Poseidon's POV
Mount Olympus – Throne Hall of the Twelve
The skies above Olympus remained unnaturally still. No thunder rolled. No divine aura shimmered across the mountaintop. It was as though even the heavens had chosen to mourn in silence.
As I made my way toward the main hall, I took in the sight around me—a place once so vibrant, so radiant with divine splendor. Now it stood faded, stripped of its former luster. The walls that once echoed with power now seemed to sigh with despair.
Entering the throne room, I found Zeus seated on his throne like a statue—motionless, unreadable. His expression revealed nothing. Not anger. Not sorrow. Just silence, like the sky above us. I took my seat beside him without a word.
Apollo sat slouched on the steps leading to the thrones. His once-golden hair hung in tangled strands, and his eyes were dull, void of the light they once held. A cracked lyre rested lifeless in his lap. His chariot—his symbol of dominion over the sun—had been obliterated during the retreat. The sun god had fallen, not to a legendary foe, but to a nameless weapon spoken of only in hushed terror. A relic of power beyond even our comprehension.
Farther down the hall, Ares paced like a caged beast. His crimson armor bore the scars of war—dented, scorched, smeared with ichor. He muttered curses beneath his breath, his fury simmering beneath the surface. Yet even in his anger, he looked less like the god of war and more like a soldier confronted with his own helplessness.
Hera sat beside Zeus, stripped of her usual grace. Her posture was slouched, her face drained of all resolve. The queen of Olympus looked like someone who had lost faith—not just in others, but in herself. And for once, I could not find it in me to blame her.
Then there were Hermes, Dionysus, Artemis, and Aphrodite—moving throughout the palace like restless shadows. The four of them dashed between halls and chambers, ensuring no whispers of rebellion stirred among the lesser gods and spirits. Their movements were hurried, purposeful, yet desperate—like patching leaks in a sinking ship.
And Hades… he was not here. Nor was Athena. Both had been captured by the Hindu pantheon during the war, their fates uncertain. Only Hestia and Hephaestus had yet to arrive, likely delayed by the chaos still unfolding across the outer realms.
We had been reduced to fragments. We were no longer gods basking in glory.
We were survivors, gathering in the ruins of our pride.
This scene reminded me of the past—of the times when the Red Guardian rebelled, and when Jesus himself marched into our realm. Both of them had wrought devastation upon Olympus, scarring our land so deeply that even now, the divine fabric of our world remains unstable. Their names linger like echoes in a broken temple, reminders of how vulnerable we truly are.
As I stood lost in those thoughts, the great doors creaked open once more. Two figures stepped into the hall—Hestia and Hephaestus.
Hestia moved with her usual calm grace, the warmth of her presence offering a fleeting comfort amidst the cold despair that clung to the room. Beside her, Hephaestus walked with a heavy stride, his frame burdened not just by metal and fire, but by the weight of unspoken history.
The moment I saw them, I also noticed Hera shift in her seat—visibly stiffening at the sight of her son. Her reaction was subtle, but not to me. I had seen it too many times before. Every time Hephaestus entered her presence, something in her faltered.
I chose to ignore it. That rift between them was old and deep, forged long before Hephaestus rejoined our ranks. It was not mine to mend. It something they have mended themselves.
Today, we had greater wounds to tend.
As the two took their seats, I saw Zeus stir for the first time today.
Then, with a voice more gravel than thunder, he finally spoke.
"Before I begin… does anyone wish to speak? Or ask anything?"
A heavy silence followed, thick with unspoken thoughts. It hung in the air like fog—damp, suffocating. Then Hestia's voice broke through, steady and calm, but not without weight.
"Why aren't Hermes, Artemis, Aphrodite, and Dionysus here for this meeting?"
Zeus exhaled slowly, the breath seeming to drag his entire frame down with it. "They're scattered across the realm," he replied, his tone flat, devoid of the divine command it once held. "Running damage control. Preventing chaos. Putting out fires—both literal and political."
He said no more. He didn't need to. The absence of four Olympians in a meeting of crisis spoke louder than thunder.
But then he turned to Hestia, his storm-gray eyes locking onto hers—not with anger, but with something more tired. Older. Wounded.
"Why ask me that, Hestia?" he said quietly. "You already know the answer."
The room went still. Even Ares stopped pacing.
Hestia held his gaze, unfaltering. But I saw it—a flicker of something in her eyes. Not fear. Not doubt. Sadness.
"I do know," she said softly. "But I needed to hear you admit it."
Her eyes swept across the hall, taking in the sight of gods who once ruled with fire and glory—now diminished, scarred, tired. "We're falling apart, Zeus. And no one is saying it aloud. They're out there—Hermes, Artemis, Aphrodite, Dionysus—plugging holes in a sinking ship. But we feel it. All of us. The world doesn't believe in us anymore. And without belief, we fade."
Zeus closed his eyes. The silence that followed felt like an eternity.
"I feared this day would come," he murmured. "Not the day we were defeated in battle… but the day we were forgotten."
His voice dropped, lower than I'd ever heard it.
"You wanted me to say it, so here it is: We are dying. Not in flesh. But in spirit. In relevance. The world moves on, and it no longer moves with us."
No one spoke. There was no comfort to offer.
Only the cold, quiet grief of gods who had once ruled the world—and now stood at the edge of its memory.
"But Hestia," Zeus said, a flicker of hope igniting in his voice, "we still have a chance to reclaim our former glory."
