Within a few years, nearly ninety percent of humanity was gone.
Those who survived fled underground—into old metro systems, bunkers, abandoned mines. Beneath the Earth, a new civilization formed. Smaller. Quieter. Afraid. We learned to live without sunlight, without noise, without hope of reclaiming the surface.
Above us, the world had been reborn.
Cities crumbled and were swallowed by forests infused with magic. Roads vanished beneath roots and stone. The magical beasts ruled openly now, their presence reshaping ecosystems. The sky itself seemed different—heavier, watching.
The evolved animals served under these rulers, enforcing a new order. Communication flowed between all living things. The planet had found harmony again—just not with us included.
Humanity became a myth to the surface world.
Children underground were taught that the Earth above was forbidden. Dangerous. Lost. We preserved books, stories, fragments of science—memories of a time when humans believed they were the center of existence.
I write this not as a warning, but as a record.
The Earth did not end.
It corrected itself.
And somewhere above, under alien skies and magical forests, life thrives without us—proof that the planet never needed humanity to survive.
Only to leave.