The sky was red, just as it had been for as long as anyone could remember.
It was said that eight hundred and forty years ago, before the Cataclysm, the sky had been blue. The sun shone through white clouds, and birds, creatures that barely existed now, flew freely across the heavens. Magic surged through the land effortlessly.
Now, eight hundred and forty years later, the sky was nothing but layers of crimson gloom.
Albert gazed through the city library window at that familiar sight, the same one he had stared at for decades.
Below, the city sprawled beneath the bloody haze.
People moved through the streets in practical clothing. Long coats and respirators had become a fashionable necessity outside areas with purification magic. The air itself had grown thin and bitter over the decades, carrying a metallic taste that never quite left the tongue. If inhaled for too long, it made people sick.
"Still here, old man?" a young librarian asked, passing by with an armful of books.
"Where else would I be, Mira?" Albert replied without looking away from the window.
"Home? Resting? You've been here for decades."
"Mira, do you think I'll die before this world does?" Albert muttered bitterly, ignoring her concern.
He was seventy-five now.
Eight hundred and forty years ago, this world had been paradise. Historical texts spoke of floating cities and places where even commoners could afford minor enchantments.
It was said that magic had once been as common as breathing.
Until the invaders arrived.
History described them as outsiders from beyond this realm, beings who came through a rift in the heavens seeking dominion, resources, everything.
The war that followed shook the planet to its foundation. No written history could truly capture the clash between the strongest natives and the foreign conquerors.
The Grand Archives held only fragmentary accounts. Entire mountain ranges leveled in single exchanges. Seas boiled away. The very fabric of reality torn at the seams. The strongest mages of that age, names like Archmage Valeron, Sage Queen Lysara, the legendary Seven Pillars, and the greatest magician of that era, Saint Lyra, had thrown everything they had against the invasion.
But it had not been enough.
In the end, the World Core shattered from a battle that shook the entire world.
That was when mana began bleeding away like a dying flame suffocating in the wind.
At first, the loss seemed manageable. But as decades passed, the symptoms worsened.
The first great decline saw the fall of the flying cities. Later decades witnessed the extinction of magical beasts. In the decades that followed, ambient mana thinned to the point where only the most talented could still cast freely.
Cities collapsed. Kingdoms fell. Entire civilizations that had built themselves on magical foundations crumbled when that foundation dissolved.
Civilization choked on what remained of its former brilliance.
In desperation, people turned to innovation. Those who could not adapt to the thinning mana turned to mechanical solutions. Steam engines, alchemical batteries, precision engineering.
Meanwhile, mages perfected their techniques with obsessive focus, eliminating waste and maximizing efficiency.
Every spell model was refined. Every circulation method optimized.
Ironically, it marked the birth of a new age.
An age of desperate brilliance.
Albert let out a dry, humorless laugh. "In a dying world, humans thrive most when desperate."
He paused, watching a steam carriage rattle past below, its brass fittings gleaming dully beneath the red sky.
"But what's the use of progress when everyone will die anyway?"
Technology could not heal the shattered Core. Machines could not restore the bleeding mana. Weapons could not fight the land's slow suffocation.
Even if every human became a genius, nothing would stop the end.
"You're in a mood today," Mira observed, setting down her books.
"I'm in a mood every day," Albert replied. "Today I'm just honest about it."
She smiled sadly. "The saints say we have a few decades left. Maybe six if we're lucky."
"Optimistic of them."
Still, there was one thing Albert loved about this world. Its magical knowledge.
The vast spell theories. Complex rune mathematics. The evolution of mana manipulation under pressure. The desperate brilliance of mages who refused to surrender even as mana thinned around them.
Perhaps that was why he had spent decades in this library without boredom. Others came and went, but Albert remained, reading, learning, devouring every scrap of magical research this era had painfully constructed.
He had studied thousands of spell models in crumbling manuals, analyzed the final works of geniuses who died pushing magic beyond its limits, and memorized the optimized techniques developed over long stretches of desperation.
This dying world was full of tragedy, but its magical knowledge was beautiful.
Unfortunately, beauty could not save it. Neither could someone like him, someone who could not even wield magic in a world gradually losing its mana. He had been born in an age where even talented individuals struggled to gather enough ambient mana to cultivate. Someone like him, with average potential and no resources, had never stood a chance.
The Golden Age had passed eight hundred and forty years ago, an era of limitless mana and flourishing brilliance.
If only this knowledge had existed then, when magic thrived and mana saturated every inch of land.
How strong might those mages have become? How far would the world have advanced? What unimaginable heights could magic have reached?
Albert could not help imagining it. A world where spell models wasted not a drop of mana. Where magic and technology coexisted out of ambition rather than necessity. Where mages could reach realms no one in this era could dream of.
If the Seven Pillars had possessed modern efficiency techniques. If Saint Lyra had understood runematics. If they had decades to prepare instead of being caught unaware.
Perhaps the invaders would have been repelled. Perhaps the Core would still be whole. Perhaps the sky would still be blue.
"If only," Albert whispered, his eyes dimming. "If only the past had what the present has, and the present had what the past once did. Maybe this world wouldn't be dying."
"What was that?" Mira asked.
"Nothing," he said. "Just an old man's fantasies."
But the dead remained dead. History did not change. Dreams remained dreams.
Albert sighed and closed the ancient tome resting in his lap.
Outside the library window, the world was red, lifeless, tired. Below, people went about their final decades with grim determination, wearing respirators and thick coats against air that grew thinner with each passing decade.
And so was he.
He had lived in a magical world for decades, yet never once touched magic.
"I'm heading home, Mira," he said, standing slowly. His joints protested.
"Finally. Get some rest, old man."
"I should sleep," Albert thought as he shuffled toward the exit.
He made it three steps before dizziness struck. The world tilted. His vision blurred.
"Albert!" Mira's voice sounded distant.
He felt himself falling but could not quite remember how to catch himself. The red light from the windows faded, replaced by encroaching darkness.
"I should sleep," Albert thought again as darkness took his vision completely.