Chapter 301: Poseidon’s Stance
The ocean was restless. Not with storm or fury, but with expectation. It pulsed in rhythm with the god who now stood upon its surface, trident in hand, his presence bending the horizon. Poseidon, lord of the abyss reborn, had faced countless assaults from gods and mortals alike, but what gathered against him now was unlike anything he had seen since his awakening.
Three gods hovered above the shoreline, their auras clashing so violently the air itself split with cracks of lightning and shards of flame. The battlefield was not chosen—it was demanded by fate.
First was Zephyros, God of Sky and Judgment, wings spread wide, lightning coiled around his spear. His voice carried like thunder as he called out, "Poseidon! You have brought ruin upon the mortal harbors, drowned temples, and awakened ancient horrors. This ends now."
Second was Nymera, Goddess of Shadows, her cloak shifting between substance and void, her daggers dripping with venom drawn from the cracks between stars. She did not waste words. Her eyes, cold and unblinking, spoke the sentence: death.
The third was Seraphin, Goddess of Flame, her hair burning brighter than any sun, her body wreathed in fire that scorched the very mist above the sea. She raised her hands, and fire-dragons spiraled around her. "We burned your abyss once before," she declared. "And I will burn it again."
They had not come to bargain. They had come to end him.
Poseidon lifted his trident, the weapon humming with the resonance of the ocean’s soul. Waves rose at his call, walls of water forming around him in protective rings. His gaze never faltered as he looked upon the three gods.
"Once," he said, his voice rolling like the tide, "I sought peace. To walk among mortals quietly, to remember the name Dominic. You denied me that. You feared the abyss, and so you forced me to become it."
His eyes darkened, flecks of abyssal blue swirling like galaxies. "You speak of ending me. But you face not the shell of the past, nor the hunger of Thalorin alone. You face Poseidon. Reborn. Unbound."
And then the sea roared.
Zephyros struck first. With a cry that split the heavens, he hurled his spear, lightning trailing behind it like the wrath of a storm. The strike tore across the waves, aiming straight for Poseidon’s heart.
Poseidon raised his trident, and the ocean moved. A massive wall of water surged upward, swallowing the lightning. For a heartbeat, the wave glowed with electric veins—then detonated, sending torrents of boiling spray in every direction.
Before the mist cleared, Nymera slipped into the shadows. One moment she was above him, the next her blade was pressed against his neck, her whispers brushing his ear like a grave’s chill.
But Poseidon was the ocean—everywhere, uncontainable. His form dissolved into water, Nymera’s dagger slicing through nothing but salt spray. He reformed behind her, trident swinging in a wide arc. The goddess twisted into shadow just in time, his strike splitting the sea beneath her with enough force to expose the ocean floor for a moment before the abyss swallowed it again.
Seraphin’s fire followed. A dragon of flame screeched through the sky and slammed into Poseidon’s barrier. Steam erupted, turning the world into a boiling fog. For every gallon of water he called, her fire vaporized it, filling the air with hissing fury.
The three gods pressed him hard, their coordination honed over centuries of war. Lightning from above, shadows from within, fire from every direction.
But Poseidon was no longer merely defending.
He thrust his trident into the sea, and the water obeyed. The ocean bent outward in colossal tendrils, serpents of saltwater rising high enough to claw at the heavens.
One coiled around Seraphin, extinguishing her fire-dragon with a hiss and constricting her midair. She screamed, flames bursting from her body, but every burst of fire only fed the serpent more steam, choking the battlefield in blinding mist.
Zephyros dove from the sky, spear glowing, slicing the serpent apart. But in the instant he broke it, another wave rose beneath him, striking him upward like a fist of the abyss. He smashed through the clouds, coughing blood, his wings singed by the salt.
Nymera struck from the fog, her dagger piercing through Poseidon’s arm. Black ichor hissed against his skin—but instead of faltering, Poseidon grinned. He seized her wrist, dragging her close.
"Shadow without a sea is nothing," he whispered. Then he plunged her into the water.
Her scream echoed only for a moment before the abyss silenced it. She escaped, reforming on the waves, soaked, her cloak flickering weakly. But for the first time, her eyes betrayed unease.
For hours, the battle raged across the endless expanse of sea. Mortals on distant shores watched pillars of fire, lightning, and water clash like the end of days. Ships hundreds of miles away were capsized by waves Poseidon summoned. The sky itself seemed to tear open.
Yet Poseidon did not yield. Every strike, every wound, only fed the abyss inside him. His blood turned the ocean darker, but it was not weakness—it was claim. The more he bled, the more the sea bent to him, as if recognizing the sacrifice of its master.
Zephyros landed a strike across his chest, splitting skin to bone. Poseidon roared, and the tide surged upward, dragging the god of sky into the waves.
Seraphin burned his back with a column of fire so hot it turned the sea into molten glass. Poseidon howled, but he twisted the molten water, reforging it into jagged spears of obsidian glass that rained back down on her, slicing through her flames.
Nymera buried her dagger into his side, shadows binding his limbs—but Poseidon dragged her close again, pressing her head beneath the waves, forcing her to feel the pressure of the abyss itself.
Three against one, and still he stood.
At last, all three gods regrouped, their auras flaring to their peak. The ocean boiled. The sky split. The air itself screamed.
Zephyros’s lightning became a spear of pure judgment.
Seraphin’s flames condensed into a sun burning with white fire.
Nymera’s shadows sharpened into a blade that cut not flesh, but existence itself.
The three gods unleashed their ultimate strikes at once.
The sea itself froze in terror.
But Poseidon did not retreat. He planted his trident into the heart of the ocean and spread his arms wide.
And the abyss answered.
The water around him sank, plunging downward into a chasm that had no end. The mortal seas parted, exposing darkness so deep it devoured light. And from that darkness, something older than time rose—tides that had never touched the surface until now.
He drew it into himself.
When the three divine attacks struck, the abyss erupted.
The ocean itself screamed, a roar so vast it drowned thunder, flame, and shadow alike. The gods were hurled back, broken and bloodied, cast across the horizon like falling stars.
Poseidon remained. His body was torn, scorched, bleeding—but his eyes burned with power beyond divinity.
The sea closed over the abyss once more, calm on the surface, but forever changed beneath.
Poseidon stood alone upon the waves, his chest rising and falling with labored breath. Around him floated remnants of divine essence, blood from gods, fragments of broken weapons.
He had not killed them—but he had defied them. Three gods, united in their might, had failed to break him.
The horizon bent toward him now. The tides whispered his name. And across the mortal world, sailors, priests, and kings felt the shift.
Poseidon was no longer merely a god returned.
He was inevitability.
The tide that refused to break.