Chen Wei sat by the window, the humid Singaporean afternoon pressing against the glass of his small apartment. Ninety years had slowed his movements, thinned his hair to a few white strands, but his eyes, behind thick spectacles, still observed the ceaseless energy of the street below.
Taxis honked, shoppers hurried under colourful awnings, and the scent of cooking from the hawker centre drifted faintly upwards. It was a Tuesday like any other, measured in the slow tick of the grandfather clock in the corner and the predictable cycle of meals and medication.
He adjusted the cushion behind his back, a small groan escaping his lips. His bones ached with the dampness. He rarely left the flat these days.
His daughter, Mei, visited twice a week, bringing groceries and worried advice. His grandson, Ben, called occasionally from university overseas, his voice distant, full of the concerns of youth that seemed galaxies away from Chen Wei's quiet existence.
He picked up the remote, intending to find a documentary, something soothing to pass the time.
The television screen flickered, then went black. Not the comforting black of being turned off, but a deep, absorbing darkness that seemed to pull the light from the room.
A low hum began, vibrating through the floorboards, through the old man's very bones. It wasn't the sound of machinery or construction; it resonated with a frequency that felt ancient, organic, and deeply wrong.
Outside, the cacophony of the street abruptly ceased. Car horns died mid-blare. Voices cut off. An unnatural stillness fell over the city, heavier than the afternoon heat.
Chen Wei pushed himself up, leaning heavily on his cane, and shuffled closer to the window. Below, people stood frozen, faces tilted upwards. Cars were stopped haphazardly, doors ajar. Nothing moved. It was as if the entire world had paused.
He looked up, following their collective gaze, towards the sky above the towering HDB blocks.
It wasn't clouds, nor smoke. It coiled, impossibly vast, eclipsing the sun, yet not casting a conventional shadow. Light bent around it in sickening, prismatic shimmers.
Form was a loose suggestion; scales the size of continents seemed to shift and flow into configurations that defied geometry, colours unknown to human eyes pulsed within its infinite loops. It was less a creature and more a living axiom, a truth made manifest, stretching across the sky not just from horizon to horizon, but seemingly through the very fabric of perception.
The Dragon of Infinity. The name wasn't spoken, not yet, but it settled into the collective consciousness, a dread understanding blooming simultaneously in billions of minds.
Then came the voice. It wasn't sound entering the ears, but thought impressed directly, universally. It resonated within Chen Wei's skull, cold and immense, ancient beyond measure.
«HUMANITY.»
The single word carried the weight of dying stars, the patience of geology.
«YOU HAVE DISTURBED THE BALANCE. YOUR GROWTH IS CANCEROUS. YOUR WARS, POINTLESS. YOUR CONSUMPTION, VORACIOUS. YOUR PLANET WEEPS.»
Chen Wei gripped his cane tighter, knuckles white. Fear, cold and sharp, pierced through the fog of age. He could feel the silent, collective terror of every person on the street below, every soul across the globe tuned into this horrifying broadcast.
«I AM THE SCALES UPON WHICH REALITIES ARE WEIGHED. YOU ARE FOUND WANTING.»
The presence in the sky seemed to contract, drawing the fractured light towards a central point that wasn't there.
«YOU HAVE ONE CYCLE. ONE OF YOUR SOLAR YEARS. CHANGE. FIND HARMONY. CEASE YOUR DESTRUCTION. PROVE YOUR WORTHINESS TO EXIST.»
A pause, stretching into an eternity, filled only by the frantic pounding of hearts.
«FAIL, AND I WILL RETURN. FAIL, AND I WILL CLEANSE. THERE WILL BE NO TRACE, NO MEMORY. ONLY VOID.»
As abruptly as it began, it ended. The impossible shape dissolved, not by flying away, but by simply ceasing to be. The sun blazed back into existence, harsh and unforgiving. The low hum faded.
Slowly, hesitantly, sound returned to the world. A car horn blared, sustained and panicked. A woman screamed. Then another. Below Chen Wei's window, chaos erupted. People ran, shouted, pointed uselessly at the empty sky. Phones were clutched, screens frantically scrolled. The world, paused for a terrifying moment, now lurched into panicked motion.
