1915: The Unexpected Armistice
Rain fell over the trenches, soaking worn uniforms and covering the ground with thick mud that clung to the soldiers' boots. The echo of gunfire, which had been constant for months, suddenly ceased. An unnatural silence spread like a wave. Some men looked toward the horizon, incredulous.
"It's over!" shouted an officer, his voice trembling, as if doubting his own words.
The men in the trenches, on both sides, exchanged glances of uncertainty and then relief. Suddenly, nervous laughter and sobs turned into shouts of joy.
In the cities, the announcement came quickly and clearly. In London, church bells rang out, spreading the news. Newspapers were handed out on every corner, with a headline that made crowds erupt in celebration:
"The Great War Stops!"
The streets filled with spontaneous celebrations. People waved flags, hugging strangers, laughing, crying. It was a moment many had dreamed of but none had expected to come so suddenly.
In a modest house on the east side of the city, Amelia Bennet, a woman with her hair tied back and hands worn from work, gazed out the window. Her two small children ran through the living room, caught up in the joy outside. At the doorway, her husband, Thomas, adjusted his work jacket.
"Where are you going?" she asked, frowning.
"To the factory," he replied, lighting a cigarette reluctantly. "There's an urgent meeting."
Amelia looked at him in disbelief.
"But... the war has stopped. They won't need to make more weapons, will they?"
Thomas hesitated for a moment, avoiding her gaze.
"The government says we have to keep going. In fact, they want to increase production. Now that the soldiers are coming back..."
Amelia's heart sank. Something in his words gave her a bad feeling. It was an irrational thought, but she couldn't ignore it.
"Why?" she whispered.
Thomas didn't answer. He kissed her on the forehead and walked out of the house, heading to the factory.
Amelia's ominous feeling came true only five years later, though not in a way anyone could have ever imagined.
—1920.
Across all the continents of the world, massive pairs of black monoliths materialized overnight. Each one stood over a hundred meters tall, with a surface that absorbed light and distorted the space around it.
With their arrival, they unleashed a wave—an invisible frequency, an energy—that propagated across the Earth. It affected every living thing within a 150-kilometer radius, whether animals, plants, or even bacteria.
Humans were no exception. In the affected zones, people began to... change.
The first recorded case was a farmer on the outskirts of Ankara, Turkey, just 5 kilometers from where one pair of monoliths had appeared.
Sharp, blade-like bones erupted and fused with his arms. His face elongated, and his mouth split into double jaws filled with teeth. His eyes gleamed with an irrational and depraved hunger. He slaughtered his family and then turned on his neighbors.
Within days, thousands of people within the monoliths' radius succumbed to the same... "frequency." They became distorted creatures, grotesque caricatures of the humans they had once been.
And despite these... terrible "circumstances," the nations of humanity—nations that had never stopped producing weapons or training soldiers—reacted with suspicious speed.
They formed massive artillery perimeters outside the zones of corruption caused by the obelisks, blowing the shit out of anything that tries to get out.
Be it human, or not.
Even so... no matter how much time they had or how many forces they amassed, humanity—and the organization formed to prepare for such a day— We were not ready... when the monoliths' true purpose was revealed.
-
—1914
Six years earlier.
In a cramped office at the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Institut in Berlin, a 35-year-old physicist stood before a blackboard, his fingers stained with chalk dust. The air was thick with the scent of old paper and the faint bitterness of long-forgotten coffee. His eyes, sharp yet distant, traced the labyrinth of equations sprawled across the board
"The curvature... must depend on the distribution of mass..." he murmured, his gaze lost among the lines and formulas.
A cup of cold coffee, forgotten for hours, seemed almost to confirm the relativity of time, which appeared compressed in his office. The silent afternoon slipped away unnoticed as he was immersed in his thoughts.
But suddenly, a high-pitched hum, almost imperceptible at first, began to invade his ears. The frequency escalated, growing sharper and more penetrating, until it felt like a scream inside his head. The light in the office intensified, transforming into a glare that burned his eyes.
The smell of cold coffee, the equations on the blackboard, the furniture, Berlin itself... everything began to fade. As if reality were unraveling, like threads of a fabric being undone.
An instant later, the light engulfed him completely.
-
When his vision cleared...
