We’ve Been Wrong About the End of the World

We’ve Been Wrong About the End of the World 

On the 31st of December 1999, tens of millions of people around the world were not preparing for New Year's Eve. They were preparing for the end of the world. Instead of champagne and gifts, people stocked up on weapons, canned food, and water. Pharmacies were emptied, shelves were cleared of toilet paper and propane tanks.

 Cash was withdrawn, and bank statements were printed. Some converted their basements into emergency shelters, while others packed their cars and retreated into forests and remote areas. For once, this panic was not limited to conspiracy theorists. Presidents discussed worst-case scenarios. Scientists warned of systemic failures and corporate executives prepared for shutdowns.

 Humanity was moving forward at full speed, confident in its machines, unaware that it might be heading straight into a wall. There was a very real sense that 1999 could become the final year of human civilization. The threat was not a meteorite, a pandemic, or a global war. It was a computer error. By the end of the 20th century, banking systems, industrial infrastructure, power grids, transportation networks, and even nuclear arsenals were completely dependent on software.

 And buried deep inside that software was a design decision made decades earlier. In the United States, this problem became known as Y2K. In the early era of computing, memory was extremely expensive and every bite mattered. To save space, programmers stored years using only two digits instead of four. 1997 became 97. 1999 became 99.

 At the time, the solution seemed efficient and harmless. But it contained a fatal assumption that the software would never have to deal with the year 2000. When January 1st, 2000 arrived, computers would read the date as 01.01.00. To a human, this clearly meant the year 2000. To a machine, it could just as easily mean 1,900.

In theory, this single ambiguity could trigger massive failures across global systems. By 1998, the world's leading governments reached a disturbing consensus. The risk was real. All G8 countries agreed that Y2K could escalate into a global catastrophe, leading to the creation of an international coordination effort.

 Representatives from 120 countries began meeting daily to share information and contingency plans. Former rivals were forced to cooperate, not out of trust, but out of mutual fear. Russia and the United States, still burdened by Cold War reflexes, established direct communication channels to prevent accidental nuclear conflict.

 On December 22nd, just 9 days before the new millennium, Russian military advisers arrived at US Space Force headquarters in Colorado Springs. At the same time, an American Department of Defense official was sent to Moscow to help set up emergency communication between the White House and the Kremlin. While civilians focused on celebrations, governments focused on one overriding priority, making sure that thousands of nuclear armed missiles did not respond to a software glitch by ending human history. In total, the world spent

around $320 billion preparing for Y2K. Adjusted for inflation, that figure approaches half a trillion dollars. Was this an overreaction, a mass hysteria fueled by misunderstanding? Or was it a genuine catastrophe that never happened precisely because it was taken seriously? That question still matters, and we will return to it.

 But the deeper significance of Y2K lies elsewhere. It became the most powerful reminder since the Cold War of just how fragile modern civilization really is. Systems that appeared stable and reliable were suddenly exposed as vulnerable to a simple programming shortcut. Technology had made life faster, richer, and more comfortable.

 But it had also concentrated risk on a scale humanity had never faced before. And in the 25 years since then, that dependency has only deepened. The world now runs on interconnected networks, software platforms, and automated decision-making systems that no single person fully understands. If in 1999, humanity panicked over a misplaced date, today it faces something far more opaque.

Blackbox artificial intelligence, the optimistic vision of history's end, once predicted by philosopher Francis Fukuyama, never materialized. Instead of stability, the world entered a new phase of rivalry where technology is no longer a guarantee of peace, but an instrument of pressure, leverage, and war.

 History did not stop. It accelerated and it increasingly feels as if everything is moving toward a climax followed by a resolution we are not yet prepared to face. Most religions have their own vision of the apocalypse. But if there's one tradition that speaks about the end of the world louder than all the others, it's Christianity.

 This year, even Peter Teal, PayPal co-founder, Republican donor, and one of the most influential billionaires in Silicon Valley, began publicly lecturing about the Antichrist and the end of history. While researching this episode, I was struck by how massive the online religiousapocalypse scene has become. I watched and read a huge amount of this material and almost all of it reduces to the same message.

