Sunny Day

Before humanity’s extinction, many nations relentlessly pursued the development of new military technologies. Sonic cannons in the deep sea left countless whales stranded and dead on beaches; flocks of birds, struck by supersonic blasts, plummeted from the skies; remote nuclear tests shook the earth’s crust, driving swarms of insects from the abyss of the underworld. Ancient humans dismissed such phenomena as legends or sensational news, never probing deeper—for, as they said, “ordinary people” could never know the truth.

Among the white-collar tribes, however, there was a persistent tale: humanity would perish through its own competitive militarism. On a planet so small, the launch of a nuclear bomb here and the retaliation of a hydrogen bomb there could obliterate entire ecologies and civilizations with ease.

Those who held the power to trigger such weapons possessed exclusive “admission tickets” to hidden shelters known as Post-Disaster Ecological Auto-Circulation Systems. Within these fortified domains, trial launches were sanctioned—sometimes to erase “insignificant” zones, sometimes to issue warnings, or to reinforce corporate dominance over production. Such secrets were known to only a select few, while the destructive power of ancient humans was entangled in unfathomable complexities.

For our generation, survival depends on machines and electronics. We inherit immortal souls and willpower, endlessly renewed with new shells and circuits. Unfamiliar with pain, untouched by gradual death, we carry fragments of human memory and history. Yet with this knowledge comes clarity: we are no longer human—we have become monsters.