The Last Hour of Earth

The wind was a liar. It carried no promise of rain, only the grit of dead soil that stung the eyes and coated the back of the throat. It scraped across the field, raising dust devils that danced over the cracked, thirsty earth. This was their potato field, a plot of land that was once their greatest hope and was now their most profound monument to failure.

Alan stood with his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his patched trousers, his knuckles pressing against the worn fabric. His gaze drifted over the pathetic remnants of their crop. The plants were skeletal, their leaves yellowed and curled into brittle fists. The few potatoes they had managed to unearth were small, shrivelled things, more akin to stones than sustenance.

“The soil has given its last,” a voice rasped beside him. It was Kael, the oldest of the village elders. His face was a roadmap of sorrow, each line carved by two decades of relentless hardship. His eyes, once sharp and full of life, were now dull, reflecting the pale, sickly sky. “There is nothing left to take. She is barren.”

“Don’t say that, old man,” snapped Rhys, a younger man whose wiry frame was taut with a desperate energy. He kicked at a clod of dry earth, sending a puff of dust into the air.

“There has to be another way. We can dig deeper. We can… we can do something.”

“Do what, boy?” Kael’s voice was devoid of malice, filled only with an immense, weary sadness. “Pray to a god that went silent twenty years ago? The roots are rotten. The water is poison. This is the end of this field, and you know it.”

Elara, a mother of two whose children were back in the village, their bellies aching with a familiar emptiness, sighed. “Anger won’t fill our bowls, Rhys. Kael is right. We have to face it.”

Alan remained silent, letting their words wash over him. They were the same words spoken in a dozen different ways over the past few months. Each conversation was a cycle of fading hope, a brief spark of desperate defiance, and the final, crushing weight of acceptance. He was tired of it. He was tired of the dust, tired of the hunger, and most of all, tired of the suffocating absence of a future.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be. Humanity, for all its flaws, had touched the stars. It had cured diseases, built cities that pierced the clouds, and connected the globe with whispers of light. But its greatest talent had always been for destruction. The year 2077 was etched in the memory of every survivor, a brand of fire and ash. The history books, if any had survived, would call it World War III. The survivors called it the Great Fire.

It had started, as all such things do, with the bickering of giants. Superpowers, bloated with pride and paranoia, pushed and postured until one of them finally blinked. The first nuke was a scream that tore across the planet. The response was a chorus of answering shrieks. For a few terrifying hours, the sky burned. Mutual destruction wasn't a theory; it was a promise kept with terrifying efficiency.

When the firestorms subsided and the black rain finally ceased, the world was silent. The sprawling governments of old were gone, vaporized along with their capitals and their leaders. But they weren't the only casualty. The Great Fire had been a thorough executioner. It had scoured the planet of ninety percent of its human population, leaving behind only scattered pockets of bewildered survivors in a world they no longer recognized.

Two decades had passed. Twenty years of scrabbling in the dirt, of building crude shelters from the bones of the old world. Villages like theirs, little islands of life in an ocean of death, dotted the globe. They survived day to day, their existence a fragile thread. But survival was not living. The true enemy wasn't the lingering radiation or the mutated beasts that roamed the grey wastes; it was the slow, agonizing death of the planet itself. The nukes had been more than just bombs; they had been a mortal wound. Mother Earth was dying, her soil poisoned, her waters toxic, her breath a dusty wheeze. And she was taking all her remaining children with her. Looking for tomorrow felt like staring into a fog with no end. Hope had become the most dangerous poison of all.

“So that’s it?” Rhys’s voice cracked, pulling Alan from his reverie. “We just lie down and let the dust cover us?”

Before Kael could offer another dose of grim reality, it happened.

DING.

The sound was impossible. It was not the familiar clang of scavenged metal or the toll of their warning bell. This was a sound that was perfectly clear, impossibly pure, like a single, giant crystal bell struck once. It was everywhere and nowhere at once, vibrating not just in their ears but in the very marrow of their bones.

Every head in the field snapped upwards. Conversation died. The wind itself seemed to hold its breath.

And there, against the soupy, parchment-coloured canvas of the sky, something new appeared. It wasn't a cloud, nor was it a bird or one of the scav-drones that had long since fallen from the sky. It was text. Stark white letters, luminous and impossibly vast, were projected against the heavens. The font was strange, elegant and ancient, made of curves and lines that felt both alien and deeply familiar. It was visible to them all, hanging there as if it were a new constellation.

