The End Crusade

She dreamt the world was gone, and when she opened her eyes, it was so.

Enlightenment had become a myth, a gleaming memory in the stories of legend. Buried were the desires of the shuffling masses, the will to strive, to achieve a higher state of being. Smothered by a perpetual landslide of mediocrity, lives filled with purposeless consumption. When the spirit had been so crushed, were not those who wandered only a facet of the living dead?

Beacons exist. Singular points of light that wisp their wills throughout an army of waste and woe, seven billion strong and growing. The lifeless now control the power centers, make and break the laws upon the whims of an agenda roiling uncontrolled.

Chaos reigns in this world of ordered apathy. The tide rises upon this empire, and battling such would require the moon be towed from its orbit. The effort, the risk, the change is better suited to the march of time, to uncovering the poignant crossroads ahead. The tide will fall, the shadow of the empire dwindling, but the beacons must be preserved. Guard that which carries the spirit of mankind, the true heart of the species, and shield it from the shattered aftermath, that we may grow again and once more believe ourselves worthy of the stardust in our cells.

She dreams this world is gone and opens her eyes for those who glow with an ancient heart.


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