FEB 31 3030
In the year 3033, the iron-cast planet Lohalok —named from the Sanskrit “Loha” (iron) and “Lok” (world)—
In the year 3033, Lohalok orbits a fading sun, its skyline etched by corrosive winds and the endless echo of clashing metals. Acid rains turn the soil into a patchwork of rust and ash, while massive alloy towers loom over silent plains. Beneath this iron veil, life persists—city enclaves linked by maglev arteries and ruled by those who control the flow of resources.
A consequential study in discarded materials lies at the heart of Lohalok’s cultural reflection: countless obelisks, painstakingly cast by hand in biodegradable epoxy, layered with tarnished circuitry, sand-blasted plastics, and slivers of once-precious ores. Each translucent shell is tinted with natural pigments—ochre from hidden canyons, indigo gleaned from brackish springs—revealing strata of civilization’s castoffs. Embedded within are “viral quotes” that flicker eerily in passing light:
We are the sowers of illusions, and the harvest is dust.
When dust devours the footprints of yesterday, where do we plant tomorrow’s seed?
Such questions define Lohalok’s mood and social structure. Corporate guilds regulate resource extraction in fortress-cities, while nomadic salvage teams roam the scarred outerlands in search of new layers of refuse to repurpose. The tension between consumption and regeneration grows as the planet’s environment teeters under iron skies.
Yet within this bleak tableau, a faint promise endures: by capturing detritus in translucent monuments, Lohalok’s inhabitants cling to the hope that something living may still emerge from the wreckage. Each obelisk stands as a paradox—a testament to what has been lost, and a foundation for a possible future that remains uncertain, but achingly necessary.
