The waves crashed endlessly against the jagged rocks of the deserted island, their roar like the breath of some colossal creature. Seabirds circled overhead, their shrill cries mingling with the sound of the wind as Earthquake stirred from his unconscious state. His vision blurred for a moment, then slowly sharpened to reveal a bleak shoreline under a cloudy sky. Seaweed clung to his arms and legs. He coughed, spitting out a mouthful of seawater, and sat up slowly. His body ached—not from injuries, but from the weight of what had happened before.
Fragments of memory returned: the final mission, the swirling dimensional rift, Boboiboy's last gaze, the desperate struggle of the elements to stay united. And then, that quiet moment when their unified self had smiled, letting go, accepting that separation was inevitable. The promise had been simple but powerful: live your own lives. Earthquake clenched his fist, feeling the pulse of Crystal power—immense, dense, and unwavering—still flowing inside him. He was not lost, not powerless. His name was no longer just "Earthquake." Not yet. But it would be.
He got to his feet and scanned the island. It was small, barely more than a rocky outcrop with a few patches of jungle and sand. He wandered inland, barefoot, his mind analyzing every detail as if to anchor himself to this new reality. The place was silent except for the cries of seabirds and the wind rustling the leaves. He felt strangely alone—not in the way of being physically isolated, but in the sense that for the first time, he was a single being, not a part of something greater. It was both terrifying and liberating.
As he walked along the edge of a small jungle clearing, he noticed something half-buried in the sand. A skeletal hand, thin and white like bleached coral, stretched toward the sky as if frozen mid-plea. He knelt beside it and brushed away the sand. A sailor's skeleton lay there, partially decomposed, wearing the tattered remains of what must have been a uniform. Beside it lay a waterproof container, battered but intact. Inside, surprisingly well-preserved, was a faded diary.
He sat under a nearby tree, opened the diary, and began to read.
The entries were written in a hurried, shaky hand. They spoke of rising seas, melting ice caps, the collapse of coastal cities, and eventually the formation of massive floating structures called "Arkworlds." These ships were meant to house humanity after the ocean swallowed the continents around the year 3000. But the world aboard these Arkworlds was anything but equal. The upper levels were havens of luxury, technology, and power, while the lower levels became dangerous slums where survival was earned through sweat and blood. People dove into the deep seas, hunting colossal sea creatures and mining rare resources to sustain the ships. Those who failed, or who were infected by mysterious ocean-borne diseases, were cast off onto deserted islands like the one he now stood on.
The sailor's last entries grew weaker, as if his strength had faded with each word. He wrote of a failed attempt to return to the Arkworld after being infected, and of watching the ship disappear over the horizon. His last line was scrawled in trembling ink: "May whoever finds this remember me. My name was Samuel Brenner."
Earthquake closed the diary slowly, his expression hardening. There was something sacred about these last words. He dug a shallow grave in the sand with his hands and carefully laid the skeleton to rest, covering it with stones and marking it with driftwood. It felt right. A new world, a forgotten man, and a silent vow. He whispered, "Rest well, Samuel. I'll remember."
As he stood by the grave, the sound of distant engines reached his ears. He turned to the horizon. A massive silhouette was approaching through the mist. It was like nothing he had ever seen: a titanic structure gliding across the ocean, its lower hull armored like a fortress, its upper decks resembling a floating city. Lights gleamed from its towers. Arkworld AW-03.
A plan formed in his mind almost instantly. This ship was his doorway into this world. If he was to live his own life, to find purpose here, this was where it would begin.
When night fell, the Arkworld drew closer, scanning the island with spotlights. Earthquake waited, crouched among the rocks. A search team descended onto the shore in small hovercraft, combing for survivors. When they found him, the only one in the island, they prepared to leave.
Once aboard, it was surprisingly easy to blend in. The medical staff ran standard health scans for infection. His body, enhanced by Crystal power, passed without suspicion. He was registered as a survivor and sent down to Area B-07, one of the lower civilian decks.
The moment he entered the bustling, rust-colored corridors of B-07, he was assaulted by the noise and chaos of a cramped community. Families huddled around dim lights. Children played in narrow alleys. Traders hawked food, tools, and scavenged goods. The smell of machine oil and saltwater was everywhere. It was harsh, but it was alive.
He wandered for hours, absorbing every detail. There were fights, deals, songs, and laughter—humanity persisting in the depths of the ocean. And then he heard it: a crowd cheering from the upper deck. Curious, he followed the noise until he found himself on a wide open deck area transformed into a fighting ring. Dozens of people crowded around, yelling and placing bets.
In the center of the ring stood a girl, maybe a year or two younger than him. She had short, windswept black hair, piercing eyes, and a lean, muscular build. Around her lay several men in expensive suits, groaning and unconscious. The crowd roared her name—Tiama. Rumor spread quickly among the spectators: she had only been on the ship for a few weeks but had already defeated many upper-deck challengers, earning the right to move to the higher levels. She was strong. Strong enough to catch his attention.
But what truly made him pause was the aura she radiated. Beneath the surface of her movements, he sensed it clearly—the resonance of Crystal power, like his own, solid and sharp, echoing through the air as if the earth itself acknowledged her.
As he stared at her, she turned, perhaps sensing his gaze. Their eyes met across the noisy deck, and in that instant, it was as if time slowed. Two elemental forces, once part of the same whole, now strangers meeting for the first time in a foreign world. They didn't know each other, but something deep inside them recognized the other.
The moment was shattered by a loud, arrogant voice. "Tiama!" A group of well-dressed thugs pushed through the crowd, led by a tall, blond man with an expensive coat and a cruel smile. Edward. He was the pampered son of one of the upper-deck lords, infamous for his collection of wives and his abuse of power.
"You've caused me enough embarrassment," Edward sneered, pointing directly at Gaiard. "And you—new face. Watch where you stare. People like you don't last long if you cross me."
Gaiard didn't answer. He simply smiled—a slow, knowing smile—and walked toward Edward. The crowd gasped. Before Edward could react, Gaiard's fist shot out like a hammer, coated in invisible crystalline force. The punch connected with Edward's face with a sickening crack, sending him sprawling backward. Blood spurted from his broken nose, and a few of his teeth scattered on the deck.
The crowd exploded into chaos. Edward's guards rushed forward, drawing weapons. Tiama, moving swiftly, grabbed Gaiard's arm. "No time," she hissed, dragging him away from the ring. He didn't resist. They dashed through narrow maintenance corridors as shouts and alarms followed them.
But Edward's men were relentless. They knew the ship's layout better than the newcomers. At the stern of the ship, in a wide-open cargo platform overlooking the endless ocean, the pursuers finally surrounded them. Tiama and Gaiard skidded to a halt, their backs to the railings. The moonlight glimmered on the water below, casting their figures in stark relief.
"Well," Tiama muttered, glancing at him. "Looks like we're in this together, stranger."
Gaiard cracked his knuckles, crystalline energy beginning to shimmer faintly around his arms like translucent armor. "Seems so."
The thugs advanced, sneering, confident in their numbers. But what they didn't realize was that they were facing two beings forged in the fires of cosmic battles, their powers simmering just beneath human façades.
Side by side, they took their fighting stances. Tiama's posture was fluid and sharp, like a dancer poised to strike. Gaiard's stance was solid, grounded, unyielding. For a brief second, their eyes met again—no words, just a silent acknowledgment. Two warriors, ready.
The air was tense, heavy with the promise of violence. The first thug shouted and charged.
Gaiard smiled. "Let's make this quick."
And together, they moved.