The sun, a malevolent eye in the hazy sky, beat down upon Monrovia with typical, unforgiving intensity. Kofi adjusted the worn brim of his straw hat, the weave offering scant defense against the relentless heat as he surveyed his small patch of land.
The cassava plants swayed gently, their broad leaves rustling like whispered secrets. He'd spent the morning weeding, his back aching in familiar protest, but the sight of the healthy crops always brought a measure of peace, a small island of solace in a world that often felt adrift in a sea of troubles.
A flicker on the horizon caught his attention, something brighter than the sun's glare, an anomaly in the otherwise predictable cerulean. Kofi shielded his vision, squinting towards the ocean's distant meeting point with the sky.
It grew larger, this anomaly, resolving itself into points of light, like scattered embers falling not downwards, but across the curvature of the world. Curiosity, a rare visitor in these days of hardship, stirred within him.
The points of light multiplied, resolving further into distinct, metallic glints that shimmered strangely against the blue. They were coming closer, faster than any bird he knew, faster even than the fishing boats that dotted the coastline.
A prickle of unease ran down his spine, a sensation more profound than mere curiosity, something primal and unsettling. He straightened, his tools forgotten, his focus locked on the approaching spectacle.
Then the voice descended, not from the sky directly, but from everywhere, resonating within his very bones. It was deep, resonant, devoid of any warmth, like the grinding of tectonic plates deep beneath the earth.
It spoke in English, surprisingly clear, yet devoid of any human inflection, like words generated by a machine, cold and precise.
"People of Earth," it began, the sound causing a strange vibration in the very dust beneath Kofi's feet. "I am Xylar, King of Xylos. Your world has been observed, your progress noted. You have proven yourselves a discordant species, a danger to yourselves and potentially to others. Therefore, your reign ends today."
A stunned silence fell across the land, the usual midday sounds of Monrovia – the distant car horns, the hawkers' cries, the children's shouts – momentarily extinguished as if the very world held its breath. Kofi stood motionless, his mind struggling to grasp the impossible.
King of Xylos? A discordant species? Reign ends? The words were nonsensical, yet the chilling authority in the voice was undeniably real.
He glanced around. His neighbor, old Pa Musa, was frozen in his own garden, hoe in hand, staring skyward. Across the small field, a woman paused in her washing, her wet clothes suspended mid-swing. Everyone had heard it. Everyone was as stunned and uncomprehending as he was.
Before anyone could react, before the shock could even begin to morph into fear, the sky fractured. It wasn't a literal break, not like glass shattering, but a distortion, a warping of reality itself.
Where moments before there had been blue, now there was something else, a swirling vortex of impossible colours, of maddening geometries that defied earthly comprehension.
From this impossible tear in the fabric of existence, a lance of pure energy erupted, thicker than any building, brighter than a thousand suns. It descended with no sound, no warning whistle, no rising crescendo, just utter silence preceding unimaginable devastation.
The impact was not localized, not contained to a single point on the map. It was as if the world itself convulsed.
The ground beneath Kofi bucked violently, throwing him off his feet. The cassava plants around him snapped like twigs. The air, moments before still and stifling, was now violently displaced, a hurricane born in an instant.
He scrambled backwards, his hands clawing at the earth, trying to find purchase against the seismic tremors. He looked towards the city, or where the city had been.
A blinding white light consumed everything, expanding outwards, engulfing buildings, trees, the ocean itself. It was light without warmth, light that burned not with heat, but with oblivion.
Then came the sound, not a boom, not a crash, but a rending, tearing sound, like the universe itself splitting apart at the seams. It was a sound that resonated not in his ears, but in his soul, a sound of utter annihilation.
Kofi squeezed his eyes shut, shielding them from the impossible radiance, his hands clamped over his ears, a futile gesture against the cosmic violence.
He felt a wave of pressure, an invisible fist slamming into his chest, stealing his breath, crushing his lungs. The ground continued to heave and shudder. He tasted dust and fear, a metallic tang coating his tongue.
When he dared to open his eyes again, the world was irrevocably altered. The blinding light had receded, leaving behind an aching void where the lower half of the sky had been.
Looking toward the ocean, there was no horizon anymore, just a vast, gaping emptiness that stretched downwards, a hole torn in the very world.
Monrovia was gone. Where the sprawling city had stood, now there was nothing but a smoking, incandescent crater that seemed to plunge into the very core of the planet.
The ocean rushed inwards, cascading into the abyss, creating an unending waterfall of seawater and debris disappearing into the void.
Kofi stared, his mind numb, his senses overwhelmed. He was alive, impossibly alive. His small patch of land, on the very fringes of Monrovia, had somehow escaped the immediate annihilation, though the earth still trembled and the scent of burning earth filled the nostrils.