Chen Wei sank back into his chair, trembling. The television flickered back to life, showing a bewildered news anchor, face pale, struggling for words. But the old man wasn't watching. He stared at his hands, wrinkled and spotted with age. One year. He was ninety. What could one year possibly mean now?
The months that followed were a blur of frantic activity and deepening dread. Governments held emergency summits, issuing pronouncements that felt laughably inadequate. Scientists debated the nature of the Dragon, offering theories that ranged from extradimensional entity to collective hallucination, though nobody truly believed the latter.
Religions fractured, some proclaiming divine judgment, others preaching unity, still others falling silent, their doctrines insufficient for the scale of the threat.
Humanity's response was predictably fractured. Some nations initiated radical environmental reforms, decommissioning factories, investing desperately in renewable energy. Others doubled down on military spending, developing theoretical weapons against a foe whose nature was utterly unknown, pouring resources into bunkers and orbital defenses.
Grassroots movements surged, demanding global cooperation, pleading for an end to conflicts. But old habits died hard. Wars continued to sputter in forgotten corners of the world. Corporations lobbied against changes that threatened profits. Mistrust between nations hampered any unified effort.
Mei visited Chen Wei more often, her face etched with worry. "Papa, maybe you should come stay with us? It's not safe here alone."
"Safe?" Chen Wei chuckled, a dry, rattling sound. "Nowhere is safe, Mei. Didn't you hear the... the thing?" He couldn't bring himself to say its name.
"But what if there's panic? Riots?"
"Let them riot." He waved a dismissive hand. "At my age, a riot is less frightening than climbing three flights of stairs." He saw the hurt in her eyes and softened. "I'm alright, daughter. This old flat has seen me through worse. The Japanese occupation, the big floods. It will see me through this." He didn't add, 'one way or another.'
Ben called more frequently too, his youthful optimism jarring against the global anxiety. "Grandpa, they're making progress! People are working together, planting trees, signing treaties! We can do this!"
"Perhaps, Ben. Perhaps," Chen Wei would reply, unable to share the boy's conviction. He saw the news reports. Yes, there were efforts. But he also saw the shortcuts, the bickering, the fundamental unwillingness of humanity to truly alter its course. They were rearranging deck chairs on a sinking ship, congratulating themselves for the neatness of the rows.
Chen Wei spent his days watching the world unravel on the television screen, interspersed with the quiet routines of his life. He ate his congee, took his pills, listened to the ticking clock.
He started sorting through old photographs, remnants of a life lived across tumultuous decades. His wife, Lian, smiled out from a black-and-white print, young and vibrant. Pictures of Mei as a child, Ben as a baby. Friends long gone, places changed beyond recognition. Each photo was a small anchor to a world that felt increasingly unreal, threatened by an incomprehensible power.
He saw less change, more desperation. Food prices soared as supply chains buckled under the strain of rapid, forced economic shifts and climate disruptions that seemed to worsen, as if the planet itself was reacting to the entity's pronouncement.
Crime rose in pockets as resources grew scarce and fear festered. Some people turned to hedonism, embracing the potential end with wild abandon. Others retreated into prayer, seeking solace in faiths strained to their breaking points.
The air of eerie suspense that had settled after the Dragon's first appearance never truly lifted. It was punctuated by waves of panic – rumours of its premature return, misinterpreted astronomical phenomena, the pronouncements of doomsday cults gaining traction. Every solstice, every equinox, every full moon became a focal point for global anxiety.
Chen Wei watched it all with a growing sense of detachment. His own body was failing, a slow, inexorable decline that mirrored the world's frantic, failing efforts. The aches were deeper, his breath shorter.
Sometimes, looking in the mirror, he felt like a ghost already, haunting the edges of a world bracing for annihilation. He felt a strange kinship with the ticking clock, both measuring out finite time.
Winter turned to spring, then summer. The one-year mark approached. A fragile, desperate hope mingled with paralyzing fear. Had they done enough? Had the frantic, disjointed efforts been sufficient to appease the cosmic judge?
International broadcasts showed leaders pleading into the empty sky, listing achievements, begging for mercy. Global vigils were held, billions praying, meditating, hoping.
