Chapter 350: General Kaelis
The storm had passed, but the sea did not retreat.
For three days the water had sat heavy over the plains, drowning farmland, smothering roads, swallowing entire villages. Where once there were fields of barley, there was now a brackish mirror of sky and ruin. The air reeked of salt and rot.
And yet, against all reason, mortals still clung to life.
In the shattered city of Delphora—what had once been a proud trading hub—families huddled together atop rooftops that now served as islands. Shanty rafts of broken doors and barrels drifted between them. Fishermen, stripped of boats and nets, now used their hands to scoop the swollen fish that washed themselves into the streets. Children, wide-eyed and starving, licked the salt from their palms.
It was not survival. It was prolonging the inevitable.
The priests of the Seven Currents walked barefoot through the rising pools, robes heavy, bells tied to their waists. But their songs of protection had gone quiet. Too many times had they chanted to no avail. Too many times had they seen idols swept from altars by waves that seemed to obey not the gods of old—but a single god returned.
Poseidon.
The name was whispered everywhere now, from hungry markets to ruined temples. Some spoke it as a curse, others as a prayer.
"He destroyed us."
"He saved us from worse."
"He is the tide. The tide does not choose."
From the high cliffs above the drowned city, a handful of survivors watched the horizon.
The Watcher of Tides himself, gaunt and hollow-eyed, leaned heavily on his staff. The sea below did not look like water anymore. It looked alive—rippling in unnatural spirals, whispering as though speaking in a language too ancient for mortal tongues.
Behind him, a younger woman—once a scholar, now his apprentice—pointed toward the sunken district. "They say the drowned bell rang again, Master. If Poseidon’s hand rests here, what are we to do? Kneel? Resist?"
The Watcher closed his eyes. "Neither. Mortals cannot kneel to a storm, nor can they resist it. We can only endure until the tide decides to spare us... or swallow us whole."
The apprentice’s voice trembled. "But he was once human, was he not? The vessel of Dominic?"
That name still carried weight among mortals. Rumors said Dominic had been a boy from their world, a scholar or soldier, no one agreed which. But all agreed he was gone now—his soul overtaken by Poseidon’s vast and crushing will.
"If a boy remains in him," the Watcher said softly, "then it is drowned beneath leagues of salt."
Across the water-logged countryside, armies still tried to march.
General Kaelis, once a commander in the king’s army, now led a column of ragged men through knee-high floodwater. Their banners sagged, soaked and tattered. Armor rusted in the brine. Horses had long since drowned or been butchered for food.
They were not marching to fight. They were marching to survive.
"Keep moving!" Kaelis roared, his own voice hoarse from salt. "The higher ground is two leagues ahead. If you stop, the water will take you."
One soldier stumbled, coughing up seawater as though the tide itself had crawled down his throat. Two others dragged him upright, muttering prayers.
"General," his lieutenant whispered, pointing eastward. "The villages ahead are gone. The people... there’s nothing left."
Kaelis stared long at the drowned horizon. He had fought wars against men, beasts, even demi-gods, but never against something like this. How did one raise a sword against a god who was the very flood beneath your feet?
"Then we keep marching," Kaelis said. "Even if it means walking until the sea runs out of land."
But not all mortals resisted.
In the ruined temple of Delphora, where once offerings were made to seven lesser sea-gods, a new altar had risen. Not carved, but grown. Coral and barnacle had fused into the shape of a throne, dripping with brine. Upon it sat no priest, no idol. It sat empty, yet no one dared touch it.
Instead, they gathered around it. Dozens of survivors—merchants, sailors, beggars—knelt in silence as the waves lapped at their ankles. They called themselves the Cult of the Drowned Crown, and they had one prayer only:
"Spare us, Lord of Tides. Spare your faithful."
They offered what little they had left—salted fish, broken jewelry, blood from cut palms. Some whispered promises. Others drowned themselves willingly in the rising pools, believing their deaths were sacrifices to strengthen Poseidon’s claim.
And sometimes... the sea answered.
The water at their feet would shiver, forming shapes—hands, crowns, eyes. Once, a drowned woman’s body was carried in, only for her eyes to snap open, sea-blue and glowing. She rose, speaking with a voice not her own:
"The tide remembers."
And then she collapsed, lifeless again.
The cult grew larger by the day.
Yet even as faith spread like rot, whispers of rebellion lingered.
Smugglers claimed there were pockets of highland untouched by flood. Farmers spoke of a valley where the sea could not enter, no matter how it pressed. Some said this valley was blessed by rival gods, others claimed it was cursed by them.
And always, there was the story of a single mortal still walking among them—one who had seen Poseidon with his own eyes and lived.
The soldiers called him Elias. The cultists called him the Betrayer. The priests called him the Witness.
But all agreed: if there was any hope left for mortals, it was tied to him.
On the third night after the drowning, the sea itself pulsed.
Not with waves. Not with storms. But with heartbeat.
Every mortal within ten leagues felt it in their bones. The water in their wells rippled. The puddles in their streets quivered. Their own blood surged hot in their veins.
And with each pulse, they heard whispers. Some heard promises. Others heard threats.
But all heard one name:
Poseidon.
The Watcher of Tides fell to his knees on the cliff, pressing his palms to the wet stone. His apprentice clutched her ears, weeping.
General Kaelis’s soldiers staggered in the muck, some throwing down their weapons as the sound of the sea thundered inside their skulls.
And in the temple of the Drowned Crown, the cult screamed the name in ecstasy, voices rising in eerie unison with the pulse.
The mortal world was no longer merely flooded. It was claimed.
And deep in the abyss, Poseidon smiled—not with malice, not with kindness, but with inevitability.
The sea did not ask permission.
It simply was.