Humanity believed it had reached the summit of its own creation.
Cities shimmered with towers of glass that breathed electricity; oceans were tamed by machines powered by clean energy; the skies burned with artificial lights more constant than the stars themselves. Humans and animals coexisted in a harmony that was designed, programmed, immaculate.
Or so it seemed.
Beneath that brilliant surface, the world was still rotten.
Inequality had not vanished—it had merely been disguised by technology. In the elevated districts, the powerful celebrated their so-called utopia; meanwhile, in the forgotten margins, the poor lived among rats, dampness, and misery, breathing the dust of a land that no longer belonged to them.
It was the year 2050, and perfection had reached its most fragile point.
Then it happened.
At first, it was only a rumor—a slight increase in the sun's brightness, as if someone had turned an invisible switch. No one paid attention. But soon the light became unbearable: a white, pure, merciless glow began devouring the sky. Satellites fell one by one like burned insects. Night ceased to exist.
Day became the enemy.
Those who dared to look directly at the radiance were blinded instantly.
Fear spread faster than the light itself. Streets emptied, families hid in basements, and prayers mingled with screams of madness. The entire world seemed to hold its breath… waiting for someone—or something—to extinguish the fire in the sky.
But it never happened.
For an entire year, the radiance covered the Earth like a silent curse.
Cities collapsed, fields burned, and the air turned unbreathable. Humanity—once so proud of looking toward the heavens—learned to live underground, like a beast fleeing from its own reflection.
And so, in darkness, a new era was born.
Tunnels were built. Shelters. Improvised colonies beneath meters of concrete. Old sewage systems were adapted to house entire families. The world became a subterranean network of life, fear, and fragile hope. No one knew how long the confinement would last. No one knew if the surface still existed at all.
Five years later, on October 7th, 2055, the silence was broken by the laughter of a child.
Aizaya, barely five years old, played among the damp ruins with her siblings, exploring forbidden tunnels where adults feared to go. She was the first to see it: a thin glimmer, like a thread of gold, slipping through a half-collapsed wall. Fascinated, she approached it, ignoring her siblings' screams calling her back.
The ground trembled.
The wall collapsed.
And the darkness was pierced by an unfamiliar light.
The air changed. For the first time in years, the wind smelled like sky.
—Aizaya! —her older brother shouted— Get away from there!
But the girl could barely hear him. The light wrapped around her, warm and brilliant. For a brief moment, she thought she saw something moving within it—a dancing shape, like a small flame floating inside the glow.
Then someone else arrived.
An old man, frail-bodied and hollow-eyed, barely able to stand. They had seen him cry many times, mourning the world that was lost. But this time, his tears were different.
—At last… —he whispered— At last, this torture is over.
His voice echoed through the tunnel like a prayer.
One by one, the refugees approached, trembling, until the light bathed them all.
They climbed upward.
And when their eyes adjusted, they saw the impossible:
a blue sky,
clouds drifting slowly,
the wind brushing against the few trees that still stood.
They cried. They laughed. Some fell to their knees; others shouted praises to the heavens.
Humanity had been reborn.
Or at least, that is what they believed.
Within weeks, the news spread like wildfire.
The tunnels emptied. Cities began to fill once more. The government—or what remained of it—declared the Rebirth of the Surface.
But along with joy, the old shadows returned.
And among them, a name few dared to speak aloud:
The Black Ladies.
Dressed in dark rags, faces hidden, they were guardians of an ancient knowledge. Some called them witches—heirs to a forgotten pact. They claimed to have foreseen the Sun's catastrophe with these words:
"Darkness shall devour the light,
and for ten years the human soul will be tested.
When brightness returns, it will not bring salvation,
but a punishment born from the sky."
At first, no one took them seriously.
But as days passed and peace began to fracture, all eyes turned back to them.
And so did fear.