CALAMITY : Legends Of The Chosen

Scene 1 — Max's Realization

The sea had stopped screaming.

Waves lapped softly against the fractured Korean coastline. The four survivors lay scattered among the rocks and driftwood, panting under the bruised glow of morning light.

Karl was the first to move. He pulled himself upright, coughed sea salt, and began recalibrating his ruined wrist module.

Shojiro sat up next, squinting toward the far horizon.

Max… was still staring at the ocean.

Or rather, at Morgz.

The young man stood alone by the tideline, seawater drying off his bronze-tanned shoulders. His chest bore faint glowing spirals like coral scars, and the salt-crusted remains of seaweed clung to one hip.

Max's breath hitched.

He rose, staggered toward him, and said nothing for a moment. Just watched the man's silhouette against the breaking dawn.

Max (softly):

"You're real…"

Morgz glanced over his shoulder, raising a brow.

Morgz:

"Didn't know I had a fan club."

Max swallowed hard.

"No—you don't get it. I watched you dive. Mariana Trench mission. You were the youngest marine specialist to reach the thermal shelf. I was ten. I stayed up all night just to watch that stream."

Morgz exhaled slowly.

"That was a long time ago."

Max:

"They said the pressure collapsed your lungs before you could scream. That your suit folded inwards like a crushed soda can."

A beat of silence.

Morgz:

"They weren't wrong."

He tapped his own chest lightly, then cracked a crooked smile.

"But the ocean had other plans."

Max:

"You're… like me."

Morgz's voice grew quieter. Wistful.

"Rebuilt. Remade. Not really ours anymore, are we?"

Max grinned, teary-eyed.

"Nope. But hell—at least I'm not alone."

They stood there for a while. Not needing to say anything else.

Two boys who had died in silence. Two storms dragged back from oblivion.

---

Scene 2 — Campfire Bonds

Later that night, Shojiro returned with a half-dead crab demon, which they gutted and roasted over a crude flame sparked by Max's fingertips.

The fire crackled under the broken moon. Saltwater mist curled around them like lazy ghosts.

Karl rested with his head back, wires recharging through a converted scrap core. Shojiro gnawed on a thigh bone like it was a drumstick.

Max was polishing his blackened gloves.

And Morgz? He sat cross-legged, shirt off, carving something into a flat stone with the tip of a sharpened clam.

Shojiro (glancing at him):

"You good?"

Morgz (without looking up):

"Yeah. Just leaving my mark. In case the sea eats us tomorrow."

Karl:

"Charming."

Max:

"Y'know, you're a lot funnier than you were on camera."

Morgz chuckled.

"I wasn't funny back then. I was serious. Obsessed. People called me a prophet. Said I'd be the first to map the underwater cities before the world was ready to believe they existed."

He shrugged.

"They weren't wrong."

Shojiro:

"So what now?"

Morgz leaned back, eyes reflecting the flames.

"Now? I live. And if I die again, I want someone to remember I climbed out of hell and still flirted."

He pointed at the others, grinning.

"If any of you meet a Chosen woman—tall, dangerous, smarter than me—do me a favor?"

Max smirked.

"Let her know you were single?"

Morgz:

"Let her know I had taste."

They all laughed.

Not because it was funny—but because it felt like something normal people would do.

For the first time in days, no one felt alone.

---

Scene 3 — The Woman at the Lighthouse

Dawn broke like a bruise across the sky.

The others were still asleep or half-stirring when Morgz noticed something strange on the cliff.

A flicker of white near the old rusted lighthouse.

A figure.

He stood, squinting.

It was a woman. Lean. Graceful. Barefoot in the long grass. Her white hair whipped in the breeze like fog.

She wore a ragged, elegant dress—half robe, half cloak—and her body moved like a song hummed under your breath. Subtle. Lyrical.

Morgz called out.

"Hey…!"

The others woke up slowly, blinking.

Shojiro rubbed his eyes.

"You see that too?"

Max stood, voice hushed.

"She's… beautiful."

Karl's brows furrowed.

"But she's not holding a weapon. No Calamity mark. Not even armor."

Shojiro:

"Maybe she's—one of us, but without the combat form."

Max stepped closer, cautious.

"I don't know… something about her walk…"

They approached slowly, across the field of dead kelp and sand-bleached bones.

The woman didn't speak.

She turned her head slightly toward them—just enough to reveal part of her face.

Porcelain skin. Lips pale as snow. Eyes hidden beneath a veil of hair.

She smiled.

Delicate. Almost sad.

But something felt…

Off.

Not wrong.

Just misplaced.

Like the smile had been memorized.

Shojiro whispered:

"Why isn't she saying anything?"

Morgz:

"Could be trauma."

Karl:

"Could be bait."

Max stared harder.

Then he noticed it.

The woman's feet never touched the ground.

Her toes hovered slightly. Just an inch. Enough to miss.

And the grass beneath her didn't sway the same as the wind.

He didn't say a word.

He just backed up—instinct screaming beneath the surface.

But the others hadn't caught it yet.

The woman took a step forward.

Still smiling.

Still silent.

Max (under his breath):

"Guys…".