Reincarnated As Poseidon
Chapter 32: Varun Tides and consequences of war

Chapter 32: Varun Tides and consequences of war

The sky above the ocean was unnaturally clear.

Waves rolled gently against the edge of a forgotten isle cloaked in mist—a place untouched by war, where even gods were careful not to tread.

At the heart of this stillness sat a man draped in robes of twilight blue, his hair a flowing cascade of black, streaked with silver strands like lightning etched into the night.

Varun.

The Sea Watcher.

He sat on a throne carved from starlit stone, resting in a temple with no doors, no walls—just pillars that reached into the clouds and sank into the deepest trenches of the ocean.

His eyes were shut.

But his mind?

Awake.

Watching.

Listening.

Feeling.

He felt the ocean burn days ago. He felt the power ripple through the currents when the Deep Choir first moved. He watched Lyrielle unleash her sirens. He watched Aegirion fall. He even saw the flicker of Dominic’s rage when the Vault stirred.

But he did not move.

Not yet.

"Still watching?" came a voice, light as air and soaked in mischief.

Varun didn’t turn. He didn’t have to.

A figure stepped into view—a woman with lavender hair and eyes like falling stars. She wore no armor, no crown, but the air around her bent as if it feared her.

It was Ihara, the Wind Sovereign.

"You always did like to watch the world break before lifting a finger," she added, circling him slowly. "The boy bleeds. The ocean groans. The Vault cracks. Are you going to sit here and wait until it all sinks?"

Varun opened one eye.

Just one.

And the wind paused.

"The tides must roll," he said calmly. "Even if they drown the innocent."

Ihara scoffed. "Philosophy won’t save you when the sirens reach your doorstep."

"They won’t," he replied.

She narrowed her eyes. "You sure?"

Varun’s gaze drifted to the horizon where the sea shimmered faintly.

"The ocean has rules," he said. "And Lyrielle has already broken too many. The Vault stirs because of her. The Choir sings too loud. The balance is tilting."

Ihara’s smirk faded slightly. "Then tip it back."

"Not yet."

She crossed her arms. "You always play the long game. Even when Poseidon died, you just watched."

Varun finally stood.

The sea shifted below.

His feet touched nothing, but the air bent like waves around him.

"I watched because I had to," he said quietly. "I watched because no one else would. I didn’t save Poseidon... because that was never my role."

"And the boy?" Ihara asked. "Dominic?"

Varun looked down at the ocean. Somewhere, far below, Dominic lay unconscious, his blood carried by the current.

"He’s more than Poseidon reborn," Varun muttered. "Something inside him doesn’t belong. A spark I don’t recognize. A rhythm that’s not from this world."

"Then you should kill him," Ihara said without blinking.

Varun turned slowly.

"Not yet."

She raised an eyebrow. "You keep saying that."

"Because time is a tide," he said. "And when it turns... everyone drowns."

A sudden pulse rippled through the sea—a dull, aching hum.

The Vault.

It vibrated again.

Varun’s expression finally changed.

He looked concerned.

Not panicked.

Not afraid.

Just... disturbed.

"That wasn’t the Vault alone," he whispered.

Ihara straightened. "Something’s coming?"

Varun nodded slowly.

"Something... older than Poseidon."

A wave crashed in the distance. The sky dimmed slightly.

Varun raised his hand, palm up, and water curled into a sphere above it.

Inside that sphere... a face appeared.

Not Dominic’s.

Not Lyrielle’s.

It was a child, floating deep in the trench, humming quietly with eyes pitch black and mouth stitched shut.

"What is that?" Ihara stepped back instinctively.

"The Deep Choir isn’t what you think," Varun said. "It’s not just sirens and monsters."

He crushed the sphere in his palm.

"Their song was written by something else. Something trapped beneath Thalorenn."

A pause.

Varun finally turned his back to the sea.

"We’re no longer dealing with the sea’s memory," he muttered. "We’re dealing with its origin."

---

Cut To: Somewhere Beneath Thalorenn

The dark waters swirled in slow spirals.

Chains groaned as a massive shape uncurled, scales glowing faintly like fading stars. The creature’s breathing was heavy, causing tremors all the way to the surface.

Eyes opened.

Nine of them.

Then a voice... ancient and wrong... whispered into the sea:

> "Where is my name?"

And everything shook.

The world was silent.

Not the peaceful kind of silence. The heavy kind—the kind that presses against your chest, too thick to breathe through.

