CHAPTER 201: BENEATH THE TRENCH

The seabed was not still.

It never had been.

Even in silence, even in darkness, the abyss whispered with currents that mortals could never touch. Tonight, though, it was no longer whispering. Tonight, the abyss breathed.

Poseidon stood upon a ridge of broken coral, eyes fixed on the great trench that split the ocean floor like a scar. From its depths came a slow, steady thrum—heartbeat or drumbeat, he could not tell. It resonated with him, with the ocean blood in his veins, until every pulse in the world seemed to align with it.

The drowned city behind him was quiet now, nothing but shadows of towers jutting from the water’s surface. Corpses had already sunk, drifting toward the trench. The silence of their absence was almost heavier than their cries had been.

And yet Poseidon did not mourn.

He listened.

He had become the sea’s ear, its pulse, its will.

They declared war above Olympus.

The whisper did not come from the water. It came from within him—from that ancient presence that had nested in his marrow since awakening. Thalorin’s echo, the abyssal shadow of what Poseidon had become.

"They fear me," Poseidon murmured aloud, voice like tide scraping stone. "Good. Let them. Fear is a tide that weakens even gods."

But Thalorin’s presence only chuckled, dark and endless.

Fear drives knives. Fear sharpens resolve. You are no longer hidden, child of tides. You are the storm breaking surface, and all who live upon it will strike at you.

Poseidon closed his eyes, feeling the truth of it. The Olympians would not wait. He had shaken their temples once. Now they would sharpen their blades, not for a boy, not for a vessel, but for the god himself.

"Let them sharpen," he said. "Blades rust in salt."

---

The Mortal Aftermath

Far above, on a shattered coastline, survivors gathered where waves lapped hungrily at the ruins.

No temple bells rang anymore. No priests stood to give orders. Only scattered fires and shivering refugees.

An old woman clutched her granddaughter, staring out at the drowned horizon. Her lips trembled as she whispered words only a few remembered:

"Poseidon... he is not asleep."

The little girl looked up, wide-eyed. "Is he the sea, grandmother?"

The woman’s hand tightened. "He is the sea."

Their whispers spread like sparks in dry grass. By the hour, the survivors spoke not of loss, but of inevitability. The flood was not a storm. The flood was a god’s will.

And gods were to be worshipped.

Already, ragged men and women were cutting their palms, spilling blood into the tide. Already, the drowned bell’s echoes turned into chants. His name was being carved back into mortal tongues—not as curse, not as warning, but as prayer.

Poseidon felt it. Each plea, each drop of salt-mixed blood, seared into him as naturally as waves touching shore.

---

Beneath the Trench

The heartbeat of the abyss deepened.

Poseidon placed one hand on the jagged edge of the trench. The stone was wet, not with seawater, but with something older—primordial brine that had existed before mortals learned words for oceans.

And with that touch, his vision tore away.

He was standing, not in the water, but in memory. He saw the first chains hammered into the abyss. He saw gods older than Olympus, faceless and terrible, forcing a crown of storms upon a writhing figure. Thalorin, bound, sealed, drowned beneath eons.

The chains glowed faintly even now, stretching down into blackness without end. But they trembled. They remembered him.

"Do you feel it?" Poseidon whispered.

Thalorin’s voice rumbled in his blood.

The chains crack. The abyss calls. And you, Poseidon, are the key that was never meant to be forged.

He withdrew his hand, though the pull lingered. He knew what breaking those chains would mean. The sea would no longer be an element. It would be a mouth.

And Olympus—Olympus would fall.

---

High above the clouds, the Olympian council was already at war with itself.

Zeus sat upon his throne, jaw clenched, lightning coiling in his fists. "He dares drown a city beneath my sky? He dares steal worshippers meant for Olympus?"

Hera’s lips curved in disdain. "You ignored him when he stirred in the Rift. You called the boy a shadow. And now the shadow stands as a god."

Ares grinned, teeth sharp, spear tapping against the marble. "Then let war be called. Let me hunt him. I will gut the sea and hang its god on your walls."

But Athena shook her head, eyes sharp with calculation. "War without strategy is folly. Poseidon no longer moves as a mortal. He is not merely water—he is will made ocean. Send Ares, and we will only lose a god."

Zeus’s voice thundered. "Then what do you suggest, daughter of wisdom?"

Athena’s gaze lowered to the mortal realm shimmering below. "Cut the tide where it is weakest. Break his mortal ties. Sever his new worship before it roots too deep. And if he dares rise higher..."

Her eyes hardened.

"...we bring the chains again."

The council chamber rumbled with agreement and fury. The decree was not spoken yet—but Poseidon’s war had already begun.

Poseidon’s Vigil

Back in the abyss, Poseidon rose from the trench, water spiraling around him like a crown. The drowned city was silent, but in that silence, he felt strength.

Mortals would kneel. The abyss would rise. Olympus would bare its fangs.

And he?

He would not retreat. He would not cower as Dominic once had in hospital beds, praying for a tomorrow he was never promised. That boy was gone.

He was Poseidon now.

"I will not drown," he whispered, eyes burning with the abyss. "I will teach the world to breathe water."

The abyss below shivered with anticipation. The surface above shuddered with storms.

And Olympus stirred with swords and chains.

The ruins of the drowned city still groaned beneath the tide. Broken spires jutted from the water like jagged teeth, barnacles already clinging to their shattered faces. Corpses floated, some still clutching one another, some staring blankly into the sky that had refused to cloud.

Poseidon stood among them.

Not as a man, nor entirely as a god. He was both and neither, a tide given flesh, a memory of storms wearing human skin. His presence bent the water around him — droplets suspended midair, currents weaving patterns in obedience.

But what haunted him most was not the ruin.

It was the silence.

A city had screamed, begged, prayed... and now it was quiet. Too quiet. The sea had swallowed everything it wanted, and left only stillness.

Poseidon pressed his palm against the surface of the flood. The water rippled outward, and with it came visions. Not the kind mortals dreamed of, but echoes the ocean itself kept.