The hall turned toward him in unison. All eyes locked onto the King of Olympus—not with reverence, but with quiet disbelief. For a moment, it felt like we were staring at a madman.
I furrowed my brows and stepped forward, my voice low and skeptical. "Brother… what makes you believe that? Let's not pretend we're blind to the truth. The only reason we're still relevant is because of Nyx and Hades. And Hades… was captured."
Zeus turned his gaze to me, his eyes steady and unblinking. There was no anger in them—only resolve.
"Poseidon," he said, his voice calm but unwavering, "did you truly think the leaders of every faction joined Ophis' army just for loot? For the thrill of war?"
That gave me pause. Now that he said it, it had seemed strange. Every pantheon had sent their best—gods, dragons, sacred beasts. Not a token force, but their true champions.
Zeus let the silence stretch, letting the weight of his words settle over us like mist. Then, slowly, deliberately, he spoke again.
"Ophis offered each faction one thing—anything they desired. And she would grant it."
His voice grew quieter, but it cut deeper.
"Do you know what I asked her for?"
The room held its breath.
"I asked her to restore our realm's connection to Greece and Rome. To awaken the old lines. To bridge Olympus once more with the hearts of our ancient cities."
A stillness deeper than silence settled over the chamber. Not even Ares moved. Zeus' words didn't carry thunder this time. They carried faith.
And for the first time in an age… a glimmer of belief stirred in the hearts of gods long forgotten.
Great Red – Dimensional Gap
In the endless, colorless void of the Dimensional Gap, I drifted without purpose, as I often did. Time had no meaning here. Thought flowed like mist. Silence reigned.
But then—I sensed it. A presence. His presence.
I shifted through the shapeless realm until I reached him. He stood unbothered by the void's weight, as though it were his second home.
The Red Guardian. Or, more precisely… Shirou Emiya.
Seeing him here, of all places, stirred something in me.
"Why are you here, Red Guardian?" I asked, my voice echoing through the silence. "Or should I call you Shirou Emiya?"
He didn't flinch at the name. "You already know why I'm here."
I narrowed my gaze. "The Otherworlders—the ones who manipulated Ophis and sparked the war."
My tone sharpened. Even in this desolate place, that subject carried weight.
Otherworlders… pawns of the Outer Gods. They called them 'heroes'—champions blessed with divine power, knowledge, and weapons beyond mortal comprehension. But we knew better. They were vessels. Parasites. Sent to weaken realms from the inside until nothing remained but a husk.
Long ago, they were easy to spot. Now, they blended in—hiding their corruption until it was too late. Patna, Gaia, and countless other worlds had suffered the consequences.
To fight them, alliances had been formed. Not political ones—but survival pacts between realms. We exchanged guardians, merged consciousnesses, created echoes of ourselves across dimensions. That's how I existed in two places at once—splitting my awareness between the Gap and the vessel given to me on another world.
The same was true for the one in front of me.
"You should know I cannot interfere with the inheritance of a world as I please," I said evenly.
Emiya didn't flinch. "I'm not asking for direct interference. I just need you to… nudge a few minds. Subtle manipulations. Enough to stop another war from erupting before the EXE invasion begins."
His logic was sound. We couldn't afford internal chaos when a threat beyond comprehension loomed over us all.
"Your plan is solid," I admitted. "If everything aligns, we might forge an army capable of resisting the EXE."
But then my expression darkened.
"You're forgetting something—the Otherworlders. They've evolved. The Outer Gods aren't just sending broken souls anymore. They're sending weapons. Intelligent. Calculating. Ruthless."
"I haven't forgotten," emiya replied, his tone sharpening. "They come cloaked in blessings and promises. Powers and artifacts that make them look like saviors. But they're not. They're parasites in human skin. Trojan horses made to dominate and hollow out every world they enter. And when that world is weak enough…"
"They invade," I finished grimly.
We stood in silence, surrounded by the whispers of ruined worlds, lost civilizations, and fallen gods.
Then, slowly, a savage grin curled across my face.
"Yes… but we'll make sure our home survives," I said with dark resolve. " tell me—what about the champions of this world? What's your plan for them?"
He turned to me. "The same one we crafted with Yahweh and Shiva."
"Issei, Vali, Saji, Dulio, Roseweisse, Cao Cao, Sairaorg… they're the only ones who'll receive our training. The rest haven't shown the potential we need."
I nodded slowly. "And Solomon? Will he be reincarnated?"
"I don't know," he admitted. "That part remains uncertain."
A breath escaped me—frustration laced in it. "Damn… Just thinking about it is depressing. Most of them haven't even been born yet. We only see their potential because the world shows us glimpses of what might come."
Then a memory surfaced. "You knew Solomon, didn't you? Back in Chaldea?"
"We spent time together, yes," he said after a pause. "But we weren't friends. Acquaintances, at best."
I sighed again, heavier this time. "We need him. No matter how much we plan, there are always holes—flaws we miss. Solomon could see them all. He was a strategist unlike any other."
He didn't argue. He didn't need to.
"Yahweh is dead… at least in this world. And Shiva, while powerful, is a force of nature—a deterrent. A leader, yes, but not a planner. Solomon… he was different. He didn't just see battles—he saw the threads behind them. The consequences. The traps."
Silence fell once more, heavier than before.
And we both knew the truth:
Without Solomon, we were building a dam with cracks we couldn't see.
And if it broke… the flood would consume everything.