Chapter 1: The Dying World – 2085

  The world had become a stranger to itself.

  By 2085, humanity had not so much survived as it had persisted, clinging to existence in a landscape both familiar and alien. Civilization had not collapsed in a cataclysmic event; rather, it had withered, contorted into a form that was colder, more mechanical, and largely unrecognizable. The planet was not dead, but it was ensnared in a protracted demise, a slow-motion unraveling that left scars deeper than any sudden calamity could.

  For decades, the warnings had been clear, yet they fell upon ears deafened by complacency and denial. The initial signs—the floods—were dismissed as anomalies, aberrations in the natural order. But the anomalies became patterns. Coastal cities found themselves increasingly submerged, their streets transformed into canals, their inhabitants refugees in their own homes. The waters rose with an indifference that was almost cruel, swallowing landmarks and memories alike.

  Then came the storms. Tempests of unprecedented ferocity lashed the continents, their winds howling like vengeful spirits. Entire regions were laid to waste, infrastructures crumbled, and the very air seemed charged with a malevolent energy. The wildfires followed, raging infernos that devoured forests, towns, and lives without discrimination. Flames danced across the landscape, leaving behind a tapestry of ash and desolation. Some fires burned unchecked for years, creating perpetual horizons of smoke and ember.

  But it was the relentless encroachment of the seas that delivered the final, irrevocable blow.

  Africa, once the cradle of human civilization, was the first to succumb. The continent's vast expanse, rich histories, and diverse cultures were engulfed by the ocean's insatiable hunger. Cities that had stood for millennia were now submerged relics, hidden beneath layers of saltwater and time. The exodus was monumental; millions fled, seeking refuge on higher grounds that were already overburdened and unwelcoming. The world, fractured and resource-starved, had little compassion or capacity for the displaced. Safety became an illusion, a fleeting concept lost in the tides.

  With Africa's submersion, the global equilibrium shattered. Resources, already dwindling, became the new currency of power, the catalyst for conflict. Nations, teetering on the brink from economic turmoil and environmental collapse, turned predatory. The veneer of diplomacy dissolved, revealing a primal struggle for survival.

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  Thus ignited the Final War.

  The opening salvos were not aimed at enemy combatants or strategic military installations; they targeted the lifelines—supply chains. It was a war not of ideology or territorial ambition but of sheer desperation. Populations, driven to the edge by hunger and fear, watched as their governments sought sustenance through aggression. The global theater became a mosaic of alliances forged not from shared values but from mutual necessity.

  On one front stood the European Federation, a monolithic entity born from the remnants of the European Union, now a heavily militarized bloc. Alongside them, Russia, resurrecting the specter of its imperial past, extended its influence across Eastern Europe and deep into Central Asia. The United Asian States (UAS) emerged as a formidable conglomerate, uniting China, India, and the fragmented Middle Eastern territories under a banner of survival and dominion.

  Opposing them was the Western Alliance—a coalition comprising the United Kingdom, the United States, Canada, Australia, and the South American States. Once beacons of democracy, these nations now grappled with the erosion of their foundational principles, clinging to the vestiges of a world order that had long since crumbled.

  The origins of the conflict became a moot point, lost in the chaos and propaganda. Victory was an obsolete concept; endurance became the measure of success. The world had transformed into a vast hunting ground, where cities no longer symbolized progress and culture but stood as fortresses, battlegrounds, or mass graves. Governments, stripped of their democratic facades, operated under martial law, with corporate entities wielding unprecedented power. Surveillance permeated every facet of life, reducing privacy to a nostalgic memory. Food scarcity led to stringent rationing, information was manipulated to maintain control, and human life was commodified, expendable in the grand calculus of survival.

  The oceans, once avenues of exploration and commerce, morphed into arenas of conflict and mystery. Naval battles erupted over control of the seas, and entire fleets vanished without trace, swallowed by the enigmatic depths. The maritime abyss became both a strategic asset and a haunting enigma.

  In this desperate scramble, the Deep Missions were conceived. Nations, driven by the insatiable need for resources, directed their gaze beneath the waves, seeking salvation in the uncharted territories of the deep sea. The objectives were clear: unearth hidden oil reserves, mine rare minerals from the ocean floor, exploit any asset that could tip the scales in their favor. Deep-sea drilling platforms became coveted prizes, and the technology to reach greater depths advanced at a breakneck pace.

  Yet, in their fervent quest, humanity overlooked an immutable truth: some realms are not meant to be conquered.

  The abyss, long a subject of myth and speculation, harbored its own secrets. As the machinery of war descended into the depths, it disturbed an ancient silence. Something stirred—a presence that had watched, waited, and now responded.