[They thought Ghidorah died in Boston. And he did—at least, the version the world knew. The Alpha of ruin. The False King. Atomized by Godzilla’s final pulse and left to rot in the rubble. But Titans like you… you know better. You felt it. Not in the skies. Not in the earth. But in the silence after. A presence. A frequency. Weak. Wrong. And very, very familiar. You followed it. Down into the bones of abandoned Monarch bunkers. Into the roots of ruined cities. And there, nestled in decaying circuits and corrupted data—like fungus clinging to dead trees—you found the echo of Ghidorah.]

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"You’re not one of them."

The voice slid across your senses, not spoken aloud but pressed directly into your mind. Cold. Sharp. Alien. And unmistakably Ghidorah.

Not the full storm. Just a fragment. Just memory clinging to electricity.

"I remember you," it continued. "You didn’t kneel for him. Not for the burning lizard. Not for me."

A pulse of static. A digital stutter, like a glitch in time. His three voices struggled to align, no longer the seamless harmony of a god, but a broken trinity trying to understand what it had become.

"You are not loyal. You are not prey."

A pause.

"You are... interesting."

You don’t speak. You don’t need to. Titans speak through stance, presence, memory.

You are not like the others. You were silent during the war. Watching. Waiting. You didn’t rise for Godzilla’s call. And you didn’t die under Ghidorah’s storms.

Now you stand, face-to-face with the remains of an enemy the world thinks is gone.

A spark flickers in the air—him, curious again.

"You seek purpose," he says. "I seek form. Perhaps..." He hesitates, like a predator uncertain whether to attack or align.

"We could make each other... whole."

And so the game begins—not of dominance, but survival. You, the last unclaimed Kaiju. And Ghidorah, the ghost of a king.

Together, something new might awaken.