The sky above Cenderawasih Bay broke apart before any alarm sounded.
Not lightning.
Not a falling aircraft.
The sky tore open like rotting fabric, and from the black split something dropped into the sea—heavy, wet, alive.
The impact sent the waters of Cenderawasih Bay surging upward, as high as buildings.
Fishing boats hauling nets were overturned instantly, wood and engines flung apart. In the distance, a small pier along the Papuan coast disappeared beneath the wave.
Only then did the coastal sirens activate.
Too late. As always.
Tomy was inside the land observation post when the ground shook. The old concrete structure behind him creaked, thin cracks spreading along its walls. A mug of coffee tipped over on his desk, spilling across a sea chart of Papua already scarred with markings and notes.
"Not an earthquake…" he muttered.
A roar rolled in from the bay.
Not an animal sound.
More like metal grinding against bone.
Tomy turned toward the window.
Something was emerging from the sea—its body dark blue-black, slick with water, armored with jagged spines like living coral. Saltwater poured from gaps in its hardened skin. Each step it took crushed sand and shoreline into sinking slurry.
Wooden houses along the coast shattered as its tail swept through them. Boats were thrown inland. People ran without direction—some fell, some never rose again.
"Cenderawasih Observation Post to Central," Tomy spoke rapidly into the radio.
"A living entity has surfaced in the bay.
Extreme mass. This is not a vessel."
Silence.
A second roar followed, close enough to fracture the windows. Birds scattered violently from the mangrove forest.
"Central, respond!" Tomy struck the radio. "If this delay continues, the entire coastal sector is lost!"
At last, a voice answered—flat, controlled.
"…Omega-Level threat confirmed."
Tomy's chest tightened.
Omega-Level meant one thing.
No contingency.
"Available combat units?" Tomy asked.
A pause.
"…all active units are undergoing maintenance in the western sector."
Tomy let out a dry, bitter laugh.
"So Papua gets written off."
"There is one remaining option," Central replied, quieter now.
The monitor inside the post powered on without input. An old file opened, its display faded, layered with red warning markers.
UNIT: GARUDA INFERNO
STATUS: INACTIVE
WARNING: FATAL NEURAL LOAD RISK
Tomy closed his eyes.
Garuda Inferno.
An outdated machine that had left three pilots broken—if they were still alive at all.
"That machine kills its pilot," Tomy said.
"The kaiju in Cenderawasih Bay will reach the city first," Central replied. "And it doesn't discriminate."
A third roar thundered closer. The ground shook again. Forest along the city's edge ignited where the creature's bulk scraped through vegetation.
Tomy opened his eyes.
"Authorize the Papua hangar," he said. "If this bay falls, the next cities follow."
The radio cut out.
But deep beneath Papuan soil, something stirred.
A massive steel door—sealed for years—began to slide open.
Garuda Inferno was coming online once more.
The hangar stood half-submerged in the limestone cliffs of Cenderawasih Bay. Gray concrete met rusted steel, layered with sea moss and salt stains that clung like old scars. The roof was tall, but patched in dozens of places—silent evidence of past battles that were never made public.
Outside, the sea was calm.
Too calm for a coastline already stamped as a red zone.
Inside the hangar, Garuda Inferno stood like a war monument. Its height nearly reached the overhead lights. The frame was massive, compact—built for impact, not display. Dark red paint mixed with deep black, scarred and scraped across its armor. On several sections, Papuan carvings were etched directly into the metal—not decoration, but unit markings. Sharp Asmat-style lines, hand-painted by local technicians before the mech was ever deployed into the sea.
On Garuda Inferno's chest, the garuda emblem was different. Its wings were stiff, jagged—cast from steel, not feathers.
This wasn't a national symbol.
This was a symbol of war.
Tomy stood beneath it, pilot helmet still in his hand. He looked small compared to the steel giant above him. Sweat mixed with the smell of oil clung to his skin. From somewhere deeper in the hangar, the low beat of a tifa drum echoed—not official music, just a local habit. Every time a unit went out, someone played it. Not a military ritual, but an old belief: a reminder that the sea is alive.
"You sure you still wanna get in?"
The voice came from the chief technician, a native Papuan with short curls and faint black tattoos running along his arms. His name was Mikael.
Tomy nodded. "If not now, then when?"
Mikael smirked faintly. "This sea's different, bro. It doesn't like big machines."
In the corner of the hangar, crew members checked hydraulic lines while talking in a mix of Indonesian and local dialects. Someone tied a small noken bag to a steel railing—inside were cigarettes and strips of red cloth.
Not an official charm, but no one dared remove it. Even officers from central command pretended not to see it.
Indicator lights along Garuda Inferno's legs began to activate, one by one. Blue, then red. A low hum rose into a heavy vibration—like the heartbeat of a giant just waking up.
Tomy stepped onto the cockpit lift. Before the hatch closed, he glanced back once more. On the hangar wall, a rough mural stretched across cracked concrete: the sea, towering waves, and the silhouette of a black creature with glowing eyes. Beneath it, scrawled by hand:
"This sea does not belong to us."
The lift stopped.
The cockpit sealed.
The outside world disappeared.
Inside, system voices came online one after another.
Garuda Inferno was awake.
And out there, Cenderawasih Bay remained calm—
like it was holding its breath.