Chapter 2: The Atlantic Heavenly Court

On this day, countless streaks of light shot across the sky, descending into the boundless Atlantic Heavenly Court.

Within the old marble courthouse, radiating a sense of ancient gravitas, imposing figures stood side by side, their faces grave, as if awaiting a verdict.

The room was heavy with the scent of rain-soaked stone and the hush of old secrets. Columns rose like courthouse pillars you’d see in Philadelphia, streaked with the passing of centuries. The courthouse walls were lined with faded battle flags and old maritime charts, the kind you’d find in a Revolutionary War museum. The gods lined up in somber suits or battle gear, some still wearing the salt of the sea on their boots.

Soon, Mr. White strode swiftly inside and gave a curt nod, like a detective reporting to the DA after a bad case. His suit was wrinkled at the elbows, rainwater still dripping from his hair. He spoke like a man used to bad news, the kind who had seen too many hurricanes and not enough mercy. "Your Honor, I have already investigated the cause of Leviathan's death, together with Sam Swift and Miles Keen."

"Speak!"

Seated atop the judge's bench, Chief Justice Grant's face was veiled in swirling shadows, his voice icy cold.

The Chief’s gavel rested heavy on the worn oak, his robe blending into the shadows behind him. His voice cut through the tension with the chill of a Minnesota January. The kind of judge who’d never lost his cool until now.

This usually even-tempered head of the Heavenly Court was rarely so enraged. The Atlantic gods were by nature independent and cherished freedom, but that did not mean they were weak or easily bullied.

Hearing the Chief Justice's command, Mr. White drew a deep breath and reported in a heavy voice: "A few days ago, Jupiter, Lord of Olympus, led the Greek gods on a hunt to the west. They slaughtered dozens of true sea monsters of the Atlantic, skinned them, and drank their blood... Leviathan, upon hearing this, was incensed and confronted them, which led to conflict. He could not withstand them and fell..."

He paused, knuckles whitening around a manila folder—an old American habit, clinging to paper even in a digital age. His voice softened as he recounted the horror, eyes flicking to colleagues who had seen too many storms batter their shores.

"The Atlantic Deep Palace was nearly wiped out... and mortal casualties along the eastern seaboard number in the tens of millions..."

As he spoke, the room seemed to constrict, the air thick with the kind of collective grief that fills small-town churches after a tragedy. The gods—those who’d once inspired awe—stood silent, wrestling with guilt and anger. Some shifted uncomfortably, remembering the boardwalks washed away, the neighborhoods drowned. A goddess in a navy peacoat wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. Someone else cursed under their breath, the word lost in the hush. Another god stared at the floor, jaw clenched so hard it trembled.

Each chilling fact from Mr. White's lips made the faces of the gods in the Grand Hall grow ever darker.

They nailed the Leviathan King... slaughtered the Atlantic Deep Palace... countless lives lost...

Such shocking calamities made the atmosphere in the great hall unbearably heavy.

The silence pressed in, broken only by the distant roll of thunder. Some gods clenched their fists, others bowed their heads, as if the ghosts of lost sailors and drowned townspeople hovered just beyond the marble walls.

"Outrageous! Truly outrageous! Mere barbarian gods—how dare they! Do they really think we are all dead?"

The Northern Iron Marshal, clad in black and gold military dress, roared in fury. His presence, enough to annihilate ten thousand demons, made the very air tremble.

His boots hit the marble like a judge's gavel, and his voice echoed off the courthouse walls, shaking dust from the old ceilings. He sounded like a Civil War general, half-wrath and half-righteousness, every word an indictment against the invaders.

How many years had it been?

Since the Atlantic gods had withdrawn from the world, never had there been such a catastrophe.

Memories of old glory flickered in their eyes—the days when their names were spoken in reverence at every New England harbor. Now, they looked like ghosts themselves, facing the unthinkable in the bright, electric world outside.

"This matter... cannot be left unresolved! The Atlantic... must have an answer!"

Countless stars circled like robes as the Central Commander, shrouded in purple energy, spoke coldly, boundless anger surging in his eyes.

His badge caught the light, glinting with a cluster of seven stars—like an old U.S. Marshal’s, only more ancient, more cosmic. The fury in his voice was the fury of all those who had ever seen their home threatened and vowed it would not happen again.

"I, General Jefferson, am willing to lead a hundred thousand heavenly soldiers to assault Olympus!"

