The Chronoseed descended into what appeared to be a forgotten desert—endless dunes shifting beneath turbulent winds, each grain of sand whispering secrets of a thousand abandoned futures. The horizon was fractured, layered in mirage and reality, as though different epochs fought for dominance.
"There's something ancient here," Ethan said. "Something older than timekeeping."
Cael scanned the terrain. "I'm detecting cognitive echoes… like someone—or something—is dreaming, and the world is listening."
In the heart of the dunes lay a skeletal ruin—an amphitheater half-buried in golden sediment, circled by obsidian monoliths that thrummed with irregular pulses.
As they approached, a wind spiraled around them, lifting fine sand into patterns—scripts of forgotten languages flickered in the air, and out of the spiral stepped a figure cloaked in dust and silence.
"I am the Oracle," she said. "Bound to this place since the first question broke the silence of the stars."
Her voice was neither young nor old—it carried the cadence of inevitability.
"You seek to mend time," she said to Ethan. "But do you know which version of time deserves restoration?"
Ethan hesitated. "We're not trying to restore… we're trying to repair. There's a difference."
The Oracle led them into the amphitheater. The seats were formed from compacted history, each layered with temporal residue. At its center burned a brazier of white flame—timeless and unyielding.
"You must each offer a question," the Oracle said. "One the universe has never dared to ask."
Lily stepped forward first. "What if the past we cherish never truly existed—only our longing for it?"
The flame flared, and an image appeared: a civilization reimagined through nostalgia, its faults erased in collective memory. A lie sustained by longing.
Marcus asked, "If regret itself could form a reality, how many worlds have we already created by accident?"
The flame shifted again, showing alternate timelines birthed by hesitation alone—entire galaxies formed in the void of indecision.
Cael's question was quiet. "Can a weapon ever stop being one?"
The flame grew still, revealing Cael's own reflection—first as a soldier, then a guardian, then simply… a man.
Ethan's turn came last. He stepped forward, his voice calm.
"What if every version of myself thinks it's the real one?"
The Oracle paused, then slowly reached into the fire. She pulled out a shard of obsidian shaped like a mirror.
Ethan looked inside—and saw a thousand versions of himself. Some kind. Some cruel. Some weary. Some victorious. All staring back, none blinking.
"They're all true," she said. "And none are."
The mirror dissolved. The Oracle gestured to the monoliths.
"These stones record every timeline this planet once endured. You must choose one. Only one can survive. The rest will fade."
Ethan walked among them—worlds where he never traveled, where the Accord fell, where the Axis corrupted, where Kalnor won, where peace reigned too easily and bred decay.
He touched the quietest one—a world imperfect, broken, but alive with choice.
"This one," he said.
The Oracle bowed. "Then let it be so."
The amphitheater collapsed into light, the desert swept into a new landscape of flourishing oases and whispering wind.
Back aboard the Chronoseed, Lily whispered, "We didn't just visit time. We judged it."
Ethan said nothing—but within his palm, the Axis glowed, no longer pulsing in urgency, but in purpose.
And they continued forward.