The transition did not happen with a bang, nor with a whimper. It happened with a single, undeniable symptom. One day, the world was preoccupied with a drama teacher in a red jacket and his mountains of strawberry milk; the next, a "Pale Fever" swept through the major hubs of civilization. Within forty-eight hours, the bio-engineered entities from the Balkan facility had integrated into the global bloodstream. Within a month, the concept of a "government" was a nostalgic memory, replaced by the primal necessity of high walls and ultraviolet lamps.
It has been a decade since the lights went out. The world of the mid-2020s—a world of smartphones, satellite grids, and celebrity thieves—has been buried under thick layers of ash, mutated overgrowth, and the bones of a lost era. Nature did not just reclaim the Earth; it warped to survive it. The tectonic plates remain, but the spiritual ley lines of the planet have ruptured, bleeding ancient, volatile energies back into the soil and sky.
The global population has shifted into a terrifying new hierarchy. The majority of the world is now inhabited by The Pale, the descendants of that first biotech batch. They are beautiful, porcelain-skinned zombies who move with a predatory grace, possessing a strength that defies their fragile appearance. They are the silent majority, a sea of white faces that fills the hollowed-out skyscrapers of the old world.
The humans who remain are a scattered remnant, representing barely a tenth of the population. They reside in "Sky-Citadels" or deep underground bunkers, clinging to technology that is slowly failing. But they are no longer the only predators. The rupture of reality allowed for the rise of the Lycans, mutated survivors who adapted to the fungal spores of the Fall, and the Sanguine Lords, an aristocratic evolution of the original biotech masterminds who now rule the ruins of capitals like Paris and Tokyo as vampires of high intellect and even higher cruelty.
The most significant change in this new era is the creation of a chronological border. The world is split into two distinct, warring realities: The Day and The Night.
During the daylight hours, the sun acts as a harsh, unforgiving judge. The Pale and the Sanguine Lords are forced into the deep shadows of collapsed subways and darkened cathedrals. Their skin, once engineered for perfection, has become paper-thin and hyper-sensitive. Direct exposure to UV rays causes their internal chemistry to ignite—a horrific process known as Solar Combustion that turns a "doll" into a pillar of white fire in seconds.
When the sun dips below the horizon, however, the world belongs to the monsters. The Lycans roam the vast "Green Belts" where massive, bioluminescent forests have overtaken the suburbs of the American Midwest. Chimeras, dragons, and other mythic aberrations—creatures that slipped through the reality rifts when the Sovereign's peace was shattered—hunt in the ruins of what used to be shopping malls and sports stadiums.
In this desperate struggle for day-to-day survival, the name Chen Feng has vanished from the human consciousness. History in the apocalyptic era is a luxury that few can afford to maintain. The "Gala Five" are now nothing more than legends whispered by old men in bunkers—mythical figures who allegedly tried to save the world but were consumed by the very darkness they sought to contain.
The great artifacts of the past—the Manuscript of Fate, the Sun-Disk, and the Emperor's First Breath—are no longer recognized as the tools of a "Leading Criminal." They have transcended into folklore and ghost stories told to children to keep them from wandering too far into the vine-choked ruins. No one remembers the red jacket. No one remembers the milk-bearing suitors. To a child born into the Apocalypse, the world has always been a place of teeth, claws, and the terrifying, silent beauty of the pale moon.
Despite ten years of scavenging, the "Why" of the collapse remains a void. No one knows exactly how the biotech virus triggered the global awakening of mythical species or why the Sanguine Lords appeared with ancient titles and even older grudges. It is as if reality itself was rewritten by a clumsy, interrupted hand.
The high school in the Midwest where a drama teacher once debated the "emotional arc of a sandwich" is now a fortress of rusted rebar, ivy, and shadow. No one remembers the laughter that once echoed there. But deep in the light-sealed vaults beneath the rubble, the air remains strangely still, as if the world is holding its breath for a punchline that was never delivered.
The era of the "Salted Fish" is long gone. The era of the Scavenger has begun.