The text formed a simple, terrifying message: a timer.

[ 00:59:59 ]

It began to tick down, the seconds falling away with silent, inexorable purpose.

[ 00:59:58 ]

[ 00:59:57 ]

A collective gasp swept through the small group. They looked at each other, their faces a mixture of terror, awe, and utter confusion. Was this a mass hallucination? A symptom of starvation and despair?

Then, the second event occurred.

Ding.

This one was different. Alan flinched, his hand flying to his head. The sound hadn't come from the sky; it had been born directly inside his own skull. That's how it feels like, a part of his mind observed with detached calm.

As the internal echo faded, a new impossibility bloomed into existence. Just beyond arm's reach, a transparent blue window shimmered into view, hovering in the air before his eyes alone. It was like a display from the old world's games, a layout of light and text that seemed both utterly alien and strangely intuitive.

He shot a look at the others. Their startled, wide-eyed expressions told him everything. Elara was staring at a point just in front of her face, her mouth agape. Kael had stumbled back, one hand warding off the vision before him. Rhys was touching the empty air where his window hovered, his fingers passing through the light as if it were smoke.

Everyone got the same thing.

Alan forced himself to focus, his heart hammering against his ribs. He looked back at the strange, beautiful text on the pop-up window. The script was the same as the one in the sky, a language he had never seen before. And yet, as his eyes scanned the words, the meaning flowed into his mind as clear as day. He didn't read it; he simply understood it.

> [ A Message of Passage from Noah ]

> To the Last Children of Earth,

> It is with great sorrow that we must inform you: the vessel you call home has reached the end of its journey. The wounds it sustained have proven fatal. In precisely one hour, as the timer in your sky indicates, its life force will cease, resulting in total planetary dissolution.

> As this chapter closes, a final choice is offered to all of humanity.

> CHOICE 1: The Path of Closure. Remain with the world that birthed you. Find peace as your journey concludes with its own. Your cycle will end as the planet's does.

> CHOICE 2: The Path of Continuance. Accept this invitation to a new beginning in the multi-dimensional nexus known as Joka. Life there will be a challenge, governed by its own rules, a System you will come to understand. But it is a chance to endure, to strive, and to live on.

> To select your path, you must state it clearly and with intent. Verbally declare "I will stay" or "I choose to live."

> The path you walk is your choice alone. Please, decide before the time is gone.

>

Silence. A profound, ringing silence fell over the potato field, broken only by the whisper of the wind. The monumental absurdity of it all was too much to process. An entity called Noah. A new dimension called Joka. A choice between a dignified, certain end and an impossible, unknown future.

The fragile dam of their composure finally broke.

“It’s a trick!” Kael’s voice was shaky, but laced with a renewed, fearful conviction. “It’s the radiation sickness finally taking our minds! A final dream before the end.”

“Did you see the sky, Kael? Did you hear the sound?” Elara countered, her voice trembling. “We all saw it. We all have… this thing.” She gestured vaguely at the air in front of her.

“It’s a lie! A cruel joke!” another villager shouted, stumbling back toward the cluster of hovels that was their home. “To give us hope now? There is no Joka! There is only here!”

The village was descending into chaos. People were emerging from their homes, pointing at the sky, shouting, crying. The grim unity of their shared despair had been shattered, replaced by a frantic, terrified debate. Alan saw them splitting, almost instantly, into their preordained camps.

The elders, led by Kael, were the most vocal skeptics. They were the ones who had seen the old world burn, who had lost everything and everyone. They had buried their hope long ago, and they refused to dig it up for what they saw as a phantom promise. To them, this was a gimmick, a hallucination, an insult to their long suffering.

"Better to die on soil we know than to vanish into a liar's fantasy," Kael argued, his voice resonating with tired authority.

The youth were the opposite. For them, two decades of dust was all they had ever known. They had no memory of a green world, only stories. This impossible message wasn’t a trick; it was a miracle. It was the only sliver of light they had ever seen in a lifetime of darkness. Rhys was their champion, his eyes blazing with a feverish light. “What do we have to lose?” he yelled, his voice raw. “Look around you! We are already dead! This is a chance, a real chance! I’d rather die reaching for it than wither away here!”

