March 6, 2027 – Latitude 30.9°N, Longitude 134.2°E.
Off the coast of Japan, aboard the research vessel Chikyū.
Takahashi Daiki stood in the control room, eyes fixed beyond the glass at the ocean's black expanse.
In his gaze there was no impatience—only a still, fervent devotion.
He loved this sea with the kind of love that never needed to speak: a reverence for the silence, the depth, the endless blue that had always listened but never judged.
To him, the ocean was not a workplace—it was a faith, a mirror of the soul.
He often said,
"We're not here to conquer the deep. We're here to listen to her breathing."
03:17 JST.
The data curve on the console fluttered like a heartbeat gone astray:
S-wave velocity down 9.2%; P-wave down 4.8%; temperature up 1.7 °C.
He set down his coffee. The ripples in the cup trembled as if echoing the invisible tremor beneath them.
03:42 JST.
The second wave hit. The deck shivered, light as a sigh yet unmistakable—
as if the planet itself had been kicked awake.
Takahashi summoned the holographic interface and entered a command:
モホ面データ 2017–2027 深度優先
(Moho-layer data, 2017–2027, depth priority)
The mantle map failed to load. He frowned and typed a hidden override: #FUKUSHIMA_OVERRIDE.
A warning flared: この操作は記録されます — This operation will be recorded.
A young crewman paled. "Captain Takahashi—you don't have authorization!"
Takahashi's voice was calm, steady.
"At this moment, the safety of humanity is my only authorization."
The resistance faded.
The system unlocked.
Data unfurled across the screen like a secret finally exhaled—
.moho_temp, .mantle_xml, the olivine melt index flashing in red: 12.1%, more than double the theoretical limit.
04:06 JST.
A third pulse struck.
System alert: Anomaly suggested for exclusion — misjudgment threshold 6.0 %.
He ignored it, pressed "Keep raw data."
He murmured, almost to himself,
"Then let me be, for once… not the pilot."
He stared at the trembling lines on the display, unmoving, his fingers frozen over the keys.
The mantle was not meant to dance—it had been still for millions of years.
And yet, tonight, it had a pulse.
04:19 JST.
He opened the anomaly-reporting interface, attached three velocity comparisons, temperature evolution models, and melt curves. His note was brief:
Suspected mantle plume activity. Recommend alert to the International Seismic Early-Warning Organization.
The terminal blinked:
[Submission rerouted to Tier-2 Review – Delayed Mode]
Then another line:
[Safety advisory: Data not for public release — risk of unintended panic.]
Takahashi's expression darkened.
He was the captain of the vessel, commander of technology itself, yet in that moment he felt more like Nereus—the ancient god of the sea—standing alone at the edge of the abyss, defying a blind and bureaucratic Olympus.
06:35 JST.
A summons came: bridge conference, immediate.
The feed from JAMSTEC headquarters flickered onto the screen—three senior scientists and a thin-lipped administrator in a starched collar.
"Mr. Takahashi," the official intoned,
"we've reviewed your data. The fluctuations do not substantiate a seismic threat. They are likely thermal drift—or human error."
An elder scientist followed smoothly, rehearsed:
"Our duty is observation, not public anxiety. You exceeded protocol by invoking nuclear-emergency access codes. That violates data-security procedure."
Their words overlapped like a well-drilled chorus, practiced into lifeless precision.
Takahashi studied their faces—
identical masks of neutrality, mouths opening and closing like scripted machines.
NPCs, he thought, in a game no one wanted to win.
"I haven't created anxiety," he said at last, quietly.
"I've only seen what you refuse to see."
The administrator's tone hardened.
"You are an engineer, not a seismologist. JAMSTEC's credibility will not be jeopardized by your intuition. Cease all operations immediately."
The connection cut.
07:10 JST.
He was suspended—officially "for instrument maintenance."
His account revoked, data sealed, communications severed.
It wasn't the first "soft correction" on his record.
After Fukushima, he had proposed a deep-sea anomaly-monitoring system; it was rejected as budget-unstable.
He'd learned then: Data mattered less than calm.
He sat alone on deck, watching the horizon turn pale.
A young technician approached and slipped him a folded note.
"I saw the readings. I don't know what they mean… but I believe you."
07:35 JST.
Takahashi returned to the control room.
In the paper logbook, he wrote three lines:
March 6 – Record: The S-waves are falling silent.
The olivine begins to weep.
I am forbidden to speak.
He paused, pen lingering over the page.
Somewhere beneath him, thirty-five kilometers down, molten rock was swelling,
slow and deliberate—
as if the planet were whispering,
You are stepping on my heart.
March 8, 2027 – Kōchi, Japan.
The dawn was blue and windless.
Takahashi Daiki sat on the wooden steps before his doorway, a fishing rod leaning against his knee, a net coiled neatly by his feet.
The sea lay only two hundred meters away—down the slope, past the rocks, where the tide licked the edge of the world.
The wind lifted the hem of his jacket, filling it like a sail.
For a long while he listened—to gulls, to waves, to that quiet rhythm that had always spoken to him more clearly than any human voice.
Then the holographic terminal on his table came alive with a low chime.
He rose, crossed the room, and answered.
Two faces flickered into the air: Shi Tianlong and Caldwell.
Their eyes were heavy with the kind of silence that follows truth too large to contain.
Takahashi broke it first.
"Hi," he said softly, "don't you want to say something?"
Shi's voice was low, almost hesitant.
"Don't you regret it?"
A faint smile touched Takahashi's lips. He turned toward the horizon,
where the sea was beginning to glow with the first light of morning.
"Regret?" he repeated. "In this world, there are only things you're willing to do—and things you dare to do.
Since I've done it, there's nothing left to regret."
Caldwell looked at him quietly.
"This way… you'll have to leave the sea."
Takahashi rose, slung the fishing rod over his shoulder.
The smile that came was gentle, almost boyish.
"You still don't know," he said. "I'm an excellent fisherman. I'll never leave the sea."
He paused, then added,
"I've spent half my life in the deep.
Now it's time to float back up—to see if the world in sunlight still dares to hear the truth."
Shi nodded slowly.
"We'll stay below.
We'll find a way to bring those buried numbers to the surface."
Takahashi waved him off, laughing softly.
"Forget about that. Next time you're free, let's go fishing.
We'll see who's the real master."
The transmission faded.
Only the wind remained—gentle, salt-sweet, unjudging.
He stood at the threshold, fishing net in hand, the sea calling just beyond the hill.
The light was growing now, spilling across the rooftops and the tide pools below.
He didn't move for a moment.
It was as if he were listening again—to that same deep heartbeat he had once heard beneath the Pacific.
Then, quietly, he descended the stone steps toward the shore.
His figure dissolved into the morning wind,
a solitary silhouette folding back into the sea that had always been his truest home.
And far below, thirty-five kilometers under the crust,
the mantle stirred once more.
A pulse rose through the fissures—slow, mournful, alive.
The Earth was waking.
And somewhere, in the sound of the waves,
it whispered his name.