CHAPTER 177: THE MORTAL WRECKAGE

The silence after ruin was heavier than any storm.

Poseidon stood on the shattered cliffs overlooking what had once been a proud harbor. The moon reflected in broken waters that lapped hungrily at the ruins. Once, the city had been a place of commerce and laughter—streets filled with merchants, children chasing gulls, priests ringing their bells. Now, only the hollow moan of water moving through collapsed archways remained.

And still... he breathed.

Each inhale pulled the tide farther outward, dragging corpses and wreckage with it. Each exhale pressed water back into broken streets, filling crevices, breaking more stone. The city had become part of him—an extension of his will. Its veins were waterways. Its bones, drowned pylons.

Poseidon did not need to shout or rage. His dominion did not rely on noise. It was inescapable. Absolute.

---

The Mortal Wreckage

A handful of survivors clung to high ground—a temple roof that jutted above the rising tide. Their torches sputtered as seawater crept closer. They watched the godlike figure silhouetted against the moon and whispered his name in broken terror.

"Poseidon..." one woman rasped, clutching her child.

"Not a god," another spat bitterly, though her voice trembled. "A monster."

Poseidon turned his gaze toward them. His eyes glimmered with deep-blue fire, not cruel, but fathomless. The mortals shivered as the water beneath their feet surged up the temple walls like fingers testing a lock.

He did not need to speak for them to understand. Their city had been judged.

And yet, as he watched the survivors cling to life, a flicker of memory stirred. A boy—Dominic—who once walked among mortals, laughing, coughing, frail. He remembered their fear of him, their indifference to his suffering, the way they had looked past him as though he were invisible.

That boy was gone.

But some faint echo of him whispered: Do not erase them all.

Poseidon exhaled, and the waters stilled. The temple remained above the tide—for now.

---

Beneath the Waves

Far below the ruins, the ocean whispered with voices older than Olympus itself. As Poseidon sank his awareness into the depths, he felt them stir—the Forgotten Tides, the primordial beings long imprisoned. Their whispers rolled like whalesong, incomprehensible to mortals but heavy with meaning.

You open the way.

You lean the world.

We breathe again.

Poseidon’s power pulsed outward. His presence was not only his own now. The deep recognized him, welcomed him. The drowned abyss had chosen him as its vessel, and he was no longer merely one god among many—he was its center.

And yet... with this acceptance came hunger. His veins thrummed with it, his chest ached with it. Thalorin’s shadow stirred within him, whispering in the currents.

Drown Olympus.

Poseidon’s jaw tightened.

"No," he muttered aloud, his voice shaking the ruins around him. "Not yet."

---

Olympus Watches

Far above, Olympus glittered with eternal flame. But even here, the air was tense. Gods gathered on marble balconies, gazes fixed downward toward the mortal world. The drowned city glimmered like a scar on the coast, visible even from their heights.

Athena stood at the edge of the council platform, her armor reflecting starlight. "This is not merely a mortal tragedy. This is declaration. Poseidon no longer hides in shadows."

Apollo, golden and radiant, narrowed his eyes. "It is not Poseidon as we knew him. Something else rides him."

"Thalorin," murmured Hades, stepping from the shadows of the council chamber. His presence chilled the air, making the marble frost beneath his feet. "The abyss stirs in his blood. If we do not act, Olympus itself will one day drown."

Zeus rose from his throne, thunder crackling along his arms. His voice boomed like a storm. "Then we act! We summon the Twelve. We bring war to the sea."

But not all gods looked so certain. Hermes shifted uneasily, his sandals whispering against the stone. "War against the sea is not war against an army. It is war against the world itself."

Zeus glared, his lightning flaring. "And yet, if we do not strike, the world becomes his."

The council murmured, sigils forming in the air as pacts were forged. The decree was clear: Poseidon would be hunted.

---

Poseidon’s Awareness

On the cliffside, Poseidon felt the decree fall upon him like a net of fire. Divine intention could not be hidden from him. He knew the council’s eyes turned his way.

He lifted his head to the heavens, his voice low, but it carried across sea and sky.

"You believe yourselves masters of fate. You call me traitor. But you are wrong." His hair whipped in the sea breeze, and his trident materialized in his grasp, dripping with abyssal light. "I am the tide. You cannot slay the tide. You can only delay its rise."

The waters behind him heaved upward, forming a wall that reached hundreds of feet into the sky. Lightning from Olympus split the heavens in reply.

The war between sea and sky had begun.

---

The Mortal Subplot

Far inland, news of the drowned city spread like wildfire. Refugees staggered into villages with hollow eyes, babbling about water that climbed walls and a god who breathed the sea into their lungs.

Some fell to their knees in worship. "He has returned! The Drowned God walks!"

Others spat in fear. "He is ruin! A plague! If Olympus does not kill him, we must!"

Among them, a small band of priests debated quietly. They had carried a relic—an ancient shell said to echo with Poseidon’s voice. But when they pressed it to their ears now, it was not his words they heard. It was Thalorin’s.

And Thalorin whispered promises of power.

The cult of the Drowned Abyss was born that night.

---

Poseidon’s Resolve

As dawn broke over the ruined harbor, Poseidon stood unmoving. The air tasted of salt and ash. Survivors fled inland, priests raised alarms, and the council of Olympus sharpened blades against him.

But he felt no fear. Only clarity.

The old world was crumbling. The balance of gods, the decrees of Olympus, the prayers of mortals—all were fragile sandcastles against the tide.

He tightened his grip on his trident, feeling its pulse synchronize with his heart. The ocean within him stirred, demanding conquest, demanding collapse.

But Poseidon whispered to himself:

"No. I will not be Thalorin’s echo. I will be more."

His eyes blazed. "I will be the sea entire."

And with that, he stepped into the waves, his form dissolving into water, spreading across coasts unseen, infiltrating rivers, wells, and even the blood of those who dared whisper his name.

The sea no longer stopped at the shore.

It lived where he willed.