Those Who Remain

Remnants of a Broken World

"The gods have abandoned us, the world has turned against us, and the dead refuse to stay buried. But still, we breathe, we bleed, we endure. And perhaps that is enough."

— Barnabas Ray, member of the Children of the Armageddon

In the silence after the end, when the nations had crumbled and the sky itself bore the scars of forgotten battles, only one truth remained: those who lived did so by clawing their way through ruin. The world was not kind to the mortal survivors. It did not reward them for endurance, nor did it offer meaning to those who remained. It simply continued, indifferent to the ones left to suffer beneath its ashen sky.

Once, humanity built kingdoms, waged wars, and wrote histories filled with their triumphs. Now, they are little more than scavengers picking through the bones of a world that will never be whole again. Magic lingers in the ruins like a wound that refuses to close, warping the land, birthing horrors, and reshaping those too unfortunate to escape its touch. The gods, if they ever existed, have long since abandoned their creations.

Yet still, they endure.

Some hide in the shadows of broken cities, whispering prayers to gods who will never answer. Others walk the wilds, chasing fragments of the old, hoping to turn ruin into something resembling life. A few, desperate or foolish, stare into the abyss of magic, knowing it is poison but drinking deep nonetheless. There are no heroes left. There is no civilization waiting to rise from the dust. There is only survival. And for those who remain, that is enough.

The Fall of Civilization

All that was known vanished in an instant. Destruction did not take time. It was not a slow unraveling, passed through generations like a curse. Everything ended in a thought. And that thought still lingers in the minds of those who survived.

What could we have done to prevent this?

The answer is as cruel as it is simple: nothing.

The mortals had no say in the fall of civilization. This new, broken world was not of their making. It was something imposed upon them by beings whose existence no one truly believed in. Mages. Vampires. Shapeshifters. Every horror story told in the dark became truth when reality shattered.

Before the Cataclysm came a war. They called it World War III, and for good reason: in the end, everyone was involved. It began as a trade dispute, but the collapse came swiftly, like rot behind polished walls. After a year, no one remembered why it began. They only remembered the orders to fight. For pride, for flags, for lines on a map. As it had always happened, the young died by the thousands while a handful of the old made plans; a past sacrificing its future on the altar of vanity.

The Cataclysm

“Sweetie, you need to sleep. It’s late,” Mary said gently to her daughter.

Corinne was only six, but already as stubborn as they came. She turned her head, chestnut curls bouncing, and smiled.

“Just a moment longer. He might come home today.”

“Baby…” Mary said, trying to swallow the knot in her throat before it turned to tears. “Daddy’s not coming. Not yet. The war isn’t over. He’s fighting for you.”

“But... but—”

Corinne’s protest stopped suddenly. Her eyes caught something outside the window. She pressed her small hands to the glass, her face lit with awe.

“Look, Mom! A falling star! Hurry, we have to make a—”

But the light wasn’t falling. It was rising.

It bloomed silently over the horizon, growing brighter with every breath. Windows rattled. The ground hummed beneath them. And then, the sound came; a deep, low crack, as the sky was torned open.

Mary didn’t think. She lunged for her daughter, arms wrapping around that small, trembling body.

The light swallowed the room.

Corinne didn’t have time to speak. Her eyes were still wide with wonder as her last wish took shape in her mind:

Please, falling star… bring daddy home tonight.

The light that rose from Salem was unstoppable. It tore a hole through the sky and spread like erratic fire across the globe. In seconds, oceans convulsed. Tsunamis devoured coastlines. Mountains split. Cities crumbled. Sulfur and poison poured from the wounds of the earth. Volcanoes, long thought dormant, bled their fury into the clouds.

This was not the apocalypse, no matter how much it resembled the scriptures. It was worse. It was blind, indifferent annihilation. And mortals, ignorant of magic, of vampires, of the creatures lurking behind their myths, could only watch as everything they thought they knew fell apart.

