CHAPTER 216: MY LORD POSEIDON,” THE MAN WHISPERED, VOICE BREAKING. “SPARE US.”

The sea had never felt so heavy.

Salt mist clung to the air like smoke after a battlefield fire, coating Poseidon’s lips in bitterness as he stood upon the broken shoreline. The waves lapped at his ankles, not with the gentle rhythm of tide, but with the staggered breath of a living beast that had been wounded.

Behind him, the ruins of the harbor sprawled out in silence. A silence far worse than screams.

Ships lay split open like ribs. Temples were reduced to jagged spines of marble sticking out of saltwater graves. And scattered across the stones, the bodies of those who had tried to resist him—mortals, priests, even divine envoys—floated lifeless, their blood carried into the tide until it vanished into the blue.

But the worst of it was not the wreckage.

The worst of it was the mark.

The battle with the three gods had scarred him.

The clash with Seraphin’s flame still burned across his forearm, red lines smoldering like embers that water refused to cool. The lash of Nymera’s shadows had dug deep into his ribs, leaving a wound that pulsed with whispers—voices of the drowned, clawing to be heard. And Aegirion’s trident strike still ached at the core of his chest, right where Dominic’s fragile humanity had once been.

Poseidon touched the scar, fingers slick with brine. The ocean inside him surged in answer, a reminder that though the gods had failed to kill him, they had reminded him of something vital:

He was not yet complete.

Not yet invincible.

Not yet what he was meant to be.

---

The Sea Speaks

He sank to one knee, resting his palm flat against the wet stone. Immediately, the water rushed to him—not just around his body, but from miles away, currents bending toward his heartbeat like iron filings toward a magnet.

It whispered.

It always whispered.

But now, the whispers were clearer, sharper, almost forming words.

They fear you.

They bleed because of you.

Rise, and drown the sky itself.

He closed his eyes. The words were his own. Thalorin’s. The drowned abyss inside him. Yet they also belonged to the tide. To the sea itself.

For a moment, Dominic’s voice tried to surface—faint, like a memory caught in the undertow.

This isn’t what we wanted. You’re pulling too much, too fast—

Poseidon silenced it. A mortal’s hesitation was no anchor for a god.

He rose again, seawater dripping from his wounds, and turned his gaze toward the horizon where Olympus sat beyond the clouds.

"They’ll send more," he muttered. His voice rumbled like a storm across the deep. "And I’ll meet them all."

---

The Survivors

But before he could retreat into the ocean, a sound reached him.

Not the hum of the tides. Not the groan of sinking stone.

Voices.

Poseidon’s head turned. Among the wreckage, mortals staggered upright—survivors. Dockhands, merchants, children clutching mothers. Their eyes widened when they saw him standing at the shore, wounds glowing faintly, his aura pressing against the world like the weight of the deep sea.

They fell silent.

Then one man—a fisherman with salt-streaked hair—dropped to his knees.

"My lord Poseidon," the man whispered, voice breaking. "Spare us."

Another woman followed, clutching her child to her chest. "We did not resist you. We only live. Please... let us live."

And slowly, one by one, the survivors bowed.

Not in defiance.

Not in fear alone.

But in recognition.

Poseidon studied them. For centuries, mortals had turned their prayers toward Olympus, toward the sky, toward fickle gods who offered rain and sun but never permanence. And yet here, in their drowned ruins, they bowed to him.

Something stirred in his chest. Not Dominic. Not hesitation.

Power.

A foundation.

"Rise," Poseidon said, his voice rolling across them like thunder over still waters. "You are not abandoned. You are mine now. The sea does not forsake those who kneel."

Some wept. Some trembled. But they rose.

The first worshipers of Poseidon reborn.

High above, Olympus shuddered.

The council’s chamber shook with each toll of the drowned bell’s echo that reached even the heavens. Zeus himself stood at the edge of the sky’s balcony, eyes narrowed, lightning crawling like serpents along his forearms.

"He gathers worshipers," Zeus growled. "Already the tides bend not only to his will, but the hearts of mortals."

Beside him, Athena’s gray eyes gleamed with cold calculation. "That is how divinity strengthens. The boy is no longer a vessel. He is Poseidon walking again."

"Then we cut him down before the cracks widen," Ares snarled, hand gripping the hilt of his blood-forged blade.

But Aegirion, still wounded from their clash, spoke up, his voice tight. "Strike him carelessly, and you will only feed him. He does not fight as Thalorin did. He listens to the sea. He breathes it. Every wound we give him is swallowed into his tide."

Zeus’s gaze turned harsh. "Are you suggesting mercy?"

"I am suggesting strategy," Aegirion snapped back. "If you kill mortals in his presence, their fear and worship will anchor him further. Already a city bows. What will happen when entire kingdoms kneel to him instead of you?"

The chamber fell silent.

Even gods knew the truth: divinity was not only born from blood, but belief.

And belief was tilting.

---

The Weight of Choice

Back at the shore, Poseidon stood among the kneeling survivors, but his gaze lingered on the waves. His body ached, his wounds burned, and yet the sea surged ever stronger inside him.

He had a choice.

He could vanish into the ocean’s depths, rebuild his strength, and let Olympus come to him.

Or he could march upward, dragging the tides across the earth, forcing gods and mortals alike to recognize him—not as vessel, not as drowned memory—

—but as the one true Lord of the Sea.

Dominic’s voice stirred again, weak but defiant.

If you take that path, there’s no going back. No mercy. You’ll drown everything.

Poseidon closed his fist, water spiraling around it.

"Then let it drown."

The horizon darkened. Clouds rolled in where none had been before. The sea began to rise, not as a wave, but as a wall, pulling itself upright, towering, groaning under the weight of his will.

The survivors gasped. Some cried out in awe. Some in terror.

And Poseidon turned his gaze upward toward Olympus.

"The sea rises," he declared. His voice shook the stones, the waves, even the air. "And Olympus will fall."

The storm answered him, lightning crackling across the horizon like the opening volley of war.