Reincarnated As Poseidon

The clouds churned above the ancient amphitheatre carved into the side of Mount Oronar, a place long abandoned by mortals and shunned even by gods. Thunder rolled in the distance, but no rain fell. Instead, the air thickened with divine tension. At the summit stood thirteen thrones, arranged in a crescent arc. And slowly, one by one, they filled.

Zephyros, God of Winds and Warden of the Tempests, arrived first—his pale cloak flapping even without breeze. His presence seemed to cut the silence, like a blade through silk. With him came the scent of ozone and the distant cry of winged creatures.

Then came Nythera, Goddess of Shadows, shrouded in flowing black silk that shimmered like a liquid void. Her eyes, pure darkness, surveyed the theatre with a calm that was far from reassuring.

Thal'Zir was gone. The Rift had been sealed, but none could ignore what had emerged from within it. Not just Poseidon, reborn from the fragile shell that was once Dominic, but something older, deeper. The echoes of Thalorin still reverberated in the waters of the world.

"We cannot ignore it any longer," rumbled Aegirion, Lord of the Abyssal Sea, his body a shifting mass of tendrils and aquatic limbs. He stood by his throne rather than sat, the carved seat unable to bear the weight of his divine form. "Poseidon has awakened. And Thalorin is not dead. He lives through him."

"He has not declared war," Zephyros replied, though his tone lacked conviction.

"Not yet," Nythera added, her voice a whisper that seemed to seep into the skin. "But he is not our ally. The boy has power, yes—but also anger. And in anger, gods burn everything."

A sharp footstep echoed.

From the high staircases carved into the mountain's spine came another figure—Selyra, Flame Warden of Solon, radiant with molten hair and eyes that burned like dying stars. She walked with the confidence of a deity who had seen empires rise and crumble.

She didn't sit.

"I've seen the waters shift in the Far Reaches. The Leviathans bend to Poseidon's command now," she said flatly. "The boy is no longer a mortal soul. Nor is he a child."

"Poseidon is back," Aegirion murmured. "But what version of him?"

No one had the answer. Not even the Oracle who hovered silently in the background, veiled and distant, her eyes milky white. Her voice, when it came, sent a chill through even the flames of Selyra.

"There will be a schism," she said. "He will either ascend… or destroy."

Silence fell like an executioner's blade.

And then—

A gust of wind, stronger than before. A ripple across the dimensional veil.

A new presence entered.

But it wasn't Poseidon.

It was Kael, the God of Chains and Judgment. Once neutral, now bound by his own growing fear of what was stirring beneath the oceans and the realms of spirit.

"We're being watched," he said darkly. "Even now."

Nythera turned, her eyes scanning beyond mortal vision. "Let him watch. Let him see the council prepare. If he has inherited Thalorin's mind… then he knows this summit is not one of mercy."

Selyra narrowed her eyes. "You would have us strike preemptively?"

Kael nodded. "Before he finishes becoming what Thalorin was."

But not all agreed.

From the northern wind came a howl—then a roar. The massive form of Fenmor, Beast God of the Endless Hunt, dropped into the theatre like a comet. Covered in scars, his eyes gleamed with challenge.

"Cowards," he spat. "You tremble before a god reborn and speak of destruction before seeking truth? He is one of us, whether he knows it yet or not."

Aegirion snarled. "He is not one of us. He is a vessel. A cursed host. The oceans bow not because they remember—they bow because they fear."

The Oracle raised her hand. The silence returned.

And then—she spoke once more.

"He has left the mortal veil behind. Dominic is dead. Poseidon reigns—but not alone. Two souls remain. The fusion is incomplete."

All eyes turned toward her.

"Then he can still be turned," Zephyros muttered.

"No," she replied softly. "He can still be split."

That single word changed everything.

Suddenly, the dilemma fractured into two paths.

Should they kill him now, before the fusion became irreversible?

Or attempt the impossible—separating Dominic's human essence from the ancient being within?

"Where is he now?" asked Nythera.

The Oracle turned her head slowly. "In the ruins of old Atlantis. Seeking what he once was. Remembering."

---

Meanwhile… beneath the sea, in a city long swallowed by time…

Poseidon knelt at the shattered steps of a temple once built in his name. The water flowed silently around him, but within, it boiled—raging with memory.

Statues lay broken. Pillars crumbled. But one thing remained untouched—the great mirror at the heart of the temple, forged from the obsidian crust of the sea's bed and blessed by the First Waters.

He stood and walked to it, the ocean shifting behind each of his steps like a cloak of fluid power.

His reflection was not his own.

A flicker.

Dominic.

A flicker.

Thalorin.

Then both.

He closed his eyes.

"Who am I?" he whispered.

No one answered.

Not the sea, not the stars above. Only the silent ghosts of Atlantis.

But then… the mirror rippled.

And the figure that stared back smiled.

Not Dominic.

Not entirely Thalorin.

But something… new.

A god unchained from destiny. A storm born from sorrow. A deity birthed from vengeance.

His eyes opened. They glowed with depths unknown.

"I am no longer the child who died in a hospital bed," he said quietly. "I am not your weapon, Thalorin. Nor your echo."

"I am the flood."

The temple cracked.

The sea trembled.

And across realms, those who watched felt it.

---

Back at the summit…

"He's begun," said the Oracle. "The fusion is becoming its own entity."

Kael drew his chained sword. "Then we have no choice."

Selyra stepped forward. "We gather our armies. A divine convergence."

Fenmor bared his teeth. "Or we go alone… and die as fools."

