Chapter 6　Rise of the Ocean Guardian

The next morning, sunlight poured through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows of the convention center, scattering bright patches across the marble floor.

The main hall was already full.

Three thousand seats—not a single one empty.

In the front row sat foreign dignitaries, top entrepreneurs, scholars. Behind them were media reporters and regular attendees. Dozens of cameras stood on tripods around the hall, all aimed at the center of the stage.

The atmosphere felt… strange.

Whispers rippled through the audience like a swarm of buzzing bees.

“Is the ‘Ocean Goddess’ really speaking today?”

“You mean that crazy woman who picked a fight with Ethan Grant?”

“I heard she used to be his girlfriend. Got dumped for leaking company secrets.”

“Ha, now this is going to be fun.”

In the VIP seats, Ethan Grant sat expressionlessly in his tailored suit.

Cecilia Hayes held onto his arm, smiling gracefully as she nodded to people around them.

“Ethan, do you think she’ll chicken out last minute?” Cecilia whispered.

Ethan didn’t answer. His eyes were fixed on the empty stage.

At exactly ten o’clock.

The host came up, delivered a lengthy introduction, then shifted tone.

“Next, let us welcome our special guest—Ms. Lena Shore, who will share her latest findings on marine ecological restoration.”

The applause was sparse.

The side door opened.

Lena Shore walked out.

Same outfit as yesterday:

White shirt.

Black pants.

Canvas shoes.

Her hair was tied into a casual ponytail; her bangs were long enough to cover her forehead. No makeup, and faint sunburn marks still visible on her cheeks.

She walked to the center of the stage, stopped, and looked up at the crowd.

The hall fell silent for a heartbeat.

Then erupted in louder murmurs.

“…That’s it?”

“She didn’t even dress up? Not even business attire?”

“Typical country bumpkin. Doesn’t understand basic etiquette.”

Lena listened without changing expression.

She lifted the microphone, adjusting the volume.

“Good morning, everyone.”

Her voice was soft, but carried clearly to every corner of the room.

“My name is Lena Shore. I’m not here today to apologize to anyone, nor to explain anything to anyone.”

She paused, scanning the room.

“I’m here to tell you one thing.”

“The ocean is dying.”

A wave of shock rippled through the audience.

Lena continued unfazed.

“According to the latest data, more than 40% of the world’s coral reefs are dead or dying. Over one hundred million tons of plastic now pollute our oceans. And every year, more than a million marine organisms die from heavy metal contamination.”

Her voice was slow, each word falling like a hammer.

“And all of this wasn’t caused by nature—it was caused by us.”

The murmurs grew louder.

People began whispering, checking their phones, looking up reports.

In the front row, Ethan’s face darkened.

Cecilia leaned closer. “She’s implying we’re responsible—”

“Shut up,” Ethan said coldly.

Lena continued.

“I know many of you are thinking: ‘What does this have to do with me? I’m just a businessman. I just want to make money. Environmental protection is the government's job, NGOs’ job—not mine.’”

She let out a small, mocking laugh.

“But you’re wrong.”

“The ocean belongs to no one. And to everyone. When it dies, no one escapes.”

She snapped her fingers.

The giant screen behind her lit up.

A polluted sea. Muddy, almost sickly gray-green water.

Dead fish floating everywhere, bellies white, eyes wide open.

The camera panned down, revealing mountains of garbage—plastic bags, nets, barrels, industrial waste.

Gasps filled the hall.

“Where is this?” someone asked.

Lena replied calmly,

“Latitude 32° north, longitude 118° east. Three years ago, this was a thriving coral reef system with over two hundred species of fish. Now it’s a dead zone.”

She paused—then fixed her gaze directly on Ethan Grant.

“And the cause was a cargo ship called Sky Titan. Owned by Grant Maritime Group.”

The hall exploded.

All cameras swung instantly toward Ethan.

His hands tightened on the armrests, knuckles turning white.

Cecilia’s face went pale. “She’s insane! This is slander!”

Lena ignored the chaos.

“Of course,” she said, “I brought evidence.”

Another snap of her fingers.

The screen displayed monitoring reports, satellite data, shipping logs.

Each one solid, undeniable.

“According to international maritime law, illegal dumping can result in fines of up to fifteen percent of annual revenue, and the revocation of all permits.”

Lena’s tone remained eerily calm.

“But that’s not why I’m here.”

She turned to the image of the dead sea.

“I’m here to tell you that this ocean… can still be saved.”

The screen changed.

This time it showed a different sea—clear water, sunlight shimmering down, colorful fish weaving through coral, a sea turtle gliding slowly past the lens.

The audience gasped.

“Where is this?”

“It’s beautiful…”

“For seven years,” Lena said softly, “this was my home. A nameless island whose surrounding waters were once dead as well—heavy metals, microplastics, everything.”

She took a breath.

“But now, it lives again.”

“It took three years, but I developed a modified algae strain, code name Z-7. It breaks down microplastics, absorbs heavy metals, and survives extreme environments.”

Charts, microscope images, lab data filled the screen.

Scholars leaned forward, scribbling notes aggressively.

“Currently, heavy metal levels in that region have dropped by forty percent. Coral recovery is at sixty-five percent. If scaled globally, at least thirty percent of polluted waters could be restored.”

Lena stopped speaking.

She looked at three thousand eyes watching her.

“For all of this,” she said quietly, “I need money.”

“One person can’t do everything. I need equipment. I need manpower. I need support.”

She took a steady breath.

“So I’m here, not to accuse anyone or expose anyone. I’m here to ask—if you truly care about our oceans, then prove it.”

“Not with fancy summits or empty speeches. With actual investment.”

Her words were blunt—almost harsh.

But no one laughed.

Everyone was silent, mesmerized by the woman in canvas shoes.

“My project requires twenty million dollars in initial funding—to build three research bases, train one hundred specialists, and conduct five years of monitoring.”

She set down the microphone.

“If anyone is willing to invest, you may contact me after this. If not… that’s fine too.”

She smiled faintly.

“A worst-case scenario? I’ll just go back to my island and keep working alone.”

She turned to leave.

Then a voice rang out.

“I’ll invest!”

Lena froze.

An elderly woman with silver hair raised her hand. She was dressed simply, but her eyes were bright.

“I’m a retired marine biologist. I still have some savings. I’ll put in five hundred thousand dollars.”

Before Lena could react, another hand shot up.

“I’m the editor-in-chief of Nature. Our foundation will invest one million.”

“Green Earth Organization—two million!”

“I’ll invest—”

More and more voices echoed through the hall.

Lena stood there, staring at all the raised hands.

Her eyes burned.

But she didn’t cry.

She only nodded—hard.

“…Thank you.”