Chapter 2: The Sunlit Blade

The massive waves blot out the sun, plunging the sky into darkness.

The air turns cold, salty, and electric—like the moments before a Nor’easter slams into the coast. Some people cry, some collapse, some kneel and pray, but no one runs.

We all know, with a tsunami this size, it could swallow all of Boston, maybe even all of Massachusetts. What’s the point of running?

There’s a strange, silent resignation in the crowd, like the city itself is holding its breath, waiting for the end.

Just as despair sets in—

A golden light bursts from the old Trinity Church downtown. Within it stands a woman in white, tall and unyielding, her gaze fierce.

Her silhouette is backlit by stained glass, the gold radiance haloing her like something straight out of a legend. The sight roots us in place, hope flickering in the darkness.

"On American soil, evil spirits are forbidden!"

Her furious shout rings out like a great bell, stirring something deep inside me.

It’s a voice that shakes you to your core—commanding, righteous, the kind of voice you’d follow into battle. Goosebumps rise on my arms.

"That... that’s Evelyn White, isn’t it?"

"Am I dreaming?"

"Is this a movie? No, even a movie couldn’t make it feel this real."

People around me whisper in awe, some with tears streaming down their cheeks. It feels like the Fourth of July and Judgment Day rolled into one—fireworks, American flags snapping in the wind, the smell of grilled hot dogs and a heaviness that presses on your soul.

Her plain clothes billow, her wrist flicks, and a pale gold sword appears in her palm. She transforms into a streak of light, charging straight for the waves.

The sword glows like a second sunrise, its edge catching every drop of rain. The crowd gasps as she takes flight, a comet against the storm.

"That’s the Sunlit Blade! She really is Evelyn White."

I recognize the sword. My mind is a mess—I can barely tell reality from fantasy—but seeing Evelyn gives me hope.

Somewhere deep down, I remember bedtime stories of her—protector of the land, slayer of monsters. My chest tightens with something like pride.

Evelyn holds the sword horizontally in front of her chest with her right hand; her left middle and index fingers stand upright, thumb pressing her ring and pinky fingers.

The gesture is precise, ritualistic—almost like an old-school pledge or oath. The air around her hums, charged with unseen energy.

She chants a sword incantation: "Still!"

The word isn’t loud, but it forces the monstrous waves to a halt, freezing them in place.

Time itself seems to pause. The waves hang, suspended, like glass sculptures against the sky. The crowd breaks into stunned murmurs.

"Scatter!"

Her command takes effect; the giant waves instantly shatter, seawater spraying everywhere. Rain pours from the sky, but it’s no longer a threat.

A collective gasp rises as the threat dissolves into harmless rain. Some people laugh, some sob, hugging whoever’s closest. The sense of relief is dizzying.

As the waves recede, a burly man with a thick beard and hair stands atop the sea.

He’s bare-chested, covered in strange tattoos, holding a trident, sneering at Evelyn.

The guy looks like he walked straight out of a myth—biceps the size of hams, tattoos swirling like storm clouds, eyes cold as the Atlantic.

Behind him stands a stunningly beautiful woman—her figure alluring, but her head is a writhing mass of green snakes.

Her beauty is hypnotic, terrifying. The snakes hiss and snap, their scales glinting in the pale light. She meets Evelyn’s gaze with a chilling smile.

"Poseidon, Medusa!"

The names slip from someone’s lips, almost reverent, almost afraid. The stories are true. The gods are real, and they’re here.

The man speaks: "Leave or die."

His voice is thunder—deep, ancient, shaking the windows. The threat hangs in the air like a challenge thrown at all of us.

"You picked the wrong country, pal! God of Sinful Lands, you dare threaten America?"

Evelyn is fearless. The Sunlit Blade dances; nine water columns shoot skyward, transforming into nine white serpents that dart at Poseidon.

The sword moves with impossible speed, drawing arcs of light. The serpents coil and strike, hissing as they fly. People cheer, fists pumping in the air.

Poseidon swings his trident, conjuring another wave with overwhelming force, smashing toward the coast.

The sea churns like a beast unleashed. The ground vibrates under our feet. I grip the nearest lamppost, knuckles white.

The sky darkens again.

Clouds roil, lightning cracks. It’s like the end of the world, but we’re too stunned to run.

This wave is even bigger than the last.

Evelyn frowns; a faint blue barrier appears before her. In an instant, the nine white serpents are destroyed, and the giant wave crashes into the blue shield.

The thunderous roar is deafening. As the wave shatters, Evelyn is hurled hundreds of feet back. She endures, but spits out a mouthful of blood.

The sight of blood on her lips shocks the crowd into silence. Hope flickers, but she doesn’t fall. She wipes her mouth and steadies herself, defiant.

The wave is broken, but the sky remains gloomy.

On the horizon, wave after wave rises, threatening to turn Boston into a vast ocean.

The city seems so small now, dwarfed by ancient power. People cling to each other, searching the sky for more heroes.

Evelyn stomps hard in midair and again flies rapidly toward the waves. Her slender white figure, dwarfed by the waves, displays admirable courage.

Her silhouette blazes like a beacon. Kids point and cheer, parents whisper prayers. For a moment, Boston’s fate hangs on her alone.

"Evelyn White, she’s protecting us."

"Can she protect us? She just coughed up blood."

"She can—she’s an immortal."

I ignore the chatter, only wondering if this all relates to the stone soldiers opening their eyes.

A knot of dread tightens in my stomach. The world’s gone mad, and I’m just trying to keep up.

Evelyn pauses in midair; someone grabs her shoulder from behind.

I squint, trying to make out the figure.

Human face, serpent body, a mane of flaming red hair, holding a long halberd shaped more like a staff.

The creature’s eyes burn with wild intelligence, scales shimmering in the rain. The halberd looks forged from riverbed iron and ancient lightning.

"I am Leviathan. I arrived late."

Leviathan! The water demon from the old legends—sometimes called the beast of the deep in American folklore, whispered about in sailor’s tales.

His name rolls off the tongue like a curse and a promise. The air feels heavier, charged with something older than the city itself.

I pinch myself hard. Ouch—this isn’t a dream.

Mythical figures have come alive.

I half expect to wake up in my bed, but the pain is real, the world is real. This is happening.

Leviathan waves his halberd; the towering waves instantly calm, obedient as children.

The ocean flattens like a pond in summer, every drop answering to him. The power is staggering, and the crowd stares in awe.

"With water skills like that, you dare call yourself a sea god?" Leviathan steps forward, crossing a hundred feet in a single stride to stand before Poseidon. "I’ll take care of him, you handle the woman."

He speaks with a confidence that makes you believe he could part the Red Sea if he felt like it.

As soon as he finishes, Leviathan punches Poseidon into the deep sea. Countless waves boil, transforming into swords that shoot into the void left by Poseidon's impact.

The sea erupts with violence. The sound alone shakes the windows. It’s like watching the Super Bowl and the apocalypse at the same time.

Leviathan dives in after him, vanishing beneath the waves.

Only his bold roar echoes over Boston: "Petty gnats, you dare threaten America? Have you forgotten how you were beaten last time?"

The city cheers, hope surging. Some folks start chanting, "USA! USA!" as if it’s the Fourth of July.

Evelyn isn’t idle—her sword forces Medusa into constant retreat.

If not for Medusa’s petrification powers slowing Evelyn’s movements, she would have been skewered long ago.

Medusa hisses, her snakes lashing. Evelyn moves with careful precision, never meeting Medusa’s gaze directly. The tension is electric.