That morning, Liberty Port was unusually restless.
Around 5:00 AM, dockworkers on the early shift froze mid-step. Before them stood a sight they couldn’t believe—
The Grand Whale—or rather, Titanic—was docked perfectly in place, as if it had never disappeared.
"Wait a minute... wasn’t that ship sunk for a movie?" one worker muttered, rubbing his eyes.
"Yeah, the media said it went down during filming," another added. "But look at it—it’s spotless. Not a scratch."
By sunrise, passersby gathered at the docks, forming a crowd.
A middle-aged man stood at the front, arms crossed. "I was already pissed they changed its name and design. But to sink it? That made me furious."
He gestured toward the ship. "Now it’s just sitting here like nothing happened? The hell is going on?"
Someone else chimed in, "Maybe the media lied to stir up drama—get people mad at Hellfire."
The crowd murmured in agreement. The theory wasn’t impossible... and the ship did look pristine.
At that moment, a young journalist approached, confused by the commotion.
"What’s going on here?" he asked.
But before anyone could answer, he caught a glimpse of the massive ship towering in the distance.
"...No way," he whispered.
The same Titanic that was supposedly destroyed for a movie scene—stood there, whole and gleaming.
’What the hell is going on?’ he thought, dazed.
By late morning, the news had spread like wildfire:
**The Grand Whale was back. Intact. And it wasn’t a hoax.**
Then, around noon, Arthur arrived.
He walked confidently toward the crowd, surrounded by members of his crew. Reporters surged forward, cameras flashing, microphones raised.
Arthur raised a hand and pointed toward the Titanic.
"As you can all see, our beloved ship is fine," he said smoothly. "Good as new."
He offered a faint smile. "Rumors... spread like dirt in water. Easy to stir, hard to clean. But most of them? Baseless."
He stepped forward, voice steady. "The Titanic will reopen soon for luxury cruises. Wait for our official announcement."
With that, he turned and boarded the ship with his team, leaving the media stunned in his wake.
The press stood frozen, a tangle of cameras and notepads. Whispers broke out among them. Newest update provided by NoveI(F)ire.net
"But... the extras swore it was sunk."
"Our source was solid. We reported it as it was told!"
"How did the ship come back? It’s impossible..."
And yet—there it was.
They exchanged uneasy glances.
Some were already drafting retractions.
Others knew they’d need to issue a public apology.
One thing was clear: their credibility had taken a hit.
He didn’t seem concerned in the slightest.
Meanwhile, inside the ship, Firfel, Apollonia, and Vivienne wandered the grand halls in silence. Each step echoed softly, as if even the Titanic itself were stunned to be alive again.
There was no doubt—this was the same ship that had sunk just days ago.
Apollonia ran her hand along the polished railing, her expression full of awe. "This is really it... The ship that went under. How did Brother... bring it back?"
Vivienne looked equally shaken. "I saw it break apart with my own eyes. This shouldn’t be possible."
She simply walked beside them, quiet as always—but inwardly, she was just as astonished. Her eyes flicked over every detail of the restored interior. The golden lights. The velvet walls. The untouched grand staircase.
Elsewhere on the ship, the cast and crew moved through the corridors in disbelief.
Old Ollie, who played Captain Edward, paused on the upper deck. He wasn’t just an actor—he was a retired captain, with decades of experience at sea. And from the moment he stepped aboard, he knew—
This wasn’t a replica.
It was the same ship.
The one that had sunk beneath the ocean.
He slowly walked to the helm, fingers brushing the wheel.
’First, he tames the Sirens like house pets... now he brings a sunken ship back from the depths?’ Ollie’s weathered eyes turned to Arthur, standing calmly near the railing. ’No ordinary man could pull this off.’
’Just who are you, Arthur Pendragon?’
Unbeknownst to Ollie and the others, Arthur could feel their eyes on him—full of silent questions.
’Some truths are better left unsaid,’ he thought.
There was no need for them to know he had already stepped beyond mortality.
Not until the world was ready for a God of Entertainment.
