They called it the Dying Era.
The world had already ended for humanity; it just hadn't stopped breathing yet. What remained of Earth was a decaying husk, once blue, now black. Its veins were cracked highways, and its cities were graveyards of steel and ash.
The ocean changed color every second, sometimes to a hue yet to be named. The sky was a burnt smear of rust and violet that never cleared.
Thunder rumbled often, more than usual, but lightning never came. Fires ignited without warning, and rains melted rooftops. Tornadoes twisted through urban jungles like dancers in a slow, inevitable march. Humanity barely adapted.
People died every day from disease, hunger, and the unknown things that sometimes crawled from the Earth's cracks. This was far worse than an apocalypse. It was a slow death. The government had tried everything, but all to no avail.
Raven Halbrecht was born into this silence. He didn't remember a time before the end, only the half-told myths his mother used to share when she still had the energy.
She spoke of blue skies, schools, phones, fresh fruit, and music that wasn't static. But even those memories had faded. Then he only had the present, and it stank of nearing death and sorrow.
Raven stood about six feet tall, all lean limbs and worn-down muscle, more from necessity than discipline. His storm-gray eyes looked too old for seventeen, like a soldier's gaze in a boy's body.
His olive-toned skin, always pale from a lack of sun, was marred with small scars from scavenging runs and close calls. He wore a patched-up, charcoal-gray coat too big for him, flapping around his legs like a torn cape.
His boots were mismatched—one brown, one black—and both had holes in the soles.
He didn't complain or speak much. Who would listen?
His mother, Elara, was the last person who truly knew him. She was a nurse when people still believed medicine could fix things. She had raised Raven alone after his father died during one of the first 'sky tears.'
They had called them natural disasters back then, as if the Earth's bones snapping in half was just a coincidence.
Elara was soft-spoken, gentle, and always tired. She used to make tea from boiled weeds and hum lullabies from a world she barely remembered.
She protected Raven with everything she had, until the Fever took her. It was a sickness with no cure or source. It crept through the lungs, chewed on memories, and left behind a hollow shell.
The last time she saw him, she didn't know his name.
Raven didn't cry. He just sat beside her, held her hand, and listened to the silence stretch. That was three months ago.
Since then, every day had been the same. He scrounged for food, bartered scraps for water, avoided gangs, and slept in random corners of buildings. He ate when he could and starved when he couldn't.
The days blurred, the nights bit. He hadn't smiled in weeks. Some days, he forgot what hope felt like. Soon, he might forget what the word even meant.
The ground trembled beneath his feet. He stopped walking but didn't look up. Tremors were normal then. The world had been shaking apart for years. Cracked sidewalks, fallen billboards, split pavement—all part of the scenery.
Raven adjusted the strap of his satchel. Inside was half a loaf of moldy bread, a bent spoon, and a water-damaged photograph of his mother. Her face was a blur, but it was all he had.
"Another quake," he muttered, then kept on walking.
It was a long, gray morning. Clouds hung like bruises. The air smelled like wet metal. Flakes of ash drifted through the wind like black snow, clinging to his coat. Ahead, smoke rose from a collapsed parking garage.
He didn't bother checking for survivors. There usually weren't any.
Then it came again. A deeper rumble that felt almost like a pulse. Raven paused mid-step. This one felt different, like something massive was moving beneath the surface, as if the Earth had just hiccupped. He felt it in his bones. The next thing that came was an unusual silence. It wasn't the usual quiet.
He didn't even hear the "still alive" birds, or even the wind. Just stillness. His breath came sharp. That's when the air split.
Five steps ahead, reality ripped open. Not like a crack in glass, but like a wound. The tear shimmered in the air, black and alive. It pulsed with something unknowable, as if it wasn't just a hole in space, but in logic itself.
Its edges glowed red, as if bleeding into the air, and from within, Raven saw movement—shadows shifting in a space that had no light, no up, no down. It looked like a passageway. A door to something that shouldn't exist.
Then a voice came, not through his ears, but inside his skull. It was smooth, deep, almost mechanical.
[A forgotten Rune-Gate flared to life, its power anchored to this desolate world.]
[The final ember of a human lineage was measured.]
[The chosen vessel, /Raven Halbrecht/, was marked by fate's hand.]
[The gateway to the Sanctuary manifests.]
[The Ascent begins.]
Raven's heart hammered. "What the hell…?"
He took a step back, his eyes darting around the broken street. No one. Nothing. The world paused. Even the air refused to move.
He looked back at the tear. It had grown wider, tall enough to walk through. At its base, glyphs began forming—a spiraling pattern of symbols that flickered between red and deep obsidian.
[Your weary soul is called to the Sanctuary.]
[The eternal haven stands ready.]
[Do you dare to cross its threshold?]
A lump formed in his throat. No one ever talked about this. The cracks, voices, and systems. It was the kind of thing you'd hear in fever dreams or a madman's journals. But this? This was real. He took a shaky breath.
"Chosen for what...?"
There was no answer.
Whether there was an answer or not, it made no difference to Raven. He finally had a chance to escape this rotten world. At first, he hesitated, not knowing what might be on the other side of the gate. It could be anything, good or bad.
He didn't even dare to think about the bad things he could find on the other side. He had seen enough bad in this world.
He finally sighed, having made a difficult decision.
"Hope it doesn't get any weirder."