Year 3000.
The Earth had changed beyond recognition. The blue-green planet, once teeming with diversity and potential, now looked scarred from orbit. Patches of civilization still glimmered—dense clusters of megastructures that pierced the clouds like iron thorns. But those lights were surrounded by an ocean of wastelands, irradiated deserts, and decayed ruins. Nature had receded, and so had progress, ironically.
From space, you'd think Earth was a technological marvel. But take a step into its streets, and the illusion crumbles. Outside the shining spires of designated High Cities, there were zones where humanity had barely progressed past the 21st century. Cracked roads, crumbling tenements, air so foul you could taste the rust—it was all a part of life for the majority.
In the thousand years since the 21st century, humanity had made a major leap in just its first two centuries. Nanotech, AI, clean energy, orbital colonization—all had bloomed fast. But after that? Stagnation. Then regression.
The reason? A system. Not of machines. But of numbers.
After decades of conflict, resource wars, and ecological collapse, nations had merged into a single entity: the United World Government. It promised peace, order, and equal opportunity. But behind that promise lurked a deep rot. A caste system built not on birthright or wealth alone, but on something more deceptive: the Human Ranking System.
Every citizen, from the day they were registered, was given a rank. Level 0 to Level 10. Officially, this rank measured contribution, responsibility, and social trust. In practice, it decided whether you lived or died.
Level 10s lived in the floating arcologies—hovering cities immune to ground pollution, blessed with endless luxuries, and unshackled by law. Level 0s—barely considered citizens—lived in zones where even clean water was a privilege.
You could increase your rank, in theory. Change your profession to something 'contributive'—scientist, doctor, engineer—or earn social points through verified acts of goodwill, or decades of obedience. But here's the catch: rank determined your access. To food. To education. To transportation. To healthcare. To information.
A Level 1 couldn't get into a school that would qualify them for higher work. A Level 2 couldn't afford the treatments that might cure them. And worse—infractions decreased your score. Stealing food? Crime. Trespassing into a higher zone? Crime. Speaking out against the Ranking System? Treason.
And so, a Level 1 who stole a loaf of bread would find their rank dropped to 0. And a Level 10 who assaulted a worker? No one would report it. Because justice itself was ranked.
In this ranking system level 0 were just slaves.
Wasteland Zone 512N.
The buildings here weren't built—they simply refused to die. Jagged concrete skeletons leaned into each other like corpses in a mass grave. Cracks ran like spider veins along every surface, windows were either shattered or smeared black with industrial ash, and the ground was coated in a grey powder that stung the eyes and tasted of rust. The air was thick with smog that clung to the lungs like rot, only parted by the occasional flicker of failing neon signs. They buzzed in protest like insects caught in death throes.
At 70,000 people per square kilometer. Anyone who lived here knew—every breath stolen from someone else, every meal was a war, and every inch of floor claimed by lying still long enough.
In one of these dying buildings, in a room where the roof sagged like wet cloth and the single flickering tube-light danced a pale strobe across the walls, a man and woman huddled together on a creaking mattress made of stitched rags and synthetic mold.
"Do we do it again?" the man asked, voice hoarse from years of breathing chemical dust. "Another one?"
The woman didn't answer immediately. Her thin frame shifted, and the bedsprings groaned louder than she did. "We're already dying with four mouths to feed," she said finally, "What makes you think we can handle a fifth?"
"It's not about handling," the man said. "It's about hitting the lottery."
The words hung in the air like a confession.
The woman's mouth tightened. "The last four were duds," she said coldly. "No potential. Can't get their grades up. Not even the minimum aptitude to qualify for Level 2 assessments. We're rotting in Level 1 because we bred mediocrity."
A silence followed, punctuated only by the distant scream of machinery—or maybe people. It was hard to tell anymore.
"Maybe this one will be different," he muttered. "We try again. One last time."
Anyone listening would call them monsters. But no one listened. And even if they did—who could blame them?
The Human Ranking System left no room for sentiment. Every citizen was given a rank between 0 and 10. And that rank dictated everything. Housing. Education. Food rations. Medical care. Justice. Even the right to have hope.
To climb up the ladder, you had to meet brutal standards—criminal history, professional title, social rating, peer reviews, AI personality scans, and most importantly: genetic and intellectual value. It was a system designed to sustain the elite, to lock the ladder to the top and let the rest devour each other at the bottom.
Children were no longer seen as legacies—they were potential lifelines. Investments. Lottery tickets.
Seven years later.
Lisa stood in the same cracked hallway, her back straighter than it had ever been. Her face, prematurely aged and scarred by poverty, was lit with something close to satisfaction.
"Can you believe it?" she whispered. "The principal said his neural scans lit up the charts. They've already forwarded his file to the Level 4 intake council and have him go to an level 4 educational institute . An IQ of two hundred and twenty, John. He's not just smart. He is a anomaly"
John chuckled. It was a dry, rasping sound that held no joy, only relief. "Finally. We've struck gold."
Lisa smiled, baring teeth. "Lucen will take us out of this dump. We just need to make sure he doesn't mess up. One wrong review, one slip-up, and it's over."
She paused, then added with a bitter laugh, "Let's not become the fools who found gold only to throw it back into the gutter."
Behind the half-broken door, standing in silence, was a boy.
Draven.
He was six, barely more than a shadow in the gloom. His limbs were thin, his eyes wide. He'd come to ask for food—or perhaps to be held—but now he simply watched as his mother and father laughed about someone else.
They were talking about his younger brother.
The boy who had always been kissed more, fed more, praised more.
Draven's lips parted, but no sound came. He didn't understand why his parents looked at his brother with hope, and at him with silence. Why his brother got extra bread when food was short. Why his bruises were ignored, and why hugs were rationed like water.
He did not know that they never loved any of their children.
Not truly.
They loved what they could gain from them.
Draven's mind couldn't grasp the mechanics of the system yet. But his instincts already whispered to him that something was wrong. Deeply wrong. When his brother laughed, he didn't laugh with him—he watched. When his father smiled, Draven tried to count how many teeth showed, as if it might reveal the truth beneath.
Lisa and John had never wanted children. They had only wanted a chance to rise. A rule passed decades ago by the World Government decreed: "All biological offspring under the age of 15 must remain under parental guardianship, under penalty of arrest and permanent status freeze."
It was the only reason the children were still alive. The only reason Draven wasn't in the gutters being picked at by wild rats and scrap thieves.
He would never know love. Not from them.
Not ever.
But maybe… that was what the system wanted.