CHAPTER 176: “THE LAND HAS FORGOTTEN ME.”

The sea did not rise.

It stood.

The entire harbor groaned as if the world itself bent under the weight of what had awakened beneath. Water should have flowed, should have churned and broken against stone—but it froze in an impossible suspension, walls of salt and brine towering higher than ships, higher than towers, higher than reason itself. The mortals who still clung to shattered rooftops or driftwood looked up in awe and terror at a sight their minds could not reconcile.

And then... the ocean parted.

From the abyssal corridor it carved, he emerged.

Poseidon.

The God of the Deep. The Drowned King returned.

---

The Entrance

He did not climb from the sea—he was the sea. Every step he took onto the shattered pier dragged the tide with him, sheets of water coiling up his arms like living armor, forming scales of liquid light that shimmered with abyssal blue. His eyes glowed brighter than the storm-lanterns still clinging to life along the quay, pupils not of a man but of fathomless trenches.

His arrival was not heralded by thunder or lightning. It was silence—so complete that even the gulls had stopped calling, as though the world held its breath. And into that silence, he spoke.

"The land has forgotten me."

His voice rolled like the pressure of the deep, making glass shatter in windows, making hearts skip beats in fear.

"But the sea remembers."

The water bowed behind him, tilting entire ships as if genuflecting. The mortals who had survived the drowning fell to their knees, unable to resist the weight pressing upon their souls. Some wept, some prayed, some tried to scream—but no sound carried against the tide of his presence.

---

The Mortal Witnesses

The Watcher of Tides, who had lived his life marking currents and winds, dared to lift his head. His wrinkled eyes widened, filling with tears of salt.

"Poseidon," he whispered. His voice cracked, not from age, but from reverence—and terror. "You walk again."

Poseidon’s gaze swept over him, neither cruel nor kind, but absolute. The Watcher collapsed forward, forehead pressing to the soaked stones, trembling as though every muscle recognized its true master.

Others followed. Sailors, merchants, even the city guards—those who had clung to survival now bent their spines in surrender. Whether from faith or fear, it did not matter. The sea took. The sea demanded.

And now, the sea walked as a man.

---

The Wrath of Arrival

But not all bent willingly.

The city’s remaining wardens rushed from the broken temples, desperate and armed with relics of their own gods. Golden staves crackled with lightning. Shields bore symbols of flame and light. Their voices rose in defiance:

"By decree of the Seven Currents, you are forbidden!"

They leveled their weapons at him. Arcs of fire and lightning struck forward, tearing through the air toward Poseidon’s chest.

The attacks never reached him.

The sea rose before him, swallowing the magic whole. The flames hissed out, the lightning bled into water until it was gone. With a casual flick of his wrist, Poseidon sent the sea surging forward.

It was not a wave. It was a hand.

A vast palm of water curled from the harbor and struck the wardens where they stood, lifting them screaming into the air before crushing them against the walls of their own temple. The stone shattered, the relics broke, and silence followed.

Poseidon did not even pause. His eyes burned as he turned toward the bell tower, its broken frame leaning at the edge of the drowned quarter.

The bell tolled again—an echo, not from ropes or clappers, but from his will. A knell that rolled across the city, declaring it his.

---

Olympus Trembles

Far above, Olympus itself shook.

The council of gods looked down upon the mortal harbor through mirrors of cloud and flame. They had seen cities fall. They had watched kingdoms collapse. But this was different.

This was not war. This was reclamation.

Zeus, Lord of the Sky, leaned forward, thunder curling at his fingertips. "So he returns."

Athena’s eyes narrowed, keen as the point of a spear. "Not returns. Ascends. That is no mere vessel. That is Poseidon entire."

Hermes, usually smirking, for once could not hide the unease on his lips. "Do you feel it? Not just the sea bending—but the balance. The axis of our world is tilting."

The gods of Olympus fell into argument, but all knew the truth: the drowned god was not waiting for their permission. He was not asking. He was declaring.

---

Back to the Shore

Poseidon’s steps carried him inland now, water spilling with him like a cloak, flooding through alleyways, turning every street into a shallow canal. The mortals scrambled to follow in his wake—not as enemies, not as allies, but as flotsam clinging to the current.

The Watcher of Tides stumbled after him, voice breaking as he cried, "What do you seek, Lord? Why here? Why now?"

Poseidon stopped. His gaze turned back, abyssal eyes boring into the old man.

"What does the tide seek when it rises?" Poseidon asked softly. "It seeks nothing. It simply comes."

The words carried deeper than sound, searing into the bones of all who heard.

And yet, beneath the divinity, there was something else—a flicker. A shadow in his gaze, a glimmer of humanity not yet extinguished. It was Dominic’s memory, faint but not gone, whispering through the abyss.

For an instant, Poseidon’s hand trembled. He remembered a face, a promise, a boy’s yearning for freedom.

But the sea does not hesitate. The sea swallows all.

And so did he.

---

The Fierce Declaration

He raised his hand again. The sea around the city surged in answer, towering walls of water rearing higher and higher until they eclipsed the moonlight itself. The mortals gasped, clutching one another, believing their end had come.

Poseidon’s voice thundered.

"Mortals. Gods. Hear me."

The ocean shuddered.

"I am no vessel. I am no shadow. I am Poseidon—drowned, forgotten, denied, and now reborn."

The waves roared, crashing against one another in applause.

"You buried me once in chains of stone and oath. You thought me gone. But the sea does not die. It waits. It deepens. And now it rises."

The waves leaned forward, their crests ready to crash down upon the entire harbor.

And then, Poseidon spoke the words that turned fear into certainty:

"This land is mine."

The waves obeyed.

They crashed, not to destroy, but to remake. The harbor drowned, streets swallowed, towers leveled—all reshaped in an instant into a new shoreline, one curved and bent like the palm of a god. The city was not erased. It was claimed.

---

The Final Image

When the water receded, nothing was as it had been.

The streets were canals. The plazas were lagoons. The shattered temple of the Seven Currents had been reduced to rubble, replaced by a colossal statue of the sea god himself—unasked, unbuilt, but there, wrought by the tide’s will.

Mortals knelt at its feet, broken by awe. The drowned bell no longer tolled. The city no longer belonged to them.

Poseidon had walked.

And the world would never forget it again.