A Ruin World

1st Person Pov

I walk through the ruins of the world that was, my feet kicking up dust where roads once stretched.

The sky above me is a dull orange, the sun a weak, flickering thing behind layers of thickened smoke.

The clouds are sick, sluggish, hanging low like bruises smeared across the horizon.

The air is thick with the scent of ash and decay, and each breath carries the taste of something long since burned.

This is home now.

I don't remember the last time I saw the sun.

Maybe it died with the world.

The cities are graves.

I walk alone through the carcass of a city, though it barely deserves the name anymore.

Towers of steel and glass have become jagged skeletons of what they once were, their frames reaching toward the sky as if in a final, desperate prayer.

Shattered buildings slump, their bones snapped, their skin peeled away in jagged sheets of steel and glass.

Roads are cracked, the asphalt torn apart by fire and time.

Cars sit frozen in place, rusting shells filled with shadows of the past.

Some still hold the remains of their passengers, bodies turned to nothing but brittle bone and tattered cloth.

Ash clings to everything, a thick and choking second skin.

I breathe through fabric, but it doesn't help much.

The taste of the dead world lingers on my tongue.

Nothing moves.

There is no wind, no birds, no scuttling of rats or insects.

The silence is absolute, a heavy thing that wraps around the world and refuses to let go.

 I used to think silence was peaceful.

Now, it feels like an endless scream, stretched across a land that can no longer answer.

I step carefully, because the ground is treacherous.

Rubble shifts unpredictably, waiting for a single mistake to send me plunging down into the depths of some ruined tunnel or basement where no one will ever find me.

But there is no one left to find me anyway.

Water is poison.

The rivers that once cut through the land are thick with filth, their surfaces covered in an oily sheen that never fades.

Rain is worse.

It falls black and stings like acid, eating away at anything it touches.

I remember when people used to run outside to dance in the rain.

Now, we run for cover, shielding ourselves from the sky's fury.

The ground is no better.

The soil has turned to dust, cracked and dry, unable to sustain even the hardiest of weeds.

The trees that remain are skeletal husks, their bark stripped away, their branches twisting like the hands of the dead.

Food is scarce.

Cans of things I can no longer name, dried and shriveled rations that taste like metal.

There are no animals left to hunt, no fish left to catch.

The world has been bled dry.

I used to wonder if I was truly alone.

If somewhere, beyond the broken horizon, someone else was breathing.

If some miracle of fate had spared another life.

But I have walked for miles, searching for something ...something that makes me to live again.

I have called out until my voice was raw.

I have listened for anything—any echo, any whisper of life beyond my own existence.

There is nothing.

There is only me.

I don't know why I survived.

It wasn't luck.

Luck ran out long ago.

Maybe it was some cruel joke by whatever gods used to watch over this world.

Or maybe there's no reason at all.

I was just left behind, like a forgotten piece of debris after the explosion.

The war was not kind.

Magic was not enough.

Neither was technology.

In the end, nothing could stop the destruction once it began.

The final days were the worst.

Spells and bombs fell like rain, until there was no more difference between the two.

And then, there was nothing.

The bodies are gone now.

The fire took most of them.

The rest crumbled into the ash, buried beneath the ruins.

Sometimes I think I see shapes in the dust—shadows of people that once were.

But when I get closer, it's always just rubble, twisted metal, shattered stone.

I wonder if the world will ever recover.

If, somehow, life will crawl out of the cracks and take root again.

Maybe, centuries from now, the earth will forget this war, and green things will grow where corpses once lay.

But I won't be here to see it.

At night, the stars are hidden behind a permanent haze, the moon a blurred smudge in the sky.

The darkness is absolute, pressing down like a weight that never lifts.

There are no city lights, no fires burning in the distance.

Just emptiness, stretching forever.

And yet, I am still here.

A survivor in a world that has no place for survivors.

No victory to celebrate.

Just the slow, endless march of existence in a place where life has been all but erased.

I keep moving.

There's nothing else to do.

If I stop, the silence will eat me alive.

I tell myself I am looking for something.

Something .... be it knowledge , a vault... something that can at least make me forget about the doomsday i am living.

I am the last, the only one left to witness what we have done.

And I wonder, as I walk through the remains of the world, if it would have been better if I had died with the rest of them.

*Sigh*

It makes me wonder... Why?

Why did all of this start?

'Heh'

I sat upon the last pieces of Hogwarts, watching the sky churn in dead silence.

My parents for some reason told me i need to come here on this day in this exact moment.

I don´t know why thou... I just turned Twelve.

My parents died last year.

It was also the day i died with them.

All of my childhood was dedicated to create the "Perfection" i am today.

That was my parents used to say.

That i am the choosen one or some bullshit like that.

'Heh'

*Sigh*

I miss them so much.

Bu-

I feel it.

The final countdown had begun.

Just now the planet was waiting to follow everyone to oblivion.

Hogwarts, once a fortress of knowledge and power, had been reduced to blackened rubble.

The towers had collapsed long ago.

The Great Hall lay open to the sky, its enchanted ceiling shattered, showing only a sky that had lost all its stars.

There was no future, no past, only the now—one long, agonizing now that stretched forever.

I had walked across the wasteland last year.

Through London, where the streets had melted into glass, and the shadows of the dead were burned into walls that no longer stood.

Through the remains of the Ministry, where the great statues of wizardkind lay in pieces, their promises of unity buried beneath the dust.

I had seen Diagon Alley swallowed by fire, Gringotts' great vaults ripped open and looted in the chaos before the end.

The Leaky Cauldron was nothing but a crater.

There was no magic left.

