(Narrator's voice)
The wind howled through the desolate sky, carrying with it the chill of despair. Overhead, the heavens were stained a deep crimson, occasionally torn apart by jagged streaks of red lightning—cracks in the veil of damnation itself.
The Apocalypse… was nothing like you had imagined. No torrents of falling meteors. No monstrous hordes descending from the sky. Instead, it was slow—suffocating—like the world itself was being strangled, gasping for its final breath.
⸻
A harsh cough echoed through the dust-laden street.
An old man trudged forward, his steps heavy against the barren ground. His face bore the marks of time, his eyes sharp yet devoid of life. His ragged cloak clung to his frail frame, coated in layers of dirt and ash. Strands of silver hair and a tangled beard framed his weary expression.
On his back, he carried something wrapped in coarse fabric—a long, heavy object. A walking staff, perhaps. Or something far more ominous.
All around him, remnants of war and death painted the land in shadows. Charred skeletons lay scattered among the ruins. The fields, once lush, were now wastelands—lifeless and dry. The earth itself had cracked open, as if it had long forgotten the warmth of the sun.
In the distance, a fortress loomed. Towering walls stood resilient, a lonely monument amidst a dying world.
The old man stepped forward, blending into the mass of refugees pressing toward the gates. Whispers filled the air—fragments of prayers, muffled sobs, voices trembling with fear.
"We're all going to die…"
"Is this place even safe?"
"They're everywhere…"
"My son… Someone, please… help him…"
"God… deliver us…"
"They'll come soon… I know they will…"
Their spirits had been crushed long before their bodies failed them. Huddled together, they clung to each other, gazing at an uncertain future with hollow eyes.
The old man, however, remained silent. His grip tightened around the shrouded weapon on his back. No prayers. No fear. Only patience—like a traveler who had long accepted the inevitability of ruin.
⸻
Then, a horn blared.
The air grew still.
Upon the fortress walls, a man in armor stepped forward. His voice rang out, strong and unwavering.
"This is one of the last strongholds of mankind. If it falls, there will be nowhere left to run.
We do not fight for you… We fight for humanity's survival!"
His gaze swept across the broken souls before him.
"Stand, if your hands can still grasp a weapon. If not… pray. And await your fate."
"…Amen!"
The cry rose to the heavens. But could it truly drown out the despair rooted deep within their hearts?
The old man remained unmoved.
Waiting.
A cold wind swept through the city. A silent omen of what was to come.