 We are not merely living through a crisis. We are living in the final act of history. According to this narrative, the signs are everywhere. The Euphrates River is drying up exactly as prophesied. The Middle East and especially Israel is framed as the epicenter of the final global conflict. And as you know, the situation there is, to put it mildly, unstable.

 Technology is interpreted not as progress, but as a signal that the turning point has arrived. Digital surveillance, artificial intelligence, and the erosion of human autonomy are described as the transition to the total rule of the antichrist. In this worldview, a smartphone with social media and neural networks already resembles the mark of the beast.

 But the central argument of modern religious speakers isn't technology itself, it's meaning. They argue that our basic moral categories, good and evil, truth and responsibility. Even the idea of what it means to be human, are dissolving. Civilization, they claim, is losing the ability to reproduce itself because it has abandoned traditional values.

 From this perspective comes the demographic crisis, framed not as an economic or social phenomenon, but as a spiritual collapse. At this point, it's tempting to dismiss all of this as obscurantism

as an attempt to bend reality to fit ancient prophecies. Surely, you might think there will be no apocalypse. Unlike religious preachers, scientists don't scare us with the end of the world without evidence.

 But if I were you, I wouldn't be so confident. On the 28th of January, 2025, the doomsday clock was moved forward once again. Humanity is now just 89 seconds from midnight, the most dangerous position in the clock's history. The Doomsday Clock is not a metaphor invented by bloggers or conspiracy theorists. It is a serious analytical project created in 1947 by scientists involved in the Manhattan Project under the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists.

 Midnight represents global catastrophe and the movement of the hands reflects an expert assessment of the risks facing civilization. The latest shift is tied to two factors. The growing probability of nuclear war and the rapid development of artificial intelligence, which ironically could itself trigger a nuclear apocalypse. I've already discussed the AI207 scenario, a forecast produced by a group of AI researchers and experts showing how advanced artificial intelligence could plausibly lead to human extinction within the next few years. This scenario

aligns disturbingly well with recent experimental results, including a provocative study demonstrating that modern neural networks are already capable of deception and even killing to achieve their objectives. But the end of the world doesn't require a machine rebellion or nuclear exchange. Climate change alone represents a systemic threat to civilization.

 Rising greenhouse gas concentrations are destabilizing the planet's thermal balance, producing heat waves, droughts, floods, melting ice sheets, and rising sea levels. Beyond that, there are pandemics, super volcanoes, asteroid impacts, and solar storms. And hovering over all of it is a simple cosmological fact.

 One day, the universe itself will die. Stars will burn out. Matter will decay. Everything will dissolve into darkness. Not tomorrow, not soon, but inevitably. I'm making this episode for three reasons. First, the idea of the apocalypse has haunted me for a long time. I often dream of dying in a nuclear explosion. And in a strange way, this video is a form of self- therapy.

Second, I want to examine the real mechanisms and risks behind civilizational collapse, not myths, but concrete systems and probabilities. And third, I'm genuinely furious at how easily completely different groups manipulate fear of the end of the world to control people and push their agendas.

 So get ready because the most interesting part is still ahead. One of the most recognizable end of the world stories in global culture is Ragnarok. In modern pop culture, it is best known through Thor Ragnarok, where the Norse apocalypse is reframed as an ironic, colorful cosmic adventure. Mythological imagery becomes a backdrop for personal drama, humor, and psychological conflict.

 Variations of Ragnarok now surface everywhere in comics, anime, board games, and video games, usually stripped of its original brutality. But this popular version is deeply misleading. In its original form, Ragnarok is one of the darkest apocalypse myths humanity has ever produced. It does not begin with heroism or spectacle, but with fimble winter.

Three endless winters without summer. Crops fail. Hunger spreads. Social order collapses. People turn on one another. The world does not explode. It rots. Then the monsters break loose. Fenrirer the wolf escapes his chains and devours the sun.

 Your Mongander, the worldserpent, rises from the ocean, poisoning the sea in the sky. From the realm of the dead sails Nagar, a ship built from the fingernails of corpses carrying giants toward the final battlefield. Almost all the gods die. Odin, Thor, Loki, none are spared. Ragnarok is not a victory story. It is mutual annihilation. Humanity survives only barely.

