The Monarch of Ruins

───「 Human POV 」───

The whole world was watching Godzilla.

When Monarch first discovered Godzilla, media outlets across the globe broadcasted the event via satellites beyond the atmosphere.

The United Government didn't stop them. They wanted to show their strength to the world.

Until now.

The entire fleet had been wiped out, and Godzilla had successfully made landfall in Tokyo Bay.

Under the setting sun, the world watched in silence as the once-bustling Tokyo Bay stood eerily empty.

Boom!

Emerging from the sea, Godzilla stomped onto the concrete, its eyes scanning the towering buildings surrounding it.

───「 GODZILLA POV 」───

Were these the nests of those tiny creatures?

Having just stepped onshore, Godzilla wasn't in a rush to destroy anything. It sensed no human presence in the nearby structures. Besides, it was the first time it had seen these modern human-made nests up close, and curiosity got the better of it.

After all, there was no deadline for its mission.

Godzilla strode through Tokyo Bay, each step sending tremors through the ground. Though it caused vibrations, the terrain beneath its feet held firm—except for the initial impact of its landing.

Human engineering was more resilient than expected.

Godzilla's footprint spanned 40 meters in diameter, and with both feet, it occupied an area of about 2,500 square meters. Calculating the pressure exerted on the ground, it came out to roughly 6.4 megapascals (MPa)—around 64 kilograms per square centimeter.

It sounded heavy, but pre-nuclear war concrete surfaces had a compressive strength of over 30 MPa, while modern asphalt roads measured around 10 MPa.

So weight wasn't an issue.

Tokyo's skyline was filled with towering skyscrapers, some reaching heights of 300 or even 400 meters. Godzilla roamed through the city, its massive body toppling small buildings as it passed.

Each step crushed asphalt roads, splintering them into jagged cracks. Abandoned motorcycles crumpled beneath its weight. Skyscrapers, once marvels of human ingenuity, shattered effortlessly under its touch.

To humanity, this was the stuff of disaster films—a monstrous force tearing through a metropolis, reducing it to rubble.

And all they could do was watch, helpless.

That was their perspective.

But in Godzilla's eyes, this was mere sightseeing.

Its gaze swept over the city, intrigued by human craftsmanship. The more it saw, the more it marveled.

Strange little vehicles capable of flight.

Underground trains, half its length but far faster.

Colossal skyscrapers stretching toward the sky, dwarfing even itself.

Fascinated, Godzilla dismantled a few of these structures to inspect their inner workings. Some collapsed on top of it, burying it momentarily, while others held firm long enough for it to study their intricate frameworks.

Truly remarkable little things, it mused.

It continued wandering, like a traveler exploring an alien world, making discoveries but with no one to share them with.

Yet to humanity, each casual movement was an act of devastation.

Collapsing buildings, crushing vehicles, tearing apart skyscrapers—unintended acts of destruction. It hadn't even decided to obliterate Tokyo yet.

Not yet.

Godzilla roamed onward, indifferent to the destruction left in its wake. The city remained eerily silent. No honking cars, no frantic pedestrians—only the sound of a lone titan making its way through an abandoned metropolis, under the watchful eyes of the world.

Still, it hadn't found what it was looking for.

After scouring the city and confirming that Tokyo Tower was already gone, Godzilla shook its head in mild disappointment.

So much for that idea. It had wanted to bring the landmark down itself, just like in those human monster movies. But as it turned out, humans had already leveled it in their own nuclear war.

Tokyo, without Tokyo Tower.

Godzilla turned its gaze to the cityscape ahead. Fusion reactors humming within its body, it prepared to commence the true destruction.

Hot flames erupted from its maw—not the concentrated fusion plasma it had once wielded, but something more primal. It absorbed energy from its internal reactors, superheating its surroundings before expelling the infernal breath, much like the monsters from human films.

Unlike before, its nuclear reserves weren't endless. It couldn't unleash its atomic breath thousands of times.

Instead, it had to work with what was available.

If nothing else, it could simply devour soil or swallow seawater to fuel the process.

The flames gushed forth, less focused than before, fanning outward in waves of scorching heat. Instantly, buildings hundreds of meters away ignited, their skeletons and debris hurled across the skyline in the ensuing explosions.

A sea of fire consumed entire city blocks.

Godzilla pressed forward, bathing Tokyo in hellish flames. The once-thriving cityscape became a land of ruin, buildings crumbling into molten slag, roads sublimating into steam.

Each step left behind only devastation.

This wasn't an attack—it was a reckoning.

With every sweep of its flames, entire neighborhoods vanished, skyscrapers detonating into showers of molten debris. The inferno painted Tokyo in shades of crimson, turning night into an eerie, flickering dawn.

It was strangely bittersweet.

For all its power, even Godzilla felt a twinge of regret as it obliterated these intricate human creations.

Steel liquefied, concrete vaporized, and every so often, columns of superheated fire arced across the horizon, detonating entire city blocks, reshaping the landscape in an instant.

This was the power of Godzilla.

And tonight, Tokyo burned.

By sunrise, as the city lay in smoldering ruin, a voice echoed in Godzilla's mind.

It turned, gazing at the wreckage it had left behind—Tokyo, a husk of its former self, consumed by flames.

Then, without hesitation, Godzilla turned toward the sea, stepping into the depths once more.

Tokyo had fallen.