Iberia.
After the Sargon Empire declined, this was the second nation to compare its own land and fortresses to gold. Once, that had been true.
Its vast coastline had made the nation incomparably wealthy. Great golden ships carried the hopes of the people of this land for the future into the depths of the waves. Orders flooded the shipyards without end, and the entire nation thrived in its passion for developing the sea.
Back then, the palace warehouses were filled with wealth brought in by an unbroken line of merchant ships, to the point that nobles set up display cases throughout the streets for every passerby to admire Iberia's prosperity.
Yet those golden years came to an end when they disturbed the sleepers of the deep sea. A war of vengeance surged up from the ocean depths, cutting Iberia's momentum of development cleanly in half.
The wealthy cities along the coast suffered devastating blows. Countless lives and fortunes receded with the tide, leaving only dark-blue membranes clinging around the houses. Wind passed through those empty buildings, creating a horrifying wail.
Now that dreadful threat had returned. An even greater deep-sea nightmare stirred the ocean into towering waves, made the earth tremble, and stained the sky with strange colors. Everything seemed to proclaim that the end had arrived.
No one could protect them. Not the Inquisition, and not the Abyssal Hunters.
The entire city was steeped in despair. Few people even lifted their heads to speak to one another, and those who did talked only about where they could still run to escape those hungry mouths.
"Their fighting spirit has been exhausted." The Doctor walked through the streets with Rhodes Island's operators. Their group of outsiders was the only one that could still walk with their heads held high.
The Doctor