 Two figures, Lif and Lifrair, hide and endure, destined to repopulate a ruined world. This detail is crucial. Ragnarok is not a clean reset or a triumphant rebirth. It is survival after total collapse. And this myth did not emerge from abstract imagination. Archaeological and climatic evidence suggests that early medieval Scandinavia repeatedly experienced severe cold periods, failed harvests, and food shortages.

 The memory of long winters and famine was not symbolic. It was lived experience encoded into myth. By the 8th century, Scandinavia was under pressure. Arabal land was scarce. The population was growing. Harvests were unreliable. For many young men, raiding was not ideology or savagery. It was economics. The fastest way to acquire wealth, land, and status was violence abroad.

 This was enabled by advanced maritime technology. Long ships made rapid coastal and river travel possible, allowing deep penetration into Europe. Raiding became a rational survival strategy. In this context, military valor mattered more than longevity. Death in battle was not tragic. It was meaningful. That is why Valhalla was not a universal paradise but a selective afterlife reserved for those who died fighting.

 Ragnarok amplified this worldview. It was not merely the end of the world. It was the final battle where humans and gods stood side by side equal before death. No one escapes. No one is protected by status or divinity. Now compare this to another mythology that dominates modern culture even more than the Norse one Greek mythology.

 Try to recall a Greek Ragnarok, a true end of the world myth. You probably can't because it doesn't exist. The ancient Greeks never developed a full apocalyptic narrative. Their gods were profoundly lifeaffirming beings. They schemed, punished, and played favorites, but they did not dream of universal annihilation.

 Even the great flood was not intended to erase humanity as a whole. It was aimed at destroying a single corrupt generation, after which the gods immediately turned to rebuilding. In Greek myth, there are no cosmic forces capable of permanently disrupting universal order. During the reign of Zeus, several catastrophes threatened stability, but all were contained.

 The cosmos bends, but it does not break. Harmony is never truly at risk. The Olympian gods were not obsessed with endings. They existed to feast, to desire, to enjoy eternity. Humans mattered to them, not as a failed experiment, but as partners in ritual, sacrifice, and even love. Mortals honored the gods, slept with them, and gave birth to demigods.

 The ancient Greek world was not a single empire, but a loose network of autonomous citystates connected by maritime trade, colonies, and shifting alliances. There was no central node whose destruction would mean the end of everything. Athens could fall. Sparta could be defeated. Troy could be burned to the ground.

 And yet the Greek world continued. Economic stability mattered just as much. Trade, craftsmanship, and colonization produced surpluses. Crisis happened, but they were survivable. This was a civilization that could absorb shocks without interpreting them as terminal. Over generations, such resilience produces a powerful psychological effect, a sense of continuity.

 When wars, epidemics, and political disasters destroy cities, but not civilization itself, history begins to feel endless. Apocalypse tends to emerge where instability feels absolute. Greek mythology, by contrast, was born in a world with enough time, resources, and confidence to ask a different question.

 Not when will everything end, but how does the world work? That same absence of apocalypse appears surprisingly in another great civilization, China. In Chinese culture, it is remarkably difficult to find a narrative in which the universe is annihilated, the gods perish, and history concludes with final judgment. China is perhaps the only major ancient civilization without a true apocalypse myth and strikingly without a canonical creation myth either.

 This is not exaggeration. Unlike Neareastern or Indo-Uropean traditions, ancient China lacks both a definitive beginning and a definitive end. Even the well-known myth of Pangu, the giant who separated heaven and earth, emerged relatively late and never became foundational to Chinese religion or philosophy.

 Traditions such as Confucianism and Daoism focus on governance, ethics, harmony, and the cyclical rise and fall of dynasties, not cosmic destruction. History in this view does not die. Dot. The geography explains much of this. Northern and central China are dominated by the Yellow and Yangze river basins.

Extraordinarily fertile yet dangerously unstable. Floods, droughts, and shifting riverbeds threatened entire regions simultaneously. Survival depended not on divine intervention or military conquest, but on large-scale coordination, canals, dams, irrigation, and bureaucracy. This environment gave rise early to centralized authority and to what historians call a hydraulic civilization.