Dominic opened his eyes.

Or tried to.

One eye was swollen shut. The other blinked against the blur of shifting light above him.

Water.

He was submerged, floating in a bed of kelp and fractured coral. The surface shimmered faintly far above. A school of silver-boned fish passed by slowly, silent witnesses to a war that had already ended.

Dominic didn’t move. Couldn’t.

His body screamed, every inch of it broken, bruised, torn.

His fingers twitched.

That was enough.

He sucked in a breath, choking on the salt that clung to his lips. Someone had pulled him out of the core battlefield. Someone had hidden him beneath the reef. But the silence wasn’t just around him.

It was inside him.

Where the Trident once thrummed with rage and light, there was now... nothing.

Dominic turned his head slightly.

The water beside him shimmered faintly. A fragment of shattered armor drifted past—his armor.

The war was over.

But he didn’t win.

Aegirion was gone.

He remembered it—blood, pain, a scream that broke the ocean apart. A cliffhanger moment frozen in his memory: Aegirion pierced through by something ancient. Dominic had reached for him... but too late.

Everything else was a blur.

His body trembled.

He tried to stand, pushing himself off the seabed. The coral beneath cracked, and a sudden sharp pain shot through his ribs.

"Ahh—dammit..."

He gritted his teeth. His voice sounded hoarse. Dry. Tired.

Dominic finally rose to his knees.

And then he looked up.

The sea above was dark.

The battlefield... empty.

Bodies of sea warriors floated in clusters far in the distance. Weapons drifted in slow-motion chaos. Banners torn in half waved like lost ghosts.

Dominic’s throat tightened.

He saw familiar faces.

Kara.

Rian.

Gone.

A slow ripple passed by, disturbing the silence. From behind a nearby pillar, a small shadow appeared—thin, short, swimming toward him cautiously.

It was Alynne, a young messenger of Naerida’s palace. Barely older than twelve in human years, with fins too small for real battle.

Her eyes were wide with worry. Her voice shook as she approached.

"You... you’re alive..."

Dominic tried to speak but coughed up water instead.

Alynne reached him, touching his shoulder gently. "You shouldn’t be moving. They thought you were—"

"I’m not," he croaked.

She nodded quickly.

"They’re waiting. Queen Naerida... she’s in the War Hall. They’re regrouping. The Deep Choir hasn’t moved since the last wave. But everyone... they need to see you."

Dominic hesitated.

"They think I failed."

"No," Alynne said softly. "You’re still here. That means the sea still has a chance."

He didn’t reply.

Not yet.

He pushed himself to his feet, muscles screaming, wounds raw and open. Blood mixed with the water, swirling in slow spirals as he began to swim upward.

As he broke the surface, light hit his face—and the sound returned.

Crying.

Voices.

The aftermath of war.

---

Cut To: Naerida’s Inner Dome – War Hall

Queen Naerida stood at the center of a circular chamber made of living crystal. Her armor was dented. Her crown gone. Only her presence held the room together.

Survivors filled the space. Veterans. Orphans. Mages. The wounded. All with haunted eyes.

"Dominic’s body was not found," one general muttered. "But if he’s alive, we must know what he saw in the Vault."

Naerida raised a hand. "The Vault is not our concern right now. Lyrielle has retreated. The Choir sings no longer. But that quiet is not peace—it is patience."

A deep murmur filled the chamber.

Before anyone else could speak, a horn sounded.

A cry from the outer gates.

Naerida turned swiftly. Her eyes narrowed. "Open the gate."

A moment later, Dominic was carried in by two guards, his body still bleeding, but his steps strong.

Everyone fell silent.

Even the crystal walls hummed low.

Naerida approached him slowly. Her gaze scanned his face—searching for the boy who had once been Poseidon. The god. The warrior.

But she saw something else now.

Someone older.

Worn.

Changed.

"What happened?" she asked quietly.

Dominic’s voice was rough. "I saw something. Beneath the Vault. Something that doesn’t belong to the sea. Not anymore."

Naerida’s jaw clenched. "Is it waking?"

He nodded.

"It already has."

---

Cut To: The Deep

Far below.

Deeper than even Thalorenn’s bones.

The Choir stirred again.

But this time, not in song.

In silence.

A silence deeper than death.

And beneath it all, a voice without lips spoke into the bones of the sea.

> "Poseidon is broken."

"The old throne is mine."