Godzilla: The Monarch of Ruins

───「 Human POV 」───

"Mr. Takahashi, this is the casualty report up until now."

"Thank you for your hard work, Mr. Yaro."

"Mr. Takahashi," another voice chimed in, "here are the reports on building damage and evaluations of nuclear radiation intensity. The situation in the southern city district... is not optimistic."

"Hm. Hand me the data. You should take a rest, Zhang."

"Mr. Takahashi," yet another voice called, more frantic this time, "the senator is asking for you! And, Mr. Takahashi... your wife will definitely be fine!"

Takahashi paused for a fraction of a second, his fingers brushing the rim of his glasses before setting them firmly on the bridge of his nose. "I understand. Thank you for your wishes. I'll head there shortly."

The voices kept coming.

"Mr. Takahashi, what time is the press conference scheduled for today?"

"2 PM," he answered briskly. "Also, send this disaster report to General Arita. You can all leave after that. It's already late."

The silence that followed was weighted. "It's no problem, sir," came a soft reply. "How could we possibly leave today? And, sir... if anyone needs a proper rest, it's you. You've been—well, let's just say you're running on fumes."

March 17, 2208, 4:00 AM

The Hokkaido Government Hall was ablaze with light, casting sharp shadows against the walls. The building, meant to close at 7 PM, had become a hive of ceaseless activity. Fatigue hung thick in the air, yet not a single person faltered.

The reports kept coming in like relentless waves.

"Population survey for the North City district complete. 8,720 deaths and 12,321 missing persons..."

"The tally of affected buildings is finalized. Total: 1,450 completely destroyed, 53,191 contaminated by nuclear radiation..."

Despite 14 hours of non-stop work, no one grumbled. No one stopped. Each passing minute might mean the difference between life and death for someone out there.

"Severely affected areas with a high probability of survivors are here, here, and here. Planning team, we need the fastest rescue routes. We apologize for keeping you all up tonight."

A man's voice boomed in response. "Takahashi, what are you talking about? As the Minister of Emergency Management, you've been through the wringer more than anyone. Don't worry about us. We've got it handled."

After ending the live feed, Hideo Takahashi shuffled out of the projection room. The hallway bustled around him, a frenetic river of urgency, but Takahashi moved like a man dragging an invisible weight. His every step seemed heavier, his every breath a reminder of how little time he had.

Stepping into the elevator, he leaned against the wall, his hand briefly covering his eyes.

"Floor?" the operator asked.

"Top floor, conference room. Thank you."

The top-floor conference room loomed ahead, a grim beacon of responsibility. Takahashi pushed the heavy door open, stepping into a room steeped in tension.

"Takahashi-kun," said a stern voice, "you're the last to arrive. Cutting it a bit close."

"Apologies," he murmured, bowing slightly before slipping into an empty seat. His gaze snapped to the center of the round table, where three-dimensional projections shimmered with eerie precision.

The countdown below the projections ticked closer to zero. 5... 4... 3...

The room fell deathly silent.

As the countdown ended, the holograms flickered to life. They moved with a precision that mirrored the high-stakes tension in the room. Their voices were crisp and authoritative.

"Senator Amano," began one projection, "the committee has decided to halt all trade in Hokkaido's northern port area, designating it as a rest and refit zone for the Indian Ocean Fleet. This will remain in effect until the creature is neutralized."

Another figure, clad in the uniform of a fleet commander, spoke next. "Generals Luo and Alexei, prepare the port for docking. The fleet will arrive at 20:00. All vessels currently docked must be relocated to Tokyo, Osaka, and Busan immediately."

The orders came rapid-fire, detailing logistics, coordination, and the combined effort needed to manage the crisis. Each directive felt like a puzzle piece being slotted into place.

When the meeting ended, Takahashi barely had time to process the tidal wave of information. He rose from his seat, offering a brief nod to the other attendees before heading straight to his next task.

Three hours later, he was in the backseat of a government vehicle, its tires slicing through rain-slick streets as it sped toward Gravadamoni. The city was a maze of devastation, and he was on-site to oversee the arrival of rescue teams and direct operations personally.

Takahashi glanced at his phone, where a family photo was set as his wallpaper. Three smiling faces stared back at him, their joy frozen in time beneath the words:

"A family never separates."

He clenched his fist, his chest tightening. The image brought him a fleeting sense of hope and crushing dread all at once. His wife and child had been in the southern district when the disaster struck. He had received no news of them yet, and the uncertainty gnawed at his resolve.

As the vehicle approached the airport, Takahashi rolled down the window slightly, letting in the brisk night air. The smell of rain mingled with the acrid tang of smoke. The sky was dark, but the horizon glowed faintly with the headlights of incoming rescue convoys.

"Sir," said his driver, breaking the silence. "The first team is five minutes out."

"Good," Takahashi replied, straightening in his seat. "We'll need every hand we can get."

The car pulled up to the makeshift command center, a flurry of activity as volunteers and officials worked tirelessly to coordinate the relief effort. Takahashi stepped out, pulling his coat tighter against the chill.

He spent the next several hours directing operations, delegating tasks, and ensuring resources were distributed effectively. Every moment felt like walking a tightrope—one misstep, and lives would be lost.