Chen Wei didn't join them. He sat by his window, as he always did. The street below was quieter now. Many had fled the cities, seeking refuge in remote areas, a futile gesture he understood but couldn't emulate. Where would he even go? His world was here, in this small flat, surrounded by the ghosts of his past.
The final day arrived. It dawned clear and bright, the sky an innocent blue. The eerie stillness returned, more profound this time. Traffic ceased not out of shock, but resignation. People gathered in small groups, holding loved ones, waiting.
Mei had called, weeping, begging him again to come. He had refused gently. "Stay with your husband, Mei. Be together."
Ben had called too, his voice cracking. "I love you, Grandpa."
"I love you too, Ben. Be brave," Chen Wei had said, the words feeling heavy, inadequate.
He sat by the window, holding a faded photograph of Lian. The clock ticked, each sound echoing in the profound silence. He wasn't afraid, not anymore. Ninety years felt like a long time, yet infinitely short.
He thought of Lian, of the life they'd shared, the struggles, the joys. He thought of the war, bombs falling, the terror of his youth. He thought of Singapore's transformation, a fishing village growing into a metropolis. He had witnessed so much change, so much history. And now, perhaps, the end of it all.
The light began to warp. Not like before, not a grand spectacle across the globe. This was different. Subtle. The colours outside his window shifted, becoming oversaturated, then draining away, leaving a landscape of monochromatic greys.
The building across the street seemed to waver, its edges blurring. The low hum returned, deeper this time, felt not just in the bones but in the spaces between atoms.
Chen Wei looked up. There was nothing in the sky this time. The sky itself was wrong. It wasn't blue, wasn't grey, wasn't black. It was simply... absent. A negation where colour and space should be.
Then, the dissolution began. It wasn't an explosion, not fire or force. The building opposite didn't crumble; it unraveled. Bricks turned to dust, not falling, but dispersing into nothingness. Windows didn't shatter; they ceased to occupy space.
He watched, mesmerized, as the structure calmly deconstructed itself, molecule by molecule, atom by atom, fading from existence like breath on cold glass.
He saw a figure on the rooftop across the way, someone who hadn't fled. They stood for a moment, outlined against the non-sky, then they too dissolved, their form losing coherence, particles drifting into the encroaching nullity.
The process was silent, inexorable. It moved down the street, erasing everything. Cars, trees, lamp posts, the pavement itself. It wasn't destruction; it was deletion. A cosmic error correction. Humanity hadn't changed. The balance required restoration.
The wave of unmaking reached his own building. He felt a tremor, not of impact, but of foundational reality giving way.
The wall beside him began to fade, revealing the apartment next door for a fleeting second before it too dissolved. He saw his neighbor, Mrs. Lim, clutching a jade pendant, her eyes wide, before she vanished.
The photograph in his hand felt suddenly light. He looked down. Lian's smiling face was fading, the paper turning translucent, the image resolving into grey motes that drifted away on a nonexistent breeze.
A sharp, brutal pang went through him, colder and deeper than the fear he'd felt a year ago. Not fear for himself, but the utter finality of losing her again, this time forever, even the memory of her encoded in silver halide being purged from reality.
He looked at his own hands. The skin was becoming transparent. He could see the aged bones beneath, then they too began to thin, losing substance.
The ticking clock fell silent as it dissolved. The room, his sanctuary for decades, evaporated around him.
He was floating, briefly, in the absolute emptiness that was consuming Singapore, consuming the world. There was no pain. Only a profound, isolating sadness.
Ninety years of life, love, loss, witness to history – all reduced to ephemeral data being wiped clean. His unique sorrow wasn't just dying; it was the crushing realization that his entire existence, every memory, every joy, every tear, every lesson learned over nine decades, amounted to absolutely nothing in the face of this indifferent cosmic erasure.
It wasn't just the end of his life. It was the retroactive negation of it.
His last conscious thought wasn't of fear, or anger, or even acceptance. It was a simple, heartbreaking whisper into the void, unheard, unrecorded, unremembered.
"Lian..."
Then, Chen Wei, and the last vestiges of the world he knew, ceased to be. The void was calm. The balance was restored. There was no trace, no memory. Only silence.