After class ended, Ariyan stood on the terrace, leaning against the railing. His gaze lingered on the sky, his thoughts adrift. The warm breeze tousled his black hair as he sighed deeply.
Right now, I'm in college like any normal guy.
But nothing about this world is truly normal. The college, the city, the towering buildings, the rivers, the birds soaring high, and even the sky itself—none of it is real. I haven't told you yet, but this era is nothing like you'd imagine.
This is the year 1540.
Let's step back for a moment. According to historical records, it all began after World War 3 in 2098, humanity teetered on the edge of extinction. The war didn't just kill billions—it obliterated nations, cultures, and the fragile threads holding society together. Half of humanity was wiped out in a storm of nuclear fire and biochemical horrors, leaving survivors scarred physically and mentally. Those who lived envied the dead.
In the war's wake, Earth turned hostile. Global warming, now unchecked, transformed the climate into an unrelenting enemy. The poles melted, drowning coastlines and submerging entire nations beneath rising seas. Monstrous storms raged without warning, their winds strong enough to rip apart steel and stone. Crops withered under acid rain, and fertile lands were reduced to barren deserts. The air was thick with toxic fumes, burning lungs and choking life. The sun itself became a tormentor, its ultraviolet rays unfiltered, scorching skin in moments.
The biosphere collapsed. Animals either died out or mutated into grotesque forms that hunted what was left of humanity. Clean water was worth more than gold, guarded by warlords who controlled it with iron fists. Food was synthetic, tasteless, and insufficient. The weak starved, while the strong killed to survive. Even the wealthy, once cushioned from the world's woes, found their sanctuaries crumbling. Technology failed under the weight of chaos, and the promises of progress turned to ash.
Civilization fractured into small, desperate enclaves. Cities became graveyards; skyscrapers stood as hollow monuments to a lost era. The nights were ruled by shadows, both human and inhuman. Plague and famine were constant companions, dragging the remnants of humanity closer to extinction. People became beasts, survival eroding morality. Communities turned to cannibalism, and betrayal became commonplace.
The world had become unrecognizable—a twisted, dying reflection of what it once was. This was not just a collapse; it was an unraveling, a descent into a new dark age where hope was a fading memory and despair reigned supreme.
In the chaos, a few visionaries emerged from the ruins of a shattered world. These leaders, driven by desperation and ambition, collaborated across the remnants of nations to reshape humanity's future. From their efforts arose three dominant superpowers: the United States of the Western Empire (US—I), the United States of Akhand Bharat (US—III), and the United States of the Asian Empire (US—II). These titans of the new era claimed the mantle of humanity's salvation, while smaller nations dwindled into obscurity, struggling to survive in the margins.
These three superpowers became the architects and guardians of an artificially engineered environment, a fragile paradise known as the "special zones." Here, fresh air, clean water, and controlled climates were no longer natural gifts but meticulously crafted illusions. This technological marvel came at an unforgiving cost. Laws, draconian and devoid of mercy, were imposed to preserve the delicate balance.
If your body showed signs of failure, or if a dangerous, contagious virus lurked within you—execution awaited. If you reached a certain age and were deemed a burden—execution. Any affliction deemed too costly to cure—execution. These rules were absolute, their brutality masked by the justification of protecting humanity's fragile foothold on survival. Mercy, in this world, was a relic of the past.
Inside the special zones, life was a paradox—a blend of privilege wrapped in chains. My village lies within one such zone, a sanctuary encased in an artificial cocoon spanning 1000 kilometers. The air is purified by satellites orbiting the stratosphere, their silent vigilance warding off the invisible death that plagued the outside. Trees and skies are mere holographic projections, beautiful but hollow. Nature, in its true form, is a memory preserved only in stories of the old world.
The cost of maintaining this mirage is staggering, a burden borne by the select few who live within. Taxes bleed us dry, and compliance is non-negotiable. Every breath, every bite of food, every sip of water is a privilege purchased at the expense of unyielding obedience.
Beyond the borders of these zones, the world is a wasteland. Hunger festers in the shadows, desperation carving deep lines into faces hardened by survival. Those who dare to cross into the special zones illegally are met with swift execution, their bodies discarded as warnings to others. The fortunate few allowed entry are either the obscenely wealthy or those deemed environmentally "useful" by the government's cold, calculating metrics. Even then, their lives are shackled by relentless surveillance and an unending cycle of payments to remain within the illusion of paradise.
The truth is stark and inescapable: the world beyond these walls is hell. But even within, the shadows linger—a reminder that peace here is not born of harmony but of control, suffocating and absolute.
Sometimes I wonder—is this really peace? Or just another form of survival?
Ariyan's thoughts wandered as he stared at the artificial sky. The more he reflected on the world's history, the more it felt like humanity had traded one kind of chaos for another. He clenched the railing tightly, his heart heavy.
Beneath a sun that burns like sin,
A hollow world lies caged within.
Hope is ash, and life a chain,
Peace an illusion, forged in pain.
The earth weeps soft, a mournful cry,
For dreams that fade as shadows die.