You would think the world ending once would be enough to teach people how to chill. But no. Ten years later, here we are. Earth 2.0, all shiny and barely duct-taped together, pretending like we aren't walking around with Fluxes bubbling under our skin and a countdown ticking toward the next big cosmic slap.
But first, let me tell you how we got here.
After the ABR—the Ashven Blood Rain—the world just kind of… collapsed. I mean, twelve billion people down to seven hundred million? That's a nosedive into hell with no seatbelt. But humans are weirdly good at rebuilding broken things with even more broken parts.
We couldn't exactly fall back on old systems because most governments imploded like wet cardboard. So, new power hubs popped up across the five continents. Cities that could hold their own, rebuild infrastructure, and, most importantly, organize the Fluxed population before they turned into walking nukes.
North America planted its flags in Mexico City and Los Angeles, big surprise there. Europe clung to Paris and Luxembourg, the classy apocalypse survivors. Asia? Seoul, Tokyo, and our crown jewel, Singapore. South America gave us Buenos Aires and Rio de Janeiro, and Africa held it down with Nairobi, Port Harcourt, and Johannesburg.
All of them turned into these self-contained ecosystems, part city, part fortress, part Flux-management complex. And every major capital was linked to one of the factions. The Marimus Faction? That's us. Based here in Singapore with clean streets, vertical gardens, bullet trains that actually work (unlike pre-Apocalypse nonsense), and the kind of food that could make you cry.
And me? I'm what you'd call a nobody.
You know, the kind of girl who reads old webnovels about guilds and dungeons while everyone else trains to become ultra-powerful Flux Knights or whatever. Somehow, I ended up working here, in the Marimus Faction, as a glorified babysitter for wide-eyed rookies.
And today, of course, is tour day.
I adjusted the faded Marimus badge on my jacket—it was one size too big and permanently smelled like lemon disinfectant—and gave the group of recruits my best fake smile. About ten of them, fresh off the Transport Rings, still smelling like sterilized air and nervous sweat.
"Alright, newbies! Welcome to the Singapore Branch of the Marimus Faction," I said, waving my hand like a cheap holo-ad. "I'm your guide, which basically means I'm the first person you'll disappoint if you mess up. Lucky me."
A few of them chuckled. Some looked like they wanted to bolt. One guy in the back was already eyeing the escape routes. I liked him.
"We're standing in what we call the Crescent Gate. This is where all incoming recruits first arrive. You'll notice the giant marble statue above the archway—yeah, that's Lady Isarelle, one of the founders. No, she didn't just survive the rain. And no, she didn't have a Flux. She just happened to be really good at not dying and even better at inspiring people who were."
I started walking and the group followed like confused ducklings.
"To your right is the Assessment Hall. You'll get your initial Flux reading there—if you don't already know how soaked you were during the Ashven Event. Reminder: the more ABR you soaked, the more potent your Flux. Congratulations, your suffering was worth something."
We passed a corridor lined with crystalline panels. They pulsed faintly with blue light, like the rain itself still haunted them.
"These panels are from actual fragments of ABR residue. Don't touch. Seriously. Last guy who did it ended up with his hands on backwards."
"Is that even possible?" One of the recruits asked.
"Honestly? With Fluxes? Anything's possible. I once saw a girl summon fire using hiccups."
We turned into a larger corridor, opening into the beating heart of the faction; The Flux Wells.
Dozens of people were training in a massive gym-meets-battle-arena layout. Some sparred with conjured blades, others meditated with glowing halos around them, and one particularly overenthusiastic guy accidentally blew out a window while trying to teleport.
"This is where you'll train. We call it the 'Well' because, well, it wells up your abilities. You'll get used to the energy here. It's infused with a diluted version of ABR mist. You're literally bathing in low-dose divine poison. Yum."
A red-haired girl in the group whispered, "I thought this place would be… fancier."
I turned on my heel and grinned at her.
"Oh it's fancy, alright. Fancy enough to produce seven Elite Flux Holders last year alone. Fancy enough that it hasn't been overrun by rogue cults or plague beasts like the Seoul branch. But if you want fancier, maybe ask Tokyo for a tour. I hear their tour guides wear actual suits."
She shut up. The others smirked.
We passed into the Archives next with walls of ancient records, war logs, and journals from survivors of the first Calamity.
"Everything you see here is filtered and stored by the Marimus Lorekeepers. If you want to understand what you're really fighting for, come here when you're not training. Some of the older entries are straight-up horror material, so bring snacks."
As I wrapped up the tour, we ended on the overlook platform. From here, the city sprawled below us, glittering with solar tiles, neon veins of transit lines, and the glowing halo of the main Flux Beacon at its center.
"And that's your new home. Singapore Branch of the Marimus Faction. You'll bleed here. You'll probably cry here. If you're lucky, you'll even thrive. But whatever happens, remember this…"
I turned to face them, letting the city light cast long shadows across my face.
"…you're not survivors anymore. You're pieces of something new. We're not rebuilding the old world. We're making one that can survive the next Calamity."
One recruit raised a hand, a little too eager.
"Do you really think the second Calamity is coming?"
I looked at him for a long moment. Then I leaned in, real close, and said quietly:
"I don't think. I know. The angel said ten years. Tomorrow is the tenth anniversary. Tick tock."
I winked, turned around, and started walking. "Tour's over. Try not to die before breakfast tomorrow."
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After three hours of walking backward while shouting facts at rookies who couldn't tell a Flux node from a toaster, my voice was officially fried, my legs felt like carbon rods, and my soul had clocked out halfway through explaining the medbay recycling policy.
