The relentless churn of visions and the monumental task of perfecting Hope and Lingua took their toll. One late afternoon, utterly exhausted from a particularly intense session of mental training, Arjun finally allowed himself to collapse onto his bed. His mind, usually buzzing with data and foresight, momentarily cleared, and he drifted into a shallow, uneasy sleep.
But even in rest, the future found him.
He wasn't dreaming of natural disasters or monstrous shadows this time. Instead, he found himself in a familiar, yet chillingly altered, setting: a major news studio. The year flashed in his mind: 2050. The studio itself was muted, somber, almost desolate.
On the massive screen behind the news anchor, a grim, flickering graphic displayed a dwindling number: 500,000,000.
Then, the camera zoomed in on the anchor. Arjun's breath hitched. It was Priya. His friend, Priya, the pragmatic software engineer, now older, her face etched with profound weariness and unimaginable sorrow. Her eyes, usually bright with life, were red-rimmed and filled with tears that slowly, uncontrollably, tracked paths down her cheeks. Her voice, when she spoke, was barely a whisper, strained with heartbreak.
"Today, we mark a somber milestone," Priya reported, her voice cracking, barely audible above the static that seemed to permeate the studio. "In the year 2050, twenty-five years since the beginning of... the Great Reduction... our global population stands at just over five hundred million souls. A shadow of what once was. From nearly eight billion, we are now... this."
She couldn't continue. A tear escaped, then another, and she openly wept on live television, a silent testament to an unimaginable loss. The raw grief emanating from her, even through the vision, pierced Arjun to his core. Five hundred million. From eight billion. A ninety percent reduction. It was a catastrophe far beyond any earthquake or single pandemic. It was a prolonged, systemic collapse.
Arjun jolted awake, cold sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. The image of Priya's tear-streaked face, the stark number on the screen, burned behind his eyelids. 2050. Twenty-five years. A reduction to less than a tenth of humanity. This wasn't just a destruction; it was the destruction, the ultimate culmination of all the separate crises he'd been witnessing.
His digital control felt insignificant. His seer ability, a terrible burden. He could see the world's downfall, but how could he avert such a catastrophic, long-term demise? The weight of Priya's tears in that future broadcast was a physical pain in his chest. He had to fight. He had to ensure that future never came to pass. The clock, already ticking, had just gained a new, terrifying countdown.