The Underworld, a realm of eternal twilight, where souls drift like autumn leaves upon the river of time. Here, among the countless lost and forgotten, one soul stood apart—Tiresias, the Seer, the Prophet, one of the incarnation of Hephaestus himself.
He stood at the edge of the River Styx, watching the blackened waters coil and shift like restless serpents. The currents carried whispers, echoes of lives past and yet to come. But tonight, something was different. Something wrong.
A great tremor rippled through the fabric of the Underworld, and Tiresias staggered. His vision blurred as an unseen force seized his mind, wrenching him into a sight beyond mortal comprehension.
Seven fragments—not of this world—came crashing through the boundaries of existence. Their arrival was a scar upon fate itself, their descent heralding an age of upheaval. They shattered as they fell, embedding themselves into the very bones of reality.
The world cheered as it devoured the fragments, making itself grew.
And then, the prophecy poured from his lips, spoken by a voice not entirely his own:
"The tides of fate have broken, and a storm unlike any before shall rise.
The Ancient Sea God shall awaken from his slumber, and his wrath shall shake the very foundation of Olympus.
From the ashes of time from another world, dragons shall be born, their wings casting shadows upon the heavens.
The God Realm shall descend, and the divine shall no longer walk among mortals, unseen and unknowable.
The Underworld shall grow, stretching its hands into the world of the living, for the cycle of souls has been forever changed.
A Realm of Elements shall be born, where fire, wind, earth, and water shall shape a world unseen by gods and men alike.
The Stars shall come alive, weaving their forgotten magic into the threads of fate, igniting a wave of power unseen since the dawn of creation.
And at last... the Way to Godhood shall open for mortals, for the barriers between divinity and humanity shall crumble."
As the last words left his lips, the very air trembled. The souls of the dead, once drifting aimlessly, now twisted and writhed. The river of Styx roared, rising in a great surge, as though the very essence of the Underworld had heard and feared his words.
Tiresias gasped, his vision clearing, but the weight of what he had seen pressed upon his soul. This was not a warning of distant doom—it was beginning now.
The world would never be the same again. The world trembled—not in fear, but in exaltation.
Seven fragments of another world had come, piercing through the barriers of Nyx and Erebus, the eternal guardians that shielded this reality from the vast, endless multiverse. Yet these fragments did not seek destruction. They merged, intertwining with the very fabric of existence, altering the destiny of gods and mortals alike.
The first fragment was a shroud of death. It carried with it the essence of a forgotten world, a realm where life was merely the prelude to something greater. As it descended, the Underworld stirred, its boundaries trembling as new life—unlife—was born.
From the fusion of this fragment and the Underworld, a new race came into being: the Undead.
Skeletons, clad in the tattered remnants of past lives, rose from their eternal slumber. Corpses, once still, found movement once more, their souls bound to rotting flesh, their hunger insatiable. Some creatures, caught in the collision, mutated—silver age humans, humans who were created by Prometheus, who had long lived near the gates of the Underworld, those who had survived the ancient catastrophe of a burning world.
Their bodies twisted, adapting to the death-laden fragment. Their humanity eroded, replaced with something new. They became the first werewolves and vampires, cursed and blessed by death itself, forever torn between the world of the living and the dead. Since then the last of the silver age humans are gone.
Then came the second fragment—a realm of light. It descended like a falling star, its radiance illuminating the heavens. It did not merely strike the world; it claimed it, embedding itself into Mount Olympus.
A thunderous roar echoed across the world as the sacred mountain trembled. The domain of the gods, once bound to the physical world, was no longer part of mere mortal land. It became its own realm, an existence mirroring the Underworld—a true Realm of the Gods, separate yet ever-present.
The Olympians felt it first—the surge of power, the shift in reality. Their divine home had ascended, becoming something greater. The very air within Olympus shimmered with untapped potential, a world now capable of shaping its own fate.
And yet, this was only the beginning.
Five more fragments had yet to land. Five more changes would come. And the world, once a mere magical land, would evolve beyond its creators' wildest dreams.
The third fragment fell like a droplet of darkness into the endless blue.
Unlike the others, it was small, barely a sliver of the vast power the other fragments carried.
But what it lacked in size, it made up for in sheer corruption. This was no ordinary sea—it was a piece of a realm where the waters bore madness, where creatures beyond mortal comprehension lurked in the abyss, their very existence an affront to sanity.
The fragment disappeared beneath the waves, but its effect was instantaneous. The oceans screamed.
From the deep trenches to the raging storms above, every drop of seawater felt the change. Something had entered, something that did not belong, something that carried with it an alien, forgotten will.
Poseidon, god of the sea, felt it first.
A surge of power unlike any he had ever known coursed through him, crashing against his very essence like an unstoppable tide. He grasped his head, staggering atop the shifting waves as memories—no, someone else's memories—poured into his mind like an unstoppable flood.
He saw a time before Olympus. Before the reign of Zeus. Before the Titans themselves. A time when the world was young, when the sea was not his domain, when the ocean belonged to another.
Pontus.
The primordial sea god. The first ocean. The father of all marine life. The being who had been forgotten, erased by history and slain by Uranus when the sky god sought to claim dominance over creation.
Poseidon's chest heaved as the memories consumed him. He was Poseidon. But he was also Pontus.
The two personality in his soul collided, their identities clashing within the divine vessel of the sea god.
Poseidon resisted. He was the ruler of the seas, the god who had fought alongside Zeus and Hades to bring down Cronus. He was a king, the deity to whom sailors prayed, whose name was etched into history through war and worship. He would not be overtaken.
But Pontus pushed back.
He was the ocean before the gods, the unshaped depths, the being who had no need for temples or prayers. His existence was the sea itself, eternal and unyielding. He had been cast aside, forgotten by the world—but now, he had returned.
The battle for dominance raged within their shared being.
The ocean responded in kind. Storms raged. Tidal waves surged. Creatures of the deep twisted, their bodies shifting, growing, evolving into new horrors that had never before existed in this world. The fragment had begun its work, reshaping the very essence of the sea.
Poseidon roared, gripping his trident, lightning flashing through the sky as he fought for control.
Pontus howled, the depths answering him, ancient power coiling around them both.
It could have lasted an eternity.
But in the end, they fused.
No longer was he just Poseidon, the brother of Zeus, the ruler of the seas. No longer was he Pontus, the discarded primordial, slain and forgotten.
He was now Poseidon, the True God of the Sea.
His body pulsed with newfound might, his veins carrying the power of both gods. His presence stretched beyond Olympus, beyond mortal shores. He was no longer just the god of the Greek seas—he was the ocean itself, untamed and boundless, a force that no god, Titan, or mortal could ever hope to chain.
And as he lifted his trident, the sea itself bowed to his will. A new era is beginning.