The day seven billion people vanished from the world, I was pulled into a void.
No monsters, no resources, just me and a line of familiar text that nearly made me cry:
[127 local save files detected. Load them?]
Trembling, I chose “Yes.”
So the survivors struggling through the corrupted swamps bought ration bars marked with “△○×□” from the trading terminal;
The legions on the Boneyard Plains saw signal flares streak across the sky, unlike anything produced by magic;
Until one day, the armies of the Shadow Court descended. They tore open space, only to find a colossal city forged from steel.
Redstone circuitry pulsed along the walls like a heartbeat.
The gates opened. To the left, soldiers in power armor carried Gauss rifles. To the right, mages rode griffins and chanted spells.
I sat in the command center, with live surveillance feeds from six levels of the Abyss displayed on the screen.
“Welcome,” I announced over the microphone to the entire Abyss, “to the seventh level: the ‘Civilization Archive.’”
“Now, play by my rules.”
