/b/ - Random

The year is 2057, and chaos has engulfed every nook and corner of the world. The mighty civilizations of yore have fallen dramatically with no room or propensity left to reinvigorate themselves. The White Man from the Occident blames the situation first on the orient and then eventually on his deathbed, comes to unpropituously believe that the confluence of the conflation of life and death with strife and gripe is the result of his ancestors' wrongdoings. His brethren lay impoverished on the very streets he once took pride in. "Time didn't spare Ozymandias, Hattusli and even Cyrus the Great, what am I , but a mere sepoy in the face of it." With this, the last of his breaths escaped his entrails and the cadaver lay in a motley of debris and dust that had gloom, disdain and helplessness written all over them. "The time of the Orient hath come, once again, a blessing from the ancestors, perhaps", remarked Zhang Boubou as he impaled the palest and fattest warrior of a tribe that called itself the Wignats. Putting an end to Western machination is what Zhang, his comrade Aayush, and billions of those inhabiting the enchanted lands of the east had always yearned to do. Hope is born when oft is forlorn, and a tribe from the most advanced city of Bharata, known as Bhachcels traversed the mountains of the mysterious yet scheming people who called themselves the Jews, believing in the same God that the once mighty and powerful tribes of wignats and moselems did.