( 𝒊) CODENAME: ASHWAKE EARTH
Date: Unknown.
Time: Irrelevant.
Location: Everywhere and nowhere.
In the year 2077, humanity's obsession with immortality reached its final peak and collapsed in on itself like a dying star.
The world as we knew it ended not in the thunder of nuclear war or the silence of a fading species, but in the synaptic scream of the Neuroviral Cascade.
A biotech experiment designed to halt cellular decay—marketed under the hopeful banner "Eternum"—instead triggered a global neurological meltdown. Within weeks, 90% of the population was infected. Not dead. Not alive. Something... else.
The infected became linked by a hive-signal, driven by a primal instinct to convert, consume, and evolve. Cities fell in days. Governments crumbled. And then came the climate recoil: the Earth herself, long abused, took her vengeance. Sea levels surged. Forests withered or turned feral. The sky dimmed beneath storm-wracked clouds, choked by ash and synthetic decay.
The survivors dubbed this new realm Ashwake Earth—a world burned, drowned, twisted beyond recognition. A haunted echo of civilization.
— — —>
GLOBAL CONDITIONS
——OCEANS RISING:
Coastal cities are now watery tombs. Entire skylines drowned beneath hostile tides. Tsunamis triggered by tectonic instability wiped out millions. Coral reefs turned to black spines.
Marine life has either died off or mutated. Some say the deep now belongs to them—creatures unnameable, evolved in weeks by exposure to viral runoff and chemical pollution. What few islands remain above sea level are either battlegrounds or sanctuaries... rarely both.
——DESERTS UNLEASHED:
Climate destabilization has turned once-temperate zones into hyperarid wastelands. Dust storms the size of small nations sweep through the former American Midwest, the Sahel, and inland China.
These aren't natural storms. Something rides in them. Shadows that scream. Eyes that never blink. Survivors call them "Ash Riders" or "Whispers." No one survives long enough to confirm their origin.
——POST-URBAN WILDS:
Where skyscrapers once stood, now only skeletons remain; overgrown with invasive flora, rusted steel, and bioluminescent fungi that pulse with unknown rhythms.
These "spore jungles" have their own ecosystems, dominated by mutated creatures and rogue AI-drones still clinging to obsolete commands. Some plants grow cybernetic veins. Some buildings breathe.
Civilization didn't fall; it warped.
— — —>
GEOGRAPHIC BREAKDOWN
——THE CRIMSON RING:
What used to be the equator is now known as the Redline—a global belt of chaos and death. The Crimson Ring is where the infection originated and mutated the fastest. Here, the Infected are no longer merely human. They have evolved into apex variants; creatures with psionic traits, hive lords, biomechanical limbs, and volatile pheromone fields.
——FRACTURED ZONES:
These are the last remnants of major metropolises. Fragmented, fortified, and partially functional. Each has its own laws, economy, and politics.
Neo-Tokyo Core sits atop layers of ruined tech, surrounded by electromagnetic shields powered by an ancient fusion reactor. It's rumored to be one of the only cities with access to the old Net (a fragment of pre-fall data civilization.)
LA Bastion is a solar-powered mega-dome, ruled by the cult of the Eternal Sun. Its inhabitants worship solar flares and believe fire cleanses corruption. Outsiders rarely leave unharmed.
Lagos Obsidian Spire rises from a swamp of decay. Built from black glass and steel, it's governed by technomancers who blend black sorcery and code.
Each Fractured Zone is a story, a secret, a sin.
—FLOATING SANCTUARIES:
When the world sank, the elite took to the skies and seas. Giant mega-ships now orbit infected waters, shielded by electromagnetic hulls and drone escorts. Some drift endlessly, maintaining the illusion of paradise with gardens, synthetic food, and hard rules. Others hover—immense airships shaped like whales or zeppelins—serving as airborne labs, libraries, or death cults.
The largest is Eidolon Ark, rumored to be built from the salvaged core of an old space station. Its inhabitants are all masked. No one knows if they're alive, infected, or something in between. They occasionally drop "gift crates" to survivors below—medical supplies, weapons, strange tech—but always marked with the same symbol: an eye with a slit pupil and data-glitch trails.
—NULL FIELDS:
Scattered across the globe are zones where nothing works. No energy. No signals. No sound. Null Fields are complete deadlands. Even the infected avoid them. Theories abound: failed experiments, divine punishment, or reality collapse. Standing in a Null Field feels like drowning in silence. Some who enter never leave. Others come back... different. Muted. Hollow.
— — —>
FINAL NOTES ON HUMANITY
The human race splintered alongside the planet. Survivors fall into loose categories:
Scavs dig through ruins for relics, food, and memories.
Remnants cling to broken settlements and guard hope like a dying fire.
Echo Priests chant to frequencies in the static, worshipping the Infected as harbingers of evolution.
Ghostrunners live between zones, fast and feral, feared for their silence.
Archivists record everything, obsessed with preserving knowledge before the last story ends.
But the truth? No one is purely anything anymore. Not after what they've seen. What they've done.
In the ruins of this fallen Earth, where skyfire dances and the air itself tastes of copper and sorrow, one truth remains:
Humans broke the world. And now they live in what's left.
Welcome to Ashwake Earth.