Chapter 2: Symptoms
The city's morning came slow and reluctant, filtering through the cracks of New Pluton with all the beauty of rust bleeding into water. Its streets were a patchwork of broken stone and steel plates hammered together, scarred from years of neglect. The air reeked of oil and burnt wires, mixed with the acrid tang of garbage fires smouldering in alleyways. Neon signs buzzed faintly against the permanent twilight haze, flickering like tired eyes about to close for good.
This was a planet for the forgotten, a dumping ground for those society had no use for. It was a place where the poor clawed at scraps while the elite in other zones looked down with distant pity or contempt. To be born here was to start life already bent under weight. Atlest knew it; he had breathed it in since the day he was old enough to notice.
Today, however, even this backdrop felt warped, infected by the images burned into his skull. The dragon's roar still rattled in his ears, louder than the screech of hover bikes tearing down cracked roads. He saw the bus again every time he blinked: bodies sprawled, fire hanging in the air, the world frozen like a cruel painting. He smelled the acrid smoke though there was none here, only the usual stench of the district. His hands would not stop trembling.
When Stella pulled him into her arms at the threshold of their small apartment, her warmth should have been enough to anchor him. Her voice, breaking with relief—"Atti, you're safe!"—should have swept the storm away. But it did not. Her embrace only sharpened the contrast between the safety of her arms and the death he had just fled.
He clung to her with his shoulders shaking, the tears hot against his cheeks before he realized they were falling. Every sound and every shadow stretched wrong in his mind. The scrape of metal from the hallway pipes sounded like scales dragging across stone. A child's distant cry outside twisted into screams echoing in the burning bus. The dragon's face lingered behind his eyelids, its eyes like molten suns fixed on him. He could feel its heat and its hunger. He could feel the crushing helplessness of that moment.
He had survived, but not because of courage. He had run. The thought coiled in him like poison: if time had not stopped, he would be nothing more than ash.
Stella's hand cupped his face, wiping his tears as if he were still a young boy. Her eyes shimmered with a mix of pride and sorrow. "You're here. That's what matters."
Atlest shook his head. "No, I… I didn't save anyone." His voice cracked. "I just ran. Everyone else burned, and I..." His throat closed around the words.
"Enough." Her tone was soft but firm, like a shield sliding into place. She pulled him closer. "You're alive. That isn't cowardice. That's survival. I won't let you call yourself weak for breathing."
Her conviction should have been a balm, but it did not erase the images. The charred faces, the silence after screams, the dragon's fire eating everything it touched; they had rooted themselves in him. Even in her embrace, he felt like a ghost returned from a battlefield, carrying the stench of death only he could smell.
When at last she eased her grip, she looked at him with trembling hope. "Did you… awaken?"
The question cut through his haze, making his heart lurch. "How did you know?"
She did not answer. Instead, she slipped into her room and returned with a small, tarnished mirror, lifting it toward him.
Atlest's breath caught.
His reflection was both familiar and alien. His skin, once plain brown and dulled by exhaustion and dust, seemed richer now. It almost glowed faintly, as though light clung to him. His black hair was streaked with strands of dark purple and silver that shimmered when he moved, like threads of twilight woven into night.
It was his eyes, though, that rooted him in place.
They were no longer just eyes. Inside each pupil, intricate golden gears rotated with impossible precision, with hands of silver ticking forward like a living clockwork. The Antikythera pattern spun gently, glinting with a depth that felt endless, as though he were staring into the very mechanism of time itself. Every subtle tick reverberated faintly in his skull, as if reminding him that this was what he was now.
He stumbled back from the mirror. For a heartbeat, he feared his reflection would step forward on its own. "What… what is this?"
"Symptoms," Stella whispered, her voice trembling between awe and fear. "The mark of Awakening. A manifestation of what lies inside you." Her hands hovered at his shoulders, as though afraid to touch him now. "Atlest… this is no ordinary gift."
He tried to steady his breathing, but each exhale felt shallow. His reflection mocked him with its alien beauty. His eyes had always been dull brown and forgettable, but now they were a spectacle. Still, the weight of what they meant pressed heavy.
Stella lowered the mirror. "Tell me what happened."
