2045... The scale doesn't quite strike him the same way, though the only thing he can think of is Ruikou's translated novels: At least it's not eight hundred thousand years.

He just starts laughing quietly, with a hand on his forehead. "Ah, martial arts to science fiction. I see... What is the shape of the world, then, a hundred and twenty years from now?" Though 'now' isn't the right word, given Hell is running on its own schedule.