"Ladies and gentlemen, I'm broadcasting live from The Bahamas, bringing you the latest on Category Five Hurricane Monica! Take a look at the screen—it's 10:42 a.m. local time. Normally, this would be the perfect moment for some sunbathing, but right now... you can't even see your own hand in front of your face!"
Under the gloomy sky and howling winds, rows of palm trees sway wildly, almost bending over backwards. In front of them, a male reporter clings to a tree and shouts frantically at the camera. Even though he's wearing a rubber raincoat, the fierce storm-driven rain gets in everywhere, and his raincoat is about to be ripped apart—basically useless.
Rain pours down his scalp like a waterfall. The male host struggles to keep his eyes open and gasps for breath. The icy wind mixes with the downpour, and if he's not careful, he'll inhale it straight into his lungs, making it nearly impossible to speak clearly.
"Look, everyone, Hurricane Monica is about to sweep past the side of The Bahamas! Just getting hit by the outer bands and I can barely hang onto this tree! According to the meteorological bureau, Monica's central wind speed is up to 87 meters per second—that's officially a super hurricane! Compared to Hurricane Eleanor two years ago, Monica is way stronger, even though they're both Category Five!"
"Eleanor was a Category Five because she barely made the cut."
"Monica is a Category Five because that's as high as the scale goes!"
"And folks, experts say Monica's core energy is still rising and should peak in five days! If it stays on track, it'll hit New York—so New Yorkers, better reinforce your doors and windows, because—Whoa! Whoa! Johnny, you okay? Hang in there!"
The screen shakes violently—clearly, the cameraman just ran into trouble.
The host hugs the palm tree with one arm and reaches out with the other. The footage is a mess—you can see the cameraman has ditched the news and is clinging to the tree for dear life.
Amid the chaos, the two-person news crew struggles in the storm, screaming and swearing.
Overhead, the clouds surge like an overwhelming tidal wave, crushing everything below with absolute fury.
You can see the distant coastline shrinking back before wave after wave of surging giants. The sound of waves crashing against the breakwater is deep and terrifying, spraying foam dozens of meters high, which then mixes with the howling wind and rain, washing over everything in the storm’s path.
The sky is blanketed with leaden clouds, thunder booms and lightning flashes ceaselessly. And in one brief flash between the thunder and lightning, there seems to be... a human figure?
The live broadcast had long since ended, and no one knew where the microphone had been blown away. In the storm, the news reporter gripped the coconut tree with both hands. But even this tall coconut tree seemed unreliable, its roots deep underground snapping one by one, leaving the reporter terrified.
Even in his panic, the reporter wipes his face and stares dumbfounded at the distant sky: "Oh my god, what is that!"
Far off, beneath the storm clouds and above the sea, there is... a person?
It’s not that the reporter has sharp eyes, but that this person seems way too big. The wind and rain make it hard to see, but even a rough estimate puts the figure at nearly twenty meters tall!
This twenty-meter-tall giant floats between the sky and sea. Thunder rolls around him, and weaker lightning bolts occasionally strike his body, making him flash with light. But no matter how many bolts hit him, the giant remains steady beneath the hurricane, moving forward with the storm—and he seems to be growing even larger.
Thunder crashes violently, striking the giant and making his body momentarily transparent, as if even his bones are glowing. You can clearly see six colors—red, orange, yellow, green, blue, and purple—intertwining and shimmering inside him, waxing and waning.
The giant is scorched all over, his skin charred like a burned corpse. His shattered skin is covered in wounds, blood pouring out and staining him red, only to be burned even blacker by the next lightning strike.