Let There Be ligth!

───「 GODZILLA POV 」───

Vast amounts of heat converge within its colossal form.

Countless flames swirl, gathering and compressing, contained within the heart of its own body. Deep within, where few could ever fathom, the fusion light intensifies, glowing with an energy that defies nature itself.

Godzilla's body, a living nuclear reactor, has already been pushed to its limits. Yet, even now, it continues to compress, the temperature rising higher and higher, reaching unthinkable extremes. The high-energy neutrons, birthed from this nuclear inferno, bombard the internal structure of its being, causing the very walls of its fusion core to melt and sublimate.

For all its evolutionary brilliance, even Godzilla's body is not impervious to the forces at play within. Its reinforced metallic walls, strengthened by an immensely powerful magnetic field, struggle to contain the raging nuclear chaos. Plasma flames churn, striving to hold back the neutron storm, yet it is a losing battle. The energy within has surpassed all previous thresholds, and no amount of cooling fluid, no amount of reinforced carbon nanotubes, can halt the inevitable.

It is simply too much.

But Godzilla does not rely on just one fusion reactor.

It has two.

The first, its survival reactor, is its primary power source—the mechanism that fuels its every movement, its every breath, sustaining the sheer mass of its gargantuan form. This reactor, though formidable, is designed for endurance rather than intensity, outputting only a few terawatts at a time.

The second, however, is an entirely different beast. The breath reactor—designed for pure, devastating destruction—operates on an entirely separate principle. Unlike the survival reactor, which extracts energy by heating metal and converting thermal energy into kinetic power, the breath reactor does not distribute its heat at all. It concentrates it, hoards it, refusing to release so much as an ounce of waste energy until the exact moment of ignition.

Why? Because the sheer magnitude of its power is inconceivable.

300 terawatts.

That is the upper limit of Godzilla's atomic breath—the level at which it can release destruction without suffering catastrophic self-inflicted damage. And yet, even that limit is no longer enough.

The humans have adapted. They are clever, these small creatures. Too clever for their own good.

They calculated the range of Godzilla's breath. They saw the city fall, saw the sheer devastation unleashed upon it, and from that, they determined the distance at which they could strike from safety. They think they are beyond its reach.

Smart.

But pointless.

Because now… Godzilla will overclock.

The 300-terawatt limit exists for one reason: self-preservation. It is the safe boundary, the threshold at which Godzilla can wield its power without melting itself from the inside out. But that safety net? It can be discarded.

Overclocking is a technique Godzilla has always possessed, one it has used against foes far beyond its usual strength. It is the trump card, the ultimate gambit, the move that turns the tide. The price? Significant damage to its own body. The breath reactor, after overclocking, usually becomes unusable for an extended period.

Usually.

But things have changed.

Godzilla has evolved.

This new form—stronger, denser, more refined—has granted it the ability to compress its plasma beyond previous limitations. With this refinement comes control: a way to minimize neutron loss, a way to reduce radiation exposure to the reactor's inner walls. In other words, Godzilla can now overclock without rendering itself helpless in the aftermath.

But first, the plasma density must be adjusted.

In theory, it should take only one or two minutes.

In practice, it has taken over ten.

And for those ten agonizing minutes, Godzilla has remained motionless. Not because it wishes to, but because it must. Adjusting plasma density is not a simple task—it is not something that can be mastered by mere instinct alone. There are instructions, yes. The system panel outlines the process. But knowing how something should work and making it work are two vastly different things.

This is new. This is unfamiliar. And Godzilla is learning in real time.

The process has been brutal. For those ten minutes, the atomic breath reactor has been running at partial power, fluctuating wildly between tens and hundreds of terawatts. The heat has overwhelmed its body, melting portions of its inner walls, scarring it from within. The external attacks from the human fleet pale in comparison to the damage Godzilla has inflicted upon itself in these past few minutes.

But now… it is done.

Finally, the plasma density has been adjusted. The process has been mastered. The internal heat is no longer climbing out of control.

And Godzilla is ready.

On the ocean's surface, the titan, which had been deathly still, begins to stir. Eyes glowing like molten fire, it locks onto the distant human fleet. They have fired upon it, rained destruction upon it, thinking themselves safe beyond the range of its breath.

They are wrong.

Godzilla's jaw unhinges, parting wide as it faces its distant foes. The air crackles, the very atmosphere trembling under the sheer energy building within. The ocean around it shifts, waves pulling away as an unseen force distorts reality itself.

Then, at last, it releases.

The Atomic Breath erupts from its maw, a cataclysmic lance of pure, concentrated destruction.

It is unlike anything that has ever come before.

The sky ignites. The sea vaporizes.

And the world watches as Godzilla transcends its limits once more.