Divine Ascension: Reborn as a God of Power-Chapter 71: Theomachy (Part 11) - Brothers at War

Lightning met tide while thunder met the abyss. The heavens convulsed as Zeus and Poseidon clashed again, no longer as brothers—but as rival elements, each refusing to yield.

Poseidon drove his trident into the earth.

At once, the waters below surged in response. Massive serpents of seawater rose from the cracks, their eyes glowing green with ancient enchantments, their bodies hundreds of feet long. Their coils slithered around broken pillars and ruins, snapping their jaws at anything in reach.

Zeus raised his hand and snapped his fingers.

Thunderbolts streaked down—not from the clouds, but from his own chest. Each bolt split mid-air into forked arcs of divine electricity, targeting every serpent simultaneously. They shrieked, exploded into clouds of boiling mist—but not before one wrapped around Zeus’s leg and yanked him off his feet.

He crashed into the ground, sending up a geyser of shattered marble. The sea rushed in.

Poseidon didn’t let him recover.

He swept his trident in a circle—and the floodwaters obeyed. They spun into a giant whirlpool around the battlefield, drawing in broken debris, chunks of temple, even flaming braziers. At its center stood Poseidon himself, untouched, cloak billowing like waves against the sky.

Zeus vanished in the chaos.

Poseidon narrowed his eyes.

Then the sky screamed.

A jagged bolt of obsidian-black lightning pierced the center of the whirlpool and detonated in a sphere of pure pressure. The shockwave flattened the storm and sent Poseidon flying through the air, crashing into the side of a ruined colossus.

Zeus stood amid the dispersing mist, surrounded by arcs of inverted lightning—negative charge made visible, crackling with ionized fury. His body bled light now, his outline flickering like an unstable star.

He raised both arms.

Above him, the clouds twisted unnaturally.

They didn’t swirl. They folded.

The atmosphere collapsed in on itself, forming a compressed sphere of storm energy, swirling like a neutron core. Rain turned to steam just from proximity. Thunder screamed in reverse.

He hurled the storm-sphere at Poseidon.

The god of the sea rolled up, blood leaking from his mouth, and slammed the butt of his trident into the ground. The sea beneath Olympus responded in kind.

The sphere struck the trident and the sea answered.

A column of water shaped like a hand exploded upward, catching the compressed storm in its palm. The storm pushed back, disintegrating the hand’s outer layers, but Poseidon clenched his fist—and the hand closed, squeezing the storm until it imploded into a shockwave of boiling steam and thunder.

Lightning crackled across Poseidon’s trident, wild and searing, but he endured it, gritting his teeth.

Then he retaliated.

With a roar, he hurled his trident like a harpoon. It didn’t just fly—it split into seven copies mid-flight, each spinning with crushing weight and oceanic pressure.

Zeus raised his arms, forming a dome of solid plasma around himself. The tridents struck it like meteors, shattering the outer layer, cracking the inner.

The final one hit Zeus in the side, blasting him into a wall of fractured stone.

He hit the ground hard, coughed golden ichor, and rolled to his feet—barely.

Poseidon summoned his trident back to hand, spinning it once.

Zeus stood again. He was missing armor. Half his torso was burned. But his expression was calm now. Focused. Lethal.

He extended his hand.

And with a deafening sound like a thunderstorm breaking a mountain range, a javelin of pure voltage formed in his palm. It wasn’t lightning—it was concentrated causality. A weapon forged from the very laws that governed the divine hierarchy.

He threw it.

Poseidon raised his trident like a staff, speaking in the deep tongue of ocean titans. The air turned cold. A wave made of ice, stolen from the Mariana abyss, surged upward to meet the javelin.

The two collided midair.

The javelin pierced the wave, slowing, dragging shards of glacial ice in its wake—then cracked apart, detonating into blinding arcs that scattered across Olympus.

One bolt struck a distant mountaintop that was split in half in result.

Another hit the ruins of the Temple of Hera, that disintegrated on contact.

Still—Poseidon stood.

He exhaled slowly. His left arm hung limp now, scorched from wrist to elbow. His side bled freely. But the sea behind him was still rising.

He lifted one arm and the ocean obeyed him.

From the floodwaters, a tide leviathan emerged—not a beast, but a construct of Poseidon’s will, a massive, whale-sized god-serpent made entirely of roaring water and anchored with divine chains. Its eyes glowed coral-blue, its mouth a maelstrom of crushing gravity.

The beast lunged at Zeus.

Zeus spread his arms wide—and allowed himself to be swallowed whole.

The construct’s body surged forward, slamming into a cliff and detonating into a tidal explosion. The roar drowned all other sound.

For a moment, there was only silence.

Then the core of the leviathan began to flicker.

Light. A white, angry, storm-born light.

The creature convulsed and exploded.

Zeus emerged from the blast, surrounded by a halo of radiant discharge, cloak shredded, eyes glowing white-hot.