'Certainly, this is not Berlin…' thought the German physicist, as his rational mind tried to cling to something that could explain what he was seeing. Beneath his feet, a transparent surface like glass kept him standing, floating in what appeared to be an infinite white expanse. The sensation was disconcerting, as if he were suspended in mid-air.
The 'walls,' if they could even be called that, were made of a whitish mist that seemed to have no end. Within it, symbols or runes of golden light emerged and faded with a rhythm he couldn't decipher. Yet, some of them felt vaguely familiar, reminding him of the ancient Hebrew characters his grandmother had taught him as a child, which still lingered stubbornly in his memory, even though he was not a practitioner.
As he observed the runes more closely, he noticed something peculiar: they seemed to pulse faintly, as if drawing energy from an invisible source. It was as though the symbols were alive, connected to something far greater—a force that resonated through them, feeding their glow. The physicist couldn't quite grasp what it was, but he felt an inexplicable reverence, as if standing in the presence of a power that defied all logic.
Looking around, he saw a multitude of people, hundreds as lost as he was. Expressions of fear and confusion were universal. Some clung to religious symbols they carried with them while they prayed. Sobs and murmurs filled the air, creating a suffocating atmosphere.
Following one of these nearby cries, the physicist saw a small boy, about seven years old, his face red from tears, hugging himself close to the ground.
Something in that image reminded him of his own son, Hans, and without thinking, he knelt in front of the boy, trying to soften his own voice.
"Are you okay?" he asked, gently placing a hand on the child's shoulder.
The boy looked up with tear-filled eyes and replied between sobs:
"No—I… I disappeared from my home… in Manhattan… and now I don't know where my parents are!" His words tumbled out, filled with the pure terror of a child who doesn't understand what has happened."
"Easy, easy," he said, trying to calm him. "What's your name?"
"Robert… Robert Oppenheimer," the boy replied, his voice trembling as he spoke.
The man offered a warm smile and held the boy more firmly.
"Nice to meet you, Robert. I'm Al—"
"Al" couldn't finish. When a woman, using a cane to support her tired and sickly body, called out to him...
"Albert!... So, you're here too." Her voice was soft, carrying a mix of relief and fear.
He was surprised to see a familiar face. Although Albert had only met her briefly with a handshake at a science symposium, the presence of the renowned Nobel laureate comforted him.
"Madame Curie… I'm also glad to see you, even if it's under these… 'circumstances.'"
Marie smiled weakly, though her expression reflected both comfort and unease. Her gaze quickly shifted to the boy beside Albert.
"And who is your little friend? Your son Hans?"
"No!" Albert replied quickly, almost too loudly. He corrected himself immediately, softening his tone. "No… Hans is hopefully still at home. This is Robert. Robert Oppenheimer."
Marie nodded, leaning slightly toward the boy with a maternal expression.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Robert." Her voice was comfortingly maternal, though her attention quickly returned to Albert.
Before they could continue, a bald man with round glasses and a neatly trimmed beard approached the group, interrupting with a curious tone.
"Excuse my intrusion, but I couldn't help overhearing…" said the man, slightly inclining his head toward Marie. "I am Santiago Ramón y Cajal. Madame Curie, I don't know if you remember, but we exchanged letters about the possible use of radium as a contrast agent in the study of neurons. 'Advising me not to use it.' It's an honor to meet you in person."
Marie Curie nodded, offering a faint smile, and turned to Albert. "Professor Einstein, young Robert, allow me to introduce Dr. Ramón y Cajal, a brilliant Spanish anatomist."
Upon meeting the father of neuroscience, Albert extended his hand for a handshake. "It's a pleasure to meet another Nobel laureate, even in such a strange place."
"That makes two of us, Professor Einstein," replied Santiago with a slight smile and a somber expression as he observed the runes glowing faintly in the mist.
Before they could continue, a young man of about 20 with brown hair and a sharp face joined the group. He was dressed in simple clothes, and his expression was a mix of curiosity and confusion.
"Excuse me, but you wouldn't happen to know where we are, would you?" said the young man with a strong English accent.
Marie studied him for a moment before responding.
"I'm afraid no one here knows for certain. What's your name, young man?"
"John Ronald Reuel, ma'am." The young man looked around nervously. "I was at a pub in Birmingham with my girlfriend Edith, and... when I opened the bathroom door... I just appeared here."
Listening to him, Marie furrowed her brow.
