(3rd Person POV)
Following the controversial sale of the national relic Grand Whale, waves of protest erupted across the United States of Empirica—particularly in Franklindale, the city most tied to the ship's legacy.
On the streets outside Franklindale City Hall, crowds of citizens, many from the older generation and long-retired seamen, marched in anger. Hand-painted signs rose high as chants echoed across the square.
"We will not sell off the Grand Whale!"
"A nation without heritage is a ship without anchor!"
Meanwhile, in front of the Whale Line Heritage headquarters, dozens of company workers had joined the unrest. Some were off-duty engineers and retired staff who'd never even served aboard the Grand Whale—but all of them had grown up admiring it.
"I've loved that ship since I was a boy!" one gray-haired man shouted. "It's why I became a sailor. If this company sells it to a foreigner—worse, a demon—I'll curse the day I ever wore this uniform!"
"Yeah!" others roared in agreement. "No sale to Hellfire!"
Inside the building, behind soundproof glass, the boardroom sat in tense silence. The senior executives of Whale Line Heritage watched the crowd through tall windows, their expressions a mix of discomfort and fatigue.
"What should we do, boss?" one executive finally asked, his voice tight. "The backlash is real. People are furious…"
The man at the head of the table, an older gentleman with white hair and a finely tailored suit, didn't answer right away. His brown eyes reflected the storm outside.
"Of course they're furious," he said at last. "The Grand Whale is more than a ship. It's nostalgia. Memory. Childhood wonder for half the nation."
"Then… should we call off the sale?" another murmured, unsure.
The white-haired man slipped his hands into his pockets. "You all know it's not that simple."
He walked toward the window, voice steady. "The Grand Whale—yes, it was once a jewel of the fleet. But now? It's a relic. A monument of rust. The past can't fund the future."
Silence followed.
He turned to face the room. "For years, no one cared. People walked past it every day without even glancing up. Now, suddenly, everyone remembers it because of a headline?"
Some of the board members lowered their eyes, unable to argue.
"The ship barely breaks even," he continued. "No tourists. No bookings. We've done our best, but it's sinking slowly—figuratively. If Arthur Pendragon wants it for six million, we'd be fools not to take it."
"Only the old guard cares," he added, quieter now. "But times change. Bigger, faster, more efficient ships are already replacing her. The Grand Whale no longer sails the future… just the past."
A few moments passed in heavy quiet.
Then, one of the older executives, a man with shaking hands and watery eyes, wiped at his cheek.
"She deserved better," he whispered.
The others said nothing. Outside, the chants continued—louder than ever.
---
Two days had passed, yet the controversy surrounding the sale of the national relic—the Grand Whale—remained a burning topic across the United States of Empirica.
On Hellbook Forums, within the U.S.E. server, Empirican netizens debated fiercely. While only a fraction of the population had access to computers and the internet, the impact of their voices was still significant.
One post read: "Honestly, I'm glad Whale Line Heritage finally sold the Grand Whale. The ship was just rusting away. No maintenance, no tours—just nostalgia collecting dust."
Another replied: "Exactly. Everyone's acting like they suddenly care now. Where were they the last ten years when the ship was literally falling apart?"
"Let's be real—people only started caring after they found out it was a demon who bought it."
"Hypocrisy at its finest. They didn't care when it was rotting, but now that it's getting attention, they're waving flags like patriots."
While many on the forum supported the sale to Hellfire, those voices were met with fiery opposition from others.
"You people are unbelievable! The Grand Whale is a national treasure, not something to sell off to a foreign demon!"
"You know it'll be taken off public access soon, right? Hellfire's sealing it off in just a few days!"
The thread exploded into heated arguments—supporters of the deal clashing with loyalists who saw the ship as sacred.
Beyond the internet, the debate spilled into everyday life—echoing through living rooms, cafés, offices, and city parks. Families argued over dinner tables, coworkers clashed during lunch breaks. Some supported the sale, calling it practical. Others—especially the older generation—saw it as a deep betrayal.
Despite vocal support for Hellfire online, public sentiment on the streets told a different story: disapproval ran deep.
The Grand Whale, once overlooked and slowly fading into obscurity, had suddenly become the heart of a national divide.
---
The controversy had reached the ears of powerful people. At the headquarters of the Empirica Intelligence Agency—E.I.A.—Director Layton Hill sat in his office. An eighty-year-old man with white hair and sharp brown eyes, Layton was long past his prime, but he remained one of the few peak Supreme Mortals still active in the government.
His young assistant, Kaya, entered briskly with a notepad in hand. "Director, the media's stirring things up. They're accusing President-elect Paul Hennessy of coercing Whale Line Heritage into selling the Grand Whale to Arthur Pendragon." She glanced up. "There's pressure from the public. They want us to investigate."
Layton lazily picked at his ear and flicked the wax aside. "Kaya, you've been in this agency long enough. Presidents doing favors for businessmen? That's not news."
"But sir… it's the Grand Whale," she pressed, eyes narrowing.
"An old boat," Layton scoffed. "Romanticized relic. A glorified hunk of rust."
She frowned. "Still, there are whispers of corruption."
"Who isn't?" Layton laughed. He waved her off. "Come on, the guy sold a ship. It's not like he handed over national defense secrets. Honestly, I think that demon filmmaker overpaid—4.5 million for that relic? He's the one getting scammed."
Kaya blinked. "So you're not worried at all?"
Layton leaned back and sighed. "If Hennessy steps out of line—abuses power, sells military land, something like that—then I'll personally drag him to an impeachment trial. But this?" He shrugged. "Just noise. And Arthur Pendragon? Flashy, sure. But still just a filmmaker. Nothing to lose sleep over."
---
Meanwhile, at Liberty Port in the city of Franklindale, the Grand Whale stood docked—still and towering like a ghost of the past.
Dozens of onlookers stood along the shoreline, most of them aged between fifty and a hundred. Some wept silently. Their faces reflected memories long anchored to the ship.
Standing closest to the port were Ozias Storm, the white-haired owner of Whale Line Heritage, and his board of executives. Behind them were rows of sailors and the ship's captain. Many of these workers had opposed the sale—but with enough pressure from Ozias, they had fallen in line.
Now they waited for the arrival of the new owner: Arthur Pendragon.
Fifteen minutes passed. No sign of him.
The sailors whispered among themselves.
"Hmph. Looks like that demon filmmaker lost his nerve."
"Can you blame him? Look at those protesters…" One nodded toward the crowd gathered near the docks, holding up signs and chanting. "He's probably hiding in some hotel."
The captain remained silent but shared the same thought. Maybe Arthur had backed out.
Then, suddenly, a convoy of sleek black cars approached. The central vehicle came to a stop. The door opened—and to everyone's surprise, President-elect Paul Hennessy stepped out, drawing gasps from the crowd.
Moments later, Arthur Pendragon emerged from the same car, calm and poised. At his side walked Firfel, dressed in a flowing silver gown, her presence commanding.
More doors opened. Black-suited security agents stepped out, forming a perimeter.
The murmurs ceased. Tension shifted.
No one expected him to arrive with such force.
And just like that, the so-called demon had entered the battlefield—unafraid.
---
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