#77 Oblitus Specimen

In the pale moonlight of a world unraveling, the last vestiges of neutrality are lowered into the earth. The coffin, draped in crimson and adorned with roses, bears the unmistakable mark of a once-proud nation that stood apart from the wars of giants. But the mourners surrounding it are no ordinary grievers. Hollow-eyed and soulless, the undead figures—dressed in the sharp suits of politicians—clamor over the casket, their decayed hands reaching not to pay respects, but to claim the remains for themselves. In this dystopian vision, neutrality is not merely dead; it is being devoured by the very forces it sought to resist.

This is the end of the world’s final struggle. A crumbling empire of reason, finally after decades of battle replaced by the infinite banner of a rising force.

Both sides long abandoned the pretense of diplomacy. They do not bury any neutrality with honor both staking their claim over its corpse, each faction demanding its allegiance in death.

The funeral is not a farewell but a conquest, a stark reminder that in a yhe final world consumed there is no room left for those who refuse to take sides.

The faces in the crowd are eerily familiar. Former statesmen, power brokers, and world leaders—now nothing more than ghoulish shadows of their former selves—leer and whisper among themselves, their hunger insatiable.

Some were once defenders of diplomacy, architects of peace, but now, stripped of reason and morality, they tear at the casket like starving vultures. Their grotesque expressions betray a truth too terrifying to ignore: in this new era, ideology is no longer a choice, but an infection.

One cannot simply stand aside; one must be consumed or become the devourer.

And what of those who resist? Those who still believe in balance, in dialogue, in a world not dictated by the dead ideologies of the past? They are nowhere to be seen, their voices drowned out by the howls of the undead.

Perhaps they have fled underground, whispering their dreams in the darkness, waiting for a future where such ideals can be resurrected.

Or perhaps, like the figure in the casket, they too are doomed to be dragged into the grave by the weight of history.

As the last shovelful of dirt falls upon the casket, the ceremony ends, not with solemn reflection, but with the triumphant roars of the victors.

The Oblitus Specimen is not a tragedy to them—it is a necessity, a final eradication of an inconvenient relic.

The world marches forward, more divided than ever, as the undead politicians continue their endless, mindless feast.

In this dystopia, there are no middle grounds left—only the endless hunger of those who refuse to let the past rest in peace.