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There is an island beyond all known routes, hidden behind banks of mist that drift across the water like dreamy veils. Sailors call it Takarua, but the elders whisper its older name: Atoa-Káro, the island of the last titan. There, where turquoise waves crash against white sand and the air is fragrant with salt and sweet fruit, reigns a being both awe-inspiring and benevolent. A giant, born of sun and storm, with scales like fire in the morning light and blue stripes that run like river veins across his body. Káro—as he is known—is not simply a beast. His bearing is dignified, his eyes hold memory. They reflect centuries, perhaps millennia, of his watch over this island. Once, people lived here, nomadic fishermen and gatherers who brought him offerings: fruit in woven baskets, pearls carved from shells, mahogany figures intricately carved. They knew his gentleness, saw his size not as a threat, but as protection. For when a storm arose and the sky rumbled like a ripped belly, Káro would step to the cliffs and roar toward the horizon. And each time, the storm broke—like an animal lowering its master's gaze. Legend says that the island was once much larger. A green sea of palms, mangroves, and waterfalls. But one day, strangers came—not with offerings, but with fire. They had metal in their hands and hunger in their hearts. They wanted to take the island, wanted wood, stone, gold—and they considered stories a sign of weakness. When they entered the territory, they laughed at the fishermen's warnings until the ground trembled beneath their feet. From the jungle rose Káro, taller than a house, mightier than a storm. His scales shone like polished amber, his tail shattered trees like thin grass. But what the invaders feared most was not his strength, but his silence. He didn't roar immediately—he observed. As if deciding whether these strangers deserved life or death. Only when one of the humans threw a torch into the crowns did Káro raise his claws. The battle didn't last long. The island saved itself—through its king. The strangers fled, and their ships vanished in the storm like sparks in the sea. But Káro was not unscathed. It is said that he has borne a scar beneath his heart ever since, hidden under golden scales. In time, even the last islanders left their home. Not out of fear—out of reverence. They believed Káro should remain alone, the last guardian of a time that could never return. Generations passed. People on the mainland told his story only as a fairy tale, a colorful exaggeration. Children grew up who no longer knew his name. Yet the wind on Takarua still carries him—like a heartbeat that never ends. Those who land there today find no villages. Only beaches, shimmering in the sunlight, and forests filled with unfamiliar cries. But sometimes, in the golden hour just before sunset, the horizon lifts.
