The void had grown restless.
Chronos felt it in every toll of the pendulum, in every hiss of silver sand. The battles were no longer confined to beasts that rose and fell. Now the void itself turned against him.
Storms split the black sky, disgorging collapsing timelines. Gravity twisted until the ground pulled sideways, then upward, then down into infinity. Shards of broken futures rained like glass, slicing into his flesh.
The beasts waited within the chaos, more terrible than before.
The first emerged snarling, stitched together from broken timelines. A Chimera of sand and silver fire—lion's head snapping with fangs that burned the air into ash, a goat's head braying so loud the void fractured, and a serpent tail dripping venom that corroded seconds into nothing.
The lion's jaws opened, belching flame that aged whatever it touched. Sand platforms dissolved into dust, rivers of silver evaporating midstream.
Chronos accelerated, weaving between the firestorms, but the serpent tail lashed, venom splattering across his shoulder. His flesh burned as seconds unraveled, muscles trembling as though years were being stripped from him.
He snarled, emblem blazing. Deceleration layered across the venom's spread, slowing it until it oozed like tar. Suspension flared, freezing the serpent's tail mid-whip. Then he surged forward, acceleration bursting through his veins, silver fist blazing as it crushed the goat head into shards.
The beast screamed, all three voices overlapping. The lion roared, the serpent thrashed, time itself buckling beneath their fury. But Chronos pressed harder, faster, weaving between fire and venom, striking with precision until the Chimera collapsed into a storm of silver ash.
The void howled louder. From the storm of collapsing timelines descended another foe.
A Harpy-Titan hybrid, wings made of broken sundials, each feather a shard of ticking stone. Its claws glowed with warped gravity, ripping apart the sands, platforms collapsing into nothing.
It shrieked, and fragments of time scattered like shrapnel. Chronos' chest burned as moments were stripped from him—his heartbeat skipped, his vision blurred as if years had tried to pass in an instant.
He clenched his jaw, forcing his breath steady. Silver sands coiled around his feet.
If the void denies me ground, then I will make the void my ground.
He spread his arms. Platforms rose beneath him, spiraling upward into the storm. With a push, he rose—not falling, not floating, but flying.
The Harpy shrieked again, wings beating storms of shattered sundials. Chronos accelerated, silver trails spiraling behind him, weaving between shards. He slowed the storm, bending fragments into sluggish arcs. Suspension flared, locking one wing mid-beat.
His fist blazed with silver light as it struck. The sundial wings shattered, shards raining like stars. The Harpy screamed, body unraveling, before dissolving into dust that scattered across the void.
Chronos hovered in silence, chest heaving, sweat dripping. His shoulder ached where venom had bitten into his flesh, but his lips curved faintly.
He could fly now. Not with wings—but because the void itself obeyed.
The fourth year became a storm of invention.
Chronos no longer survived by repeating the same motions. He forged new abilities from the fusion of his three streams.
Acceleration and suspension together birthed strikes faster than thought—blows landing before beasts even realized they'd been frozen. Deceleration layered over collapsing storms, carving narrow corridors of safety. He shaped sands into weapons—blades, spears, shields—fragile at first, but honed through repetition until they cut and defended with Titan sharpness.
At times he fought for days without pause, muscles burning, scars reopening, silver blood dripping steadily. When his body nearly failed, he meditated beneath the pendulum, syncing his heartbeat to its toll, healing through rhythm and will.
His scars multiplied, but so did his strength. His swimmer's build sharpened—lean, powerful, balanced between endurance and speed. His face no longer carried softness of youth; every angle now held Titan-like sharpness. His silver eyes glowed steady, calm but fierce.
He was not a god yet. But he was no longer a boy. He was a young man, marked by survival and crowned by inevitability.
Meditation revealed more.
When he closed his eyes, the void shifted. No longer only endless black, no longer only sands and pendulum. A landscape emerged—silver rivers flowing endlessly, pendulum mountains looming like guardians, plains of frozen sands stretching to infinity. At the center towered a vast clock, its pendulum pulsing with his heart.
It was not finished. It was not stable. But it was his.
His world.
This is my realm. My image.
The realization filled him with something new—not just pride, but belonging.
Yet even as he grew, the future pressed at him.
The pendulum tolled heavier, slower, as if warning. The sands whispered fragments of greater storms. Beasts darker than Chimera, foes sharper than Harpies, trials meant to break him.
Fear lingered in the edges of his thoughts, but it no longer ruled him. Alongside it grew something stronger.
Trust.
Trust in his divine power. Trust in the scars that shaped him. Trust in himself.
For the first time, he smiled not with defiance, but with calm pride.
I have endured. I have grown. And I will continue to grow. I can trust myself.
As the fourth year closed, Chronos stood at the heart of his realm.
Scars etched silver lines across his flesh. His aura shimmered like a mantle of sands. His silver eyes gleamed with steady fire.
He raised his hand. The sands surged upward, forming a spear, then dissolving into dust. The void bent. His realm obeyed.
He looked up at the great clock. The pendulum swung, eternal, unyielding.
"Year four," he whispered. "And still, only the beginning."
The pendulum tolled. The void roared. And Chronos rose into the storm on silver winds, flying forward into the battles yet to come.