Omni Pov
The Time Room fell still.
Not silent—still.
As if the air itself were waiting for someone to decide whether it was allowed to exist.
Chrono stood in the center, chest rising and falling in slow, controlled breaths. Sweat evaporated off his skin before it could slide. The last year and a half of training—three subjective years—hung on him like smoke.
Behind him, the Patriarch exhaled the way an addict savors the last drag of a cigarette.
"Training's over," he muttered, rolling his shoulders until something cracked violently.
"Temporarily, anyway."
"You've got shit to do."
Chrono didn't move.
Just watched him—cold, dissecting.
The Patriarch's grin twitched crookedly, like a knife deciding whether to stab or point.
"Oh, don't look so fucking surprised," he said.
"You didn't think I'd keep you locked in my little funhouse forever, did you? Even I get bored."
He reached into the pocket of his battered trousers and pulled out a folded scrap of paper.
It looked like it had been crumpled, stepped on, and possibly used to snort something.
He tossed it at Chrono.
Chrono caught it without looking.
"You're gonna get a letter soon," the Patriarch said.
"Hogwarts. Magical kindergarten for future war criminals."
A beat.
"You'll attend."
Chrono raised an eyebrow—barely.
"Don't get cute," the Patriarch snapped.
"Yes, you'll attend."
"Yes, you'll pretend to be a student."
"And yes, you'll learn."
"Because you're weak."
Chrono's fingers tightened around the paper—just enough for the Patriarch to notice.
The man's grin sharpened.
"Oh, don't pout."
"You're barely passable right now."
"Barely."
"A stiff breeze could break you in half if the fucker had intent behind it."
He stepped forward, pacing around Chrono in a slow, predatory orbit.
"You're faster."
"Stronger."
"Meaner."
He leaned close.
"But you're not dangerous yet."
"You're a scalpel that thinks it's a sword."
He tapped Chrono's forehead with two fingers—hard enough to sting.
"You've got the instincts of a killer. Good. But your magic? Your control? Your finesse?"
He scoffed.
"Embarrassing."
Chrono didn't blink.
The Patriarch continued circling, voice rising with manic enthusiasm:
"You remember your first day? When you thought time magic made you untouchable? Invincible? Cute."
He slapped Chrono lightly on the back of the head.
"You can move your eyeballs in stopped time."
"Congratulations."
"Babies do more impressive shit on accident."
A long inhale.
A slow exhale.
"Truth is, Chrono… you're not even close to what this family demands."
"But—"He stopped pacing, standing before him."—you're closer than you were. Pain makes good fertilizer."
Chrono unfolded the paper.
An address.
London.
"Before the Hogwarts clowns send their letter, you go there," the Patriarch said.
"A property. Arranged. Purchased. Prepared."
"How?" Chrono asked, voice like cold steel sliding.
The Patriarch chuckled.
"Do I look like someone who gives explanations?"He waved a hand dismissively.
"You'll know what to do when you get there."
"Instinct, remember? That thing we've been beating into you."
He grabbed Chrono by the shoulder—hard.
"Listen to me, boy."
The air thickened.
Even the Time Room seemed to hold its breath.
"You are a Zion."
"You are the next evolution of a monster I spent my entire life trying to build."His voice dropped to a whisper that carried like thunder.
"You will walk into their world pretending to be one of them."
"But you will never—ever—forget what you are."
"What you belong to."
Then, as suddenly as a gunshot, the Patriarch shoved him backwards.
The world snapped.
The Time Room vanished.
Chrono staggered forward onto wet pavement.
Cold British air slapped him in the face—sharp, unfamiliar, real.
He blinked once, adjusting.
Night,Fog,Car horns in the distance.
London.
He looked down at the paper.
The ink hadn't smudged, despite the damp.
He walked.
Each step felt surreal—after years of stone floors and blood and the Patriarch's lunatic gospel, the uneven rhythm of normal city life felt almost… alien.
People passed him.
Cars.
Lights.
Civilization.
He catalogued everything automatically.
Predator logic never sleeps.
The address led him toward an older district—quiet, expensive, polished in that "we pretend nothing bad happens here" British way.
Very few pedestrians.
Fewer witnesses.
Chrono approached the building.
Tall.
Dark brick.
Wrought iron gate.
Windows shuttered.
No lights inside.
But the moment he stepped toward the gate, something shifted.
Not the physical world.
The other one.
Chrono paused, eyes narrowing.
A pulse.
Subtle.
Controlled.
A presence inspecting him—judging him.
Then, as if deciding he was acceptable, the gate clicked open.
Chrono stepped inside.
A single lantern flickered to life on the porch.
He approached the door.
Slid his fingers along the wood grain.
Magic.
Old.
Woven like muscle tissue.
He pushed the door open.
The house breathed—awakening from long slumber.
Chrono's expression didn't change.
But inside, something cold and calculating coiled.
The Patriarch had said he would know what to do.
And he did.
He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
The lock clicked on its own.
Chrono exhaled once.
"Let's begin," he murmured.
And the house… answered.