Reincarnated with the Country System

Atlantic Sea Empire

Beneath the crushing weight of ten thousand fathoms, where light could not follow and time seemed to bend, there thrived an empire built not upon land—but upon the bones of the sea.

This was the Atlantic Sea Empire, a nation unlike any other.

Spanning nearly 90 million square kilometers beneath the ocean, the Empire's coral cities and abyssal fortresses stretched across trenches and seamounts, woven into the very bones of the ocean floor.

Its people—the Thalassari, a race of aquatic humanoids with gilled necks, bioluminescent skin, and eyes adapted to the deep—had ruled the seas for millennia. They were the fifth most powerful nation on the planet.

The empire's history stretched so far back that most surface civilizations treated it with mythic reverence. But those who understood the balance of power knew better. The Atlanticans were not legends. They were fact.

♦♦♦

A battle raged near the Sunken Citadel, where the Eldest Evil Tzeriel had been bound long ago.

BOOM-WHOOMPF!

Dark shapes surged through the water—twisted abominations that had once been sharks, whales, and squids. Now, they were mockeries of life, puppets hollowed by void-touched madness. Their forms shifted constantly, sprouting writhing limbs and unnatural mouths. Eyes bled voidlight, and their presence unstitched the currents around them.

KRRRRAAAA-SSHHHHHH!

SCREEEEEEEEECHHHH!

"Sons of Tzeriel," spat a Thalassari Sentinel, voice carried by resonant shells attached to his throat. "They've returned."

The Thalassari Sentinels fought with tridents of charged pearl and hydromantic spears. Arcane torpedoes fired from mounted sea-dragons.

CH-CH-CH-CHOOOOM!

"HYAAA!" (Thalassari war cries ripple through pressure-magic)

Sorcerers chanted liturgies that boiled the blood of lesser beasts.

THU-THU-THU-THUMP!

GLOOSH!

But it was like trying to hold back a flood with a net.

"They've breached the fourth ring!" a scout cried. The announcement echoed through the water, magic amplifying the vibration across the defensive wardlines.

High General Vehron, armored in obsidian scaleplate lined with glowing runes, hovered on a ridge above the carnage. From here he saw the horror spreading—a tide of corruption seeking the very heart of the prison that had held back the Eldest Evil Tzeriel for over 10 thousand years.

"Fall back!" Vehron barked, his voice ringing through resonant magic. "To the Leviathan Circle! We hold them there!"

A officer hesitated. "But the Circle is half-collapsed—open on the western flank!"

"I know!" Vehron snapped.

CRACK-BOOM! (far trench collapses in background)

His eyes flared with bioluminescent intensity. "But it's the last point between them and the seal. We fight where the gods chained the beast. There is no other ground to give."

They obeyed. For there was no time left.

And then—the sea began to part.

A pulse of ancient power rippled through the deep. The trenches quaked. Bioluminescent flora dimmed. Even the corrupted beasts paused in dread.

A shape emerged from the abyss. A man-shaped figure cloaked in a robe of moving waves, crowned with a circlet of seaglass and gold coral. He was tall—taller than any Thalassari soldier. His eyes were glowing whirlpools, and his presence bent the water itself.

King Varyon Thalassar, Monarch of the Atlantic Sea Empire, had arrived.

WHAAAARUMMMM!

He raised one hand—and the tides answered. A wall of spinning vortexes and riptides tore through the battlefield, ripping apart lesser horrors, flinging twisted creatures back like driftwood. Great eels of living water rose and coiled around him.

"By command of the Thalassari Throne," his voice echoed like an earthquake rolling through the seabed, "you shall not pass the Seal."

Yet the corrupted horde did not flee.

These were not beasts of this world. They did not fear kings. They did not fear anything. They were under the sway of Tzeriel, the Devouring Silence—an Eldest Evil whose prison had long been held in place by the Triad of Leviathans.

But now, one of them is missing.

Vehron swam to the King's side. His armor was cracked, fins tattered, but his resolve unbroken.

"The corrupted ones press deeper, Your Grace. They seek the citadel's wardlines."

"They will not have it," Varyon said, voice like shifting tides. "Not while I breathe."

Another of his advisors—High Seeress Nyelle, eyes glowing with far-seeing—spoke gravely. "The Mother of Whales has still not returned. Months have passed since she vanished. We've searched the entire northern deeps. She is... she is lost."

The King's expression darkened. "I know."

He turned, glancing toward the Leviathan Stones in the distance. Of the three massive obelisks that once glowed with sacred energy, only two now pulsed faintly. The third—the stone of the Mother—was black.

Varyon clenched a fist. "Without her, the seal has weakened. "

The King muttered. "What could destroy a Leviathan and leave no trace?"

Then another person approached—General Syveris— helmet tucked under her arm. Her expression was bruised by battle, but her eyes remained steady.

"Permission to unleash the Trenchguard, Your Grace."

He shook his head. "Not yet. We save them for when the walls fall."

Then, as if summoned by his words, the waters trembled with a great pressure. From the darkened trenches came beasts still loyal to him—tidebreakers, deep wyverns, and armored krakenhounds. The waters trembled as ancient banners, glowing with sigils of law and pact-magic, unfurled from coral watchtowers.

The corrupted beasts roared. The sea answered louder.

The battle reignited. Loyal monsters clashed with corrupted horrors in a cataclysm of scale and scream. Leviathan-serpents fought against shark-headed aberrations. Thalassari priest-magi carved wards into the water, forming shimmering sigil-nets to trap the enemy.

King Varyon himself descended into the fray.

Currents sharpened. He held no weapon—he was the weapon. His command of the sea was not metaphor—it was divine right.

BASS DRUM: DUMMMMMMMMM

With a single gesture, he turned a tide. A gesture, and pressure slammed into an entire formation of voidspawn, crushing them into abyssal sludge.

But as powerful as he was, Varyon knew this was only the beginning.

Even as they fought, the prison weakened.

He whispered an order to Vehron. "Prepare the Deep Choir. I want the Seal reinforced, even if it burns through the entire leyline."

"Yes, Your Majesty."

He turned to Nyelle. "Notify the Sky-Tide Embassy. We must speak with the surface. This... this is no longer just our war."