650 years ago…
The flash of lightning and the roar of thunder echoed across the dark sky as rain poured down in heavy torrents, drenching the earth with fury.
A lonely carriage raced through the night along the muddy cobblestone path leading to a grand mansion.
It came to a sudden halt at the front door.
The rider, clad in a black raincoat, climbed down from the driver's seat, then entered the back of the carriage to retrieve a large wooden box rimmed with gold.
Without wasting a moment, he ran toward the mansion, flung open the door, and stepped inside.
Lightning flashed and thunder roared as he stepped into the dimly lit mansion. The air was cool and heavy.
Smoke curled from his mouth as he exhaled shallow breaths in the cold.
He removed his raincoat and muddy boots. He was a young man of medium build, with brown curly hair, brown eyes, plush lips, a flat nose, and round, slightly pointed ears. He hung the coat, took hold of the box, and raced upstairs.
"Master! Master!" he called out.
"Master, I found it! I found what you were looking for!"
He rushed up to the second floor until he reached a room with double doors. He flung them open and entered.
The room was dimly lit, its lamps flickering as the breeze swept through the open window.
"Master, I found what you were looking for," he said, a wide smile stretched across his face. "It wasn't easy, but I found it. Now we can finally get what we want, and no one can stop us from achieving it…" He paused, met only with silence.
"Master…" he called again.
Silence.
A cold chill ran down his spine. Something was wrong.
He gently placed the box on the nearest table.
"Master?" he called once more, moving deeper into the room. Lightning flashed, thunder roared angrily outside.
"Master, are you here?" His voice trembled as he stepped into an adjoining chamber.
It looked like a study.
"Master… Hugh! Hugh!" His eyes widened in shock, his breath caught in his throat as his gaze landed on the lifeless body of a man sprawled near the desk, covered in a pool of blood.
"Master!!" he cried as he rushed to the body. "Master! Master! No… no… no!"
He cradled the lifeless form, covering himself in blood as tears streamed down his face. "Master! Who did this to you? Who did this to you, Master? Who… aaah… aaah… Master…" he wailed, clutching his master's body in his arms.
Lightning flashed, illuminating the room in a blinding burst of light.
Just then, a faint blue glow caught the corner of his eye.
He turned his head and saw a piece of paper lying on the floor, a short distance from the body.
Gently, he placed his master's lifeless form back on the ground and walked toward the paper.
He picked it up and examined it.
Only one word was written there—in blood. His master's blood.
"Chronalis…" he whispered. Lightning flashed violently, flooding the room with light, and for a moment he swore the word itself glowed.
Just then, footsteps echoed behind him.
"Hugh!" A gasp rang out in the room.
"Master Macguillary!" the newcomer cried as he rushed toward the lifeless body on the floor.
The man holding the paper turned to face him.
The newcomer froze, staring in shock at the blood covering his clothes and hands.
His expression twisted from disbelief into fury as his gaze locked on the man clutching the paper.
"Saccoth!! What did you do?! You murderer!!" he roared.
Boom!
Lightning flashed and thunder crashed, intensifying the tension in the room.
The single word written on the paper glowed faintly as the raging storm continued.
...
50 years ago…
Crash! Crash!
The loud sounds of furniture smashing echoed through the house.
"I am not crazy! I am not crazy!"
"Raymond, please calm down! You're getting out of control with this nonsense!"
"It is not nonsense! And I will not calm down, woman! Do you hear me? I am not crazy!"
Their voices thundered through the room.
A small figure, clutching a fluffy brown horse teddy, peered through a narrow opening in the door—watching as his parents fought and argued… again.
"Oh, you are crazy, Raymond! Very crazy! How long will you keep chasing that fantasy—something that never existed in the first place? Raymond, your obsession is destroying our family! Philip needs his father… but he barely recognizes you anymore! You're always chasing this thing, always drinking, throwing your life away. Look at what you're doing to yourself—what you're doing to us!" The woman cried.
Raymond began pacing the room, running his hands through his thick black curls, breathing frantically.
"Why… why… why don't you believe me, Alice? Why?" he muttered before pausing and turning to face her. "Why can't you understand? You and Philip are the most precious people in my life. I love you. I adore you both, truly."
He stepped closer, his voice trembling with conviction. "But as long as that thing is still out there… as long as it still exists, my family is not safe. That thing will destroy us all. I need to find it. I need to end it once and for all. I need to set my family free from its curse. I need to save my family. I need to…"
"Oh, Raymond…" Alice sobbed, sniffing back her tears before meeting his gaze.
"Raymond, my darling… when will you get this through your head? That thing doesn't exist! Your great-great-grandfather, Alexander Philip Saccoth, was the one who murdered Paul Macguillary. He killed that poor man in cold blood—not some superstitious, otherworldly entity that doesn't even exist! My God, when will you accept that and stop this madness?" Alice cried.
"My grandfather was not a murderer!!" Raymond shouted. "It was that thing! That thing killed Paul Macguillary—not my grandfather! And I am going to find it and clear his name! I will clear the Saccoth name! Never again will our family be stained with lies—never!"
In his rage, he hurled a wine bottle to the ground. Glass shattered across the floor, and one sharp fragment flew, slicing the small figure's wrist.
"Aah… Hugh! Hugh!" the child yelped, breathing frantically in fear and confusion as a drop of blood dripped from the wound onto his fluffy horse teddy.
"Philip!!" Alice cried as she rushed toward him, pulling open the door and gathering him into her arms. "Oh my God! Are you alright, my darling?"
Philip trembled in fear, his tear-streaked eyes fixed on his mother. Alice gasped when she saw the wound, quickly tearing a piece of her dress to wipe away the blood before tying it tightly around his wrist.
"Don't worry, my darling. You're going to be okay. I promise," Alice assured him softly.