So he did. His voice faltered as he described the explosion, the frozen moment, and the blue cocoon of silence. He spoke of fire suspended midair, of the dragon caught in stillness, and of the desperate sprint that saved him. His words came haltingly at first, then spilled faster, as if confessing would free him.
Stella listened with her lips parting in astonishment. By the time he finished, her eyes brimmed with tears. She pulled him close again, though this time her hold trembled. "I'm sorry you saw that. Sorry you bore it alone. If only I had more power..."
"No." Atlest's voice surprised even himself, remaining steady despite the shaking in his hands. "You've protected me enough. This… this is mine to bear now. My Awakening is unlike anything I've heard of. I don't know what it means, but I'll figure it out."
Her tears slipped free, landing warm on his cheek. Pride warred with fear in her expression. He was still her son, but he was now also something more, something she could not entirely grasp. "Just promise me one thing," she whispered. "Don't let this power take you away from who you are."
Atlest did not answer. The truth was already gnawing inside him: he was not sure who he was anymore.
_ _ ♛ _ _
Night draped itself over New Pluton with its usual heavy, oppressive weight, but Atlest felt no peace in the quiet. His body was still, but his mind churned. Even the hum of the city beyond the window seemed sharp, every sound pulling at the images that would not leave him: the bus burning, the dragon roaring, and the frozen flames whispering that he had stolen seconds that were not his.
Sleep teased him, only to slip away the moment he closed his eyes. When he did manage to drift, he jolted awake gasping, with phantom heat licking his skin. His room was dim, the cracked ceiling spotted with stains from old leaks, and the floorboards groaned under every shift of his weight. It was familiar and grounding, but the reflection from earlier would not leave him. The mirror's alien eyes stared back in his thoughts, with ticking gears and shifting hands marking him as something both wondrous and terrifying.
The whisper came unbidden, as though the ticking inside his skull had found its voice.
Ask, and you shall know.
Atlest's breath caught. "Who… who's there?"
Silence answered. Yet, when he thought of a question, the silence bent.
This is the Library of Chronos. Knowledge through all threads of time, woven into thought.
The words did not sound like a voice; they felt like an echo from everywhere at once, both distant and near, vast and intimate. Atlest swallowed, his throat dry. "The Library…? So you're… inside me?"
You are Chronos. I am what you inherit.
He sat up fully, pulling the threadbare blanket from his lap. His hands trembled, but curiosity cut through his fear. "Then tell me… what happened to me on that bus? How did I stop time?"
Your soul awakened. Time bends to its vessel. You halted its flow.
The answer was simple yet absolute, as though written into reality itself. Atlest pressed on, his words tumbling out. "Then how do I control it? How do I use it without… dying?"
You hold two measures. Temporal Energy: what you spend. Time Essence: what you are. Increase Essence, and your vessel widens. Expend Energy, and time obeys. Overreach either… and fracture follows.
His hand instinctively pressed against his chest, as if he could feel the core inside him—the strange, chaotic swirl of colours he had glimpsed when everything had gone wrong. He remembered the pain, like his very soul cracking. "That… happened already, didn't it? I broke something."
And rebuilt. Stronger. But beware. Pain is the hammer. Do not welcome it lightly.
The echo faded, leaving Atlest trembling. He wanted to ask more—about his eyes, his name, and why the Library called him Chronos—but when he tried, nothing came. There was only silence, as if the Library had withdrawn into its endless shelves, leaving him to sit with more questions than answers.
He buried his face in his hands, frustration gnawing at him. "Why now? Why me?" No one answered. The only sound was the faint scrape of rats in the walls and the buzz of a failing neon sign outside.
_ _ ♛ _ _
In another part of the city, beneath the shadow of towers that had not rusted, the Director's office was cloaked in velvet-dark silence. A single slit of moonlight broke through the curtains, cutting across his desk like a blade. The man sat perfectly still, broad shoulders rigid, with eyes like frozen stone. He was carved from patience, a predator biding its time.
From the corner, a figure seemed to peel itself out of the darkness. Agent Shade bowed low, their voice a rasp sliding across the room. "It stirs, Director. The Chronos boy."
