CALAMITY : Legends Of The Chosen

The sea no longer screamed.

But the silence it left behind was worse.

After barely surviving the collapse of the Abyssal Train, the four Chosen emerged from the sea like broken relics. Morgz had pulled them from the trench one by one, bending the ocean to his will, compressing water into shields, currents, and ascent-ladders that defied physics. By the time they stumbled onto land, the trench was already collapsing behind them.

They didn't talk about what happened. They didn't have to.

The coast they found wasn't marked on any map. A warped peninsula of moss-choked ruins and cliff-bent forests, it looked more like a fossilized memory than a place. Time hadn't passed here. It had calcified.

Shojiro found a shrine, half-eaten by barnacles, and turned it into a makeshift shelter. Karl tore apart scrap metal and repurposed his broken nanite modules. Max rested by the fire, coughing lightning, fading and recharging in pulses. And Morgz, despite being the newest to the group, found himself drawn to the edge of the cliffs.

He spent hours there.

Not to think. Not to rest. But to listen.

Something was always whispering to him when he stood alone at the water's edge. A low sound. A hum. Like the sea still remembered him. Still needed him.

Still had things to say.

And then she appeared.

---

She came from the mist one morning. Silent, barefoot, and almost too perfect.

Draped in sea-torn silk, her hair shimmered with dew and coral-dust. Her skin was pale, but not sickly—more like moonlight caught in flesh. Her eyes glowed faintly gold. Not bright. Not blazing. Just enough to suggest something unnatural lived inside her.

Morgz saw her before she saw him. Or maybe, she let him see her first. She stepped from behind a rotted archway, coral weaving through the cracks.

"You look lonely," she said.

Morgz's first instinct was to raise a wall of water, to snap into defense—but his body didn't move. Not out of paralysis, but out of... intrigue.

"I've been called worse," he muttered.

She smiled. "But not untrue."

She sat on a nearby boulder, like she'd been there a thousand times before.

"You from around here?" he asked.

She shook her head. "I woke up on the shore. Not far from where you came out of the water. I thought maybe you brought me back."

"I didn't. But I'm glad you found us."

She tilted her head.

"Us?"

Morgz nodded. "There's four of us. We're Chosen. We were revived by Primordials. We fight demons. And bad luck."

She looked... puzzled.

"Primordials? What are those?"

That raised his guard slightly. Everyone who was Chosen knew the name of the being that revived them. It was the first thing you remembered after resurrection.

"Never mind," he said, covering it up with a laugh. "It's a lot to explain. What about you?"

"My name is Elira," she said. "I don't remember my past. Only that I have power. I can feel it moving under my skin."

She raised a hand and conjured a flicker of golden light.

It looked like sunlight. Refracted. Warm.

Morgz stared at it.

"What kind of power is that?"

"I don't know," she said. "But it doesn't feel like it belongs to me. It feels borrowed."

---

That night, Morgz brought her to camp.

Shojiro kept a close eye on her. Karl scanned her without asking. Max gave a nod and muttered, "Storm's quiet tonight. Weirdly quiet."

Elira seemed shy. But not afraid. She spoke softly, and listened intently. She laughed at Morgz's jokes. She helped gather driftwood. She offered to clean Shojiro's wounds with glowing light, though he declined.

By the second night, Morgz was sitting next to her every time they rested. He spoke to her in a different tone. Softer. Guard lowered. Like the ocean around them had finally returned something he thought he'd lost.

Max noticed first.

"He's rizzing her hard," Max whispered to Karl.

Karl smirked. "You jealous?"

"Hell no..." "Kinda"

Shojiro chuckled. "He moves fast."

But none of them protested. Morgz had saved their lives. If anyone deserved a moment of peace, of softness, it was him.

And she did glow.

Her presence was calming. The fire felt warmer. The air less toxic. The nights just a little quieter.

It was easy to believe she was a Chosen. Maybe a memory-wiped one. Maybe someone blessed by a new Primordial they hadn't met.

But questions lingered.

She never ate. She never slept. She didn't understand Classes, or Calamity Weapons, or even how Vythra worked.

But Morgz didn't care.

He sat with her every night.

He taught her how to shape waves. He told her about Poseidara, about the deep. He even gave her one of his water-forged shells as a keepsake.

"Why are you doing this for me?" she asked.

"Because you looked at me like I wasn't just a weapon," he said. "You looked at me like I was human."

She leaned closer.

"You are."

Their hands touched. Their breath slowed. The sea behind them glimmered with unseen

That night, Max stood near the cliff and watched them from afar.

"Hope he knows what he's doing," Max muttered.

Shojiro stepped beside him.

"You think she's real?"

"She bleeds light," Max said. "But so do traps."

Karl chimed in from behind, arms crossed.

"You think she's Chosen?"

Max didn't answer.

Shojiro did.

"I think we want her to be."

They turned back toward the camp.

Elira and Morgz sat under the firelight, hands entwined.

The others returned to sleep.

But the camera lingered.

Elira looked toward the ocean.

And for a brief second—her eyes flickered not with gold… but with hunger