Chapter 285: The Legion first strike
The night was unnaturally still.
No gulls circled, no waves slapped against the cliffs, and the air hung so heavy that mortals in the harbor below whispered it was like breathing through wet cloth. The sea itself seemed to be holding its breath, waiting.
Then the silence broke.
Not with thunder, not with waves—
but with the march.
Boots, not mortal ones, hammered against the shorelines of reality. Bronze greaves struck stone with such rhythm that even the tides trembled in answer. The first vanguard of the Legion of the High Pantheon had arrived.
They came in phalanx formation, shimmering like an army carved of dawn. Shields broad as towers, etched with sigils of Olympus and burning with divine fire. Spears longer than ship masts, their tips glowing white-hot with the essence of the celestial forge. Each soldier bore not merely strength but authority—gods had carved their breath into these legionnaires, granting them the power to rend mountains and drain seas.
They were not mortals. They were divine extensions of Olympus’s wrath.
The commander strode at the front: General Kytheron, clad in golden war-plate that shone brighter than the moonlight. His helm bore a crimson crest, his spear hummed with the weight of a hundred blessings, and his eyes glowed with unwavering certainty. He was no god, yet his loyalty made him a blade sharper than divinity itself.
"The decree is clear," he spoke, his voice carrying across the water. "The drowned god rises. Tonight, we strike before his throne of tide is fully seated."
The legion roared in answer, their cry like thunder made of steel.
And then, as if cued, the sea responded.
---
The Sea’s Awakening
The water that had lain silent all evening convulsed. It did not swell as a storm would—it rose upright, like a wall that rejected gravity’s hold. From it, tendrils of living tide uncoiled, dripping, hissing, echoing the heart of their master.
The first strike of the Legion had begun, and Poseidon would answer.
From the abyss below, Poseidon’s presence surged. His will pressed outward, the sea trembling with his rage, his sorrow, his claim. He did not need horns, he did not need war drums—his arrival was marked by the collapse of silence itself.
The ocean bent, and then he stood upon it.
Poseidon.
The god of the sea, the drowned monarch reborn, the tide given flesh. His trident gleamed with abyssal light, each prong humming with the echo of leviathans buried for millennia. His hair rippled like waves under moonlight, his form vast and terrible, and his eyes... those eyes were the ocean—endless, merciless, and deep enough to drown eternity.
"Legion," Poseidon’s voice carried, low and heavy. "You come not as mortals. You come as the chained blades of Olympus."
He lifted his trident, the sea behind him curling like an army unto itself. "Then I shall break the chains... and drown the blades."
---
The First Clash
Kytheron did not falter. He thrust his spear skyward, and a beam of divine light tore through the night, signaling the first strike.
"Formation! Advance!"
The phalanx moved as one, spears angled forward, shields locked. Their discipline was flawless, the echo of godly command shaping their every step.
Poseidon moved, and the sea itself obeyed.
A tidal wall surged forward, not a wave but a fist. It slammed into the phalanx, seeking to crush them whole. But the legionnaires raised their shields in unison, divine fire igniting across the bronze. The sea shattered against them, spraying into mist that hissed like boiling oil.
The clash of elements shook the harbor.
"Hold!" Kytheron roared.
They did more than hold—they pushed back.
Spears plunged into the tide as though striking living flesh. Each one bore enchantments that split currents and pierced scales. The front rank knelt, anchoring, while the rear drove their weapons forward, releasing bursts of godlight that seared into the waves.
For a moment, the sea screamed.
But Poseidon only smiled.
"Striking the sea is striking eternity."
He thrust his trident into the water beneath his feet. The ocean convulsed, spirals opening like jaws, and from the maws of the abyss rose his answer—behemoths of water given bone and rage. Leviathan-shadows with eyes of drowning flame, serpentine forms wrapped in chains of salt, their bodies made from the essence of trench and whirlpool.
"Break them," Poseidon commanded.
The leviathans surged.
---
The Legion’s Counter
The phalanx broke formation, adapting instantly. Kytheron bellowed the order:
"Second line—firestorm!"
The back ranks lowered their shields, each soldier pulling forth a sphere of burning essence. In perfect unity, they hurled them forward.
A storm of celestial fire rained across the battlefield, each strike detonating against the leviathans with concussive force. Steam exploded into the air, scalding, blinding, but still the monsters pressed.
One leviathan lunged, jaws wide enough to swallow twenty men. Its maw snapped shut on the forward rank, shields splintering like driftwood—until Kytheron himself leapt, spear blazing, and drove it straight into the beast’s eye. The creature screamed, recoiled, and dissolved back into tidewater.
But two more replaced it.
The sea did not tire.
The sea did not break.
And Poseidon was the sea.
---
Poseidon Unleashed
The drowned god raised his trident high, and the battlefield changed.
The harbor floor cracked. Streets vanished beneath rushing torrents. Entire towers bent, their foundations liquefied by saltwater forcing its way upward. The very city became Poseidon’s weapon, as canals burst from nowhere, dragging legionnaires into whirlpools opening beneath their feet.
Kytheron cursed, driving his men to hold ranks. But even he could feel it—the battle was no longer fought on land or water. It was fought inside Poseidon’s will, and the god’s will was infinite.
And then Poseidon spoke again, his voice rolling like thunder within a cavern:
"You are not my enemies. You are their slaves."
His gaze pierced Kytheron directly. "Do your masters watch you die from Olympus? Do they feast on your loyalty as you drown?"
Kytheron snarled. "We are the blade of Olympus. And blades do not bend—they cut."
"Then break," Poseidon whispered.
And he unleashed the maelstrom.
The sea twisted, folding into a vortex that consumed the entire harbor. Legionnaires were torn from their ranks, flung into the air, ripped beneath the tide. Shields tumbled like leaves, spears vanished into the abyss. Screams cut short as water filled lungs.
Yet still—they fought.
Even drowning, they stabbed, slashed, burned with holy fire. Even ripped from air, they tried to climb against the whirl. The Legion’s will was indomitable.
But Poseidon’s was inevitable.
---
The First Strike Ends
By dawn, the harbor was unrecognizable.
Ships lay in splinters, their hulls like bones scattered across the drowned streets. The seawall had collapsed entirely, the market district erased as though it had never been. The bronze bell that once warned of fire, war, and drowning now lay shattered beneath the waves.
And the Legion—those who survived—were scattered corpses, glowing faintly with extinguished divinity.
Kytheron alone remained standing. His armor was cracked, his spear broken in half, blood streaking down his temple. Yet his eyes still burned with defiance.
Poseidon approached, water parting with each step, his trident gleaming with abyssal fury.
"Tell your masters," Poseidon said, his voice carrying across the drowned ruins. "This was their first strike. And this..." He gestured to the broken harbor, the drowned soldiers, the shattered bell. "...is my answer."
He turned, walking back into the sea. The tide rose to meet him, wrapping him like a cloak, pulling him back into the abyss.
Kytheron collapsed to his knees, chest heaving. He knew he should be dead. But Poseidon had spared him.
Not as mercy.
As a messenger.
The gods of Olympus would hear the drowned god’s warning.
And war would follow.