"Wait a moment…" she said, looking at Albert and then at Santiago. "What language are we speaking?"
Santiago blinked, visibly confused, and instinctively replied:
"In Spanish, of course."
"In German," corrected Albert, crossing his arms, beginning to understand Marie's unease.
Both turned to John and Robert, who were watching the conversation with bewildered expressions.
"English?" the two responded almost simultaneously, though little Robert's tone was more hesitant, as if he wasn't entirely sure anymore.
Albert, ever the scientist, decided to test the hypothesis. He took a few steps forward and gently took the arm of a man with dark skin and an impeccably tied turban, who was absorbed in carefully examining the glowing runes that adorned the "walls."
"What are you doing?" asked the man, his deep voice filled with distrust.
Einstein raised his hands in a conciliatory gesture.
"My apologies, I just wanted to check something. Could you tell me your name?"
The man stared at him before responding, his tone cautious.
"I am Muhammad Iqbal. What do you want?"
"Nothing more, thank you. I don't wish to disturb you." Albert inclined his head slightly in a gesture of respect.
Iqbal watched him for a moment before walking away, still murmuring to himself as he returned his focus to the luminous inscriptions.
Marie observed the scene in silence and then swept her gaze across the rest of the crowd. There were people of all kinds: different skin tones, clothing, cultures, and accents that seemed to come from every corner of the world.
Finally, she let out a sigh, a mix of exhaustion and wonder.
"Whatever this place is... it seems there are no language barriers here."
There was no time for more "theories" when time itself seemed to stop. Hundreds of voices flooded every corner of that infinite dimension, like a celestial choir joining together to deliver a single message.
—"Welcome, my creation."
A shiver ran through every soul present, as if a lightning bolt had struck. Those dressed in symbols of faith—whether Christian, Muslim, Jewish, or from other religions—fell to their knees, not daring to lift their gazes.
Then, before all of them, something began to take shape. First, there was a golden light, like the runes, taking on an undefined, oscillating form. Then, the mist joined the light, constantly shifting: a serene and ethereal face turned into a whirlwind of stars; a male figure faded into a female one, only to be filled with beautiful yet unsettling eyes, becoming something beyond comprehension. The presence of that being was beautiful and terrifying, warm and distant, all at once.
—"You, the best of your living species, are here because I have chosen you."
A moan of joy escaped from the lips of the kneeling religious figures. They wept fervently, unable to contain their happiness upon hearing that they had been selected by their God.
Some, those who had some clue about what was happening through the study of their respective religious scriptures, felt a pang of pain pierce through the happiness in their hearts. They could only guess the fate of all those who had been left behind...
The silence brought by those divine words was broken by a voice, strong and full of conviction, that emerged from among the kneeling.
"Allah!" shouted a man with a turban, raising his hands to the sky. "This is the one true God!"
Another, a Christian priest with a cross around his neck, responded with fury:
"Blasphemy! He is the Father of Jesus Christ! The Creator of heaven and earth!"
"Yahweh!" cried a nearby rabbi, his face reddened. —"It is Yahweh! The one and true name of God!"
The murmur among the crowd grew rapidly. Words turned into shouts, and shouts into arguments. Even in the presence of their God, people from different religions began to confront each other, pointing fingers with accusations and demands.
Suddenly, the shifting light intensified, and the chorus of voices spoke again, with a calm that instantly crushed the arguments.
—"I am the Creator of all that you know. I was the lightning you feared and worshipped in your caves, the Father of a Son crucified for your sins, and the Revealer who guided Muhammad. I have been every figure, every representation you have venerated, and at the same time, I have not, for my teachings were distorted and twisted to serve the interests of those who wrote and proclaimed them."
The believers looked at each other, confused and astonished. Some began to cry silently, while others seemed to face an existential crisis.
The figure continued, now in a more intimate tone, as if speaking directly to each one of them.
—"I have chosen you not for your dogmas. Among you are scientists who have tried to unravel the secrets of my creation. Writers and musicians who have created works reflecting the sparks of inspiration with which I formed you. Philosophers who have questioned the very nature of your existence. And others, whose wisdom or faith have left a virtuous mark. Despite your sins and flaws, of all living humans, you are the best that humanity has to offer."
Young John, with a trembling and barely audible voice, dared to whisper to himself, fearing that his presence in that place was a mistake.
