Chapter 281: Poseidons Dream
The sea was quiet that night, unnaturally so.
No crashing of waves, no gulls screaming, no hum of the tides. Poseidon stood upon the shore, but the sand beneath his feet was not real—silver dust that shimmered like stars, shifting whenever he moved. The air tasted neither of salt nor wind.
He knew immediately.
This was not the mortal world.
This was something else.
A dream.
But not his own.
A low rumble echoed across the horizon, as if mountains were moving beneath the sea. The stars above flickered, rearranging themselves into shapes he half-recognized—wolves chasing the moon, serpents coiled around a world, a hammer falling against the skull of a giant.
Poseidon narrowed his eyes. "This... is no simple dream. Who dares summon me here?"
A voice answered, deep as the ocean’s trenches and heavy as thunder:
"Look, sea-king. Look and remember what the world has forgotten."
---
The Pantheon of Olympus
Before him rose a mountain so vast it tore through the clouds and pierced the sky. At its peak, golden palaces shone, their marble walls etched with lightning. He knew this place. Even in dream, he recognized it.
Olympus.
At its gates stood the gods of his pantheon. Zeus, king of the skies, eyes blazing with storms. Hera beside him, regal and merciless. Athena, sharp-eyed, spear in hand. Apollo with his lyre glowing like sunlight. Ares with bloodied blade. Artemis, silent as the hunt. Dionysus, laughing with madness in his gaze.
And there—Hades, shadowed, eyes endless as the underworld.
They looked at him not with kinship, but with judgment.
"You return," Zeus said, his voice like cracking skies. "The drowned one, reborn from mortal clay. You walk again among gods who swore you banished."
Poseidon met his brother’s gaze with calm fury. "I walk not as your shadow. Not as the sea chained beneath your storm. I walk as tide and abyss, free and unbroken."
The gods stirred, muttering. Ares sneered. Athena’s eyes flickered with calculation. Hera’s lips curled in disdain.
But before any could step forward, the vision shifted—
---
The Pantheon of Asgard
The silver sands beneath him rippled, and the mountain dissolved into frost. A hall of spears rose from the ice, roofed with shields, glowing with the fires of feasting. A wolf howled across a frozen sky, and ravens circled overhead.
Asgard.
And before him, gods of another age.
Odin, one-eyed, his spear Gungnir resting against his shoulder, ravens Huginn and Muninn perched on him. Thor, red-bearded, muscles bulging, hammer Mjolnir crackling with storm. Freyja, beauty wreathed in flame, eyes sharp as knives. Tyr, one hand missing, gaze unflinching. Loki, sly smile curving at the edge of shadow.
They looked upon him, Poseidon, not with judgment but curiosity.
"You are no son of Asgard," Odin said, voice low, carrying the weight of nine worlds. "And yet you bear the weight of oceans. Tell me, sea-king, do your tides crash against Yggdrasil’s roots?"
Thor stepped forward, hammer in hand. "If he dares, father, I will break him."
Poseidon smirked, his hand flexing, water swirling at his feet even in this frozen dream. "You may strike with lightning, thunderer, but the sea does not break—it drowns."
The hall of Asgard shook with tension, but before battle could erupt, the frost shattered, and the dream pulled him deeper still.
---
The Forgotten Ones
Now he stood in darkness. Not empty, but vast. A void filled with presences so old they had no names, only forms.
The Primordials.
Nyx, the night eternal, her cloak swallowing stars. Chaos, shapeless, breathing void into form. Gaia, vast and rooted, her voice the rumble of mountains shifting. And beyond them, darker still, Jörmungandr, the serpent that encircled worlds. Fenrir, wolf whose bite would shatter skies. Titans long slain, their shadows still writhing.
They watched Poseidon in silence.
And then Nyx spoke:
"Do you see, god of seas? You are not alone. Olympus thinks itself eternal, Asgard thinks itself supreme—but both are only Chapters in an older story. Gods rise, gods fall. Pantheons burn, and new ones rise from the ashes."
Her voice draped around him like night.
"You are not merely Poseidon. You are the tide itself. And the tide does not bow to throne or spear. It rises... and it consumes."
The shadows of the dead Titans echoed her words, their chains clinking as though urging him forward.
Poseidon clenched his fists. His chest rose with a slow, steady breath. "Why show me this? To taunt me? To tempt me?"
"No," Chaos rumbled, its voice cracking reality. "To remind you."
Suddenly, the dream shifted again.
Before Poseidon appeared a great scale—one pan filled with the thunder of Zeus, another with the hammer of Thor, another with the fire of Surtr, the Norse fire-giant. The scale trembled, struggling under their weight.
And then water spilled onto the center pan.
A drop. Then a tide. Then an ocean.
The scale broke.
All the symbols fell into the abyss, swallowed by the endless sea.
Poseidon stood there, watching as the waters consumed thunder, fire, spear, and flame alike. And he understood.
Not arrogance.
Not pride.
But truth.
The sea could outlast them all.
Because when mountains crumble, rivers dry, and skies burn, the sea still remains.
The dream dissolved. The silver sand turned to salt. The stars shattered into spray.
Poseidon awoke with a gasp, standing ankle-deep in the surf of his true world. His chest heaved, his eyes blazing with fresh light.
The vision was no mere dream. It was revelation.
Olympus would come for him.
Asgard would take notice.
And the Primordials whispered in his veins.
But Poseidon knew one thing now:
His strength was not measured against one pantheon.
It was measured against all of them.
And the tide would not stop rising.
The battlefield was no longer land, no longer sea. It was a fractured world between realms, where shattered waves hung suspended in the air like shards of glass, and the sky cracked open under the weight of divine will.
Poseidon stood at its center. His trident glimmered with an ocean’s rage, dripping streams of liquid light that hissed when they struck the ground. Around him, the shattered remnants of mountains floated like broken bones. His chest rose and fell heavily, not from exhaustion but from the sheer intensity of power pressing through him.