His voice rang out like a call to arms at a Fourth of July rally. He gripped his saber, its hilt wrapped in red, white, and blue. The air crackled with electricity, and some gods straightened their uniforms, ready to follow without hesitation.

"I, Captain Drake! I, Major Monroe! The Big Dipper Brigade is willing to serve as the vanguard!"

A chorus rose behind him—men and women, some in naval coats, others with stars pinned to their chests. The Big Dipper Brigade—a legendary name in Atlantic myth, now like a National Guard unit called up in the nation’s darkest hour.

"We, the Six Iron and Six Steel Generals, request to go on the expedition..."

...

As soon as the Commander's decree rang out, one figure after another stepped forward, their anger soaring to the heavens.

The true sea monsters of the Atlantic had governed the tides for thousands of years, toiling without complaint, only to meet such a tragic end—how could they not be furious?

The air tasted of copper and ozone, the old scent of storms and blood. There was the sound of boots stamping, fists thudded over hearts—the old gesture of unity from a hundred protest marches and football games. Someone near the back muttered, "Not since Yorktown..."—a reference to a different war, but the feeling was the same: unity against impossible odds.

They had to seek justice for the true monsters of the Atlantic!

But at that moment, Miles Keen rushed in from outside the hall, his voice anxious: "It's bad, something terrible has happened!"

He nearly tripped over the marble steps, papers spilling from his briefcase as he caught his breath. Glasses askew, sweat streaking his brow, his tie loose—the kind of man who never quite adjusted to chaos, but who always brought bad news first, like a seasoned White House aide with a red folder in hand.

"What is it now? Have those Western barbarian gods committed another outrage?"

The Chief Justice narrowed his eyes, slowly rose to his feet, and asked in a deep voice.

He loomed above the hall, as solemn as a Supreme Court justice about to hand down a decision that would rock the nation. The gods fell silent, waiting, dread pooling in their stomachs.

By now, his gaze was as cold as the wind off Lake Superior in January.

The words hung in the air, colder than the courtroom AC ever could be, sharper than sleet off the Great Lakes. The Chief’s hands were steady, but his eyes betrayed an old, deep anger—one that had waited a century for release.

"No."

Never before had Miles Keen seen the Chief Justice like this. He swallowed hard, drew a deep breath, and then spoke solemnly: "The Great Sage—the Great Sage has attacked Mount Olympus!"

He fumbled with his phone, showing a viral livestream: Mount Olympus wreathed in storm, a lone figure smashing through thunderclouds, staff in hand. The screen was a blur of emojis and disbelief—fire, lightning bolts, a thousand monkey faces. Even the most jaded of the gods leaned in, eyes wide.

"The Great Sage? That monkey?"

General Jefferson looked up in shock, eyes wide with disbelief.

The words hung in the hall like the aftermath of a courtroom bombshell. Old rivalries forgotten, everyone stared at the screen, the image of a familiar, wild-eyed warrior battering the gates of Olympus. For a heartbeat, the air was electrified with the possibility that all was not lost.

The hall fell utterly silent.

No one breathed. Someone’s phone buzzed, ignored. The weight of history—the stories whispered to children about the Great Sage—settled over them. Hope and fear, tangled as always.

The immortals exchanged glances; even they hadn't expected that the Great Sage, now a legend, still retained such a fiery spirit.

It was like watching Tom Brady suit up for one last, impossible drive. The sense of awe—and perhaps shame—washed through the room. Had they grown too complacent? Too slow to defend their own?

While they were here discussing countermeasures, he had already charged straight into Olympus, swinging his staff.

There was a strange admiration, a spark of courage fanned by the memory of past glories. Some remembered when they, too, had acted without waiting for orders.

How fierce was that?

"Heh."

"We... are not even as decisive as a monkey."

The words carried a wry smile, a touch of humility. It stung, but it also stirred something old and proud in their bones.

After a long silence, the Chief Justice suddenly gave a light laugh. The anger in his eyes settled, yet became all the more resolute. Looking into the distance, he said softly, "Since things have come to this... what more is there to say."

He stood straighter, gaze fixed on the future. The room exhaled. It was time.

"Go, have Eric Young make a trip to Olympus, and together with that monkey, collect some interest for the Atlantic first."

He handed a battered card—emblazoned with the seal of the Atlantic—down to Mr. White. The implication was clear: it was a summons, a call to arms, not a request.

"And tell those Western barbarian gods... the divine war has begun."

The words were final, as undeniable as the sound of a judge's gavel striking home. Some in the hall smiled grimly, others nodded, and the windows rattled as the world shifted toward war.