The Night the Sky Declared War
For a brief moment, I believed I had finally found a city untouched by the sickness consuming the world.
After surviving the endless mechanical train crossing the dead desert, I arrived at a trading city hidden between mountains and canals, a place where steam and faith still lived together in harmony. Lanterns glowed warmly above crowded streets. Engineers worked beside monks. Children laughed beneath drifting clouds of steam while merchants filled the canals with music and light.
And above it all stood the unfinished Buddha carved into the mountain stone.
Sixty meters tall.
Half sculpture, half prayer.
Unlike the monstrous machines I had witnessed elsewhere, the statue did not feel like humanity trying to rival God. It felt like humanity remembering humility.
I should have known peace like that could never survive in this age.
The night the war began, I was standing on a wooden balcony overlooking the city canals with a cup of tea warming my hands. The full moon hung high above the valley while the Buddha watched silently over the sleeping streets below.
Then the wind changed.
At first I mistook the shadows crossing the moon for storm clouds.
But clouds do not carry searchlights.
And storms do not roar with the sound of engines.
The sky opened slowly, revealing an entire fleet of war zeppelins emerging from the smoke above the mountains. Dozens of them drifted over the city like floating fortresses, their black hulls blotting out the stars while crimson military banners swayed beneath massive armored balloons.
At the center of the fleet floated the flagship.
A colossal airborne citadel larger than some cities I had crossed during my journey. Its bombardment bays opened beneath its belly like the jaws of a mechanical beast preparing to feed.
Then the sirens began.
Panic spread through the streets, yet the people did not descend into chaos. Monks guided civilians toward underground shelters. Merchants abandoned their shops to help strangers escape. Workers dismantled bridges to slow the bombing routes.
Even while facing annihilation…
they still chose compassion.
Then the first bomb fell.
The explosion shattered an entire canal district in a single flash of fire and steam. Moments later, the sky itself became artillery. Bombs rained endlessly across the city, igniting rooftops, collapsing towers, and turning the canals into rivers of burning reflection.
Yet through all of it, the Buddha remained standing.
Calm.
Silent.
Watching.
I escaped the city hours later on my steam motorcycle, riding through streets consumed by ash and falling lanterns while zeppelins hunted the valley from above. By dawn, I had reached the cliffs far beyond the mountains.
From there, I watched the city die.
Smoke swallowed the horizon while the unfinished Buddha still glowed faintly beneath the firestorm, its peaceful face untouched by rage even as the world around it collapsed.
And standing there beneath the cold moonlight, I finally understood the cruelest truth of this world:
The last places worth saving are always the first to burn.
For a brief moment, I believed I had finally found a city untouched by the sickness consuming the world.
After surviving the endless mechanical train crossing the dead desert, I arrived at a trading city hidden between mountains and canals, a place where steam and faith still lived together in harmony. Lanterns glowed warmly above crowded streets. Engineers worked beside monks. Children laughed beneath drifting clouds of steam while merchants filled the canals with music and light.
And above it all stood the unfinished Buddha carved into the mountain stone.
Sixty meters tall.
Half sculpture, half prayer.
Unlike the monstrous machines I had witnessed elsewhere, the statue did not feel like humanity trying to rival God. It felt like humanity remembering humility.
I should have known peace like that could never survive in this age.
The night the war began, I was standing on a wooden balcony overlooking the city canals with a cup of tea warming my hands. The full moon hung high above the valley while the Buddha watched silently over the sleeping streets below.
Then the wind changed.
At first I mistook the shadows crossing the moon for storm clouds.
But clouds do not carry searchlights.
And storms do not roar with the sound of engines.
The sky opened slowly, revealing an entire fleet of war zeppelins emerging from the smoke above the mountains. Dozens of them drifted over the city like floating fortresses, their black hulls blotting out the stars while crimson military banners swayed beneath massive armored balloons.
At the center of the fleet floated the flagship.
A colossal airborne citadel larger than some cities I had crossed during my journey. Its bombardment bays opened beneath its belly like the jaws of a mechanical beast preparing to feed.
Then the sirens began.
Panic spread through the streets, yet the people did not descend into chaos. Monks guided civilians toward underground shelters. Merchants abandoned their shops to help strangers escape. Workers dismantled bridges to slow the bombing routes.
Even while facing annihilation…
they still chose compassion.
Then the first bomb fell.
The explosion shattered an entire canal district in a single flash of fire and steam. Moments later, the sky itself became artillery. Bombs rained endlessly across the city, igniting rooftops, collapsing towers, and turning the canals into rivers of burning reflection.
Yet through all of it, the Buddha remained standing.
Calm.
Silent.
Watching.
I escaped the city hours later on my steam motorcycle, riding through streets consumed by ash and falling lanterns while zeppelins hunted the valley from above. By dawn, I had reached the cliffs far beyond the mountains.
From there, I watched the city die.
Smoke swallowed the horizon while the unfinished Buddha still glowed faintly beneath the firestorm, its peaceful face untouched by rage even as the world around it collapsed.
And standing there beneath the cold moonlight, I finally understood the cruelest truth of this world:
The last places worth saving are always the first to burn.
The Night the Sky Declared War
For a brief moment, I believed I had finally found a city untouched by the sickness consuming the world.
After surviving the endless mechanical train crossing the dead desert, I arrived at a trading city hidden between mountains and canals, a place where steam and faith still lived together in harmony. Lanterns glowed warmly above crowded streets. Engineers worked beside monks. Children laughed beneath drifting clouds of steam while merchants filled the canals with music and light.
And above it all stood the unfinished Buddha carved into the mountain stone.
Sixty meters tall.
Half sculpture, half prayer.
Unlike the monstrous machines I had witnessed elsewhere, the statue did not feel like humanity trying to rival God. It felt like humanity remembering humility.
I should have known peace like that could never survive in this age.
The night the war began, I was standing on a wooden balcony overlooking the city canals with a cup of tea warming my hands. The full moon hung high above the valley while the Buddha watched silently over the sleeping streets below.
Then the wind changed.
At first I mistook the shadows crossing the moon for storm clouds.
But clouds do not carry searchlights.
And storms do not roar with the sound of engines.
The sky opened slowly, revealing an entire fleet of war zeppelins emerging from the smoke above the mountains. Dozens of them drifted over the city like floating fortresses, their black hulls blotting out the stars while crimson military banners swayed beneath massive armored balloons.
At the center of the fleet floated the flagship.
A colossal airborne citadel larger than some cities I had crossed during my journey. Its bombardment bays opened beneath its belly like the jaws of a mechanical beast preparing to feed.
Then the sirens began.
Panic spread through the streets, yet the people did not descend into chaos. Monks guided civilians toward underground shelters. Merchants abandoned their shops to help strangers escape. Workers dismantled bridges to slow the bombing routes.
Even while facing annihilation…
they still chose compassion.
Then the first bomb fell.
The explosion shattered an entire canal district in a single flash of fire and steam. Moments later, the sky itself became artillery. Bombs rained endlessly across the city, igniting rooftops, collapsing towers, and turning the canals into rivers of burning reflection.
Yet through all of it, the Buddha remained standing.
Calm.
Silent.
Watching.
I escaped the city hours later on my steam motorcycle, riding through streets consumed by ash and falling lanterns while zeppelins hunted the valley from above. By dawn, I had reached the cliffs far beyond the mountains.
From there, I watched the city die.
Smoke swallowed the horizon while the unfinished Buddha still glowed faintly beneath the firestorm, its peaceful face untouched by rage even as the world around it collapsed.
And standing there beneath the cold moonlight, I finally understood the cruelest truth of this world:
The last places worth saving are always the first to burn.
English