Chapter 358: The Dukes Prodigy
The drowned city lay in silence. Not the silence of death, but of obedience.
Barnacle-crusted towers tilted out of the surf like broken teeth, their shattered spires crowned not with flags but with kelp. Lanterns that once guided sailors now burned with cold blue flame, a gift from the abyss, and in the watery courtyards below, thousands of eyes glimmered in the dark. They were not fish. They were not men. They were the first legion of the new age.
Poseidon stood upon the fractured seawall, his trident planted firmly in the stones, the hum of the ocean resonating through his veins. No longer a mortal vessel. No longer Dominic. No longer the shell others could dismiss as "boy" or "vessel." He was Poseidon in truth, the sea given voice, the tide given form. And he was not alone.
All around him, the ocean rose and took shape.
Where mortals had drowned, soldiers rose again—skin pale, eyes glowing with abyssal light, bodies strengthened by brine. Their breaths no longer belonged to air, but to the sea. These were his Drowned Guard, the first of his empire. Each one had once been a sailor, a soldier, a dockhand—men and women who had known the call of the tide. Now they were eternal. Loyal. His.
Behind them, the depths quivered. From the trenches far below, great shadows moved. Colossal leviathans—ancient beasts Poseidon had unchained from prisons long forgotten—emerged. Serpents the length of fortresses, crabs with claws like siege towers, whales whose songs shook the bones of mountains. Where once the seas had been chaotic, fractured, ruled by scattered dominions, now they bent to him.
He lifted his hand, and the ocean bowed.
"Report," Poseidon commanded, his voice rolling like thunder across the tide.
From the water stepped Nerissa, his chosen admiral, once a priestess of the drowned bell. Her robes clung wet to her skin, but she walked upon the surface as though it were stone. Her eyes were dark pools, reflecting the abyss.
"The coast bends to your will, my lord," she said, kneeling. "The harbors of Veyrus are ours. The drowned serve. But inland... the mortals flee. They rally beneath their kings and priests. They call upon the gods to protect them."
A cruel smile touched Poseidon’s lips. "Good. Let them gather. Let them cling to their fragile walls. When the tide reaches them, there will be no place left to run."
Nerissa bowed deeper, then rose. "And the legions, my lord? How shall we form them?"
Poseidon gazed at the armies below—thousands of drowned, marching in eerie silence through water that obeyed their every step. "The sea has no single form, Nerissa. It is endless, infinite. So too shall be my armies. I will not field one host, but many. A tide for every shore."
He raised his trident high, and the ocean responded.
Before his eyes, the drowned divided into legions, each one bearing its own mark—coral crowns, kelp-woven armor, scales shimmering with abyssal light. Leviathans swam in formation, circling like predators awaiting the command to strike.
"This is the first wave," Poseidon declared. "But more shall come. For every city that drowns, my empire swells."
In the weeks that followed, Poseidon’s expansion moved like a storm hidden beneath calm skies. One by one, coastal towns vanished beneath the tide. At first, mortals thought them lost to storms—but there was no rain, no thunder, no natural tempest. Only silence, followed by the rising of the sea, and then the stillness after.
Those who survived the first floods crawled inland, whispering his name in fear. Poseidon.
But the drowned cities did not remain ruins. They became fortresses.
Temples toppled into the depths were rebuilt from coral and black stone, pulsing with abyssal runes. Streets became canals, filled not with citizens but with soldiers. Towers rose from water, crowned with lanterns of ghostly flame.
And at the center of it all, Poseidon’s throne was raised from a single pearl the size of a mountain, dredged from the trench of forgotten gods. Upon it he sat, surveying not just the seas, but the world that trembled at their edges.
Yet Poseidon knew this empire was only the beginning. The gods above would not stay silent forever. Olympus, the Azure Seat, the fractured pantheons—they would come. And when they did, he would not meet them as a lone god reborn. He would meet them with an empire.
"Summon the Forged," he commanded one night, his voice echoing through the abyss.
The depths churned. From cracks in the seafloor, molten vents erupted, belching both fire and steam. And from those vents, figures crawled forth—golems of obsidian and coral, their hearts glowing with volcanic fire. They were not mortals reborn, nor beasts enslaved. They were creations of the sea’s fury itself, built for one purpose only: war.
"Summon the Serpent Riders," he ordered next.
From the deeps rose riders bound to monstrous eels, their hair streaming like seaweed, their spears tipped with teeth of leviathans. They would be his swift hunters, striking across coasts before mortals could even cry warning.
And finally, he turned to the darkest trench. "Awaken the Abyssal Choir."
The waters split with shrieks as sirens swam forth—no longer the frail spirits of song and temptation, but armored generals, their voices capable of cracking stone and driving mortals mad.
Poseidon stood upon his throne of pearl and watched as his empire assembled—drowned legions, leviathans, forged golems, serpent riders, and siren choirs. A force unlike any the world had ever seen. A tide unstoppable.
"This is not conquest," he murmured, trident glowing with abyssal light. "This is reclamation. The sea was always mine. I simply take back what was stolen."
And still... he felt it.
The eyes of Olympus. The trembling of the Azure Seat. The weight of divine attention pressing down upon him like storm clouds unseen.
They were preparing. Armies of flame, wind, and stone were mustering. He could hear their whispers even from the mortal plane.
The drowned god must fall.
Strike the vessel before it consumes us all.
Destroy Poseidon before he is more than god—before he becomes abyss.
He laughed, the sound booming across the sea.
"Let them come," he said. "I do not wait for war. I bring it."
He extended his hand, and the tides surged outward, crashing upon distant shores with the fury of drums announcing invasion.
Nerissa knelt again at his feet, trembling not with fear but with devotion. "Where shall the first tide march, my lord?"
Poseidon’s eyes glowed with the abyss, reflecting storms yet unborn.
"Everywhere," he answered. "The world has forgotten the sea’s dominion. They will remember. And when the waves rise, when their temples drown and their gods fall silent, they will have only one name to worship."
He raised his trident, and the armies roared—not with voices, but with the thunder of waves, the crack of breaking ships, the scream of leviathans breaching the surface.
"Poseidon."
The drowned empire was born. And its march had only just begun.