"I... I haven't done anything so grand."
Though it was a faint whisper, barely louder than a thought, in the presence of the owner of the dimension they were in, it was enough.
The answer did not come in the form of spoken words, but rather through a simple hand gesture that made everyone present scream as they clutched their heads. They tried to contain the unstoppable torrent of information that flooded their minds, with no distinction between children or adults.
In that instant, every human present witnessed the power of God, as He bestowed upon them the memories of their futures yet to be lived, the contributions they would make, and the tragedies that would define the rest of their lives.
For the 22-year-old John, it was as if his soul had been ripped from his body and hurled through the years he had yet to experience. In a single moment, he saw the global conflicts he would partake in, conflicts that would tear the world apart, the friendships that would define his life, and the words that would fill the pages of the books he would one day write...
When he opened his eyes, they were sharp and mature, yet also filled with a weariness that should not belong to a man so young.
Albert Einstein, for his part, was swept away by a torrent of equations and theories. He saw how his name would become a symbol and how his work would change the world's mindset, but also how humanity would use science for mass destruction. When the flow ended, his face was pale, and his hands trembled visibly. He had seen the best and the worst of humanity.
Marie Curie and Santiago Ramón y Cajal, being closer to the end of their lives, experienced something less intense. Yet it was enough to make them aware of the imminent conflict that would devastate Europe. Both shared a calmness that could only be described as acceptance.
Albert, still processing what had happened, opened his eyes as if remembering something important and turned to the 7-year-old boy beside him, who now seemed lost in thought, studying his small hands. It was a disturbing image: a seven-year-old child with the gaze of an old man who had seen too much.
"Robert..." Albert said softly, trying not to pity the state of his colleague... and failing.
"Professor... who would have thought we would meet again outside the constraints of time and..."—glancing at the overwhelming, infinite dimension around them—the father of the atomic bomb, Robert Oppenheimer, in the body of a child, concluded, "...space."
Albert, watching as Robert returned to studying his hands, as if still processing it all, raised his gaze and gave him space. Among the kneeling crowd, he noticed a young man staring directly at him.
At first, he did not recognize him. But a fragment of a future letter appeared in his mind, a phrase that resonated with clarity: "A Day Without Yesterday..."
The young man, dressed in a black cassock, smiled at him. Albert finally recognized the young Georges Lemaître, a Belgian priest and astronomer—someone with whom, he now knew, he would share ideas and debates that would change the way the universe was understood. He returned an almost imperceptible smile, a gesture of acknowledgment amidst the fervent worship that had erupted after witnessing a "miracle" of God.
More and more people knelt before the divine figure, including the no-longer-so-young John R.R....
Albert, Curie, Santiago, and the others—men, women, and children, who were no longer such, like a ten-year-old Enrico Fermi and a seven-year-old Otto Robert Frisch—began to gather, divided between faith and logic without even realizing it.
It wasn't that they weren't excited or afraid; they were. Before them stood the supposed creator of the universe, the source of the mysteries they had dedicated their lives to unraveling. Yet, something deeply human kept them on guard: a spark of skepticism, of reasoned doubt, of questions that still had no answers.
Who was this "creator" really? Why had they been chosen? And, most importantly of all: how would he treat his creation now that he had decided to reveal himself to it?
'Something could be beautiful and yet... radioactive,' thought Marie Curie, as if her scientific mind, accustomed to questioning the unknown, clashed with the overwhelming presence of the divine. It enveloped the mentality of those around her, keeping them standing in place.
As if aware of those doubts, the voice of God resonated in their minds, serene yet overwhelming:
—"Humanity is in its twilight. I have observed your development, present and future, and I have decided that, before investing more time, I will close this chapter. But I offer you ascension: the privilege of becoming my angels and aiding me in the creation of what is to come."
God raised his limbs, and for a moment, hundreds of celestial figures emerged from the mist. Their forms ranged from the human to the unimaginable: rings that orbited in silence, with unsettling protrusions twisting in the air, like eyes that seemed to observe everything at once.
Marie, Albert, and the others felt a shiver as they realized that most of the bright gazes piercing through the mist were fixed upon them, laying bare their souls. Then, with a simple gesture, the figures vanished, leaving behind an oppressive sense of emptiness.