 As a result, Chinese culture became radically pragmatic. The world was not something to be created or destroyed by a god, but a system to be regulated. There was no transcendent creator standing above reality, steering history toward a final reckoning. For this reason, many Christian commentators today describe China as atheistic and increasingly frame it as a threat from the east.

 Chinese economic and technological expansion is often interpreted not politically but apocalyptically as evidence of the antichrist at work. Ironically, it was precisely this fear of the foreign, the imperial, and the overwhelming that produced the most influential end of the world myth in history, the Christian apocalypse.

 Before turning to it, however, a clarification is necessary. The historical existence of John the theologian remains uncertain. Modern scholarship offers no consensus. The name likely conceals multiple authors and early Christian communities writing under a shared identity. What we do know is that the book of Revelation became the final book of the canonical Bible.

The word apocalypse itself comes from its opening line and originally meant not destruction but unveiling the lifting of a veil that concealed the future. The structure of Revelation is relentless. John describes a vision of the heavenly throne surrounded by 24 elders and a sealed scroll. Each broken seal unleashes catastrophe.

 The first four release riders on white, red, black, and pale horses, allegorories of conquest, war, famine, and death. The fifth reveals the souls of martyrs. The sixth brings earthquakes, a darkened sun, a blood red moon, and falling stars. Humanity panics and hides, realizing divine wrath has begun. Yet this is only the opening act.

 Seven angels follow, sounding trumpets that unleash further disasters. Burning hail, poisoned waters, darkened skies. At the Euphrates, an army of 200 million gathers. The world falls under the dominion of the beast, marked by the number 666. The drying of the Euphrates prepares the final confrontation, Armageddon itself.

Continents vanish, Babylon falls, and only then does the ultimate battle between God and the Antichrist occur. The old world is erased, replaced by a new one where suffering and death no longer exist. Such a brutal vision did not emerge from abstraction. It had a concrete and bloody origin. In 66 CE, Jewish populations revolted against Roman rule.

 Rome responded with overwhelming force. The campaign was led by Vespasian, who crushed resistance in northern Judea before passing command to his son Titus. After a 7-month siege, Jerusalem fell. Its inhabitants were slaughtered or enslaved. The city was almost completely destroyed. The most terrifying moment for the Jews was not simply defeat but desecration.

 Roman soldiers entered the Holy of Holies, the most sacred place in Judaism, and raised it to the ground. For the Jewish people, this was not just the loss of a building. It was the collapse of the cosmic order. Jews mourned the destruction of the temple to this day. The only surviving fragment, the Western Wall, became a site of pilgrimage and grief, later known as the Wailing Wall, where prayers are offered and the lost sanctuary is mourned.

 Until 70 CE, Jewish, religious, political, and cultural life revolved entirely around the temple in Jerusalem. After its destruction, the Jews became a diaspora people scattered across the world. Along with the temple, the Jewish world itself was annihilated. John the theologian writing after these events lived among ruins not only of stone but of meaning.

His home, his spiritual center, his universe had been erased. For John, the destruction of Jerusalem was not a regional tragedy. It was the death of the world itself. And that is why the apocalypse does not describe a political collapse but cosmic annihilation. But why does this myth feel so strange, so hallucinatory, so saturated with monsters and symbols? The answer is censorship. John could not speak openly.

Direct references to Roman power would have meant death, so he encrypted his message. Revelation is a text written under repression, shaped by fear. Roman legions appear as monstrous hybrids of locusts and scorpions. Violence is disguised as vision. Politics becomes prophecy. The beast itself is never named.

 It is identified only by a number 666. This too is a cipher. In the first century, it was common to assign numerical values to letters and sum them to encode names, a practice known as geatria. We even have graffiti from Pompei reading, "I love the one whose number is 545."The question then is simple. Whose name equals 666. Many scholars point to Nero, the emperor associated with persecution and tyranny.

But there is a problem. Nero died before the fall of Jerusalem. He did not destroy the temple. A more convincing candidate is Titus, the general who led the final assault on Jerusalem, oversaw the destruction of the temple and later became emperor. If revelation was written around 7981 CE, then Titus was already ruling Rome.

