The sea is calm.
Too calm.
Not a ripple disturbs the glassy surface stretching to the horizon. Fishing boats drift without wind, nets hanging slack, crews half-asleep beneath the sun. It's an ordinary morning—so ordinary that no one notices what's missing.
No birds.
A boy on the edge of the largest boat squints at the water. He dips his hand in.
"Warm," he mutters. "Too warm."
Far below the surface, something moves.
The first sign isn't destruction.
It's weight.
The sea level drops by inches. Then feet. Water pulls inward, dragged toward a single unseen point. Anchors strain. Hulls groan. The boy stumbles as the deck tilts—not forward, not back, but down.
Someone laughs nervously.
"Is this a tide thing?"
Then the water splits.
Not violently.
Not explosively.
It opens.
A shape rises from beneath the sea, displacing kilometers of water with impossible slowness. Stone-like skin breaks the surface, etched with fractures that glow faintly blue-white, like distant stars trapped in rock.
A hand emerges first.
Each finger is the size of a tower.
The ocean pours off it like rain.
Silence spreads—not fear yet, not screaming. Just the primal quiet of something too large for the brain to label.
Then the rest of it surfaces.
The Titan Monarch.
Its body resembles a colossal humanoid carved from continental stone, its torso layered like tectonic plates. Mountains seem small by comparison. Gravity itself bends around it—clouds spiral inward, waves refuse to crash against its form.
It does not roar.
It does not look at the ships.
It simply stands, half-submerged, as if checking whether the world is still there.
On its chest, a symbol slowly rotates—an ancient mark known to scholars but never confirmed:
Aspect: Gravity
On the shore, alarms finally begin to scream.
Cities do not panic.
They mobilize.
Steel gates slide into place. Resonance towers hum to life. Evacuation routes open with practiced efficiency. No one calls it an attack.
They call it a Manifestation Event.
Observers rush to high ground, lenses unfolding from mechanical rigs. Scholars argue into radios.
"Mass displacement stable."
"No hostile motion detected."
"Gravitational compression at tolerable levels—barely."
A Warden clenches their fists.
"Why here…?"
No one answers.
Because the Titan does not appear to have a reason.
Near the docks, an old man kneels, pressing his forehead to the ground.
"It's been centuries," he whispers. "The world must be shifting again."
Behind him, a child stares at the Titan with wide eyes—not fear, not awe.
Wonder.
"Is it a god?" the child asks.
The old man shakes his head.
"No. Gods watch."
He looks up at the towering Monarch.
"This thing… exists."
The Titan takes a step.
The ground sinks.
Buildings tilt but do not fall—gravity bends, cushioning their descent unnaturally. The Titan's foot settles into the earth as if the planet itself is making room.
Still no aggression.
Still no acknowledgement of humanity.
It turns its head—not toward the city, not toward the sea—
But east.
Toward lands unmapped.
Toward something unseen.
High above, hidden beyond clouds warped into spirals, something else stirs.
A distant rumble echoes—not thunder, not an earthquake.
A response.
Somewhere in the vast unknown, another Monarch has felt the shift.
The chapter ends on a single panel:
The Titan Monarch standing between sea and land, motionless, ancient, patient.
And a caption beneath it:
"When a Monarch moves, the world listens."