Among the believers and the now non-practicing, the silence was absolute. Until a trembling voice, almost a whisper, broke the air:
"Why?" asked a priest, his face drenched in tears. "Is it because of our wars? Our sinful human nature? The transgressions against your teachings... or the sacrifice of your son?" His voice cracked into a desperate cry, repeating the question that continued to torment him. "Why?!"
God responded with a single word:
—"No."
With an almost cruel frankness, leaving no room for misinterpretation, He continued:
—"Christ was created with a clear purpose. His death is no greater a surprise than His birth. As for your wars and that 'human nature' to which you attribute your misdeeds, that contradiction is what makes you 'alive.' Nor is it the reason."
The air seemed to grow denser as the Creator shared a glimpse of insight with His creation:
—"Conflict, and therefore suffering, are inevitable. They are the effect and result of the constant tension between 'reason' and 'emotion' with which I created you. That contradiction, that unstable balance of 'concepts,' makes you capable of both the most sublime and the most abominable. I granted you a broader 'range' in 'life,' in its purest sense."
The divine figure leaned slightly forward, and though it lacked a fixed form, its very presence seemed to address each of them personally:
—"I do not close your chapter because of your imperfections, for I designed you this way. Just as a carpenter complaining about creating a chair for having four legs... makes no sense."
All the humans present exclaimed in unison in their minds: 'Then why!' as they shared the same dread for the answer. Until their Creator satisfied their human curiosity... with indifferent sincerity:
—"I do it out of boredom with your species."
The reason was a pill too difficult for any human present to swallow, regardless of whether their actions were guided by faith or reason.
The silence that followed was absolute, like the calm before a storm of emotions, swirling until they manifested in a child's incredulous cry.
"Is that all?! You created us… watched us… and now, you're simply bored? You're really going to get rid of us for something like that?!"
Robert Oppenheimer, still trying to process being trapped in his seven-year-old body, felt his mind cloud over upon hearing the absurd justification of his Creator.
When he came to his senses and saw everyone looking at him—including his very own Creator—he realized what he had done.
The silence grew heavy under God's unyielding gaze. Robert felt that, at any moment, his existence could be erased with a mere gesture from that omnipotent being.
But he did not feel fear.
He did not feel regret.
Only disappointment.
Throughout his life, he had endured the torment of having created a weapon capable of annihilating humanity. He had reflected, agonized over the weight of his responsibility.
And now, his own Creator was willing to dispose of them… 'Like a child tired of his toys,' Robert thought, feeling a pang of bitter irony. 'Did he—a mere "child" by comparison— have more respect for "life" than his own Creator?'
Without realizing it, a shift occurred in his gaze. It was no longer just disappointment; now, there was something else—something dangerous.
God did not look away from Robert. While his accusations were irrelevant, the conviction with which they were spoken made Him pause for a moment.
—"Do you think I close your chapter on a mere whim, like a child breaking his toys?" His voices resonated with unquestionable calm, surprising everyone—including Robert—when God added, —"It is understandable…"
Perhaps due to the misinterpretation of His messages, humans assumed that "He" would dispose of them… but that was not the case. Due to His very nature as the manifestation of creation, God rarely resorted to direct destruction; that was the domain of His opposite.
He would simply reclaim their souls and place them into His new creations—a functional and efficient use of resources.
—"To your limited perception, it may seem that way, but I see you as a carpenter sees his work.
How do you think he would react if, after finishing 'the' chair, he sat on it and found it uncomfortable?" He paused. —"If the structure was not what he envisioned, if the piece did not please him… what would he do?"
None of those present dared to answer, but God did not care—He answered for them.
—"He does not curse it, nor does he place blame. He does not destroy it in anger or lament having built it poorly. He simply dismantles it, analyzes his mistakes, and rebuilds it better. Because that is what a creator does."
A shiver ran through the humans as they grasped how their Creator saw them. Robert felt his heart pound against his chest.
—"I tested you, I observed you… and you bore me." God replied, fixing His gaze on Robert. —"So tell me—who, if not I, has the right to remake His own creation?"
As a silent response... One by one, more people—like John R.R., Georges Lemaître, and many others—began to rise and dared to look Him in the "eyes" with a mixture of disillusionment and disappointment.
Leaving behind only a few submissive, broken men of faith, prostrated before Him—seeking nothing more than their own salvation and ascension at this point.
