Omni Pov
The Time Room flickered around them like a dying film reel—slow, sputtering, never quite still.
Chrono stood, ragged breath echoing in his chest, skin sticky with old blood and sweat.
He wasn't laying in a pool of blood anymore.
That was yesterday.
Or maybe a year ago.
Time was tricky here.
The Patriarch paced like a wolf that forgot it had eaten.
Eyes manic.
Hands twitching like a pianist with a death wish.
"You think you're invincible because you can control time, don't you?" he asked.
Not a question.
A knife.
Chrono blinked.
Considered lying.
Considered what kind of trap this was.
Then simply said, "No."
The Patriarch stopped walking.
Slowly turned his head like he was winding up something heavy.
"No?"
Chrono met his eyes.
Flat.
Cold.
"Because Time and Space invalidate each other."
"If a wizard had Time Magic and another had Space, the fastest one wins."
"Space could collapse or disappear to another space or dimention."
"But if Time stops, speeds, or stretches? That's decisive."
"Time also can collapse a moment."
"The fastest one wins."
The Patriarch stared.
And then grinned like he just got kissed by death itself.
"Correct."
He clapped once.
Loud.
"Not gods."
"Not divine."
"Just systems with rules."
"And even if they were gods—" He leaned close, whispering in that sing-song voice of a lunatic sermon.
"Gods."
"Can."
"Still."
"Bleed."
Chrono didn't flinch.
He processed.
Filed that away.
The Patriarch straightened.
"Now tell me."
"How do you think wizards fought in the old days?"
Chrono stayed silent.
"Any way they fucking wanted," the Patriarch continued, stepping away, arms wide like a preacher.
"Some turned their muscles into magic batteries. Punched through boulders."
"Others liked playing sniper with spells."
"A few freaks—real charming bastards—did both."
He looked over his shoulder.
"Guess which one I was."
Chrono didn't answer.
"Correct again."
A satisfied nod.
"The one who didn't give a fuck."
He spun around.
"Now."
"You ever wonder why one little spell can paralyze a wizard?"
"Makes us look weak, doesn't it?"
Chrono remembered the lessons.
Remembered training dummies getting bound and blasted.
Remembered how easy it looked.
"Real wizards don't fight like that."
"Oh?" The Patriarch's eyes lit up.
"How do they fight?"
Chrono's gaze flicked down.
"I don't know."
"Hah!" the Patriarch barked.
"That's the first honest thing you've said all day."
He turned, walked a few steps, then stopped.
"I'll tell you."
He gestured, and the wall flickered.
Projections.
Specters of war.
Silhouettes in armor, magic humming off them like heat from steel.
"Magic Armor," he said.
"Some made it with tools."
"Others made it with rage and will."
"Doesn't matter."
"It protects your body, augments your casting, and most importantly, it makes you harder to fucking kill."
"Which, surprise surprise, matters a lot when everyone's trying to kill you."
Chrono watched the images.
The first image was a hulking brute clad in obsidian plating.
"This one? Killed a Basilisk barehanded after his armor absorbed its venom."
Next, a lithe figure in robes glowing with arcane threads, dodging bolts mid-air.
"This one? She wove probability into her cloak."
"You couldn't land a hit on her even if you fired a thousand shots.
Armor that moved like shadows.
Armor with wings.
With spines.
With fire.
The illusions faded.
"These aren't costumes," the Patriarch hissed.
"They're evolution."
"You don't just wear it."
"You become it."
"It responds to who you are."
"And if who you are is a scared little rat? Well." He gave Chrono a look.
"You'll wear a coffin."
Silence.
Then the Patriarch pulled down his collar.
Slowly.
A thick scar ran across his chest like a rope of melted wax.
"Wendigo," he said.
"Forest hunt."
"My job was to secure a territory."
"Didn't go well."
He crouched, miming the memory.
"It had me."
"Claws in my ribs."
"Smelled like rot and moonlight."
"And I'd never activated my time magic before."
"But when your heart stops caring about consequences—that's when it starts beating like a goddamn metronome."
He tapped his temple.
"Two seconds."
"I paused the world for two seconds."
"That was enough."
Chrono was silent.
"I built from that."
"Stretched it."
"Broke it."
"Rewrote it."
"But none of that matters if your spine folds the second something snarls at you."
He stood tall.
"You want to live through what's coming? Then get this through your skull: Magic is not a gift."
"It's a fucking battlefield."
"You don't survive it by being clever."
"You survive it by being meaner than the thing trying to eat you."
The room fell into a heavy hush.
Chrono didn't respond.
But something in his eyes darkened.
Not fear.
Not awe.
Preparation.
The Patriarch saw it.
And smiled.
"Good," he muttered.
"Maybe you're not a coffin after all."