The following days were brutal for the media across the United States of Empirica.
The supposed "sinkage" of the Grand Whale—once reported as fact by nearly every major outlet—turned out to be false. Now that the Titanic had reappeared in perfect condition, backlash followed like a storm.
Major networks faced declining TV ratings, newspapers saw a drop in subscribers, and angry letters flooded inboxes.
Inside newsrooms, tempers flared.
Editors slammed desks. Reporters were scolded. Meetings were called at odd hours.
Some outlets issued formal apologies to the public. Others shifted the blame to the extras on set who "leaked" the misinformation. Either way, the damage was done. Trust had taken a hit—and in the news business, trust was everything.
In response, many major media companies began tightening internal protocols. Research departments were reinforced, and fact-checking teams were given expanded authority.
At Franklindale Daily, the tension was thick.
The newsroom chief, a sharp-eyed man with graying temples, stood in front of his staff holding a crumpled copy of their retracted headline.
He pointed at it. "Let this be the last mistake of this kind. If I see another disaster ,"—he paused, narrowing his eyes—"I’ll personally replace your keyboards with typewriters... and lock the ribbon drawer."
The room went silent.
A few nervous chuckles escaped.
The staff nodded quickly, some gulping, others breaking into a cold sweat.
"Back to work," he said. "This time, verify everything—even if Lord Solarus himself hands you the quote."
While the media world was still licking its wounds, the Hellfire team quietly resumed filming the final sequence of Titanic—the Old Rose scene.
They wrapped it up in just under a week.
In the final take, Lady Velmira, playing Old Rose, stood at the edge of the ship and gently tossed the legendary necklace, the Heart of the Ocean, into the sea. The camera lingered as it sank beneath the waves—closing the film with silence, nostalgia, and a touch of magic.
With that scene completed, production on Titanic officially came to an end.
To celebrate, Arthur invited the cast and crew to a private feast back in the Horn Kingdom. The invitation was met with cheers and excitement. After everything they had been through—from underwater filming to mishaps—everyone agreed: they’d earned it.
The very next day, the Hellfire team prepared to leave Franklindale.
They had hoped to keep their departure quiet—no red carpet, no interviews, no fanfare.
But secrecy, as always, was a fragile thing.
Some nosy street reporters—later to be infamously dubbed the first "Paparazzi" of the U.S.E.—had already leaked the news. No fact-checking. No permission. Just clickbait headlines and blurry photos.
By sunrise, the whole city knew:
Hellfire was leaving.
And they weren’t about to let them go unnoticed.
At the crowded airship port, fans had gathered in droves—Hellfire loyalists, cinema nerds, and enthusiastic teens holding up homemade signs. Many were longtime followers of Arthur and Firfel.
The moment the convoy of black cars pulled up, the crowd erupted.
"Firfel, over here!!"
"Please, just one look!!"
Arthur and Firfel stepped out, composed as ever, waving calmly as they walked toward the boarding ramp. Their elegant pace only made the fans scream louder.
Then someone in the crowd shouted, "Wait, is that Vivienne?!"
"It is! Vivienne!! Over here!"
Vivienne, walking beside Firfel, gave a gentle wave with a warm smile. Her graceful poise made half the crowd swoon, cameras flashing nonstop. For a brief moment, the port became a concert-like chaos.
Security tightened, lines held, and only after Arthur, Firfel, and the cast stepped onto the airship did the crowd start to calm.
Down below, one woman sighed, clutching a makeshift ticket brochure. "If only I could afford a ride on that airship... I’d fly straight to Horn Kingdom and visit the Hellfire HQ myself."
Her friend nodded solemnly. "You’re right. But those prices? You’d need a small fortune."
In the U.S.E.—and across much of the world—even the cheapest airship ticket cost more than a full year’s wages for a lower-middle-class family. For the average citizen, buying a secondhand mana stove was more realistic than affording a flight to another kingdom.
That’s why airship travel remained a luxury reserved for the elite—those with tens of thousands in their bank accounts, or millionaires living off gold-stocked vaults.
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