In Ruins

Europe lay in ruins, a continent that had once stood as a beacon of culture and civilization now reduced to a shattered landscape of crumbling cities and endless graveyards. The old rivalries, thought to be buried in history, had resurfaced with a vengeance, tearing apart the fabric of society. Nationalism, ideology, and desperation fueled the flames, and soon, war spread like a cancer, devouring everything in its path.

The great capitals—London, Paris, Berlin, Rome—were nothing more than skeletal remains, their proud monuments blackened and broken. The streets, once bustling with life, now lay silent, save for the hollow winds that carried the whispers of the dead. Those who survived were ghosts of their former selves, wandering through the ashes of a world they had doomed with their own hands.

It had begun with economic collapse, then political instability. One nation blamed another, alliances crumbled, and then the first shots were fired. At first, it was called a conflict, then a crisis, but soon there were no words left to dress up the horror. It was war, brutal and unrelenting. Governments fell, replaced by warlords and strongmen who cared only for power. Borders became meaningless as entire regions were swallowed by the chaos.

Nuclear fire had not yet rained down upon them, but chemical attacks, drone strikes, and bioengineered plagues left entire populations decimated. Those who tried to flee found no safe harbor—no nation untouched, no refuge left unburned.

They had done this to themselves. In their delusion, they had returned to the blood-soaked ways of their ancestors, refusing to learn from the past, blinded by arrogance and hate. Now, as Europe lay dying, the last remnants of humanity clung to life, scavenging for food in a land that had become little more than a graveyard.

And yet, the war still raged. Because war was all they had left.