Going Foward

1st Person Pov

The world shifted around me, a sensation not of movement but of existence itself being rewritten.

One moment, I stood at the precipice of oblivion, the world crumbling into nothingness.

The next, I was standing in the grand hall of a mansion unlike anything I had ever seen.

It was massive, towering above me like a fortress carved from shadow and stone.

Gothic spires reached into the endless night sky beyond the arched windows, their stained glass depicting scenes of battle, power, and knowledge long lost to time.

The walls, adorned with intricate carvings and runes, pulsed faintly with an inner light, the lifeblood of magic flowing through them like veins.

The air itself hummed with an ancient power, thick with the scent of old parchment, burning candles, and something else—something metallic, like the sharp tang of alchemical reagents.

The moment I stepped through the massive iron doors of the mansion, a chill ran down my spine.

It wasn't from fear—it was something deeper, something ancient that pressed against my very soul.

The air itself felt heavier here, thick with magic and time, as if the house existed outside of the normal flow of the world.

The mansion loomed like a fossilized memory, half-swallowed by mist and ivy. Its grand wooden doors groaned open under Chronos's hand, revealing a long corridor lined with oil paintings, their eyes seeming to follow him with ghostlike precision.

He stepped inside cautiously, his boots echoing against the marble floors. The air tasted of old parchment and forgotten thunder.

The first room he entered was long and dim, lit by slats of golden light through high arched windows.

Velvet curtains hung stiff with dust, and in the center stood a regal wooden desk, carved with runes that shimmered faintly in the shadow.

Shelves lined the walls—sagging under the weight of ancient books, maps, and locked scroll cases.

This was the library.

A heavy silence lingered here, as if every book inside remembered who had touched them last.

A spiral staircase led to a second level, where rarer tomes sat locked behind iron lattice.

The scent of aged leather and dragon-hide bindings filled his nose.

Chronos moved on, down another hall, through a corridor whose cracked walls whispered as he passed.

He pushed open a thick door into a cavernous chamber—the training room.

It had no furnishings, just a wide, domed interior.

The walls were lined with glowing glyphs that pulsed like breathing embers. Strange sigils had been carved into the floor, some still faintly alight.

He didn't understand them yet, but he could feel something here—a pressure, like standing beneath a storm.

Time felt slower in this room, heavier.

Beyond that, he entered a lounge-like room, clearly meant for rest or quiet planning.

The couches were deep red leather, cracked with age.

A massive fireplace was built into the stone wall, cold now, but surrounded by low tables covered in chessboards, dice, and half-written scrolls.

The chandeliers above were coated in grime, but still swayed slightly as if someone had just passed underneath.

He kept moving.

The mansion had many turns—some hallways looped impossibly back to where he started.

But eventually, he reached another space that took him by surprise: the indoor pool.

The pool was filled, but the water was impossibly still. Moonlight spilled through a domed glass ceiling above, casting fractured reflections across the tiled floor.

The walls were covered in murals—depictions of sea serpents, shipwrecks, and sirens whose eyes looked far too real.

No heat, no steam.

Just silence and still water.

It felt less like a place for swimming and more like a shrine.

Finally, at the far end of the east wing, Chronos came to a door with a shattered lock.

Inside was a private chamber—someone's personal quarters.

The bed was unmade, the sheets thin as paper.

Papers were scattered across a desk: notes, formulas, sketches of magical runes, and a half-finished letter addressed to someone named Patriarch.

He felt a chill.

This room had just been lived in.

I had arrived.

The House of Zion.

And then he heard him.

"So," said the first Patriarch, his voice cutting through the hush like thunder muffled by velvet, "the Paradox walks among the living."

Silence.

"Get up. You're not dead yet, are you?"

Chrono turned.

The figure stepped out from the shadows with quiet menace, sharp in every line.

Black coat.

Collar turned high.

Gaunt face.

Long black hair swept back, eyes piercing green like twin emerald razors.

The man moved with the practiced grace of a killer and the detached poise of a philosopher.

"About time," the First Patriarch said.

Chrono blinked.

"You're real?"

"As real as pain and more reliable than God."

He reached into his coat, pulled out a long vial of liquid something, took a swig, then lit a cigar with the tip of his finger.

The fire danced green.

"Chrono Zion."

"You're not what I expected. Too thin. Soft hands." He exhaled smoke shaped like runes.

"But time fixes all things. Even weakness."

"X" Chrono said.

" Yeah , X , you are right , which means you are as harmless as a prostitute in the black alley"

Chrono swallowed hard. "You're alive. I thought—"

"Most people do."

"That's the point."

"You think you can outplay Fate while walking around like a billboard? I sealed myself in this house long before the war ended."

"Manipulated the threads of time just enough to keep aging slowly."

"Barely move outside these walls."

"Keeps me hidden from... well. Her." He tapped his temple.

"Fate's a cruel bitch, Chrono."

"And she doesn't forgive."

Chrono stepped forward.

"Why now?"

"Because it's your time, kid."

" I mean, you exist for something more than just...Existing"

"We will do a lot of Exercises"

The Patriarch turned and walked deeper into the manor.

Chrono followed.