Reincarnated As Poseidon-Chapter 48: Na’aleth The Forgotten god

Beneath the bone-white Coral Spire, where sunlight could never reach and the pressure crushed even the strongest creatures, a cavern pulsed with a heartbeat of its own. It was not stone, nor coral, but a living thing—grown from the flesh of forgotten gods.

And within it, Lyrielle stood atop a throne of blackened pearls, her eyes shut, her arms outstretched. The deep choir encircled her, sirens of twisted elegance—some humanoid, others barely clinging to their original forms. Each bore runes etched into their gills, necks, and spines, bleeding with the magic of old Leviathans.

Above her, the ceiling trembled.

She opened her eyes.

The choir sang—not with words, but with ancient harmonics, their voices bending water, minds, and memory. Ships drifted off course. Beasts from the trench twisted violently. The sea was not calm. It was listening.

A voice slithered into her ear.

> "They’ve begun the edict, Lyrielle. Olympus moves against the vessel."

She smiled faintly.

> "Let them. The vessel is ours now."

---

– Dominic’s Fracture

Dominic knelt on the shore of a drowned temple—its pillars shattered, but glowing faintly with Poseidonic symbols. Memories not his own danced across his vision like ghosts. A girl with silver hair. A crown lost. A war he had fought before.

He was bleeding again, but not from a wound. From something deeper.

"Who are you?" he whispered into the water.

The tide answered.

But it wasn’t a whisper.

It was a scream.

He fell back, clutching his head as images shattered across his mind: Olympus in flames, Naerida weeping over a broken trident, Aegirion falling into the abyss—and Lyrielle, singing her choir from the heart of the sea.

A piece of his mind snapped.

And in its place... clarity.

"She’s not just attacking."

He looked up toward the dark horizon.

"She’s calling something."

– Maelora’s Warning

Far away, Maelora—seer of the Outer Deep—emerged from her trance with gills still flared. Her temple cracked with ice as her eyes widened.

"The Choir has begun."

She rose from her circle of salt and sigils, speaking to no one and everyone. "Lyrielle is summoning the Hollow God. The drowned one. Thalorin is the bait, not the beast."

She reached for her blade—an ancient shard of seabone left behind by the first Leviathan—and pressed it to her palm.

"My queen must be warned."

---

– Naerida’s Palace

Naerida’s throne room was chaos. Reports poured in from every front—ships disappearing, sea beasts falling under some kind of hypnotic control, sirens moving in unnatural tides.

Her generals argued. One suggested retreat. Another suggested calling for Hades.

Naerida silenced them all with a raised hand. "We stand."

She turned to her scribe. "Ready the battle hymn. Send word to the Sea Witches of Farys. Tell them the silence is broken."

"Who are we fighting?" her high priest asked, trembling.

Naerida looked out over the waves.

"The song."

---

Olympus Prepares

In Olympus, thunder cracked like a warning bell. Ares gathered his armor. Hermes vanished in a blur to spy on the mortal planes. Hephaestus hammered divine harpoons. Artemis remained silent, but her arrows were already glowing with starlight.

Zeus stood atop the Sky Bastion, watching the sea churn miles below.

He clenched his hand, summoning his full power.

"If the Choir sings war," he said, "then Olympus shall reply in fire."

---

The Deep Stirring

Below them all, in a trench older than creation, something stirred.

It didn’t wake with violence.

It listened.

A million voices—sirens, drowned gods, mad kings—sang to it in layered notes of despair and longing. And it remembered.

Long ago, it had been sealed.

Long ago, it had been betrayed.

The choir called it by its true name.

> "N’aleth."

The ocean floor cracked.

The final verse of Lyrielle’s song echoed from the spire.

And the sea... began to open.

There were gods spoken of.

And there were gods buried.

But N’aleth had no shrines. No temples. No loyal priests. No name uttered in fear or worship. Not anymore.

He had been the first to claim the title of Sea Sovereign, long before Poseidon. Before the Titans carved Olympus. Before mortals walked on land.

His body was not bound by form—it was oceanic despair incarnate. His flesh was mist, his bones were tide, his veins were trench.

And now, as the song reached him through the layers of sealed depth and crusted time, his eye opened.

One. Then two.

They gleamed like void stars—black and endless.

From the very bottom of Thalorenn, the water began to swirl inward, not outward. The laws of nature reversed as currents bent like they were afraid.