Philip nodded, but his eyes widened in terror as his father approached in slow, deliberate steps.
Clutching his teddy tighter, Philip pressed himself closer to his mother.
Alice saw his fear and held him protectively, shielding him from Raymond.
Raymond looked terrifying in that moment—his curly hair wild, his black eyes bloodshot, his clothes disheveled. He stared at his son's frightened expression, then sighed heavily before turning away.
Without another word, he walked out through the front door.
Alice and Philip watched him disappear into the night, then turned to look at each other—fear and concern etched deeply across their faces.
...
45 years ago…
The room was filled with sorrowful silence. A young boy of eleven, dressed in a white shirt, black slacks, and polished black shoes, sat on a chair in the hallway. His face was etched with grief as he nervously twirled a hat in his hands.
Just then, a door opened. Three men stepped out—a priest, a lawyer, and a doctor. They stood before the boy, their expressions heavy with pity. The priest stepped forward, gently tapping his shoulder.
"May the Lord be with you, child," he murmured before walking away.
His words could only mean one thing—it was bad.
The doctor then stepped forward. "He is ready to see you now," he said, offering a sympathetic smile before following the priest and lawyer down the hall.
The boy sighed, rose slowly from his chair, and walked toward the door in deliberate steps. He paused, took a deep, steadying breath, then opened it and entered the dimly lit room.
The air was thick with tension.
It was suffocating.
It reeked of incense and antiseptic—a smell the boy had grown used to over the past three days.
He approached the bed, where a sickly, grey-haired man lay. The man looked pale and fragile, as though a single touch might shatter him.
The boy could hardly believe it.
In just three days, a forty-five-year-old man had been reduced to someone who looked closer to ninety.
What kind of sickness was this?
He wondered as he stepped closer, stopping at a cautious distance from the bed.
As if sensing his presence, the man stirred and turned to face the boy.
"Philip… my son," Raymond croaked, his voice hoarse.
"Yes, Papa…" Philip whispered, wiping away his tears.
Raymond smiled faintly and extended his hand. "Come, son. Come closer."
Philip sniffled and stepped nearer.
Raymond lifted his trembling hand and brushed a tear from his cheek with his thumb. "Shh… there, there, son. Don't cry. Champions don't cry, mmm? Didn't you say you wanted to be a champion horse derby racer one day? How can you be a champion if you cry like this, mmm?"
Philip said nothing, letting the tears flow silently.
Raymond exhaled weakly. "I am sorry, son. I am so… so sorry, Philip, my boy. I am leaving you too soon—without seeing you become the champion you dream of being. I wish I could watch you grow up, succeed, get married, and have a family. But I can only leave my blessings for you instead. I am sorry… for treating you so horribly, for ignoring you, for not being there when you needed me most. I was a bad father. No excuse can ever make up for what I did to you and your mother. Please forgive me, son. I am sorry." Tears spilled from his eyes.
"Papa…" Philip sobbed, his cheeks wet with tears. "Papa… please don't go… please don't leave me… please."
"I am sorry, son… I am sorry," Raymond whispered, clutching Philip's hand.
"Remember this, Philip," he muttered. "Time… cannot be contained or controlled. The more you try, the more your life slips away. And before you even know it… you will be gone—lost in the fragments of time itself, never to be seen again. But… there is something… something that can control those fragments. An entity… of time itself. It holds time in its grasp—and something else… far beyond mere imagination. Your grandfather told me about it. This knowledge has been passed down through the Saccoth bloodline for generations. And so has the curse…" He paused, gasping for breath.
"Papa… what are you saying? What are you talking about?" Philip asked, his voice trembling.
"For generations, our family has sought to uncover what it truly is—if it exists, what powers it holds, and what it is capable of. For years, we have been obsessed with this thing… not only to clear our family name, but to know it… and perhaps even control it. But, like my fathers before me, I gambled with my life far too much. And now… I am paying the price."
He wheezed, then tore open his shirt.
Philip's eyes widened in horror. Hideous black veins snaked across his father's torso, coiling around his arms—pulsing as though alive.
"Papa… wha…" Philip murmured in fear, unable to form the words.
"This… is the Time's curse," Raymond rasped. "A curse that has haunted our family for generations, ever since the tragedy 650 years ago. No one knows how it began, but it is proof the thing exists. Our family, under the leadership of Paul Macguillary, was part of a cult called the Black Phantom Tulips—a group of truth-seekers, disciples of the Order. The Order was established to find and destroy the entity and its followers, who call themselves the Black Tulips, before they could harm this world. And you, Philip… my son… you may be the last of the Saccoths to carry this burden. The one to finally free our family from this wretched curse. Clear our name from Paul Macguillary's murder. Save the world." He broke into violent coughs.
"But… Papa… I don't understand. What do you mean? What is all this? Papa, explain to me, please… what is this thing I must find? Who are the Black Tulips?" Philip pleaded.
Raymond wheezed, struggling for breath, before cupping his son's face. "Find… it… find the box your grandfather Alexander left...it has the key… find… Chronalis…"
With those words, he wheezed for the last time. His head fell back onto the bed, and his hand slipped from his son's face.
Silence.
Philip stood bewildered, frozen in place. Slowly, he turned his head toward his father, now motionless on the bed.
He didn't need anyone to tell him.
His father was gone.
Raymond had died.
Philip stared at the lifeless body, his father's final words echoing in his mind: "Find it… find the box your grandfather Alexander left… it has the key… find… Chronalis…"
His hands clenched into fists as his gaze fell upon the black, grisly veins marring his father's body—already beginning to fade.
"Chronalis!!" he whisper-shouted, his face twisting with fury.
He was going to find it.
Oh, he was going to find it.
And once he did…
He was going to destroy it.