Nythera smiled faintly. "Let's not pretend any of us will survive unscathed."

The divine war was no longer a possibility.

It had become an inevitability.

And at its centre was a being once known as Dominic…

Now, only Poseidon.

The sea roared.

Not with the gentleness of tide or the lull of waves, but with fury—like it remembered an ancient war and sought vengeance anew. The skies above darkened, their once-blue sheen now turned a tempestuous gray, writhing with bolts of divine lightning. The storm had not come from nature's whim. It had come because gods stirred.

In the heart of the Oracian Gulf, high atop a spire of stone that pierced the ocean's surface like a forgotten monument, stood Aegirion—the new god of tides and tidesong. He watched the approaching maelstrom with steady eyes, hair damp and lips pressed into a thoughtful line. Behind him, his trident pulsed with blue runes, whispering of the awakening.

Thalorin had stirred.

And now, the world would feel the wrath of the gods once again.

Aegirion turned as a series of glimmers rippled in the air behind him. With a flicker of godly light, shimmering portals opened one after the other, stepping through them came the others. Not mortals. Not demi-gods. But true deities.

Eirathis, goddess of flame and resolve, clad in robes that burned without consuming. Her crimson hair seemed to rise like smoke. She nodded once to Aegirion before turning her molten gaze toward the churning sea.

Beside her appeared Vorenus, god of judgment and cold balance. He looked like stone carved by law itself—every movement precise, measured, and eternal. His eyes were pure silver, mirroring the storm ahead without blinking.

Then, with a gust of wind, Arthea emerged—goddess of whispers, secrets, and fate. Her presence was quiet, yet impossible to ignore. She was veiled, her face half-shadowed, as if the very fabric of possibility bowed to her.

Aegirion raised his voice, quiet yet resolute. "You all felt it. He's no longer dormant."

Eirathis crossed her arms, flame dancing at her fingertips. "Thalorin's essence wasn't just disturbed. It was challenged. The Rift has changed the boy."

"You mean Dominic?" Arthea's voice was like silk torn in the wind. "He's no longer just Dominic. Nor merely a vessel. I saw the strings of fate unwind, snap, and reweave in another name… Poseidon."

The name lingered in the air like thunder, spoken for the first time with divinity's weight. Even the sea paused, as if listening.

Vorenus stepped forward. "Then he is no longer one of them."

"No," Aegirion confirmed. "He is one of us now. A god not by ascension, but by rebirth."

"But he's still mortal-minded," Eirathis growled. "That makes him volatile."

"And dangerous," Vorenus added. "Too much power, too fast. The world has not had time to bend to his storm."

A sudden flare of divine aura caught their attention. From the north horizon, parting clouds and casting a trail of golden light across the water, came another. Caladis, god of harmony and stars, rode atop a massive celestial beast—half eagle, half serpent. His gaze was mournful, even as he descended.

"Do not speak of war yet," Caladis urged. "There is still a choice."

Arthea's veil fluttered as her head tilted. "Do you believe he'll take it?"

Caladis looked far to the east, beyond mortal eyes. "I believe... he's already made it. But not for peace."

Silence fell among the gods, broken only by the waves clashing against the sacred spire. The sky darkened once more. From below, the ocean began to spiral. A massive whirlpool—not natural, but divine—emerged from the depths. And within it, rose a being made of pure water, scale, and memory. Not Thalorin. Not yet.

But something connected to him.

A voice rose from the sea, warbled and old, like a god trying to speak through centuries of drowning.

"Poseidon… lives…"

The storm erupted.

Lightning lanced the sky.

And from the whirlpool rose hundreds of ancient leviathans—once sealed beneath the seabed, now freed by Poseidon's awakening. These were not beasts meant for mortal sight. They had eyes like galaxies and skin like coral mountains.

Aegirion clenched his trident. "He's summoning the Old Depths. Preparing for something… larger."

Eirathis drew her flaming spear. "Then we must prepare too. If this god-child chooses the path of conquest, we'll need more than judgment."

"We'll need war," Vorenus agreed.

"But not all gods are ready to fight him," Arthea whispered.

The others turned toward her.

She gave a quiet laugh, bitter and knowing. "There are those… below. Forgotten gods. Ones chained for what they once did. And they stir now, hearing Poseidon's name rise through the water. They may answer his call."

Caladis's face paled. "You speak of the Abyssals…"

She nodded.

A heavy dread settled across the pantheon.

Gods locked away beneath the roots of the world. Banished for crimes not even mortals could name. If Poseidon, reborn and wild, reached them—if they answered—he wouldn't just become a threat.

He would become the storm that drowns Olympus.

Suddenly, the sky ripped open.

Not by storm.

But by will.

A tear in the fabric of space—gold-lined and radiant—split apart above the sea, and from it descended a single figure.

Tall. Barefoot. Hair of ink and seafoam. Robes dripping with constellation water. And eyes—his eyes—no longer Dominic's.

They were Poseidon's.

Divine. Cold. Calm like the deepest sea trench. And furious like a tidal god betrayed.

He hovered above the whirlpool of leviathans, and they stilled beneath him as if kneeling.

The gods on the spire stared.

No one spoke.

Until Poseidon did.

"I am no longer lost," he said. His voice echoed like mountains splitting underwater. "I am no longer your pawn. I am no longer your forgotten brother."

His gaze sharpened, locking on Aegirion.

"I am the tide that remembers. The trident that was broken. The wrath that was sealed."

Then, with terrifying quiet:

"I am Poseidon."

And the sea knelt.