CHAPTER 207: IS... IS HE GOING TO KILL US TOO?”

The sea was never meant to be quiet. Even in its calmest hours, waves licked against shores, currents slithered in their endless cycle, and the breath of the abyss pulsed like a heartbeat. Yet now, as Poseidon stood upon the ruins of the drowned harbor, silence reigned.

The silence wasn’t natural. It was submission.

The drowned bell no longer tolled. Ships, corpses, and splintered beams drifted in a perfect stillness around him, as if the ocean itself had frozen to await his command. Every drop of brine seemed to tilt toward him, bound by his will.

Poseidon inhaled, and the sea inhaled with him.

He exhaled, and the tide shifted outward like a breath loosed from the lungs of a god.

This was no longer trial. No longer testing. This was ownership.

Yet even as the crown of tides settled upon his brow, Poseidon’s expression was shadowed. His power surged, unstoppable, but beneath it stirred something darker—the ancient hunger of Thalorin. The abyss whispered within his blood, offering him ruin in the guise of majesty.

"Take more," the voice murmured in the hollow of his skull. "Not just the harbor. Not just the city. The continent bends. The world drowns."

Poseidon closed his eyes, pressing his palm to the water. His fingers trembled. "No," he whispered. "I am not your echo. I am not your hunger. I am myself."

The sea stilled. For a moment, the abyss receded.

But he knew—Thalorin was not gone. Merely waiting.

---

The Survivors’ Eyes

From the jagged roof of a half-drowned granary, dozens of eyes stared at him. Fishermen, merchants, soldiers, and children clung together, their fear thicker than the salt on their lips. None spoke. None dared breathe loudly.

One girl broke the silence. She was no older than nine, her voice hoarse.

"Is... is he going to kill us too?"

Her mother silenced her with a hand, trembling.

Poseidon turned his gaze toward them, and the crowd flinched as though struck. His very presence pressed against their bones like the weight of the tide. He could drown them all with a thought.

But instead, he raised his hand, and the waters beneath their building swelled—lifting the broken granary, steadying it like a raft. The survivors gasped as they felt themselves borne upward, carried to higher ground.

"Live," Poseidon said simply, his voice rolling like surf across stone.

Some fell to their knees in worship. Others scrambled away in fear. But all of them understood: the sea had spared them. For now.

---

The Watcher of Tides

From the shattered steps of the temple, the Watcher crawled forward, robes soaked, eyes wild with salt and revelation. His voice cracked as he shouted toward Poseidon.

"You are not man! You are not storm! You are the god returned!"

He pressed his forehead to the wet stones, blood mingling with brine. "The city is yours! The sea is yours! We are yours!"

Poseidon regarded him coolly. He had heard such words before—centuries ago, when temples stood proudly in his name. He remembered the hymns, the libations poured into the waves, the sacrifices tossed from cliff edges. Worship had once bound him. Then Olympus had chained him. Now...

Now the chains were rust, and mortals bent not from tradition but survival.

He turned away. He would not bask in their prayers. Not yet.

---

Olympus Watches

Far above, unseen but ever-watchful, Olympus stirred.

Zeus sat upon his storm-forged throne, lightning coiled in his palm, eyes blazing with wrath. Around him, the Olympian council murmured—some with fear, some with hunger.

"He takes too much," Athena said, voice sharp as tempered steel. "He rebuilds his dominion stone by stone, tide by tide. If we do not act, Poseidon will not merely rise—he will rival you, Father."

Hera’s lips curled into a thin smile. "Rivalry is inevitable. You always feared him. And now, the seas bend wholly to his will. He wears the crown of tides, and mortals already bend their knees."

Ares slammed his fist against the marble floor, sparks flying from his armor. "Then let us march! Drown him in blood before he drowns us in brine!"

But not all voices cried for war.

Hestia, flame gentle but unwavering, shook her head. "If you strike too soon, you will awaken Thalorin. Poseidon is strong, yes—but it is not only him you would be fighting. The abyss sleeps inside him. And should it wake..." Her words faltered, eyes dimming. "You will regret it."

Zeus’s grip on his lightning tightened. He said nothing. But his silence spoke volumes.

---

Poseidon’s Reflection

On the shore of the drowned city, Poseidon knelt by the shattered remains of a marble statue. It had once been a depiction of a nameless sea-god—perhaps even himself, long forgotten. Its face was eroded, features smoothed by centuries of wind and tide.

He touched the broken crown upon its head.

"So this is what remains of worship," he muttered. "Dust, ruin, and fear."

For a moment, Dominic—the faint shadow of his mortal self—breathed within him. The boy who had once been weak, sickly, waiting for death in a hospital bed. That boy had never dreamed of being a god. He had only dreamed of a life without chains.

And now? That dream was fulfilled. But at what cost?

The silence of the sea gave no answer.

---

The Stirring of the Deep

Beneath his feet, the ocean churned. Something vast shifted in the trenches—an ancient stirring that answered not to Poseidon, but to the abyss gnawing within him.

He felt it—like teeth scraping against his soul. A hunger that wanted more than harbors. More than cities. More than Olympus.

It wanted everything.

Poseidon clenched his fists, driving his will against the swell. "No. You do not command me."

The sea trembled. For a heartbeat, the abyss laughed within him.

The Choice

The survivors had fled inland. The harbor was gone. The drowned bell silenced.

Poseidon rose, water curling upward like serpents around his arms. His power sang in the air, heavy, undeniable. But power was not enough. The crown of tides demanded a choice.

Would he carve his dominion with mercy, sparing the mortals who had once abandoned him?

Or would he embrace the abyss’s whisper, drowning Olympus in waves that would never recede?

The world tilted on the cusp of that choice.

And far away, in the skies of Olympus, thunder rolled.

The gods were coming.

And Poseidon, reborn, smiled grimly into the wind.

"Let them."