Silence ruled the place... a heavy, suffocating silence, as if the world itself had stopped breathing.
In that dimly glowing darkness—flickering with the remnants of a dying flame—the stillness was pierced by a voice. A voice not addressed to anyone in particular, yet it sliced through the cold air like a ghostly echo:
"Is the world... nearing its end?"
The voice was faint, laced with despair, as if it came from a soul that had lost everything, clinging to nothing but the shadow of a question.
Some might call it dramatic. Others might be struck by disbelief.
But the undeniable truth was this: the mere word "nearing" still carried a sliver of hope… a dim light in a tunnel that stretched into nothingness.
A final hope.
A last breath before the plunge into oblivion.
Yes, the end was coming.
And death—though humanity's shared destiny—was not a natural end this time...
It was a consequence.
The result of a single day: August 18th, 2028.
That date was not only etched in history books,
but in the collective memory of humankind.
From that day on, humanity was never the same.
They were the ones who sparked the first flame...
And they were the last to taste the bitterness of what they'd sown.
A violent clash shattered the stillness.
A crimson spark burst from the shadows—like a shard from the depths of hell.
Two swords collided, their force nearly tearing the air apart.
Neither fighter yielded, locked in a wordless debate over the fate of this cursed world.
An old man stood nearby, unmoving as stone, his face lost in shadow—his features unseen, but his presence alone carried weight.
Before him stood a teenage boy, battered and bleeding, wavering between life and death, between determination and collapse.
He cried out, voice trembling, the words themselves a struggle: – "Why?! After all this time… why do you appear like this?!"
He was exhausted, breathing ragged, his blood soaking into the earth.
His clothes were torn—a black jacket, red shirt, and dark pants barely holding together.
Blood covered his body, the darkness swallowing every trace of color.
His crimson eyes spoke of sleepless nights and pain that never ceased.
And yet... he still stood.
Still fought.
But why?
Was he part of this ending… or its beginning?
Before anyone could answer, a second voice emerged from the shadows—cold, mocking, stripped of any reverence for existence: – "Life… was never fair, old man…"
Another youth stepped forward, confident in his stride.
Golden hair shimmered in the faint light, blue eyes glinting with an eerie calm.
His clothes—elegant and neat in blue and yellow—stood in stark contrast to the surrounding chaos…
And he didn't seem to care.
He continued, voice smooth and detached: – "Sometimes life smiles on a few… but it never spares the rest."
The wounded boy turned his eyes toward the old man, then toward the blonde stranger.
Slowly, he lowered his sword, as if something within him had finally settled.
He spoke in a hoarse, barely audible voice: – "Don't worry..."
He took a deep breath, wiped the blood from his trembling lips, and added with quiet resolve: – "We can still fix this…"
There was more conviction in his voice than in his broken body.
He raised his head, gazed into the dark horizon, and said: – "The past... cannot be changed.
But the future… the future is still in our hands."
A new silence fell.
But this time, it wasn't the silence of despair.
It was the silence of decision.
Then the old man finally moved.
Just a single step…
Yet it was enough to make his voice echo through the darkness:
– "The human race… is worthless."