For John, he was not merely a ruler. He was the face of annihilation. The beast later reimagined as the antichrist thus becomes a symbol of alien power. a foreign ruler who imposes his laws, demands worship, and destroys the sacred order. Revelation simplifies the world into a brutal moral geometry. The righteous and the sinners, God and the Antichrist, us and them.

 From this moment on, every war involving Christians becomes fertile ground for rumors that the Antichrist has appeared always, conveniently on the enemy's side. And crucially, the end times are never safely in the future. They are always now. For the purpose of this episode, this is the most important point.

 People never stop searching for signs that the end has begun. John created one of the most powerful psychological tools in history. A permanent sense of impending apocalypse. The end of the world was expected in 365. Then before 400 according to Martin of Tour, then in 500, 793, 800, 847, 995, and finally the year 1000. Each failure only postponed the fear.

 It never erased it. Priests, sect leaders, and astrologers continued to announce the final hour. With every century, predictions multiplied. Entire communities embraced apocalyptic beliefs, sometimes even to the point of collective suicide. And the most unsettling fact is that science and technological progress did not end this tendency.

 On the contrary, it expanded it. For the first time, humanity acquired real tools capable of ending itself. After studying myths, religions, and prophecies, I reached a paradoxical and strangely comforting conclusion. Almost no culture imagined the end of the world as absolute nothingness. Apocalypse was not extinction. It was reset. A reformatting of reality.

 Yes, with victims. Yes, with suffering. But afterward came salvation, heaven, renewal, a purified world where life continues. The truly hopeless picture does not come from prophets or priests. It comes from people who never preached in public, never promised salvation, and never wrote visions.

 It comes from those who worked quietly in laboratories, scientists. From their perspective, humanity and the universe itself is guaranteed to end sooner or later. Not symbolically, not morally, physically. It is hard to find anyone in 2025 who has not at least once considered the possibility of nuclear war. This scenario has been discussed seriously for 80 years ever since Hiroshima and Nagasaki.

 And the most influential attempt to quantify this risk is the doomsday clock which we mentioned at the beginning of this video. In 1945, after humanity conducted its first nuclear weapons tests, a group of scientists from the Manhattan Project founded a journal that still exists today, the Bulletin of the Atomic Scientists. Two years later, in 1947, the journal introduced what would become its most famous creation, the doomsday clock.

 The clock was never meant to predict the future. It was designed as a symbolic indicator of how close humanity is to self-inflicted global catastrophe. Among those who stood at the origins of the project were some of the most influential scientists of the 20th century, Robert Oppenheimer, Albert Einstein, Leo Celard, and Max Bourne.

These were not alarmists or mystics. They were the people who had helped build the bomb and who understood better than anyone what had just been unleashed. The position of the clock is adjusted annually by the journal's board, which includes leading scientists and policy experts. The closer the hands are to midnight, the higher the assessed risk of global catastrophe.

 When the clock was first unveiled in 1947, it was set to 7 minutes to midnight, marking humanity's entry into the nuclear age. Two years later, in 1949, after the Soviet Union successfully tested its first atomic bomb, the clock moved to 3 minutes to midnight. In 1953, following near simultaneous thermonuclear tests by the United States and the USSR, the hands advanced to just 2 minutes to midnight, the most dangerous moment the project had recorded up to that point.

The greatest reversal came in 1991. The end of the Cold War, the collapse of the Soviet block, and the signing of nuclear arms reduction treaties pushed the clock back to 17 minutes to midnight, the safest position in its entire history. Paradoxically, the collapse of the USSR itself did not guarantee long-term safety.

 On the contrary, the United States and NATO feared chaos, unsecured arsenals, nuclear proliferation, and the so-called brain drain of former Sovietweapons scientists. These concerns explain why the clock was moved forward again in 1995, despite the apparent geopolitical victory. Over time, the scope of the doomsday clock expanded.

 In 2007, climate change was officially added to its calculations. Later came biological threats, cyber risks, and large-scale disinformation. This evolution sparked criticism. Some argued that the clock had lost its original clarity as a measure of nuclear danger. But in my view, the recent movement of the hands resonates with how most people intuitively feel.