I finally made it back to the corporate sector of the Singapore Branch. Yes, we have a corporate wing. Don't look so shocked. Even in a world rebuilt from supernatural ash and divine trauma, there's still paperwork. There's always paperwork.
The Marimus Faction might look all noble and mysterious on the outside, but behind the scenes, it's just as bureaucratic as any ancient corporation: soul-sucking lights, half-broken coffee machines, and a bunch of exhausted Flux Holders in business-casual complaining about scheduling conflicts and low donut variety. At least, the deepest part of it.
I scanned my ID at the entrance panel. A soft ding welcomed me in, followed by the clacking of holoboards and a faint synth-pop playlist someone forgot to mute. My desk sat by the glass windows, neatly tucked between two filing cabinets and a dried plant I refuse to throw away for emotional reasons.
I plopped down into my chair, letting out the kind of groan that only someone with shin splints and zero motivation could produce.
Just as I was about to power on my screen, a steaming cup of coffee landed beside me. It was rich, nutty, probably laced with enough sugar to kill a bull. Beside it? A box of donuts—actual donuts. Not the synthetic wheat crap, but the real-deal, cinnamon-glazed, chocolate-drizzled miracles.
I didn't even need to look up.
"You're an angel," I mumbled.
"I know," said Mira, my best (only) office friend, sliding into the seat next to me with her own coffee and smugness in tow. Her hair was tied up in a messy bun, her ID badge slightly askew, and her sleeves already stained with printer ink. Classic Mira.
"You still alive after the baby birds?"
"Barely. One of them asked if you could 'buy Fluxes off the black market.' Another tried flirting with a med-bot. And I think one kid's Flux might be triggered by fear, which—fun! Very stable foundation."
Mira laughed around a sip of her drink. "So, business as usual."
I picked up a donut and bit into it like I was trying to emotionally bond with the sugar.
"If this is my last day of peace before the Second Thauma, I'm glad it includes deep-fried pastries and mild sarcasm."
At the mention of the Thauma, the mood shifted just a bit. Not dramatically—no one went pale or clutched their chest—but the air in the room dipped by a degree or two. Everyone had been thinking about it. Ten years ago, the First Calamity—ABR—wiped the slate clean. Tomorrow? The Second would begin.
Or so we were told.
Mira tapped her fingers on the rim of her cup.
"You believe it's going to happen? Like… really happen?"
I looked at her for a beat. "You weren't there when the angel showed up, were you?"
"Nope. Still stuck in the holding shelters in Manila. Missed her big broadcast. Just saw the recordings."
"She wasn't just glowing and dramatic," I said, sipping my coffee. "She felt like truth. Like the words were written into your bones. She said 'ten years' with a voice that made everyone shut up and believe her. And you know what today is."
Mira nodded slowly. "Yeah. Ten years and 43 days. Sixteenth of July."
Before the atmosphere got too bleak, Rae from Resources joined us, sliding her chair over with a bag of mini croissants.
"Did I hear existential dread and baked goods?"
"Always," I said. "Pull up, philosopher queen."
A few others trickled in—Jude from Ops, Ren from Surveillance, even the creepy pair from Records who always moved in unison like horror twins. Our little break room squad assembled like clockwork, the way we always did when things got a little too heavy to process alone.
"So," Rae said between bites, "assuming tomorrow is the second ending, how are we spending our last day of peace?"
Ren raised a hand lazily. "I'm finally going to eat one of those forbidden military rations. The blue can. The one labeled 'Emergency Use Only'. I want to know what nuclear-grade beef tastes like before I die."
Mira chuckled. "I'm thinking of writing a letter to my past self. Classic 'Dear Me, don't take showers during the Blood Rain' kind of thing."
Jude leaned back, balancing a pencil on his upper lip. "I'm going confess my undying love to the janitor. Real end-of-the-world energy."
Rae raised her coffee cup like a toast. "Cheers to terrible decisions and no consequences."
They all laughed and for a moment, it felt normal. Almost stupidly normal. Like we weren't sitting at the edge of another extinction cliff.
Someone asked, "What about you?" and I looked up, donut halfway to my mouth.
"…Me?"
"Yeah," Mira said gently. "Any final goodbyes? Someone to call?"
I shook my head, smiling faintly.
"No one left to call. No boyfriend, no family, not even a lost dog looking for me."
Jude blinked.
"Wait, really? But you're… cool. Someone out there would kill to call you their apocalypse girlfriend."
I laughed. "Cool? I give history tours. In flats. With an emergency lanyard."
"You've got that mysterious-hot-energy thing going on," Rae added. "Kind of like you're one Flux meltdown away from tragic romance."
"Wow, thanks. I'll be sure to add that to my dating profile: 'Single. Loves coffee. Might explode.'"
The truth was, I had gotten good at being alone. Not by choice, but by circumstance. The rain didn't just kill but separated. Everyone I ever cared about was soaked into nothing. I stopped trying to attach myself to things that could vanish overnight. Better to pour my energy into coffee, donuts, and getting rookies to survive long enough to regret their career choices.
The conversation drifted after that. Some argued over what the Second Thauma would look like. Others made bets. "Reality collapse," "Reverse rain," "Mass Flux awakening," "The return of the angel but, like, evil now." It all sounded ridiculous and horrifying in equal parts.
As I sat back, chewing on my last donut, I looked out the window toward the Flux Beacon in the city's heart. Its light pulsed like a slow heartbeat—steady, waiting.
And I couldn't help but wonder if this really was the last quiet morning I'd ever have.