Even if there were, what would be the point? Magic had built the world, and magic had failed to save it.

The Nuclear bombs had made sure of that.

Their war machines had torn through our wards like parchment, and in the end, wizards had answered with desperation.

We crafted spells that turned air into acid, transfigured bones to rot inside living flesh.

We bent the world to our will in ways that should never have been possible.

And still, we lost.

Not just us.

Everyone.

No side won this war.

It had gone beyond that.

Every wizard had a weakness.

No matter how powerful, no matter how ancient, no matter how deeply intertwined with magic itself—they all were bound by fate.

Even my family.

The Zion family.

We were once legends.

My bloodline carried an affinity beyond anything seen before—masters of time magic, architects of reality.

We shaped the flow of existence itself, bending the past and future to our will.

But no matter how powerful, even time itself bowed before fate.

Our enemies were not just those who envied our power but those who were chosen by something greater.

A family born with a talent in divination, supported by fate itself, rose against us.

The war that followed was a conflict that shattered the very foundations of magic.

At first, it was merely another skirmish—one of many conflicts between wizarding families.

Blood debts, old rivalries, greed over what others possessed.

The Peverells, with their bond to death magic, sought dominion.

The Emrys clan, twisted by demon blood and forbidden arts, moved in the shadows.

The Dreamers, masters of dreams and illusions, held knowledge of the subconscious unknown to any other.

The Pendragons, with their dragon-blooded lineage, stood for honor and might.

And then, there were those who remained silent, aligning themselves with the strongest—families descended from elves, like the Weasleys and Prewetts, and others who valued survival above all.

The war was brutal.

It became a witch hunt.

The first World War of Magic.

A union of all the ancient wizarding houses—the Gryffindors, Slytherins, Hufflepuffs, Ravenclaws, and countless others—stood against us.

Against the old monsters of the era.

Against the Zion family, the Peverells, the Dreamers, the Emrys, the Pendragons.

They called it The Time War.

Because in that war, time was never certain.

One moment, you would be in a meeting with your family, planning your next move.

The next, your wife had never existed, your children erased from history, your home never built.

Only the present mattered.

Only the now.

But fate was not content with simply watching.

It intervened, bending the war in favor of its chosen ones.

It made its first mistake.

Our patriarch discovered something horrifying.

Every time we used our magic to navigate time—whether to glimpse the future or rewrite the past—what we found was different.

Changed.

Unpredictable.

Fate was rewriting history.

By alerting the family in forms of divinations and other practices.

But in doing so, it exposed something we had never known before.

The Multiverse.

Or at least that was the named the Patriarch of that time named it.

This realization changed everything.

My ancestors saw timelines that should not exist, realities that contradicted one another.

Desperate, the Zion patriarch sought the help of the Dreamers, asking them to create something that could keep us connected, no matter the distance.

No matter the timeline.

A collective consciousness.

It was their greatest discovery.

And our downfall.

One day, the Dreamers simply died.

They were found with bleeding eyes, crimson tears staining their lifeless faces.

Without their dream connection, our forces collapsed.

It was divide and conquer.

The Dreamers were the first to fall.

Then, the Emrys.

Despite nearly wiping out the elves, the dwarves, and three of the four Hogwarts houses, they were overwhelmed.

A coalition of magical clans, including those with phoenixes as their partners, crushed them.

The Pendragons were betrayed by those they trusted most—the Muggles.

They had believed in peace, in unity.

And in return, they were handed over to ancient vampires, werewolves, and the dark wizards of Slytherin descent.

The Pendragons died cursing the ones they had tried to protect.

With each defeat, my family burned with rage.

We struck back, harder than ever.

The Zion family wiped out most of the divination clan, ensuring that fate's chosen had no future.

But our time was running out.

Ironically, as the masters of time, we could feel the end approaching.

We refused to accept extinction.

So we turned to the last resort.

So we devised a ritual.

Like the saying goes:

"If God is all-powerful, then He is not all-merciful."

"And if He is all-merciful, then He is not all-powerful."

Thousands of our own were sacrificed.

Not just in our world, but across the multiverse.

Our own hands spilled the blood of our kin, all for the sake of vengeance.

Only the remnants of our bloodline survived.

The Squibs.

The weaker ones.

The ones who had been cast out.

And some of the main line to ensure the ritual success.

Then, we disappeared.

No one heard from us again.

And then... Silence.

The world believed we were gone.

But we were never truly gone.

We went into hiding within Muggle society.

With every year, every month, every day, every second, they gathered knowledge—not just from our world, but from across dimensions.

Before our last Patriarch completed the ritual, he ensured that those who remained were placed back into society.

He gave them a potion, one that would awaken their potential.

But it was to be given only to the strongest female.

He also gave them another bottle containing the Sperm of the Strongest Patriarch to the Date.

For the sake of the strongest genes.

They waited.

They adapted.

They thrived in the shadows, watching as Muggles advanced.

A pocket dimension was crafted to store everything we had learned.

Everything we have.

And as the Muggle world advanced, so did we.

We took their science and combined it with magic.

And when the time was right, we struck the final blow.

The Fifth Wizarding War.

Our whispers reached the ears of Muggles, exposing the magical world that had long hidden from them.

The Muggle nations, already possessing the means to destroy wizards, took up arms.

It was a slaughter.

The magical world fell in flames, unable to withstand the sheer force of modern warfare.

And now...

Now, there is nothing left.

The war that started with my family ended with the annihilation of everything.

The world is dead.

And I am the last Zion.

Chrono X. Zion

The last mistake of fate.

I had dreamed once of changing the world.

Now, I would die with it.