Symptoms

Relief, a tide crashing upon the shores of panic, washed over Atlest as his mother's voice broke through the haze. "At least you're safe!" Her arms tightened around him, a fierce anchor in the storm of adrenaline and terror that had engulfed him. Slowly, the frantic beat of his heart calmed, but with it came a surge of horrific images he'd tried to suppress: charred, frozen bodies, the dragon's fury preserved in a macabre tableau. He could have been one of them, but for that sliver of time, he'd bent to his will, a stolen breath snatched from the jaws of oblivion.

Tears escaped like trapped birds, tracing hot trails down his face as he clung to his mother. Alive, yes, but at what cost? He hadn't saved anyone, hadn't become the hero whispered about in lullabies. He'd fled, a coward amongst the ashes, leaving the battlefield to the dragon's fiery dance.

"Shhh, it's alright," his mother soothed, her touch a balm on his trembling back. "It's going to be okay." At eighteen, Atlest stood barely taller than a sapling, and in her embrace, he felt even smaller, swallowed by the immensity of what had transpired. Minutes stretched into an eternity as his sobs subsided, his mind grappling with the harsh reality. He was a Level 1, newly awakened, powerless to change the past.

But the future? That was yet to be written.

His mother released him, her hands cupping his face, their gazes locked. "Did you awaken?" she asked, a mix of shock and hope lacing her voice. The question, yanked him from his internal turmoil. "How did you know?" he blurted, the words tumbling out in a rush.

A knowing smile, both sad and proud, curved her lips. Without a word, she darted to her room, returning with a handheld mirror. As she held it up to his face, it wasn't his reflection that stared back.

Atlest flinched as the hand mirror met his face. His reflection was unchanged - the same pale skin, skinny frame, and unruly black hair. But wait... had there always been a dark purple and silver streak weaving through his hair? He didn't remember. And his eyes... where did these intricate clockwork patterns come from? They were like miniature Antikythera mechanisms, gleaming with silver hands and a golden pupil, as if knowledge itself resided within them.

"Are these... awakening symptoms?" He stammered, the term unfamiliar yet somehow known. Awakening symptoms, he realised, were the physical manifestations of one's newfound power. Dragon-themed abilities might grant dragon wings, eyes, or scales. His power to manipulate time—what did that manifest as?

"Indeed, you did awaken!" His mother beamed, excitement momentarily erasing the terror of the day. "Did this... clock magic... get you home?"

Hesitantly, Atlest recounted the ordeal - the crash, the dragon, his desperate escape through frozen time. His mother listened, her face a tapestry of awe and sorrow. "I'm so sorry you had to witness that," she whispered, her gaze flickering to the TV depicting high-level heroes celebrating their victory over the dragon. "If only I had a better ability, a higher level..." her voice trailed off, heavy with self-reproach.

Atlest reached out, placing a comforting hand on hers. He understood her pain, the gnawing feeling of powerlessness. But perhaps things were changing. He was no longer just Atlest, the insignificant Level 1. He was the boy who stopped time, his gaze flickering with nascent power. Even if the world outside celebrated others, he knew his journey had just begun. His mother's words weren't just regret, but a call to action. He wouldn't just survive in this world ruled by power levels, he would thrive, and maybe, just maybe, change it in the process.

Shame gnawed at Stella, guilt twisting her insides. She should have been able to shield her son. Atlest, sensing her turmoil, shook his head with newfound conviction. "No, Mother, it's not your burden. You've fought for me, protected me for too long. Now, it's my turn. This awakening... it's like nothing anyone's ever seen. With it, I can take us beyond mere survival. We can reach the city, even dream of paradise."

Tears brimmed in Stella's eyes, reflecting a myriad of emotions. Pride, fierce and warm, swelled for the responsible young man Atlest was becoming. Yet, it was laced with a tremor of fear for the uncharted, perilous path before him. His awakening had irrevocably shifted their reality, painting it with vibrant hues of possibility and chilling shades of danger. She knew, deep down, that letting him go, trusting him into this unknown, was both inevitable and terrifying.

"Paradise?" she whispered, the word tasting unfamiliar on her tongue. Yet, even as she spoke it, a flicker of hope ignited within her. Perhaps, just perhaps, this strange, unprecedented power held the key to a life they never dared to dream of. But first, he had to learn to control it, to navigate the labyrinth of its potential without succumbing to its pitfalls.

A silent pact formed between them, their gazes locked. She wouldn't hold him back, wouldn't stifle his courage with her anxieties. He would forge his own path, and she, in turn, would be his unwavering anchor, his lighthouse in the storm.