God, for His part, sighed—though not in a literal sense, but conceptually.
He had been patient with humans, ignoring the fervent complaints of His angels, who vibrated with discontent in dimensions beyond the trivial three-dimensional perception of humanity. He had even come to admire their audacity—the courage to stand before Him and meet His gaze, something almost unheard of in His past creations.
However, His judgment, which had once been that of a mere Creator bored with His creation, changed when He recognized something far more dangerous in those human expressions of disappointment: a faint trace, a mere glimmer of… defiance.
A dangerous trait—one that, as had happened with the Morningstar, would lead to opposition. Opposition would lead to the pursuit of power, and eventually, to outright rebellion.
All from a simple trace—one that God knew He could not allow to carry over into His new creations.
And so, It made Him make a decision—one that would set into motion a cascade of tragedies and suffering, including His own, on a scale that not even He had foreseen from such a seemingly trivial choice in His 'eyes.'
To start from zero.
—"Now I realize that the 'range' I granted you was too much" —the light forming His divine figure intensified—. "In my desire for renewal, I made you too free, too autonomous. You have reminded me that a flame that burns beyond its purpose does not illuminate: it consumes and destroys."
The humans, whether kneeling or not, instinctively stepped back as they noticed the change in their Creator's tone and form. Shining so brightly that they could no longer bear to look at Him directly.
Like a carpenter who must discard a 'chair' at the first signs of 'rot' in the wood...
God decided to condemn humanity as the seventh failed creation; six previous races had taught Him, through their mistakes, the limits of certain parameters He should never surpass again in His future works.
—"Since mere specks of dust do not value what they take for granted, daring to judge their Creator..." —His choral voices, though controlled, now carried an unmistakable tone of disdain— "This will be the moment our paths diverge."
The men, women, and 'children' of faith, now aware of the gravity of their actions, prostrated themselves at His feet, pounding their heads against the ground in an act of desperate submission. With a mixture of blood and tears streaming down their faces, they pleaded in panic:
"Please, forgive our audacity!"
"Forgive us, Allah!"
"Punish the blasphemers, but please be lenient with those who never doubted You!"
But... God had already made His decision.
—"Too late" —He declared with implacable certainty—. "I withdraw my right as your Creator and my protection over your universe... May the void claim you."
His gaze swept over each of his "chosen ones" before declaring:
— "There, you will experience a fate far worse than any 'use' I could have given you..."
Robert, Albert, Marie, and the rest of the humans present had no time to react before they were swallowed by the light emanating from the runes—and from God's own shifting, misty form. As this happened, He bid farewell to His creation with a final, condescending, and falsely encouraging remark.
— "Now, you will have only yourselves... Good luck, humans—you will need it."
And with those final words, the Creator cast them out of His realm. After withdrawing His protection from their universe, He condemned humanity to a fate far worse than mere death.
—
Thus began the event that would secretly be known in human history as the Abandonment.
-
The scorching heat struck their bodies, just as their backsides hit the sand after falling out of nowhere.
The sky was still blue, and the sun burned in an orange hue above their heads. There were no signs of God, nor of the dimension they had been in just moments ago. There was no transition, no sensation of movement—only an instant of weightlessness… and then, the impact.
As they lifted their heads and studied the horizon, most reached the same conclusion: their Creator had not bothered to return them to their respective locations. He had simply thrown them all together into some desert on Earth.
A mistake on His part—one that would help form the organization that would unleash one of the greatest sufferings He had ever experienced in His entire existence.
Some rose slowly, dazed, brushing the sand off their clothes. Others remained on their knees, murmuring prayers between sobs.
"Why have you done such a thing?"
The voice, tinged with reproach and despair, emerged from among the faithful.
"What?" asked Santiago Ramón y Cajal.
An elderly Romani woman, her eyes bloodshot and her face twisted with fear and hatred, cried out, "Questioning our Creator! You don't understand what you've done! You have condemned us!"
Marie Curie, still shaking the sand from her dress, looked at her with disdain.
"We were already condemned." Her cold, logical tone contrasted with the hysteria around her. "You saw it, didn't you? God had already decided to end humanity."
"It was only the sinners!" a tattered-robed archbishop shouted, clutching his cross with furious, deranged eyes. "He had chosen us to save us, to ascend to His side… and now, because of your doubts and your pagan suspicion…"
His voice broke with a venomous pause.
