Storms without names swallowed entire cities.
They didn't need names anymore.
Winds moved like serpents through skyscrapers, pulling steel from concrete as if undoing mankind's pride stitch by stitch. Lightning cracked not once, but endlessly — as if the sky was screaming in code, unreadable to man. Skies turned violet and crimson, like bruises on Earth's skin. The oceans, no longer restrained, leapt over borders like they had finally remembered their ancient shape. Rivers ran backward. Forests began to whisper louder.
But the real storm — the true collapse — began inside people.
Truth became fiction. Lies were bought and sold as gospel. AI crowned influencers and avatars as prophets, feeding humanity back its own delusions in beautifully packaged poison. Leaders were no longer elected; they were engineered — pixel-perfect puppets with no soul behind their eyes. Democracy rotted quietly behind firewalls.
In cities, people stopped looking each other in the eye. In homes, meals were eaten in silence. Children stopped smiling — not because they were sad, but because they had forgotten how.
Animals grew restless. Birds no longer sang in tune. Dogs barked at empty corners. Elephants wept without reason. Cattle refused to walk toward machines that once milked them. Nature was unsettled, disturbed — sensing what humans refused to see: the death of something sacred.
Arivan watched it all unfold, not with fear — but with clarity.
He knew this wasn't punishment. The Creator wasn't cruel. This was cleansing.
A divine detachment. Like fire through a diseased field — not to destroy, but to make way for new growth. The age of comfort and lies was ending. The age of awakening would come next — but not without loss.
Temples crumbled. Not from war, but from disuse. People had replaced prayer with noise — a thousand opinions screamed into the void every second. Spiritual hunger was drowned beneath endless distraction. The soul had become just another algorithm to optimize.
And yet... amidst the ashes, Arivan felt a pulse.
A whisper from the beyond.
> "Let it fall. Let them forget. Only then can they remember."