The sky stretched out in every direction — vast, endless, painted in hues of silver and pale blue.
Clouds floated like islands, soft and slow, suspended in an ocean of light. Stars shimmered above them, too many to count, too close to be real. They didn't flicker — they glowed, steady and strange, like memories that refused to fade.
Beneath it all, the world was water.
A vast, crystal sheet of it — perfectly still, perfectly clear. Not cold. Not warm. Just… there. So flawless it reflected the sky like a mirror, until it was impossible to tell where heaven ended and the sea began.
He stepped onto it like it was glass — and somehow, it held. No splash. No ripple. Not even the smallest tremble beneath his feet.
The silence was complete.
But not empty.
He didn't feel afraid. Or confused. Or even curious, really. Just still. As if every breath here came easier. As if the weight he'd forgotten he was carrying had been lifted without asking.
It was… peaceful.
Not the kind of peace that comes and goes — the deep kind. The kind that made his shoulders relax without realizing. The kind that made him feel like nothing was expected of him. Like he could just be.
Like he belonged.
He didn't know how he got here.
Didn't remember waking up.
Didn't remember sleeping.
But his eyes were open, and the world was quiet, and he was alone — and for once, that felt okay.
Then — something shimmered in the distance.
A light.
Different from the others.
Not cold like the stars or soft like the clouds.
This one pulsed. Beckoned.
It didn't move.
But it wanted him to.
So, without a word — without even knowing why — he took a step toward it.
And the water held its breath.
He didn't know how long he'd been walking.
Time didn't seem to move here. The sky never darkened. The stars never changed. And the water — still as ever — reflected everything except himself.
But then he saw it.
Floating ahead.
Massive.
Suspended just inches above the surface of the water, yet casting no reflection. No shadow. Like the laws of this place didn't apply to it — or maybe, they came from it.
It was a clock.
But not like any he'd ever seen.
The face was carved from something pale and ancient — not quite stone, not quite metal. The color of old clouds before a storm. Intricate patterns curled along its edges like vines of frozen wind, each one etched with impossible precision — and unmistakably angelic. Wings, feathers, halos, spirals too perfect to be manmade. It felt divine.
And it was huge.
Taller than a house. Wider than a street. It hovered silently, unmoving, yet somehow... alive. Like it breathed through the space around it.
At its center, golden hands spun with mechanical grace — elegant, thin, impossibly long. The symbols around its rim weren't numbers. They were… faces. Dozens of them. All unique. All watching.
He couldn't look away.
Something about it felt holy.
Not in the way of temples or prayers — but in the way of truths too big for language. Like this was something that had always been here. Always would be. Like it had waited just for him.
And then he noticed the time.
The long hand had just ticked past the seventh face.
His breath caught.
Because it was moving — fast.
Too fast.
It swept toward the next marker, the eighth face, with unnatural speed. As if whatever rhythm it once obeyed had been abandoned — or broken.
His pulse quickened.
And the moment the hand struck eight—
The air cracked.
Light bent.
The sky, the clouds, the stillness beneath his feet — all of it twisted, warped, rippled like paint dragged through water. The stars above blinked out, and the sea below began to pull.
His balance faltered.
And then—
He sank.
Silently.
Weightlessly.
Downward, into the depths below.
Impact.
He had landed.
And when he opened his eyes again—
Everything was gone.
The stillness.
The peace.
The light that once felt eternal.
All of it, shattered.
Now there was only ruin.
The air was thick with heat and ash. The kind of heat that didn't just burn — it suffocated.
Fire raged somewhere in the distance, or maybe all around. It was hard to tell. Everything bled into everything else — smoke, screams, silence.
What once had been sacred was now unrecognizable.
Structures — symbols — legacies, reduced to dust and flame.
The very order that had held the multiverse together for so long had cracked open at its seams, and all he could do was watch as it unraveled.
Not just a battle.
Not just a fall.
This was a collapse.
A desecration.
A thing that was supposed to be good, broken beyond repair.
And in the heart of it — the war, the chaos, the end — was him.
He didn't need anyone to say it.
Didn't need to ask what happened.
He knew.
He had somehow caused this.
Not by mistake.
Not by accident.
Somewhere, somehow — this was his doing.
And now the order that had once been – was gone.
He ran.
Instinct, not thought.
Through smoke, through flame, through falling shards of what used to be something divine.
Debris crashed down around him — slabs of scorched marble, shattered glass, burning fragments of something ancient.
He weaved through them without knowing how, without knowing why — only that if he stopped, he'd be swallowed whole.
The screams didn't stop.
They came from everywhere.
From the ground.
From the air.
From the cracks in the world.
They weren't just cries of pain — they were cries of betrayal. Like existence itself was mourning.
His lungs burned.
His heart pounded.
But he didn't stop.
Until he did.
Because something was watching.
He froze mid-step, breath catching.
There — far ahead, just beyond the smoke — stood a figure.
A silhouette.
Dark. Towering. Still.
It stood on the edge of broken stone, high above the wreckage, unmoving as firelight flickered behind it.
Its presence swallowed the space around it — not with noise, but with weight.
The kind that crushed the air in your chest.
That made everything else seem small.
It was dangerous — no — cursed.
No question.
But it was also… alone.
Not like someone victorious — but like someone left behind.
And then—
Tick.
The sound pierced the air like a blade.
His head snapped up.
And there it was.
The clock.
The same one from before — but not floating now. Not hovering peacefully above the water.
It was above everything.
Colossal.
Unfathomably vast — it spanned the entire sky, its edge vanishing into the horizon.
Its circular frame was no longer just carved — it was alive with burning etchings, angelic symbols glowing like constellations at war.
Its hands were longer than cities, gliding in impossible precision, each movement echoing with sacred finality.
It didn't hover.
It loomed.
Not like an object — but a judgment.
A reckoning suspended above reality.
Its sheer presence made the world feel like it was holding its breath.
Like time itself was kneeling before it.
Even the silhouette looked up.
Slowly. Deliberately.
As if it too understood what this meant.
And together, they watched.
Watched as the golden hand moved.
Not forward.
But back.
Ticking in reverse — from eight… to seven.
And as it struck—
The world unraveled.
Flames collapsed inward. Smoke folded into light. Screams twisted into echoes and vanished. The ground beneath his feet turned weightless. The silhouette above disappeared into blur.
Everything collapsed into motion — backward, impossible, inevitable.
And then—
He woke up.
But the dream wouldn't let go.
Not from his mind.
Not from his soul.
Not ever.