He hovered above the battlefield, skin seared, breath heaving.

Below, Poseidon raised his trident again.

The gods stared at one another, high above the ruins of the world they had ruled.

Zeus dropped from the sky like a hammer, trailing white-hot arcs of lightning in a spiraling descent. Each footstep on the broken earth cratered the ground beneath him. He raised both fists, his divine aura flaring like a collapsing sun.

Poseidon braced, trident low, sea swirling behind him while Zeus struck.

The impact shook Olympus to its bones. A shockwave of thunder flattened everything within reach—ruined spires collapsed, marble shattered, and even the clouds above fled from the force of it. Poseidon slid backward, feet digging trenches into the soaked earth. His knees bent, absorbing the hit—but he held firm.

Zeus pressed forward, throwing a storm-forged punch that connected with Poseidon’s jaw.

Poseidon’s head snapped sideways, ichor spraying from his lips.

But he twisted with the motion, spun his trident upward, and drove it into Zeus’s ribcage.

Zeus screamed.

The divine metal sank deep, piercing through armor, skin, and godflesh. His lightning flared in wild arcs, responding to pain with primal fury. The world flashed white, then blue, then seared gold. The wound hissed like water on magma.

He gripped the shaft of the trident, teeth clenched, and wrenched it out of himself with both hands.

Ichor poured freely.

Poseidon kicked him in the gut, sending him reeling, then surged forward—momentum like a crashing wave—swinging his weapon in a wide arc that split the air with explosive pressure.

The trident tore a chunk from Zeus’s shoulder. Bone cracked audibly.

Zeus stumbled, lightning spiraling around him like a serpent looking for someone to bite. His next blow came wild, unfocused—more rage than precision.

Poseidon ducked it, drove his elbow into Zeus’s chest, and followed it with a spinning slam of his trident’s shaft across the king’s jaw.

Zeus crashed into a column.

It collapsed on top of him.

Poseidon stood over the rubble, trident in hand, chest heaving, blood dripping freely from his wounds. The sea behind him raged as if sharing in his breath. Every drop of water on Olympus bent to his will now, hovering like blades waiting to strike.

The rubble moved while lightning coiled.

And with a roar that tore the wind apart, Zeus erupted from the ruins in a burst of divine wrath.

His face was bloodied, one eye swollen shut, his mouth stained with gold. But his power surged.

Si he charged and Poseidon met him.

They clashed again—trident to fist, sea to storm. Each blow echoed across Olympus. Every strike carried the weight of centuries, of grudges born in silence, of thrones shared too long. The ground cracked with every impact, divine fire raining from the sky.

Zeus managed to catch Poseidon’s wrist mid-swing and drove his knee into the god’s side. Ribs shattered.

Poseidon gasped, but retaliated instantly, jamming the blunt end of the trident into Zeus’s throat.

The king choked, staggered back.

Poseidon took the opening and stepped forward, launching a series of precise jabs, each one targeting old wounds—one to the shoulder Zeus dislocated during the Titanomachy, another to the side where Prometheus once struck him with cursed fire.

Zeus tried to block, but Poseidon’s fury was relentless now.

A final spinning sweep caught Zeus off guard.

The trident tore a line across his back.

Zeus roared and unleashed a massive pulse of electric pressure—a dome of storm that sent Poseidon skidding away, cloak burned, flesh charred along one arm.

But Zeus collapsed to one knee.

Breathing ragged. Vision blurring. The wound in his ribs wasn’t closing. His body trembled beneath the weight of his own fury.

Poseidon straightened slowly, bleeding, chest heaving, a gash over one eye.

"Still think you’re untouchable?" he could’ve asked, but he said nothing. The trident spoke for him.

Zeus forced himself to his feet. Lightning flickered at his fingertips, duller now, but still lethal. He spit blood onto the broken stones.

Then, without warning, he hurled a bolt—not at Poseidon directly, but into the air above them.

The bolt split into dozens—hundreds—raining down as a storm of divine javelins. The sky itself cracked with every strike. The very concept of "air" screamed in protest.

Poseidon raised his trident and called the ocean upward.

A shield of water surged to meet the storm, waves forming arms, hands, faces—all crashing upward to intercept each descending bolt. The shield held—for a moment.

Then it cracked and shattered.

One bolt pierced Poseidon’s leg, dropping him to one knee.

Another hit his side.

Another slammed into his shoulder.

He staggered, tried to rise—and Zeus was already upon him.

The king of the gods descended with his fists wreathed in thunder, eyes blazing, hair haloed by stormlight.

He struck Poseidon once, twice—each blow sending tremors through Olympus.

Poseidon caught the third.

And with a roar that summoned all the weight of the sea, he brought Zeus down with him, slamming him into the ground so hard the land split beneath them—exposing fire, magma, the breath of Gaia herself.

Both gods lay there, broken, bloody and breathing with difficulty.

They were not immortals in that moment.

They were brothers at war.

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