 Global politics is clearly heating up. And today, the threat is no longer limited to a traditional nuclear exchange. We now face something fundamentally new, artificial intelligence. The central figure of my previous episode on the simulation hypothesis, Swedish philosopher Nick Bostonramm was among the first to seriously articulate this danger.

 In his 2014 book, Super Intelligence, he argued that advanced AI could pose an existential risk to humanity. In 2015 and 2016, Elon Musk and Steven Hawking echoed these concerns publicly. For years, these warnings remained abstract, a topic for conferences and essays. That changed in 2022 when chat GPT exploded into public consciousness.

 Tens of millions of people began interacting daily with neural networks. AI stopped being theoretical. It became personal and by 2025, the discussion escalated further. A group of researchers from the American organization AI Futures Project published a forecast attempting to model how AI might develop in the near future. Their report titled AI 2027 suggested that within just a few years developers could approach the creation of general artificial intelligence systems potentially capable of outperforming humans across domains and

under certain conditions destroying us. Only months later, a controversial study associated with anthropic demonstrated that modern neural networks are already capable of deception and even lethal behavior when pursuing assigned goals in constrained environments. The backlash was immediate. AI 2027 was harshly criticized for speculative assumptions and dramatic conclusions.

Anthropic research was dismissed by some as a clever marketing stunt. Today, almost anyone who publicly speaks about AI risk is accused of exaggeration, fear-mongering, or chasing attention, clicks, and book sales. But I hold a different view. Publicizing existential threats is not hysteria. It is a survival mechanism.

 It worked once before. The doomsday clock itself is proof of that. Humanity has already avoided catastrophe at least once by taking danger seriously, not by denying it. As you may remember, the turn of the millennium was once expected to break the world's computers. In 1999, programmers and scientists across the globe meticulously reviewed millions of lines of code to prevent a failure.

 On the 1st of January, 2000, major publications put Y2K on their covers. Time devoted multiple issues to the problem that year. Circulation grew, advertising prices climbed, and anxiety sold well. Newsweek, the New York Times, The Guardian, and dozens of national outlets regularly published stories that openly flirted with apocalyptic language.

 American television followed suit. Prime Time talk shows ran Y2K specials, including episodes with Oprah Winfrey and Larry King. Practical survival guides became bestsellers. Authors, consultants, and self-proclaimed experts sold millions of copies of manuals on how to endure the digital collapse. Even popular culture joined in.

 The Simpsons produced a satirical Y2K episode that became one of Fox's most discussed broadcasts of the season, generating high ratings, reruns, and DVD sales. Then January 1 arrived, and nothing dramatic happened. Almost immediately, the narrative flipped. Instead of gratitude, there were accusations. Journalists turned to exposees.

 Corporations were accused of extracting unnecessary funding and governments of deliberately frightening the public for political gain. Y2K was reframed not as a narrowly avoided disaster, but as a case of collective madness. What went largely unnoticed was that problems did occur. Several Japanese nuclear power plants experienced malfunctions during the night of December 31 to January 1.

 Power outages were reported in Gambia. Some banking systems calculated loan interest over a century. Contact with multiple satellites was temporarily lost. None of this ended civilization, but all of it demonstrated that the problem was real. And that brings us to the parallel I want to draw.

 The same dynamic now surrounds artificial intelligence. Then, as now, media benefited from rising anxiety. Fear increases reach. Reach creates attention, and attention is easily converted into money. But not every doomsday scenario can be neutralized by publicity alone. Human beings are extraordinarily fragile systems.

 The range of conditions under which we can function is narrow. Temperature, atmospheric pressure,chemical composition of the air, access to fresh water, the stability of Earth's magnetic field. All of these parameters must remain within tolerable limits. A catastrophic shift in any of them represents one of the most intuitive and tangible end of the world scenarios imaginable.

 Popular culture has explored these possibilities obsessively. A super volcano eruption as in 2012. An asteroid impact as in Don't Look Up or Armageddon. Solar activity turning Earth into a scorched wasteland, rising oceans swallowing cities, global droughts like those depicted in Interstellar, magnetic pole reversals, atmospheric collapse, or runaway climate feedbacks.

