On the light screen, Professor Shibata's despairing whisper rang out like a final judgment, reaching every corner of the world.
'The world… is really going to end.'
'We have less than three years left.'
A brief, deathly silence—like the suffocating calm before a storm—enveloped the planet.
Then, as if a dam had burst, a colossal wave of collective denial surged across every place that could still voice sound.
'Fake! It's all fake!' In the street a man jabbed his finger at the sky and screamed himself hoarse at the dazed crowd, as though sheer volume could negate reality. 'This is nothing but a vile hoax—terrorist mind games!'
'Impossible! Absolutely impossible!' On social media the same claims flooded every feed, dominating the conversation. 'The 2012 gag again? Who do they think we are—toddlers?'
Authorities and swarms of experts—especially those who had never touched the truth—recovered from the initial shock and moved quickly. Urgent bulletins appeared on every major outlet, the wording identical, the tone firm:
'Citizens, remain calm! The so-called doomsday claim is baseless speculation with no scientific grounding! The origin of the sky-screen is still under investigation; its broadcast is most likely a carefully engineered information attack designed to incite global panic. Do not believe it. Do not spread it.'
Reason shrieked its denial, for the truth lay beyond what reason could process—it was too immense, capable of shattering every cognitive frame reason had built.
Morality howled its refusal, because once accepted, every future-facing principle—duty, order—would lose meaning. In a world with only three years left, what value could any restraint or effort still hold?
Those who tried cool analysis—pointing out that the list of geologists on the screen matched reality, urging caution—were drowned in mockery and rebuttal. 'Conspiracy nut.' 'Chaos-monger.' 'Brainwashed.' Labels slapped on at lightning speed, then scrolled past, as though ignoring them would make the ominous evidence vanish.
No hidden hand was needed; humanity's own psychological defenses began an efficient purge. People preferred a comfortable, self-soothing lie to the suffocating nakedness of fact.
In a convenience store a woman watching the screen saw the old expert's haggard, despairing face. Her basket clanged to the floor, goods spilling everywhere. A stranger helped pick them up, muttering,'Scared me to death—looks so real… has to be fake, fake…'
Even a homeless man, after a stunned moment, snorted and rolled over. 'End of the world? Hah—haven't figured out lunch yet.'
It was a deeper denial born of survival instinct: even society's bottom rung sensed that acknowledging the fact would bring chaos ten thousand times worse than their present misery.
The fact of 'world-ending calamity' was an elephant—twisting, expanding—crammed into a tiny room. It was there, huge, grotesque, impossible to miss, yet every occupant agreed to squeeze their eyes shut, plug their ears, and shout, 'No elephant! Nothing here!'
Because once someone pointed, once everyone was forced to look, the entire system humankind had built over millennia—law, morality, faith, hope—would crumble in an instant.
Looting, violence, debauchery, utter madness… an apocalypse of human nature arriving long before any tectonic shift.
Therefore, they could not believe.
They dared not believe.
Coldly, the light screen still hovered in the sky, showing Kuchiba Hiro's silent, resolute profile beside Professor Shibata's limp, despairing figure.
Beneath the screen, human civilization staged an unprecedented, collective self-deception. Banners of reason and morality still fluttered high, yet under the elephant no one would acknowledge, their poles gave off faint, distinct cracking sounds—on the verge of splintering.
A silent panic is more terrifying than a noisy collapse.
The image on the screen softened—tones muted, oppressive—as it cut to a memory.
(Night. Young Kuchiba Hiro curled on a sofa, bearing invisible wounds from the courtroom. His father, attorney Ishida, sat beside him, an arm around him, but the warmth could not dispel the bewildered ice in the boy's eyes.
After a long silence the child lifted his head, voice quavering, utterly lost: 'Dad… I saved someone. Why am I the one punished? Did… did I do wrong?'
His father looked at him, pained yet unshakable: 'No. You were right. You did well.'
'Then… was it their fault?' the boy asked, groping for a simple answer.
Father hesitated, then slowly shook his head. 'Yes… but not entirely. That mother, even the girl—they may not be purely evil. Mostly… they were stupid. Blinded by narrow prejudice and idiotic ideas, they made the vilest, stupidest choice.'
He gently stroked his son's hair, voice low and forceful: 'I know what you're feeling. You think it unfair, that kindness was trampled. You have resentment, hatred—that's normal, even justified. Never be ashamed of it.'
Looking straight into the boy's eyes, he asked a question beyond the child's years yet fitting his mood: 'Tell me—do you want revenge? Do you want those who hurt you to taste pain as well?'
Young Kuchiba Hiro didn't answer at once. He pressed his lips, struggled, then gave a firm nod, a flash of ruthless resolve in his eyes.
Seeing the flame, Father did not scold; instead, with rare gravity he said, 'Listen, son. I teach you reason, integrity, but that doesn't mean we let others trample us. Struck—strike back. Hurt—you have the right to retaliate.'
Word by word he carved it into the boy's soul: 'Lose your humanity and you may lose much that is beautiful. But lose your beastliness, your fangs and claws… and you will lose everything.')
The picture blurred, yet the father's words remained branded in mind.
The screen flashed forward: (The mother-and-daughter pair who had accused him gained only a small settlement and nothing more. People avoided them, fearing the next false accusation. At school the girl was utterly isolated, viciously bullied, her eyes darker and more hopeless than Kuchiba Hiro's had ever been.
Father and son watched from a distance. Offering no sermon, the father simply asked, 'Now—does the fire inside feel quieter?'
Watching their self-inflicted misery, the blaze of vengeance in Kuchiba Hiro cooled into icy acceptance.)