When the dust finally settled, there was no order left to restore. Machines stopped. Communications died. Borders vanished. Governments fell silent. And then: chaos. Riots. Mass suicides. Hunger. Thirst. Madness. The stars were lost behind dark, uncanny shadows. The sun turned cold and distant; a god of life stripped of purpose.

That was thirty years ago.

The first months after the Cataclysm were spent in disarray, in panic, in silence broken only by screams and the crackle of distant fires. But humanity is nothing if not adaptable.

From the carcass of the old world, people emerged once more. Logic gave way to instinct. The cities were left behind, towering tombs filled with dust and memory. Survivors drifted to the outskirts, to the woods, the plains, the forgotten villages where the wind still moved like it remembered peace.

With borders erased and nations buried beneath ash, mortals were left with nothing but one another. Distrust gave way to necessity. Strangers became kin, not by blood, but by hunger, by fear, by the firelight they shared when night fell like a blade.

From the ashes, humanity persists.

But is this enough?

Mankind Redefined

There was a time when humans believed themselves the apex of creation, masters of their fate, authors of progress. Now, they know better. The world belongs to the monsters: to the blood-drunk immortals who rule from shattered spires, to the veil-born terrors that whisper promises in the dark, and to the erratic pulses of magic that reshape the laws of nature with each breath. Mortals are no longer the architects of destiny, they are its remnants. And yet, they have adapted. They have redefined themselves.

There were no schools or formal orders. Only instincts honed by suffering, sharpened by desperation. Over time, those instincts carved themselves into forms. Roles. Archetypes born not of design, but of survival. Call them what you will: paths, fates, damnations. They are the shape of what humanity has become.

In the ruins, these paths are not chosen, they are earned. Etched into the flesh by fire and famine, by betrayal and broken promises. Some scavenge the bones of the old world. Others take what they want by force. Some whisper to things no sane man would name. A few dare to remember, to seek, to hope. And there are those whose souls were claimed long ago; servants to creatures they fear.

These are the new faces of humanity.

Hover over the images to reveal the paths of the survivors. Each one tells a tale of struggle, power, and survival in a world forever changed.

Scavengers

They are the shadows between ruins, the ones who know which floors won’t collapse and which wires still hum with power. Scavengers are cartographers of a dead world, moving silent and sharp through rusting skeletons of civilization. They know the scent of rot, the rhythm of collapse, and the art of vanishing before danger sees them. In a world without maps, they are the compass.

Reavers

Warlords, raiders, mercenaries—call them what you will. Reavers are forged in blood and fire. Some lead, some follow, but all kill without hesitation. They are not driven by cruelty, but by the brutal logic of survival. In a lawless world, they are the law. Their strength is their currency, and violence is the only contract that never breaks.

Relic Hunters

While others dig for food or shelter, Relic Hunters unearth memory. They search for lost texts, ancient relics, broken machines—anything that might explain the why of it all. Scholars, wanderers, keepers of forgotten truths. They do not seek safety. They seek meaning in a world that no longer makes sense.

Revenants

Some made pacts. Others were taken. Revenants are those who survived by bending the knee to vampires—servants, thralls, slaves. Some still wear their chains with pride. Others run from them, hunted by both mortals and monsters alike. Their humanity is in question. But they endure, walking the line between what they were and what they became.

Hollowed

They are the ones who bartered away what little remained of themselves. The Hollowed do not pray—they listen. Somewhere beyond the veil, in places where reason dies screaming, something answered. Now, they carry that answer inside them, wearing its power like a second skin. Twisted. Changed. But alive.

What the Future Holds

The truth is the world did not end after Salem.

It was fractured.

Now, in the bones of the past, something stirs: firelight in ruined halls, whispered oaths beneath blood-slick moons. These survivors, broken yet unbowed, do not rebuild the world they lost. They forge something stranger. They are not heroes. They are echoes, anomalies, scars that learned to bleed forward. And in their steps, the future takes shape. Not through prophecy or plan, but through grit, hunger, and the quiet, stubborn belief that something better might still take root.

They are the answer to a question the Cataclysm dared ask:

What remains, when the world forgets you?