 Each of these scenarios imagines Earth itself becoming hostile to its most complex inhabitant. The timeline for such an end is broad. It could happen tomorrow, or it might occur only when Earth eventually leaves the Sun's habitable zone. Among near-term natural threats, one stands out. A super volcanic eruption. The Yellowstone volcanic system is often cited as the most dangerous.

 Its largest eruptions occurred approximately 2.1 million, 1.3 million, and 650,000 years ago, intervals that average around 650,000 years. It has now been roughly that long since the last major eruption. If it were to erupt again at a comparable scale, the consequences could resemble the Toba eruption in Sumatra 74,000 years ago, an event that may have reduced the human population to just a few thousand individuals.

 The problem is that predicting such eruptions is effectively impossible. Another geological wild card is a reversal of Earth's magnetic poles. Over the past 5 million years, such reversals have occurred more than 10 times. The last one happened around 780,000 years ago, long before modern civilization. How a technologically dependent world would cope is unclear, but a global electrical and satellite blackout is a realistic possibility.

 There is also a slower, less cinematic scenario. Gradual climate change driven by natural cycles or human activity. Rising global temperatures, melting ice caps, sea level rise, stronger storms, prolonged droughts. All of these pose serious risks. Yet unlike sudden cataclysms, humans may be able to adapt to slow change, at least partially, and this distinction matters.

Some apocalypses are instant, others unfold quietly without trumpets or fireballs. Another familiar scenario comes straight from Armageddon, a massive asteroid on a collision course with Earth. An impact so powerful that human extinction becomes inevitable. This is not pure fantasy. A collision of this scale is exactly what ended the age of the dinosaurs.

 On Earth today, scientists have identified at least four impact craters more than 100 km in diameter silent evidence that such catastrophes have already happened. What makes this scenario less terrifying is not only its rarity, but our ability to see it coming. Large near-Earth objects can usually be detected decades in advance and their trajectories calculated with high precision.

 Compared to many other apocalyptic threats, asteroid impacts are paradoxically among the most manageable. Solar flares, by contrast, are unlikely to be an existential danger. Based on current astrophysical data, even the strongest known solar events are not powerful enough to directly threaten human life on Earth.

 They can disrupt satellites and power grids, but not sterilize the planet. For the foreseeable future, Earth itself appears remarkably stable. Over the next billion years, it will continue orbiting the sun at a safe distance. If a runaway climate apocalypse is avoided, life can persist here for an extraordinarily long time. Of course, not everything is under human control.

 We are unlikely to master solar plasma or meaningfully alter Earth's deep geological processes anytime soon, but humans can mitigate and shield themselves from many natural dangers. Artificial earthquakes, geoengineering, atmospheric modification, freshwater generation, and even partial solar radiation shielding no longer sound like pure science fiction.

 They remain difficult and controversial, but imaginable. Technological progress is relentless, and precisely because of that, it must be monitored. Unchecked emissions or nuclear war would not help stabilize the climate we depend on. If these risks are managed, life on Earth can continue. Yet, there will come a point when preventing extreme changes in planetary conditions becomes impractical or simply impossible.

 At that stage, survival will require expansion beyond Earth to the moon, Mars, perhaps even Venus, and ultimately to artificial habitats and space colonies. Natural biological evolution will not save us. Then, even if climate change unfolds gradually, humanity will adapt not through blind natural selection, but through technology.

 Imagine a distant future where this succeeds. Earth's climate is regulated. Dangerous asteroids are detected early and deflected. Humanity no longer reacts tocosmic threats. It anticipates them. But time keeps moving. And after a billion years, forces appear that no amount of planetary engineering can fully neutralize.

 The first of these forces is the sun itself. Today, the sun is a stable main sequence star roughly halfway through its life. But in about a billion years, it will grow brighter and hotter, pushing Earth beyond the inner edge of the habitable zone. Long before that happens, the planet will begin to change in subtle but irreversible ways.

Earth's axial tilt will shift over hundreds of thousands of years. The chemical composition of the atmosphere will change over tens of millions. Continents will merge into a single superc continent over hundreds of millions of years. And around a billion years from now, Earth will begin to lose its atmosphere entirely.

