed to deepen, widen, stretch beyond measure.
The gods did not know. This was not merely battle. This was feeding ground.
The abyss watched back.
And far above, Olympus trembled.
The council felt the shift, their divinations shattering like glass as Poseidon’s will expanded beyond the battlefield, beyond the sea.
For the first time in ages, the gods of Olympus realized the truth:
They had not sent three to kill him.
They had sent three sacrifices into the abyss.