In the waning days of 2026, Earth, once vibrant and filled with dreams, groaned under the weight of its own sins. The world didn't end in silence — it screamed. Screamed in sirens, in detonations, in the last breath of millions lost to fire and fallout.
It began not with chaos, but with certainty. Certainty that borders would protect. That alliances would hold. That the unthinkable was just that — unthinkable.
But war cares little for delusion.
The first missiles flew between Iran and Israel, long-time adversaries whose every motion was balanced on the knife-edge of prophecy and retaliation. A single misinterpreted launch. A retaliatory barrage. And then — a cascade. Alliances snapped into action. Satellites blared warnings. Nuclear warheads, dormant for decades, rose like dragons awakened from slumber.
Within hours, capitals had vanished. Within days, entire continents choked beneath radioactive clouds. And within a week… Earth as it was had ceased to be.
Above the dying world, beyond orbit where time did not move linearly, he returned.
The Judge of Earth, clothed in robes woven of star-dust and quiet grief, stepped through the invisible membrane that separated celestial from mortal. He had been gone for a hundred years by Earth's reckoning, locked in cosmic deliberation.
He had stood before the Tribunal of Continuance and begged — not for mercy, but for hope. Hope that Earth's better half, its kindness, its brilliance, its potential, had not yet gone dark. But the tribunal had not listened fast enough.
When he returned… it was over.
His arrival sent ripples through the silence. Above the scorched blue shell of Earth, he hovered, unmoving, his expression unreadable. Yet within, storms raged.
"You were too late," the stars whispered.
"I tried," the Judge murmured in return.
Then he felt them.
Five embers, flickering faintly beneath the planetary ruin. Five souls had not yet been extinguished. No — they pulsed with a will that defied fate. Together even in death. Together at the end.
And then… a sixth spark, distant and darker.
The Judge descended.
Ash parted like a reverent curtain as his feet touched what had once been the ground. Beneath him lay a shattered university — its spires twisted, its libraries charred, its students dust. But here… beneath the rubble, soul-lights glowed.
He reached out, and the six gathered before him — not in flesh, but in spirit, translucent impressions of their former selves. And in this spiritual plane, time stilled.
The plane was silent yet the Judge spoke its as if the he was talking to someone in the whole stood alone The Judge asking whether his actions were right or wrong
"This is all that remains… Six survivors of mind and will. Even fate cannot bind what has already broken."
"Am I allowed to help? Yes. They are beyond Earth now. The Tribunal will not stop me."
"But I must be careful. I am neutral. I may not shape their future. Only offer the path."
His hand shimmered. The space around them changed. What was once a scorched ruin turned into a tranquil hall of light — a small round pavilion atop a peaceful lake. The sky was dusk-purple, painted with soft nebulae. The pavilion floor bore six golden cushions.
The souls took shape — not as they were when they died, but as they felt most whole. Their youth. Their best days. University students, robed in familiar casuals, stunned but calm in the Judge's presence.