Chapter 1: The King Falls

The Leviathan King of the Atlantic was dead.

A sea monster's corpse, as massive as a mountain, crashed violently from the sky, sending waves soaring to the heavens.

Salt spray mingled with the briny wind, the kind that chills your bones even in midsummer. Off the Jersey shore, fishermen on battered trawlers stared, slack-jawed, at the unnatural tidal wave rising like a watery skyscraper. Just this morning, one old captain had been cursing the price of diesel and worrying about his daughter's college fund—now, the world had turned upside down. Some dropped their cell phones straight into the deck's puddles, instinctively crossing themselves or muttering a prayer to whatever old gods might still be listening.

Jupiter stood with his hands clasped behind his back, his eyes full of disdain. He cracked his knuckles, lightning dancing between his fingers, as if daring the clouds to come closer. "Just a giant eel—and it dares to call itself a real sea monster?"

His voice echoed through the clouds, crackling with the static of a Midwestern thunderstorm. The Atlantic wind whipped his white hair back, and even the storm itself seemed to step aside. There was no awe in his tone, just the cold superiority of a quarterback watching a rival team fumble at the one-yard line.

At that moment, countless news alerts swept across the world like a blizzard of notifications.

Phones vibrated in pockets from Times Square to Tokyo, screens flashing: breaking news banners, talking heads going pale. Twitter feeds blew up with hashtags like #LeviathanDown and #OlympianClash, memes and panic in equal measure. Texts shot across the country: "Yo, did you see that wave? #LeviathanDown" and "My grandma says the sea’s angry. Should we get out of town?"

"The Leviathan King of the Atlantic was slain by a single lightning bolt from Jupiter, King of the Olympian gods. Has the Atlantic pantheon fallen into decline?"

Cable news anchors struggled to keep up, while late-night comedians already sharpened their monologues. Some folks in New Orleans lit candles at St. Louis Cathedral, while others in Miami posted blurry beach videos, swearing they'd seen something impossible breaching the surf.

"The divine war sparked by the Leviathan King has brought immense suffering to countless coastal cities. Should the Atlantic gods be held responsible?"

Editorials argued through the night. Neighborhood forums buzzed: was it God’s wrath, or just another disaster like the rest? City officials from Boston to Charleston braced for the next crisis, old rituals and new codes overlapping in the cold glow of emergency alerts.

"In response, the Pacific pantheon has issued a statement: Western sea monsters are the true lineage, and they hope the Atlantic gods will accept reality."

Out in Seattle, a radio DJ cracked, "Well, at least our monsters know how to keep it classy," and the whole city chuckled, half-nervous, half-proud, as if rooting for a hometown team during a Super Bowl nobody wanted.