And then there were the adults, the ones like Alan. They were caught in the middle, their minds reeling, trying to apply logic to an event that defied all logic. They were old enough to remember the world before, to understand science and reason, but young enough to still crave a future. They were puzzled, trying to fit this square peg of divine intervention into the round hole of their reality. Is this a shared psychosis? An alien contact? A prank from some god-like being? The questions swirled, offering no anchor in the storm.

Alan’s mind raced. He looked at the timer in the sky.

[ 00:42:17 ]

Less than forty-five minutes. He looked at the window hovering before him, a perfect, unwavering construct of light. It didn't flicker. It didn't fade. It felt more real than the dying sun. The internal ding. That was the key. A broadcast could create an image in the sky. Mass hysteria could make people believe they saw it. But a sound generated inside every single person's skull, simultaneously? That was something else entirely. That wasn't technology as he knew it.

That was… power.

The debate grew more heated. Accusations flew. Kael called Rhys a fool chasing ghosts. Rhys called Kael a coward afraid to live. Families were splitting, friends turning on each other, their final hour on Earth spent squabbling in a dead field.

Finally, Rhys couldn't take it anymore. His face was flushed, tears of rage and desperation streaming through the grime on his cheeks.

“I’m done!” he screamed, his voice raw. “I’m done with this dirt and this sky and this slow death! I don’t care if it’s a lie! It’s better than this!”

He took a deep, shuddering breath, his eyes fixed on the empty space where his window hovered. He stood tall, and with every ounce of conviction in his soul, he shouted the words.

“I CHOOSE TO LIVE!”

For a heartbeat, nothing happened. Kael let out a sad, knowing scoff.

Then, a flash.

It wasn't an explosion. There was no sound, no shockwave. It was a silent, instantaneous event. A column of pure, white light, brighter than the sun, engulfed Rhys for a fraction of a second. When it vanished, so had he.

He was simply… gone.

The spot where he had stood was empty. Not even a scorch mark on the ground. No smell of ozone. Just absence.

A wave of gasps and terrified shrieks rippled through the crowd. The chaotic noise of the debate died instantly, replaced by a heavy, dreadful silence. The proof was undeniable. Something had happened. The effect was the opposite of what one might expect.

The skeptics grew more entrenched in their fear. “You see?” one of the old women whispered, clutching a pendant made of old-world plastic. “It took him! The light consumed him! It’s a trap!”

The hopeful, however, saw it as confirmation. Their hope, once a flickering ember, now roared into a bonfire. “He made it!” a young girl cried. “He’s free!”

The puzzled, Alan’s group, were the most upset. The choice was no longer theoretical. It was real. The consequences were real. Vanishing into a flash of light was a real outcome. Their carefully constructed logic had been shattered, and now they stood on the precipice of an impossible decision, with the cosmic clock ticking away.

[ 00:23:48 ]

Alan looked around. He saw Kael gathering the other elders, their faces set like stone, ready to meet their end with a stubborn, tragic dignity. He saw the remaining youth, their eyes now shining with desperate resolve, beginning to murmur their own choices. He saw Elara, torn between her fear and her desire to give her children a chance, her face a mask of agony.

What was the right choice? To stay on the Earth he knew, to feel its final shudder and be extinguished with a sense of place? Or to leap into a void called Joka, a place with its own "System," a word that promised rules and structure but could just as easily mean slavery or something worse?

He looked down at the withered potato vine at his feet, its skeletal fingers clutching at the dead soil. This was the certain future. A slow, grinding end in a world of dust and decay. Certainty.

He looked up at the impossible text in the sky. That was the unknown. A chance, however small, however strange. An uncertain future.

Certain death versus uncertain life.

Rhys wasn't a fool. He was a gambler. He had looked at his hand—nothing—and he had bet it all on a card he couldn't see.

Alan’s heart calmed. The panic receded, replaced by a cold, sharp clarity. Despair was a prison. Hope, even a sliver of it, was a key. He might be walking into another, larger prison, but at least he would be walking. He would be choosing.

He took a step forward, away from the others. He felt Elara’s eyes on him. He didn’t look back. He focused on the blue window that only he could see, at the promise and the threat it held. He took a breath, the gritty air feeling like a final farewell.

His voice, when it came out, was steady. Clear. Full of intent.

“I choose to live.”

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***