"He has abandoned us ALL!"
As a metaphor for his broken faith, the Archbishop lunged forward, brandishing his cross like a dagger, seeking to stain the sand with the blood of a child…
But before he could reach Robert—who only watched him with an eerily serene expression on his tender seven-year-old face—John R. R., relying on his memories from his military days, easily brought him down to the ground.
"We curse you!" the Archbishop roared, his face twisted in rage and half-buried in the sand. "Do you hear us, heretics? Even if it's the last thing we do, we will make you pay for taking away our chance to ascend!"
His words echoed like a cursed refrain in the dry desert air. Among the believers, sobs and resentful glares were fixed upon the other group.
Albert Einstein observed them with a mix of sorrow and resignation. Madness was etched into their faces. He exhaled slowly and shook his head.
'Right… surely, you will be worse than whatever awaits us.' Albert thought, without bothering to say it. There was no point in arguing with them—they were broken.
Instead, he turned toward those who still had some grasp of reason and said, "We have to do something."
Santiago Ramón y Cajal, wiping the sand off his small, circular glasses, asked, "What do you propose?"
"We have to tell the rest of humanity what happened!" exclaimed a young Alan Turing, barely two years old, in the arms of Nikola Tesla—who had remained silent, absorbed in thought.
But not out of fear or despair over humanity's grim fate… That, to his eccentric mind, could not have mattered less. No, his silence was due to the exotic energy of the divine dimension—something he could not stop thinking about.
Tesla was certain… it had spoken to him.
It wanted him to uncover its celestial secrets.
"For what?" Enrico Fermi interjected, crossing his small arms. "So panic can spread?"
"If we do nothing, there will be panic anyway," replied Father Georges Lemaître, observing the fear reflected in the faces of the kneeling people—and in his own, manifesting as the tremors in his hand.
"Well..." said Albert, rubbing the bridge of his nose. "Before deciding what to do, there is a more urgent question… Does anyone know where we are?"
At that moment, the very man whom chance had chosen for Einstein to test his hypothesis, Muhammad Iqbal, broke his silence. He had remained distant from the discussion, scribbling in his notebook every divine rune he had memorized.
He took a deep breath as he finished and, after contemplating the barren landscape, smiled.
"My friends… welcome to the Sahara Desert." Raising a hand in the direction of the nearest settlement in his memory, he added, "Let me be your guide."
With nothing more to say, the hundred "chosen ones" began to separate… once again.
On one side, those who stayed behind. They sobbed, murmuring desperate prayers they knew would not be answered. Or they simply stared with empty eyes, devoid of the faith that had once sustained them.
But not of their hatred, their gazes fixed on the other group—the ones who moved forward among the dunes toward the nearest settlement, speaking of the future with a... trace… of hope intact.
What had begun as a hesitant dialogue among the "chosen ones"—about what to do, how to act—gradually took shape, becoming something more solid, more profound. A shared idea, a pact.
"Now, that are creator left us..." said Albert, his voice firm but weighed down, "we, who know the truth, have a responsibility."
The others nodded, their gazes reflecting a determination that, though weak, managed to quell the despair they felt in the face of the unknown.
Upon reaching the nearest settlement...
"We don't know when it will arrive… this so-called 'Void,'" added Marie Curie, as she watched with sadness the men, women, children, and elders who had given them shelter and water. "But we must do everything in our power to be ready."
And so, they acted. What had begun as a group of survivors bound by fear and uncertainty transformed into a brotherhood—founded on a simple yet solemn vow: for the survival of humanity.
Because they came from all over the world, the organization formed by the chosen ones was able to reach out to every government, one by one.
They used their memories and inventions from the future to fund their movements, weaving a network of influence that stretched beyond borders and factions.
In just one year since their formation, they were able to halt the Great War—not through a peace treaty, but through a shared warning...
Convincing most world leaders that the true threat was not in the trenches but in something far greater, darker, and approaching.
"Strongly" recommending that the production of weapons and soldiers continue.
Governments, though skeptical at first, could not ignore the "suggestions" of this organization, which grew each day beyond the public eye. Secret bases emerged across all continents, and the brightest minds of both the present—and the future—were recruited.