N’aleth moved.

And the sea shuddered.

***

Lyrielle’s body shook. Not from fear, but from power. Her choir had gone silent, their voices used, spent, drifting into unconsciousness.

She stood alone at the edge of her spire, watching as the light above dimmed, and the ocean grew darker... not from shadow, but from presence.

She knelt.

> "You are heard," she whispered.

A voice—deeper than any she had summoned—replied not with words, but sensation.

Rage.

Memory.

Hunger.

It surged through her, rupturing veins, warping her spine briefly as power far beyond sirenic capacity flooded her vessel. Her scales shimmered with blasphemous brilliance, and her eyes bled ink.

She screamed—not in agony, but in completion.

Then she rose again, stronger than before.

> "Naerida... your time ends now."

---

Dominic’s Nightmare

Dominic’s dreams twisted into storms.

He saw himself drowning in a sea that had no floor. He sank through layers of time, watching himself die again and again—each version failing, collapsing under the weight of some unspoken doom.

At the deepest point, a voice met him.

> "You were never the first Poseidon."

He turned.

There was a throne of coral and teeth.

And on it sat a creature older than him. Its face, a cracked mirror of his own, yet devoid of hope. A crown of tidebones rested on its brow.

> "You are an echo."

Dominic’s soul shook. He reached for his trident—but it melted into salt.

The being rose.

> "I was the Sea before your gods knew thirst. My name is N’aleth. Remember it—before I reclaim everything."

Dominic gasped awake, drenched not in sweat, but seawater. His room cracked, his breath labored.

He fell to his knees.

And the trident beside him... began to rust.

Cut to Naerida’s palace

Naerida stood atop the crystal balcony of her palace. Her generals reported ocean-wide tremors. The tides were no longer answering prayers. Even the moon-pulled currents disobeyed gravity.

Something was replacing the sea’s will.

Her fingers trembled.

A lesser queen might have begged the gods. But Naerida? She walked into the war chamber and unsheathed the blade of Vareth—a relic from the time before Poseidon.

> "Evacuate the lower cities. Call every last House to arms. From the Glassfields to the Coral Maw, we fight."

Her closest war-captain, Alros, bowed. "Even if it’s a god?"

Naerida’s eyes burned with silver-blue fire.

> "Then we drown a god."

In oympus:

A tremor reached the foot of Olympus. Hades looked up from the River Lethe as its waters momentarily froze.

He stood.

"No..."

He vanished in a plume of obsidian smoke.

In the council of Olympus, the gods felt it too.

Athena turned to Zeus. "Something is rising from Thalorenn."

Zeus scowled. "Something?"

"No," Hermes corrected, appearing beside them. "Someone."

Ares clenched his fists. "Then we strike before it breathes the air."

Poseidon’s throne remained cold.

Because Poseidon was no longer present.

Only Dominic.

And even he... wasn’t sure if he still carried the sea’s crown.

The deep choir’s song reached its climax beneath the waves, echoed by a thousand twisted sirens—Lyrielle’s scattered legions.

The sea itself began to rise unnaturally. Not as a tide.

But like a wall.

Naerida’s warships strained to stay afloat. The sky grew dark—not from storm clouds, but from the sheer mass of water curling upward, revealing the hollow trench of Thalorenn.

From its center...

A claw.

Bigger than a fortress.

Followed by something far worse: a face not made for light.

N’aleth had begun to surface.

And with him... the final Song of Ruin.

It started not with thunder, nor wind.

But silence.

The kind of silence that sucked the breath out of even the deepest lungs. Creatures of the abyss paused. The leviathans slithered backward into fissures. Even the eternal glow of bioluminescent fish dimmed, as if unwilling to witness what was coming.

The sea turned black.

Not from soot. Not from magic.

But from fear.

A darkness bled through the ocean, not cast by shadow but birthed from the essence of N’aleth. The sea itself rebelled—warped, twisted, turned against the creatures it once nurtured.

Entire trenches collapsed under unseen weight. Coral fields shattered like porcelain.

The war for the seas had begun.

Lyrielle stood above the Whispering Spire, no longer trembling.

The power of the Deep Choir coiled around her spine like a serpent of song. Her once luminous scales had dulled, but not from weakness. From evolution. Her tail split into two wicked fins, giving her a form that could dance in war.

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