He looked around again, at Pa Musa, at the woman with her washing. They were gone, vanished as if they had never existed. His neighbors, his friends, everyone he knew in Monrovia… gone. Extinguished in a flash of white light and a sound that tore through the soul.
Slowly, tentatively, Kofi stood. His legs were unsteady, his body trembling, but he was standing. He stumbled forward, towards where his house had been, or should have been. It was still there, miraculously untouched, a small wooden shack amidst a landscape transformed into hell.
He pushed open the door, the familiar scent of dried herbs and earth filling his nostrils. Inside, everything was as it should be – his meager possessions, his sleeping mat, the small clay pot for cooking. Normalcy in the face of cosmic horror. The contrast was unbearable.
A strange sound reached him, a soft whimpering. He moved deeper into the shack, his heart pounding in his chest. In the corner, huddled beneath a tattered cloth, was a small, trembling form. His dog, Freetown, his loyal, scruffy companion, whimpered softly, eyes wide with terror, fur bristling.
Kofi sank to his knees, relief washing over him in a dizzying wave. Freetown was alive. He reached out a hand, his fingers trembling. The dog flinched, then crept closer, nudging his head against Kofi's palm.
He buried his face in the dog's fur, the small, warm body a tangible anchor in a world that had just fractured and fallen apart.
Days bled into weeks. The sun still rose, still set, though the sky was forever scarred, half-empty, a constant, horrifying reminder of what had occurred.
The world was silent in a way it had never been before. The hum of humanity, the constant background noise of billions going about their lives, was gone, replaced by an unnerving stillness broken only by the sounds of nature, now amplified, distorted in their loneliness.
Kofi stayed in his shack, venturing out only to tend his crops, to forage for food in the ravaged landscape.
He spoke to Freetown, the dog his only confidante, his only connection to a world that had ceased to make sense. "Why us, Freetown?" he would whisper, his voice hoarse, cracking. "What did we do?"
The dog would lick his hand, offering silent, uncomprehending solace. There were no answers in the scarred sky, no explanations carried on the wind. Only silence and the unending, agonizing absence of billions.
One evening, as the mutilated sun dipped below the jagged horizon, casting long, distorted shadows, another voice echoed across the desolate landscape. It was the same voice, cold, resonant, the voice of King Xylar.
"Survivors of Earth," it declared, the sound as disembodied and chilling as before. "My initial assessment was…effective. Your population has been reduced to manageable levels. Resistance is futile. Henceforth, this planet belongs to Xylos."
Kofi listened, his heart a cold stone in his chest. Manageable levels. Reduced. These were not the words of a conqueror, not even of an aggressor, but of an exterminator, a cosmic pest controller. Half the planet, gone. Manageable levels.
He looked at Freetown, the dog's tail thumping weakly against the dirt floor. What was manageable about this? What was manageable about the gaping hole in the sky, the endless silence, the ghosts that walked in the dust motes?
Days turned into months. No Xylossian ships descended. No alien forces landed to claim their prize.
Only silence, devastation, and the slow, agonizing struggle for survival in a world decimated beyond recognition. Kofi, like the few others scattered survivors he had encountered, existed, but did not live. Each sunrise was not a promise of a new day, but a continuation of the nightmare.
One morning, Freetown didn't greet him with a wagging tail. He found the dog lying still in his sleeping corner, his breath shallow, his eyes glazed.
Kofi knelt beside him, his hand stroking the dog's coarse fur. Freetown looked at him, a faint flicker of recognition in his fading eyes.
"Old friend," Kofi whispered, his voice thick with unshed tears. "It's alright now. It's almost over."
He knew it was true, not just for Freetown, but for himself. The desolation, the unending grief, the crushing weight of loss – it was too much to bear. Survival had become not a triumph, but a slow, agonizing decay.
Freetown's breathing grew fainter, shallower. Kofi held him close, whispering soft words in his ear, words of comfort, of farewell.
The dog gave a final, shuddering sigh, and then was still. The small spark of warmth, of companionship, of unconditional loyalty, was extinguished.
Kofi sat there for a long time, cradling the lifeless body of his dog, the silence of the dead world pressing in on him.
He was utterly, completely alone. The Xylossian king had conquered not just Earth, but him, personally. He had taken everything, not just half the planet, but every sliver of hope, every vestige of meaning.
When the sun finally rose, painting the scarred sky in hues of blood orange and ash grey, Kofi didn't watch.
He gently laid Freetown to rest beneath the cassava plants, his small haven now a shared grave. Then he walked away from his shack, away from his land, walking towards the horizon, or where the horizon should have been.
He walked into the silence, into the emptiness, seeking not survival, but oblivion.
He was a king's casualty, a footnote in a cosmic conquest, utterly and finally alone in a world that was no longer a world.