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The Director's office pulsed with a suffocating darkness, pierced only by the moon's sly grin through a single, sliver-wide gap in the drapes. Two figures huddled amidst the oppressive shadows, voices low and sibilant like serpents whispering secrets.

"He stirs, Director," Agent Shade rasped, the words slithering across the room like chilled fog. "The Chronos boy."

The director, a granite monument of a man with eyes like chips of hardened ice, steepled his fingers, the sound echoing starkly in the stillness. "Excellent. Ensure his retrieval is a phantom's touch, unseen, unheard. No needless theatrics, no messy witnesses. Agree to their terms, whatever they may be. But remember, Agent Shade, the prize is Atlest Chronos. Nothing else."

Shade bowed, their form melting back into the inky darkness like smoke swallowed by the night. The director remained alone, the silence now heavy with the weight of a thousand whispered futures. Atlest Chronos was awake, a ticking clock counting down to an unknown destiny, and the gears of fate, long dormant, had begun to turn.

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Finally alone, Atlest had the chance to delve into the mysteries of his newfound ability. How had he frozen time? As if in response to his silent query, knowledge flowed into his mind: Simply ask or will it, and it shall be.

"What is this?" Atlest wondered aloud, and again, answers came unbidden: This is a search through time, providing answers to your questions—a Chrono's library, if you will.

"Is my last name the reason for this ability?" The connection between 'Chronos' and time seemed more than coincidental, and the library confirmed his suspicion with a simple affirmation.

Yet, when he probed for more, the library fell silent, prompting Atlest's frustration. "Is that all?" he pressed, only to be met with a terse Yes. "But why?" he demanded, seeking the roots of his power, the history behind his name. Information not found in the time library, came the cryptic reply.

Resigned, Atlest shifted his focus to the practical. "How do I become stronger?" The answer was succinct: Level up. It was an obvious truth, yet it lacked the depth he sought. "How can I extend the duration of time stop and reduce the cooldown?"

To increase the duration, you must expand your energy reserves. The cooldown is immutable, but stored energy can negate it.

"And this energy, how do I acquire more?" Atlest inquired, eager to understand the mechanics of his power.

Temporal Energy, or Time Essence, is what you seek. Absorb it from time anomalies or living beings to increase your capacity.

The notion of siphoning life to fuel his power was unsettling. It depends on how much you absorb, the library offered, a small comfort against the moral quandary.

"How do I absorb it?" Atlest's voice was hesitant, the weight of the act heavy on his conscience.

Place your hand upon the source and envision the Temporal Energy flowing into you.

Hearing all that, Atlest, saw a lizard by his bedside and he willed for time to stop, after a second, everything slowed down to a grinding halt, he quickly grabbed the lizard and willed time to move again.

Now with a creature in his hand, he pictured a dark purple swirling string like stream, he pictured the massive stream in the lizard, and pictured it moving through his hand to his stomach, at first it was slow, but after a while, it began to speed up, as soon as the string touched his stomach, he felt a cooling addicting sensation on his body, it was so amazing that he kept on absorbing more,

Atlest's experiment with his newfound power had taken a dire turn. The room, once silent, was now filled with the echoes of his agony. As he clutched the lizard, the conduit of his first attempt at absorbing Temporal Energy, the initial trickle of dark purple energy had swelled into a torrent, overwhelming his senses with its seductive chill. It was a sensation unlike any other, a dance of time within his very veins, but his greed for more power had led to catastrophe.

The energy, once a soothing stream, had turned volatile, and as it poured into him unchecked, it reached a critical point. A sharp, internal crack resounded through his being, a fracture in the essence of his temporal core. The pain was immediate and excruciating, a shattering of something fundamental within him that unleashed a scream from his lips—a primal sound that shook the very air.

Tears streamed down his face, each droplet a testament to the unbearable pain that wracked his body. He felt as if he were coming apart, his insides fragmenting like a shattered clock, the pieces of his once-whole self scattering into oblivion.

The commotion had not gone unnoticed. Stella, ever vigilant, heard the distress in her son's voice and rushed to his side. Bursting into the room, her eyes wide with maternal fear, she found Atlest writhing in torment, the lizard forgotten in his grasp.

"Atlest!! What's wrong!?" she cried out, her voice a mix of panic and concern, ready to do whatever it took to ease her son's suffering.

The lesson was harsh and clear: even in a world where time could be bent, there were limits to be respected, and the cost of transgression was a pain beyond measure. Atlest, in his pursuit of strength, had learned the hard truth that with great power comes great risk, and sometimes, great suffering.