The sixth year began in silence.
The pendulum tolled, its sound deep and resonant, but no beast stirred. No storm split the sky. The sands only hissed, restless, as if waiting.
Chronos stood beneath the clock. His aura shimmered faintly, silver and steady. His chest rose and fell evenly, though every scar on his body burned with tension. His silver hair swept his shoulders now, catching the pendulum's glow, framing eyes that gleamed sharper than steel.
The void is watching me.
The pendulum tolled again.
And the sands split.
Three figures rose, heavier than anything before.
The first dragged rusted chains, its body cracked and brittle, every movement bleeding decay. Wherever it walked, the sands blackened and sagged under the weight of memory. It was the past, heavy with scars and regrets.
The second shone with silver brilliance, claws sharp and immediate. Every strike was direct, its presence oppressive. It was the present, relentless, merciless.
The third flickered, form unstable, phasing in and out of existence. Its blows landed before it even moved. Wounds opened on his body before its claws touched him. It was the future, untouchable and cruel.
Chronos' breath steadied. His fists clenched. The void no longer tested strength. It demanded mastery of time itself.
The past struck first. Its chains lashed out, cracking across his back. Old scars split open, bleeding silver once more. Pain seared him, not new but remembered. His knees shook as if he were reliving every failure he had endured.
The present lunged, claws flashing. He accelerated, dodging, but its strike was already there. His ribs tore open, breath exploding from his lungs.
Then the future swung. He hadn't seen the movement, hadn't reacted—yet pain bloomed across his thigh, hot and deep, blood pouring. The wound was real. It had struck from a moment not yet lived.
Chronos staggered, surrounded on three sides—bound by the past, battered by the present, pierced by the future.
The pendulum tolled.
If I cannot master this, then I am nothing. Time itself will break me.
His emblem flared. Sands surged upward.
Acceleration burst. A phantom split forward, striking the past beast. Chains snapped, rust scattering. Another phantom split left, clashing against the present, claws parried in mirrored rhythm. A third appeared, darting toward the future, moving half a second ahead of reality.
Chronos gasped, his veins burning as though they might tear. His muscles quivered, blood dripping freely. But for the first time, his phantoms did not vanish.
They fought.
The past wrapped chains around the first phantom, but it ripped free, dragging the beast into stillness. The present clawed furiously, only to be forced back by a phantom that countered each strike in perfect synchronicity. The future flickered, but his echo struck where it had not yet moved, forcing its body into place.
For seconds, they acted on their own. Not illusions. Not weak afterimages. True extensions of him—past, present, future.
Chronos forced his staggering body forward. His true fist struck the past beast, shattering its brittle form into silver dust. He turned, weaving between the present's claws while its phantom held them back. His blow shattered its chest.
The future flickered violently, unstable. Suspension flared, locking half of its body in place. His phantom moved ahead of him, predicting its next lunge, dragging it into stillness. Chronos struck, silver fire blazing, and crushed it into nothing.
All three dissolved into sand.
Chronos collapsed to one knee. His chest heaved. Blood poured from reopened wounds. His arms trembled violently. Yet his lips curved faintly.
Not just phantoms. Not just echoes. They are me—past, present, and future. My own pieces, united.
In meditation, the change was clear.
The void within him expanded. Silver rivers flowed, steady and endless, carrying sparks of light. Mountains of pendulum stone rose higher, vast and immovable. Plains of frozen sand stretched farther, glowing faintly as if alive.
Above it all, the great clock pulsed brighter than ever, its pendulum swinging not just with his heartbeat but with the rhythm of past, present, and future together.
Stars flickered faintly above. At first scattered sparks, then hints of constellations forming. His realm was no longer just fragments of survival. It was order. It was stability.
It was a Titan Domain—his domain.
Chronos walked its rivers, widened them with his will. He climbed its mountains, strengthening their peaks. He froze sands into statues, then released them into flowing silver storms. Every inch of this place obeyed him. Every pulse was his.
This is no longer prison. This is home. This is mine.
But even here, whispers lingered.
The pendulum tolled heavier, slower, as though measuring destiny instead of seconds. The sands hissed with fragments of greater storms, vaster realms, ancient voices.
Chronos closed his eyes.
He thought of Gaia, who was the earth itself. Of Uranus, the unbroken sky. Of the primordial ones who were not masters of domains, but embodiments of existence.
What was a Titan compared to them? His rivers were silver, but Gaia's veins were mountains. His stars flickered, but Uranus' sky stretched infinite.
One day, he vowed silently, I will rise to that height. I will not stop at Titan. I will forge a realm eternal. A realm primordial.
At the close of his sixth year, Chronos stood changed.
His form bore glowing scars that lined his body like rivers of fire. His swimmer's build balanced grace and power, every muscle carved by survival. His silver hair swept his shoulders, framing a face sharpened into Titan beauty. His eyes burned silver, holding weight of past, present, and future.
He raised his hand. Sands rose in answer, forming three phantoms—distinct this time. One heavy with scars of what was. One sharp, burning with immediacy. One flickering, glimpsing what could be. They bowed, then dissolved back into him.
Chronos looked up at the great clock. The pendulum swung, eternal, unyielding.
"Year six," he whispered. "And still, only the beginning."
The pendulum tolled. The void roared. And Chronos strode into the storm, bearing past, present, and future within him.