The relentless churn of visions and the monumental task of perfecting Hope and Lingua took their toll. One late afternoon, utterly exhausted from a particularly intense session of mental training, Arjun finally allowed himself to collapse onto his bed. His mind, usually buzzing with data and foresight, momentarily cleared, and he drifted into a shallow, uneasy sleep.
But even in rest, the future found him.
He wasn't dreaming of natural disasters or monstrous shadows this time. Instead, he found himself in a familiar, yet chillingly altered, setting: a major news studio. The year flashed in his mind: 2050. The studio itself was muted, somber, almost desolate.
On the massive screen behind the news anchor, a grim, flickering graphic displayed a dwindling number: 500,000,000.
Then, the camera zoomed in on the anchor. Arjun's breath hitched. It was Priya. His friend, Priya, the pragmatic software engineer, now older, her face etched with profound weariness and unimaginable sorrow. Her eyes, usually bright with life, were red-rimmed and filled with tears that slowly, uncontrollably, tracked paths down her cheeks. Her voice, when she spoke, was barely a whisper, strained with heartbreak.
"Today, we mark a somber milestone," Priya reported, her voice cracking, barely audible above the static that seemed to permeate the studio. "In the year 2050, twenty-five years since the beginning of... the Great Reduction... our global population stands at just over five hundred million souls. A shadow of what once was. From nearly eight billion, we are now... this."
She couldn't continue. A tear escaped, then another, and she openly wept on live television, a silent testament to an unimaginable loss. The raw grief emanating from her, even through the vision, pierced Arjun to his core. Five hundred million. From eight billion. A ninety percent reduction. It was a catastrophe far beyond any earthquake or single pandemic. It was a prolonged, systemic collapse.
Arjun jolted awake, cold sweat plastering his hair to his forehead. The image of Priya's tear-streaked face, the stark number on the screen, burned behind his eyelids. 2050. Twenty-five years. A reduction to less than a tenth of humanity. This wasn't just a destruction; it was the ultimate destruction, the culmination of all the separate crises he'd been witnessing.
His digital control felt insignificant. His seer ability, a terrible burden. He could see the world's downfall, but how could he avert such a catastrophic, long-term demise? The weight of Priya's tears in that future broadcast was a physical pain in his chest. He had to fight. He had to ensure that future never came to pass. The clock, already ticking, had just gained a new, terrifying countdown.
The vision of Priya's tear-streaked face and the grim number on the news screen—500 million by 2050—shattered the fragile hope Arjun had painstakingly built. He stumbled from his bed, the chill of his apartment mirroring the cold dread that settled deep in his bones, a sharp, physical ache blossoming in his chest. The digital clock on his computer glowed, showing Friday, June 6, 2025. Twenty-five years. No, just twenty-four years and six months until humanity was reduced to a mere fraction of its current self.
He sank into his desk chair, the hum of his computer and the silent presence of Hope doing little to comfort him. His fingers hovered over the keyboard, but he couldn't bring himself to open another file, to record another vision. What was the point? Each meticulously logged catastrophe, each powerful tool he'd forged, felt utterly inadequate. He had seen local disasters, global pandemics, even hinted at interdimensional threats. He had developed the most powerful digital control, built an AI for universal communication, and now, he knew there were others like him, nascent powers emerging across the globe. Yet, despite all this, the future he saw was a wasteland of human suffering.
"Can I save more people?" he whispered into the quiet room, the words feeling utterly hollow. His digital might felt like a child's toy against the backdrop of such a pervasive, long-term catastrophe. He had just witnessed a future where the world's population plummeted by nearly ninety percent. It wasn't a singular event he could pinpoint and disrupt, like a cyber-attack or an incoming asteroid. It was a slow, agonizing bleed, a terminal illness consuming the planet.
A profound weariness settled over him, heavier than any exhaustion from coding or visions. "Will I be able to do anything that truly matters?" The thought echoed, mocking him. He had spent months, years, fighting in the shadows, trying to avert crises, but this ultimate vision suggested his efforts were ultimately futile.
His gaze drifted to the window, the faint glow of Jaipur's distant city lights. People were living their lives out there, oblivious. Laughing, working, loving. They didn't know their collective future held such devastating emptiness.
"Should I let the world end?" The thought, born of pure despair, was blasphemous to his very being, yet it surfaced, tempting him with the surrender he craved. Was this what fate intended? Was this the will of some higher power, some cosmic design that he, a mere human granted impossible gifts, was powerless to defy? Was God simply letting the world unravel?
The weight of the question, the futility, the crushing burden of seeing a future he couldn't change, pressed down on him. His eyes burned, but no tears came. He felt utterly hollowed out, suspended in an agonizing limbo between an unstoppable future and his own, seemingly inadequate, powers. The sheer mental and emotional exhaustion finally claimed him. He slumped forward, his head resting on his arms on the cool, hard surface of his desk, and fell into a deep, troubled sleep, the silent countdown to 2050 echoing in the void of his mind.