Nero's eyes fluttered open, his body screaming in protest.

  Pain. Searing, unrelenting pain. It crept through his bones, pulsed beneath his skin. He sucked in a breath, only to choke on the thick scent of smoke and ash.

  He was alive.

  He blinked rapidly, his vision adjusting to the eerie glow that bathed the world around him. Above, the sky was no longer the blue expanse he once knew. It was crimson—like spilled blood, like the heavens themselves were mourning the death of the world.

  He swallowed, his throat dry and raw.

  I survived.

  A bitter laugh bubbled from his lips. He couldn't believe it. He had braced himself for the end, had felt the very impact tear through his body, had welcomed the void—

  Yet here he was.

  Disoriented but breathing. Injured but whole.

  Instinctively, he reached up and pinched his cheek. Sharp pain shot through his skin. He flinched.

  Real.

  This was real.

  The joy that swelled within him was foreign, almost laughable. He was standing amidst the ruins of a dead world, yet he had never felt more alive.

  But then, reality struck.

  A heavy weight crushed his legs. He tried to move—nothing. A massive tree had collapsed over him, its splintered trunk pinning him down like nature itself was trying to hold him in place. He gritted his teeth and pushed against the bark, veins straining, muscles burning. It didn't budge.

  "Come on," he hissed through clenched teeth. He shoved again, but it was no use. His strength was nothing compared to the sheer weight of the tree.

  His heartbeat pounded against his ribs. Panic threatened to claw its way into his mind, but he forced himself to think. If he couldn't move the tree, he had to move himself.

  The soil.

  He pressed his palms against the ground, fingers digging into the dirt. Inch by inch, he clawed at the earth beneath his legs, loosening the soil just enough to create space. His nails tore against the hardened dirt, but he didn't stop.

  He could feel it working.

  More space. More movement.

  And then—freedom.

  With one final push, he wrenched his leg out from under the trunk. A sharp jolt of pain shot through his limb, but nothing felt broken. Just sore, bruised.

  He exhaled shakily and pushed himself up.

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  Then, he saw it.

  The world—what was left of it.

  A graveyard.

  Bodies littered the streets like discarded dolls, their twisted limbs frozen in their final moments of terror. Cars lay overturned, crushed by debris. The towering skyscrapers of Manila, once symbols of progress, now stood as shattered husks, their broken frames piercing the blood-red sky. Fires burned in the distance, their embers flickering against the backdrop of destruction.

  Silence.

  A deafening, unnatural silence.

  No sirens. No voices. No life.

  Just him.

  Nero clenched his fists, his nails biting into his palms.

  This wasn't just survival.

  This was rebirth.

  Nero walked.

  His steps were slow, unsteady. Every muscle in his body ached, but he forced himself forward. The air was thick with smoke and the scent of burnt flesh, but he had already grown numb to it.

  The silence was unbearable.

  No crying. No shouting. No voices.

  Only the wind whispering through the ruins, carrying the echoes of a world that no longer existed.

  He passed through what was once a bustling avenue, the streets now cracked and filled with debris. Cars were abandoned, their frames twisted from the impact. Some had people still inside—burnt, crushed, frozen in their final moments.

  Dead bodies littered the road.

  Some were mangled beyond recognition. Others looked as if they were simply sleeping, their faces strangely peaceful despite the horror that had befallen them.

  Nero exhaled slowly.

  He had never been afraid of the dead. Maybe because he had spent most of his life feeling like a ghost himself—an invisible orphan, unnoticed and unwanted. Death didn't scare him.

  But that didn't mean it didn't hurt.

  For every body he passed, he felt a strange pull in his chest. A weight he couldn't quite describe.

  They deserved better.

  He bent down beside a young woman, no older than him. Her body was intact, but her eyes were empty, lifeless.

  With trembling hands, he pulled a torn jacket from the rubble and draped it over her.

  Then, he moved to the next one.

  And the next.

  As he walked, he tried to cover as many bodies as he could. Some with scraps of clothing, some with pieces of broken banners from nearby stores. He knew it was pointless—no one was left to care, and the dead weren't coming back.

  But still, he did it.

  Because if no one else was left to mourn them, he would.

  A gust of wind blew past him, carrying a foul stench from the distance. He stopped, scanning the horizon. The city stretched endlessly before him—destroyed, hollow, abandoned.

  He was happy he survived.

  But now, he was starting to wonder if he was the only one.

  Nero tightened his grip on his arm, nails digging into his skin.

  "I can't be the last one," he muttered, his voice barely more than a whisper.

  Then, he kept walking.

  He had to find someone.

  Anyone.

  Before the loneliness consumed him.

  Nero's steps slowed as a thought crept into his mind.

  The orphanage.

  It had been his only home, the only place that had ever truly meant something to him. If there was even the slightest chance that someone there had survived… he had to see for himself.

  With renewed determination, he pushed forward. His body protested with every step, but he ignored it. Pain was nothing compared to the possibility of finding someone—anyone.

  The moment he arrived, his heart sank.

  The orphanage—his orphanage—was in ruins.

  The once-familiar building, the place that had sheltered him as a child, was now nothing more than a collapsed heap of stone and debris. The iron gates lay twisted and broken. The courtyard, where children used to play, was filled with shattered glass and splintered wood.

  And the bodies.

  They were everywhere.

  The nuns, the caretakers, the children—all of them.

  Some were buried beneath the rubble, others lay motionless on the ground, their small bodies curled as if they had tried to shield themselves from the inevitable.

  Nero stood frozen, his breath caught in his throat.

  He had seen corpses on his way here. He had covered the dead, mourning strangers he never knew.

  But this?

  This was different.

  His chest tightened, a deep, suffocating pain pressing against his ribs. These were the people who had raised him. The people who had given him warmth when the world had nothing else to offer.

  Sister Maria. Sister Beatrice. The old man who used to fix the broken chairs. The little boy who always followed him around, calling him "big brother."

  Gone.

  He clenched his fists. His vision blurred.

  Then, without a word, he started digging.