The Director steepled his fingers. The movement was small, but in the stillness it sounded loud. "Excellent. It must be retrieved quickly, quietly, with no witnesses and no loose threads."
Shade inclined their head. "And if resistance is met?"
"Agree to whatever terms are offered. But remember: the prize is Atlest Chronos. Nothing else matters."
The agent melted back into shadow, leaving the Director alone. The silence thickened, and for a long moment he sat unmoving. Then, slowly, the corner of his mouth curled. Somewhere in the filth of New Pluton, a clock had begun to tick, and the universe, whether it knew it or not, was already listening.
_ _ ♛ _ _
Atlest should have been resting. Stella had long since retreated to her room, exhausted from the fear and relief that had torn through her all day. Atlest, however, could not sleep. The Library's words gnawed at him: increase Essence… expend Energy… overreach and fracture.
He needed to know more. He needed to test it.
The room was dim, with shadows pooling in the corners. A small lizard, one of the many pests that slipped into their apartment through the cracked walls, scuttled across the floor. Atlest's eyes fixed on it, his breath hitching as his pulse quickened.
"Just a test," he whispered to himself. "Nothing more."
He reached out with his will, the way he had on the bus. The world shuddered, and then it froze.
The lizard halted mid-step, its claw suspended in air and its tail frozen in the flick of movement. The silence that followed was heavy and suffocating. Atlest stepped forward, his own breath echoing too loud in his ears.
He crouched down, his trembling fingers closing around the creature. Its scales were cool against his skin. The Library's echo stirred faintly, as though watching. Place your hand upon the source. Picture the flow.
Atlest closed his eyes. He imagined a dark purple current swirling inside the lizard, with strands of energy weaving through its tiny frame. Slowly, he pictured those strands loosening, pulling toward him, sliding into his palm, up his arm, and down into the centre of his chest.
At first, it was sluggish, a thin thread trickling into him. Then it quickened into a stream rushing faster and faster. The moment it touched the space inside him, his whole body shivered. The sensation was intoxicating—a cool, addicting flood washing through his veins, smoothing every ache and sharpening every thought. He gasped with his eyes widening. It felt too good, almost too perfect.
He wanted more.
He dragged harder, pulling the stream into himself. The trickle became a torrent. His chest burned as the colours inside him swirled faster and brighter, colliding in violent beauty. Purple bled into green, silver clashed with gold, and all of it spun into chaos.
Then the crack came.
A soundless snap rang inside his core, like glass splintering. Atlest screamed as the lizard tumbled from his grip and he doubled over. The torrent did not stop; it slammed into him, tearing at the edges of whatever vessel held it. Agony blazed through every nerve, as if gears were grinding inside him and chewing his insides into fragments.
He clawed at the floorboards with his nails splintering and his breath ragged. Tears spilled unchecked, dripping onto the wood. His scream broke into sobs, the pain so raw it stripped away all thought.
The door burst open. "Atlest!" Stella's voice cracked with terror. She fell to her knees beside him with her hands frantic but helpless, not knowing where to touch or how to ease what she could not see.
Atlest writhed, choking on the agony as the memory of bliss twisted into torment. His vision blurred and then fractured, with gears spinning across the edges of his sight. He thought he felt something reforming and reshaping in the storm of pain, but the cost was unbearable.
Then, at last, the torrent ebbed. The energy settled, leaving him gasping and drenched in sweat. He lay sprawled on the floor with his chest heaving and every muscle quivering. The lizard lay still beside him, lifeless, its essence completely drained away.
Stella cradled his face in trembling hands. "What happened? What did you do?"
He could not answer. His lips trembled and his breath hitched between gasps, but deep inside, beneath the pain, a truth resonated. He had grown stronger: the vessel of his power was reforged, his Essence deeper than before.
It had, however, cost him agony beyond anything he had ever known.
As Stella held him with tears streaking her cheeks, Atlest stared at the ceiling with hollow eyes. He knew now that this power was not just a gift; it was a burden sharp enough to cut him apart if he mishandled it.
Worse still, the memory of bliss lingered. The temptation to feel it again whispered already, a hunger curling quietly in his chest.