CHAPTER 195: THE WEIGHT OF THE DEEP

The sea had never been quiet. Even in stillness, beneath its glass-like surface, currents whispered, trenches sighed, and creatures unknown to mortals stirred. But now—now, the ocean moved with intention. It no longer sang of tides or winds. It beat like a single, colossal heart.

And Poseidon was that heart.

He stood upon the ruined shoreline of the drowned city, his figure framed by fractured moonlight spilling across waters that should not have been here. Behind him lay the broken carcass of the harbor: collapsed piers, bell towers shattered, markets swallowed whole. Where children once played and merchants once shouted, there was only silence, and the stench of salt and rot.

Yet Poseidon did not hear silence.

He heard worship.

Not in words, not in prayers, but in the way the sea obeyed his every breath. Each inhale pulled waves toward him. Each exhale carried them back in rhythm, as though the ocean itself had surrendered sovereignty to his will.

The mortals clinging to rooftops whispered his name in terror. Not as prayer. Not as love. As confession. Poseidon walks again.

---

The Whisper in the Deep

But beneath the awe and dread, Poseidon felt something stirring. Deeper than currents, older than his new-found body. It pressed against his skull like a tide against a dam.

They’re watching you.

The voice was not his own. It was the abyss. It was Thalorin—the drowned hunger whose essence still lingered in Poseidon’s veins.

Olympus tilts its gaze. The Azure Seat debates your death even now. Do you think they will bow? Do you think they will forgive?

Poseidon clenched his trident, water spiraling tighter around its prongs. "I do not need their forgiveness. I am not their subordinate."

The voice laughed, low and endless, as though bubbling through trenches no light had ever touched. No, little god. You are their reckoning. But remember... reckoning is lonely. Even the sea can starve.

Poseidon snarled but said nothing. He pushed the voice down, forcing it into silence. Yet he could not erase it. He could never erase it.

---

The Survivors

Movement broke his thoughts. Along the upper ridge of the city, a band of survivors had gathered. They carried torches—pathetic lights in the shadow of his tide—and raised weapons as though iron could cut water.

One, braver than the rest, cupped his hands around his mouth and shouted: "Monster! You’ve killed thousands! You drowned the harbor! You’ve damned us all!"

His voice echoed over water, carried straight into Poseidon’s ears. The trident lowered slightly, the weight of mortal rage catching his notice.

"You blame me?" Poseidon’s voice carried not like speech, but like tide—vibrating through stone, bone, and blood. "When your gods ignored you? When they let your city rot on the brink of famine, plague, and war?"

The man trembled, torchlight quivering in his hand. Still, he did not step back. "Better famine than obliteration. Better plague than you."

Poseidon regarded him. For a moment, something flickered in his chest—Dominic’s memory, Dominic’s guilt. The part of him that once knew fear, that once knew what it was to be fragile and human.

But Poseidon was no longer that boy.

He raised his hand. The sea stirred, rising like a serpent behind him, ready to strike.

And yet... he stopped.

The torchbearer’s defiance did not vanish. His hatred burned brighter than his fear. And for the first time, Poseidon realized something chilling: they would not worship him. Not like before. They would not beg the sea for mercy. They would resist—even as the water choked them.

A faint smile tugged at Poseidon’s lips. "Then resist. Let the tide test you. Let the sea shape you. Those who endure me shall endure forever. Those who break... were never meant to survive."

The survivors faltered, unsure whether to take his words as promise or curse.

---

Olympus Stirs

Far above, in halls wreathed with cloud and lightning, the Olympians convened. Zeus sat upon his throne, thunder curling lazily around his fingers, though his eyes betrayed unease. Beside him, Hera’s expression was carved of marble. Athena leaned forward, sharp-eyed and calculating. Even Ares, usually brash, was silent, fingers drumming against his sword.

And in the center of their council, an image shimmered—Poseidon’s drowned city, projected upon Olympus’s polished floor like a wound carved into the world.

"Enough," Zeus thundered. "He has crossed the veil. Poseidon walks again where he should not. He brings ruin upon mortals who never called his name."

"He brings balance," murmured Hera, though her voice was tight. "The seas were always chained. Perhaps it is time they rose."

"Balance?" Athena’s gaze was sharp. "Look below, Hera. That is not balance. That is annihilation."

Ares slammed his fist against his knee. "Then we fight him. God or not, he bleeds. Let me descend. Let me test this drowned pretender."

"Fool." Athena cut him off, eyes narrowing. "You’d fall before you drew your blade. He is not the same Poseidon. He is fused with something older. Something we cast away once before. Thalorin’s hunger lives inside him."

The name soured the chamber. Even Zeus, who feared little, tightened his grip upon his throne.

"So," Hera murmured. "The abyss returns."

Zeus’s jaw clenched. "Then we must decide. War now, or wait until his tide swallows us all."

---

Poseidon’s Reflection

By dawn, Poseidon had retreated inland, to the cliff that overlooked the drowned ruins. His body, though brimming with divine might, trembled faintly. Not from weakness—but from memory.

He remembered Dominic’s first breath as water filled his lungs. He remembered waking in the Rift, Thalorin’s essence pressing into his soul. He remembered every rejection, every betrayal, every cruel twist of fate that had led him here.

He had been Dominic.

He had become Poseidon.

But deep down, he feared one truth: what if he was becoming Thalorin?

The sea behind him shifted, answering his unease. Waves lapped at the cliffs in patterns that almost resembled words. He closed his eyes, breathing in salt air that stung like knives.

"I will not be consumed," Poseidon whispered. "I will not be your shadow."

No, the deep voice coiled around his heart again. You will be more. You will be my heir.

Poseidon’s eyes snapped open. Stormlight burned within them. "No. I am not heir. I am king. The sea answers to me now."

He drove his trident into the ground. The earth cracked, and saltwater burst upward in a geyser, spiraling into the sky like a declaration. Birds scattered. Mortals fell to their knees in terror. Even the Olympians, watching from above, felt the ripple.

Poseidon had not just claimed the sea.

He had declared war.

---

Mortal Reverberations

In nearby kingdoms, word spread like wildfire. Fishermen abandoned their boats, fearing the ocean’s wrath. Coastal temples emptied as priests denounced the "false god who wears Poseidon’s name." Yet in secret, some mortals knelt at the tide, whispering prayers into the surf. For every voice that cursed him, another voice begged him for mercy.

Poseidon heard them all.

And though he did not smile, he felt the power of belief trickle back into him—fragmented, divided, but real. Fear fed him. Hatred fed him. Worship fed him. The mortals could not agree whether he was savior or destroyer. It did not matter. The sea fed on all.

As night fell again, Poseidon stood alone on the cliff, his eyes fixed on Olympus’s distant glow in the sky. He could feel them now. Their judgment. Their blades being sharpened. Their war councils held in whispers.

"Come then," Poseidon murmured, voice carried by the tide. "Let your thunder strike. Let your wisdom plot. Let your swords thirst. The sea will answer all."

Beneath him, the abyss pulsed once more. Not Thalorin’s laughter. Not Dominic’s guilt. But something new.

The sea had chosen its king.

And the world would drown to prove it.