The end did not come in a single moment.
It was not a meteor strike, nor a divine judgment, nor even the sudden silence of machines.
The end was slower, crueler — a thousand cuts across the body of the Earth until it bled out beneath our feet.
For centuries, humanity poisoned its cradle. Smoke rose from factories like funeral pyres, choking the skies with toxins. Rivers turned black, oceans foamed with chemical waste, forests fell beneath the teeth of saws and the hunger of cities. The air grew heavy, the soil thin, and the water bitter. Yet the world endured, limping forward beneath the weight of progress.
Then came war.
Nations fractured, alliances crumbled, and greed sharpened into steel. Skirmishes became conflicts, conflicts became wars, and wars became infernos that consumed continents. Nuclear fire bloomed across the horizon, mushroom clouds clawing at the heavens. Cities vanished in seconds, millions turned to shadows etched into walls. The survivors staggered through ruins, their bodies scarred by radiation, their minds hollowed by grief.
But the bombs were only the beginning.
The Earth itself began to shift. The axis tilted, subtle at first, then more pronounced. Seasons twisted into grotesque parodies of themselves—winters burned with heat, summers froze with storms. Crops failed, animals fled, and the rhythm of life unraveled. The magnetic field, once a shield against the Sun's fury, faltered. Auroras danced in places they were never meant to be, beautiful and deadly, heralds of a planet losing its protection.
And the Sun… the Sun became our executioner.
Its rays, once the source of warmth and growth, turned into spears of radiation. Ozone thinned, skies blistered, and the very air became poison. Skin burned beneath daylight, crops withered before they could bloom, and oceans boiled in slow agony. The Sun did not rise as a giver of life anymore—it rose as a predator, relentless and merciless.
Half of humanity perished in the chaos. Cities became tombs, nations became memories. The survivors huddled in shadows, beneath ruined shelters, praying for nightfall that brought only cold and hunger.
Yet even as humanity fell, the beasts of the Earth changed. Evolution, accelerated by radiation and chaos, twisted them into something new. Wolves grew taller, their eyes gleaming with intelligence. Birds spread wings vast enough to blot out the sky. Lions spoke in guttural tones, their roars carrying meaning beyond instinct. They became beastkin — creatures of flesh and thought, born from the crucible of apocalypse.
For the humans who remained, survival was no longer just about enduring the Sun or the poisoned air. It was about facing rivals who had risen from the ashes stronger, faster, and more cunning. The food chain itself was rewritten, and humanity found itself no longer at the top.
But the future cannot be murdered.
The old world was gone.
The new age had begun.