A decade had passed.
For some, time is a fleeting moment, unimportant, unnoticed. But for Genzai, it was the only thing that mattered. Time could change everything. Time could bring back what he had lost.
It was the year 2060. The raven-haired boy with tired black eyes crossed cities filled with buildings scraping the sky, their clock faces clean and golden. Genzai climbed their towers, hoping, praying, to see him. But each time, he was met with silence. No voice. No blessing. Only the sound of ticking clocks mocking him.
Then he found it.
In the heart of a forgotten district, there stood a rusted building, barely holding itself together. Vines crawled up its walls, its windows shattered like broken promises. And above it all, a clock. Its hands were frozen at a meaningless hour, cracks webbed across its face.
But he knew better. Time doesn't stop. It waits. It lingers. It hides in places like this.
Genzai climbed the rickety stairs, his hands trailing against crumbling walls. Reaching the rooftop, he saw the broken clock up close, its silence heavy. His chest tightened with frustration, doubt creeping in.
Why did I come here?
The man had been asking for Archaeus's blessing since the day his life turned to ash. Since he was seven, Genzai had called out to him. Day after day. Night after night. And yet, he never answered.
Maybe this world didn't care. Maybe the blessers turned a blind eye to suffering.
But something deep inside him refused to give up.
Standing on the edge of the building, Genzai looked down at the drop below. The wind screamed past him, carrying the smell of rust and rain.
This was it.
"In this world full of blessings and curses," he muttered, his voice steady despite the thundering of his heart, "give me the chance. Archaeus, the Blesser of Time, rewrite my destiny because I will not die here."
And then he jumped.
The air tore at him as he fell. The world blurred, wind in his ears, the ground rushing up to meet him. But he didn't close his eyes. He wouldn't. He wasn't afraid. If Archaeus was listening, if he truly existed, then he would appear.
And if he didn't?
Then he was never worth saving.
The moment before impact, time stopped.
Everything froze: the wind, the debris caught mid-air, the pounding of his heartbeat. Genzai hung there, suspended in an eternal second.
Then he heard it.
A low chuckle. Deep, amused, almost condescending. It echoed around him, vibrating through the air like a note from a forgotten song.
"Very well." The voice oozed confidence and ancient wisdom, as though it had watched centuries come and go. "You're worth the time."
The world around him shifted. He felt himself pulled, no, dragged somewhere beyond the reach of reality. The old rooftop vanished, the broken clock gone. He couldn't see anything, no light, no shape, but he could feel something vast watching him.
And then it began.
The first ordeal.
The rusted building and the broken clock dissolved into fragments of glass, suspended in time, each shard reflecting a moment of his life, faces, places, emotions, gone too quickly to grasp.
Then, darkness.
When he opened his eyes again, he felt small. Too small.
He looked down at his hands, wide-eyed. They were soft, unscarred, the hands of a child. The faint chill of familiarity crept up his spine as he glanced around and saw the worn dining table, the cozy kitchen, the sunlight spilling through the window.
Home.
Genzai froze. He knew this place. He knew this moment. The smell of warm food tickled his nose, and the sound of gentle laughter pulled at his chest like a hook. He turned his head slowly, terrified and desperate all at once.
There they were.
His mother, her face radiant as she brought the steaming dish to the table, calling for him to come and sit. His father, smiling as he set a cake down in the center, candles flickering.
"Happy birthday, Genzai!"
It was his fifth birthday.
The scene was so vivid it hurt. He remembered this day clearly. The cake. The way his mother's hand rested on his head, her voice full of warmth. The way his father ruffled his hair after singing.
But he also remembered that on this day, he didn't cry.
Yet, now, as the present Genzai sat frozen in the body of his five-year-old self, something in him broke. Tears spilled down his cheeks, trembling and heavy. His mother's eyes widened in alarm, and she rushed to his side, pulling him close.
"What's wrong, sweetheart? Are you hurt? Did something happen?"
Her voice. Her arms around him. The smell of her hair... how had he forgotten what it felt like? Genzai clung to her, sobbing uncontrollably.
"I, I'm sorry," he choked out, though he didn't know what he was apologizing for.
His father crouched beside him, hand on his back, confusion and worry written across his face. "It's okay, son. It's okay. We're here."
But they weren't. Not anymore.
The more Genzai cried, the more the room warped. The warm light dimmed. The walls cracked like glass under pressure. His mother's voice distorted. His father's hand slipped away.
Then, shatter.
The scene crumbled into blackness.
When Genzai opened his eyes again, His hands were larger, a bit more familiar now. He was in the body of his seven-year-old self, and the feeling was both strange and terrifying.
Seven years old.
His mother appeared in front of him, combing his hair with delicate precision as he stared into the cracked mirror. He watched her reflection carefully. She looked so alive. Her touch was so real.
Genzai didn't move. Didn't blink. He was afraid. If he blinked, she might disappear.
"Genzai, what's wrong?" she asked softly, tucking a strand of hair behind his ear. "You're so quiet today."
He wanted to answer. He wanted to say, I missed you. I love you. But his throat closed. The words stayed trapped behind his lips, heavy and unbearable.
His mother frowned, leaning closer. "Are you feeling sick?"
Genzai swallowed hard. He didn't feel sick. He felt like he was breaking into a thousand pieces.
He didn't cry this time. But the mirror cracked. The air rippled like water around him.
The memory crumbled into darkness once more.
Over and over, Genzai relived pieces of his life.
The days he'd longed to hold onto, moments that should have been perfect, turned to glass and broke in his hands. Each time, he changed something, a word, an action, a look, but it didn't matter.
The past rejected him.
And then he was back at basement again, hiding in their burning house. Flames roared like a monstrous beast, devouring his home, his family, everything he loved.
No. Not again.
Genzai cried as he covered his ears, "Mom. Dad. Mom. Dad."
Smoke choked him as he stayed still. His mom's last words made him froze. He should stay here. But if he stays here he knows that he won't see them anymore. That it would be last time he would see his Mom and Dad.
The fire consumed everything. The ceiling cracked, beams collapsing around him. His parents' voices faded. His lungs burned.
And as he cried for the first time in a decade, he realized that the past didn't want to be rewritten.
The more he kept changing things that didn't happen before, the more it rejected him. Like a broken clock, time kept restarting, each cycle more unbearable than the last.
Why am I here? Why are you doing this to me?
The voice of Archaeus echoed softly in the void as the flames receded, leaving only silence.
"What does the past mean to you?"
"The past..." he whispered hoarsely, his voice barely audible. "The past is everything I treasured. My parents. My home. My life before it all burned."
Archaeus's voice rumbled again, this time with an edge of finality.
"And now you understand."
Genzai's surroundings blurred, the ashes scattering like sand in the wind. As he drifted back into darkness, his tears finally stopped.
He couldn't change the past. Not now. No matter how much he screamed, or cried, or begged for time to rewind, he couldn't save them.
The past was gone.
And he was still here.