Outro.1
—And so, the history that belonged to us came to a close.
Ninety days had passed since the invaders from the cosmos descended.
Now, Earth had been completely bleached white.
Just three months of resistance.
No.
It should have been called three months of unceasing battle.
Fighting, endlessly, endlessly.
But it had been meaningless.
What we excelled at was, in the end, still confined by rules—more precisely, methods limited to within a planet. Monitoring and restraining other nations on this planet had been what we did most often.
So we failed. We failed without surprise.
There had been no strategy, no warning.
The enemy simply descended upon us directly.
Even the nations that resisted the invasion to the end had perished.
Now, only the last remnants of humanity remained, helplessly looking up into the void.
Ah.
Every person, every survivor.
The message revealed in those despairing, chaotic eyes showed that they had accepted the reality that today might be their last day.
But.
But still.
I simply could not accept it.
They cast contemptuous gazes at those who had finally lowered their heads, knelt on the ground, and prayed—people who had already lost the ability to resist—then left the camp as casually as children at play—
What I saw now was a white wasteland with nothing left.
A wasteland entirely remade.
We no longer had any chance.
Whether it was survival or anything else, no matter what we did, there would be no result.
And even more humiliatingly, I was now searching for records related to the past.
With fuel equivalent to a one-way ticket from which there was no return, I rode an old-fashioned motorcycle across this bleached planet.
It was too strange.
Too strange.
There were too many doubts, too many questions.
Before I truly met death,