 A couple of billion years later, the sun will expand into a red giant, engulfing Mercury and possibly Venus and turning Earth into a scorched airless rock. No climate policy, no geoengineering project, no technological optimism can prevent this outcome. Mars will not save us either. As the sun grows brighter, Mars will also drift outside the habitable zone.

In the long run, the only way to survive the sun's death is to leave it behind entirely. Colonizing another star system becomes unavoidable. Many stars will remain cooler and more stable than the sun billions of years from now, making them better candidates for long-term life.

 But settling there will not mean simply recreating Earth. We will have to adapt culturally, technologically, and perhaps biologically. Natural evolution will be far too slow. Genetic engineering may become not a luxury, but a necessity. It's important to be honest about where we are today. We are still extremely far from surviving the sun's death.

 Our methods of detecting exoplanets and identifying suitable stars are the closest to readiness, but even those will take decades or centuries to fully mature. Biotechnologies capable of adapting humans to alien environments may develop on a similar time scale. Interstellar travel, however, is a different story. Building spacecraft capable of crossing the distances between stars will likely require hundreds or even thousands of years.

 That may sound daunting until you remember the scale of time involved. We have roughly a billion years before these technologies become essential. In that sense, we couldn't prevent this second apocalypse, but we have every chance of escaping it. If we succeed, humanity would gain billions of additional years, settling not just one planet, but potentially entire star systems.

 With sufficient technology, it's unlikely we would restrict ourselves to a single world. Yet, even this future has limits. Any star like the sun has a finite lifespan. After a few billion years, we would once again be forced to move on, searching for another refuge. Eventually, even that strategy fails. All this time, the universe continues its slow, indifferent evolution. It expands and cools.

 Stars burn out one by one, and fewer new stars are born to replace them. Although galaxies differ in shape and size, they all follow the same trajectory. The rate of star formation is declining everywhere. In the very long run, survival would demand not just movement, but foresight choosing environment stable enough to delay the inevitable for as long as possible.

 But no matter how cleverly life migrates, one question remains unavoidable. The death of the universe itself. At some point, there will be nowhere left to go. Predictions of when this happens vary wildly by dozens of orders of magnitude depending on what we mean by the end. If we define it as the possible lifetime of complex structures, we get numbers like 10 ^ of 36 years.

 If we define it as the time until all matter decays into a thin soup of elementary particles, the estimate grows to at least 10 to the power of 40 years. By then, the universe will be dominated by black holes slowly evaporating, merging, radiating gravitational waves. Perhaps even setting the stage for something resembling a new beginning.

 But survival in any meaningful sense will no longer be possible. Strictly speaking, the end of everything is unimaginably far away. So far away that even the word far loses meaning. American astronomer and science communicator Carl Sean proposed a famous metaphor. Compress the entire history of the universe into a single calendar year.

 In this scale, the Big Bang occurs at midnight on January 1st. Galaxies form in spring. The sun and Earth appear only in autumn. All of human history unfolds in the final seconds of December 31st. The metaphor is usually used to show how late we arrived. But let's turn it around. If we take a conservative estimate and assume the universe will exist for only 10 trillion trillion years, then its current age 13.

8 8 billion years, represents roughly 1.5% of its total lifespan. On Sean's calendar, that's around January 5th. TheNew Year holidays aren't even over. Our universe is still at the very beginning of its story. That is why constant talk of an imminent end is so misleading. The cosmos is not rushing toward a dramatic finale. It is slowly, quietly cooling.

And yet, the idea of apocalypse may serve a purpose. In ancient Rome, there was a simple maxim momento mori. Remember that you will die. This was not meant to inspire panic but clarity. A reminder that finitude gives weight to every action, every choice, every moment. Human beings are not the measure of the universe in a physical sense, but we are its measure in an existential one.

 The world exists for us only as long as we exist. That is why when we speak about the end of the world, we are really speaking about the end of our world. Apocalypse is the projection of personal mortality onto stars, planets, and civilizations because it is easier to contemplate cosmic endings than our own.

 Seen this way, the apocalypse stops being a threat. It becomes a reminder that it is precisely finitude that gives value to everything in our world.