Galactus had departed, and Earth's fragile peace seed to return.
But the wounds left on New York would not heal anyti soon.
The oceans surrounding New York had suffered catastrophic damage.
During the ferocious battle between Gene and Galactus, entire swaths of seawater had been evaporated, riverbeds cracked apart by the strikes of the Planet Devourer's warhamr, and countless marine creatures had perished in the chaos.
In the city itself, buildings lay in ruins, tsunamis had swept through streets, and the heart of New York was now subrged beneath murky, stagnant waters.
Rescue and recovery teams were working around the clock, desperately trying to drain the flooded streets and restore order.
But amidst the chaos, few noticed a strange and ominous developnt:
Several sea creatures quietly erged from the ocean, crawling ashore with eerie purpose.
They were crabs — but not the kind anyone had ever seen before.
Each was massive, their shells armored like tanks, their beady eyes darting about, scanning and analyzing their surroundings with uncanny intelligence.
Far across the vast Pacific Ocean, deep beneath the waves in the hidden kingdom of Atlantis, a blond man sat atop his throne, coldly observing the feed transmitted back by the chanical crabs.
He was Namor McKenzie — King of Atlantis, and the absolute ruler of the ocean's endless depths.
Atlantis, once a flourishing land-based civilization, had achieved unimaginable technological heights when surface humans were still fumbling through the Bronze Age.
Their glory had been immortalized even in the land-dweller Plato's ancient writings, offering a re glimpse of their lost grandeur.
Yet tragedy had struck Atlantis ten thousand years ago.
A reckless king, blinded by his lust for forbidden power, had triggered a catastrophic event — either divine punishnt or an energy disaster — that mutated the Atlanteans and sank their magnificent city beneath the sea.
Thus was born the underwater empire of Atlantis.
Their technology remained advanced beyond anything surface humans could comprehend, and their armies were bolstered by legions of mutated marine creatures.
Namor, for all his strength, had long maintained a precarious peace with the surface world.
But lately, that peace was fraying.
Humans had beco increasingly reckless, dumping endless waves of pollutants and trash into the oceans.
And after the recent devastation near New York, the damage had reached a breaking point.
"King Namor," said Haibo, Namor's chief advisor, bowing respectfully.
"Those land-dwellers have gone too far."
The chanical crabs' footage showed it clearly:
Piles of toxic waste being hurled into the already-scarred seas, poisoning the waters Atlanteans called ho.
"I wonder," Haibo continued softly, "whether it's ti we taught them a lesson?"
He knew the King's heart well.
Namor had always been torn between land and sea.
Born to a human father and an Atlantean mother, his skin bore the color of the surface people, a mark that had subjected him to ridicule and alienation from the mont of his birth.
He had even lived among land-dwellers for a ti — during World War II, he had fought alongside Captain Arica against the German Navy.
His ties to the land ran deep.
Haibo worried that such connections might make Namor hesitate.
But Namor's eyes darkened.
"Haibo," he said, voice like rolling thunder, "my ties to the land are not so deep as you think.
They have destroyed our ho.
It's ti they learned the price."
With a sharp clang, he drove the trident in his hand into the marble floor, the sound echoing through the grand chamber like a war drum.
"But before we act," Namor added coolly, "I must first consult the other federation leaders."
Atlantis, after all, was a loose federation of city-states, and while Namor wielded imnse influence, he could not go to war without securing their support.
"Understood, King Namor," Haibo said, bowing deeply before retreating to carry out his orders.
And thus, the seeds of war between sea and land began to sprout.
anwhile, on a remote island in the Pacific Ocean, the waters churned as a group of Atlantean soldiers surfaced.
Clad in landing combat suits designed for terrestrial warfare, they moved onto the island with lethal efficiency.
"Summon your leader," Haibo said in a low, commanding voice.
Monts later, a figure erged:
A man in a billowing red cape and polished helt — Magneto, the master of magnetism and leader of the Brotherhood of Mutants.
"King Namor has agreed, in principle, to deploy his forces against the land," Haibo said bluntly, fixing Magneto with an unwavering stare.
"I trust you won't disappoint us."
Magneto's lips curled into a thin smile.
"I hope you won't disappoint , either."
In recent tis, governnts across the world had grown increasingly hostile toward mutants.
Mutant registration laws, secret arrests — the writing was on the wall.
Magneto knew a storm was coming.
He needed a distraction — a large enough conflict to divert attention away from mutants and their plight.
An Atlantean invasion of the surface world?
Perfect.
In exchange for providing intelligence and covert assistance to Atlantis, Magneto would buy ti for mutantkind.
As the Atlanteans departed, one of Magneto's aides rushed over.
"Chief," he reported urgently, "Colonel Stryker has submitted a new project application to Congress."
At the ntion of Stryker's na, Magneto's expression darkened.
Among mutants, Colonel Stryker was infamous — a man who had, ti and again, spewed venomous hatred against mutants, advocating for their extermination in public and on the airwaves.
He was a sworn enemy of their kind.
"Good," Magneto said, his voice like a blade scraping stone.
"When Atlantis strikes...
We'll make sure Colonel Stryker is the first to fall."
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