For five years, factories never stopped producing, armies never ceased growing, and the rest of humanity held its breath in an unsettling calm. Meanwhile, their respective governments—whether warlords, dictators, monarchs, or presidents—secretly prepared for a threat they could not fully comprehend.
But all those efforts proved practically useless when the true purpose of the monoliths was revealed, and the "Void" finally made itself known to humanity.
It was then that we realized a terrifying truth: no matter how much time we had, how many weapons we built, or how many soldiers we trained...
We were not prepared.
And we never would be.
-
1920
Only three weeks after the situation with the corrupted humans was "relatively" under control, the monoliths revealed their true purpose.
Each pair resonated with an inhuman frequency, tearing through the fabric of space. From the fissures emerged the races that God had abandoned and that the Void had claimed.
The animals of these forsaken creations had become monsters, and the so-called "intelligent" beings were grotesque versions of the great civilizations they had once been. They swore allegiance to the native creatures of the Void—beings of indescribable forms, opposed to any conceptualization comprehensible to a mind created by God.
For the first time in history, humanity stood united and fought valiantly. The armies, reinforced since the Great War, were deployed across every continent, their weapons roaring in a final attempt at defense. But they were useless. The beings that emerged from the Void defied the very laws of our reality.
Desperate measures were taken, including the premature use of the atom's destructive force. But none of it mattered. In just six months, six weeks, and six days—as if it were a game to them—the last human government fell.
Three-quarters of the world's population perished. Every great city burned. London, Paris, Madrid, Berlin, Roma, New York, Beijing, Tokio… all the centers of civilization succumbed... Only one organization remained operational.
Amidst the chaos, Amelia —the woman who had spent the last five years with a broken heart—stood.
In the midst of the chaos, Amelia Bennet, the woman who had spent the last five years with her heart tightly clenched in her chest, as if plagued by an ominous palpitation she could never shake, was now a widow lying among the dusty remains of what was once her small neighborhood, her hardened face—marked by misfortune and pale from blood loss—etched with pain.
Her husband, Thomas, died defending their neighborhood when the armies fell. Her youngest son, Arthur, only eight years old, witnessed it. Seeing the creature that devoured his father shattered his mind. That same night, while Amelia and her eldest son cried themselves to sleep in the ruins of their home, Arthur went out… and never returned. At dawn, his mangled and half-eaten corpse lay a few streets away.
Now, only she and Alfie, her twelve-year-old son, remained.
In the distance, purple lights illuminated the night sky with an unnatural glow, revealing the extent of the corruption spreading from the monoliths, stretching thousands of kilometers across both sky and land.
The undeniable sign that all humans understood—God had abandoned them… and hell had claimed them.
"Never stop..." Amelia said with difficulty, each breath burning more than the last as her blurred vision remained fixed on her son, Alfie. "Survive, no matter what... If you don't, the memory of your father... your brother, and me... will disappear... I'm sorry... for making you live th—..."
Amelia couldn't finish her sentence, as her last breath slipped from her lips. Her blood-drained body went still, impaled by a rusted metal rod jutting out from the rubble.
Alfie stared at her, his eyes dry and lifeless, unable to shed another tear. He acknowledged her death, in agreement with her unfinished last words. He closed her cold, rigid eyelids and covered her with the blanket, stained with her own blood—the same one he had used to try and keep her warm in her final moments.
At least, he consoled himself with the thought that she hadn't been devoured. She had died in an accident… by something he could understand.
And so, after burying her beneath the rubble, Alfie stood up and tried to keep his promise.
He survived as long as he could. He became a scavenger, a rat hiding among the trash and the corpses—more beast than man. He slept in sewers, in the ruins of collapsed buildings. He ate rotten food… and, when necessary, did far worse things to stay alive.
Weeks passed. A month. Each day more desperate than the last. Until, on the seventh day of the seventh month, it arrived—just as the memory of his parents and brother was about to fade… beneath the tentacles and jaws of the same monster that had killed his father.
The earth was suddenly flooded with a radiant, golden energy—a pure fire that burned any creature corrupted by the Void as if it were its very antithesis, including the one about to devour Alfie.
The Void itself screamed and recoiled. The purple sky began to fade, and the fractures in the monoliths that once tore reality apart shrank until they were nearly sealed.
"God had given humanity a second chance."
Or at least… that's what was written and preached.