The scythe lay resting on the throne. There was no man, no creature holding its weight—only the throne, outlined in emerald.
For some inexplicable reason, Elios moved as if his mind were not his own. But it wasn't cruel or malevolent; it was instinct—like two magnets trying to find each other.
The closer he got, the harder it felt to truly reach for the scythe. Yet, the more he wanted it, the easier it became.
"Come on, reach… so close… just a couple more steps."
By now, Elios's eyes burned with hunger—a hunger not for something that could satisfy a normal human, but for something beyond comprehension.
He wanted it. He would do anything to have it. His eyes, hypnotic in their intensity, mirrored a wolf hunting its prey—unwilling to give up.
"After so long on this damn wretched island, this scythe before me… I will use it to cut away time if I have to."
"So what if it kills me? Maybe it will, maybe it won't—but why should I fear it? Since the very beginning, humans have understood that without death as a possibility, they can never grow, never surpass their limits."
Step. Step. Step. Each unyielding stride brought Elios closer to freedom—freedom from the wretched time loop that imprisoned him on this wretched island. He understood far too well that death was a possibility… but maybe it wasn't. He was a coward, and he admitted it—but he would not allow it to control him.
Just a couple more steps. The scythe, now within arm's length. One more step, and it would be his. The throne—his throne. The time loop—his to command.
By now, his breaths were harsh, rugged—escaping his mouth in erratic bursts. Time around him twisted, fluctuated—accelerating, decelerating, stopping entirely.
Every step felt like pushing against a wall, a resistance beyond imagining. The energy around him helped, but in the end, it was his will, his conviction, driving him past limits he never thought possible.
He could feel clarity—a barrier in his mind breaking, allowing him to grasp the supernatural. He was right there, on the precipice of becoming an Unborn. So close.
With every step, searing pain burned through his mind. He pushed forward. And as his hand grasped the scythe's pole, he held it with might and conviction.
His shaky breaths began to steady. He stood with difficulty—his body screaming in pain—yet he let out a single, strong, unrelenting roar. A roar of exertion, of overcoming one's weakness and rising beyond it.
"AAAAAAA!!!"
As his tired body and exhausted will collapsed onto the throne, he gazed at the scythe in his hands. He could feel its power—raw, genuine—unlike any other supernatural force that had ever touched him. It did not feel foreign. It felt like his own.
"This is my power… but what exactly is it?"
"The barrier to becoming an Unborn is so close to breaking. But I'm still missing that final step. God dammit."
"Still… I can understand this. This scythe—it's my Specter?"
"Wait… how do I even know what a Specter is? That shouldn't be possible. I mean, I never learned that. That clarity I felt… could it have been…? Yeah, that's probably it."
The Specter—an inherited power passed from one to another. Every person is given a Specter at birth, though it is entirely random. It must be unlocked before it can be used. Most people unlock theirs before even attempting their trial.
"But I did it in the middle of my trial… Damn. My head hurts and I'm cursing a lot. I guess I'm agitated. Man, who cares? Seriously, who's going to stop me?"
Gently, Elios massaged the sides of his forehead, pressing against the throbbing headache that clouded his thoughts. His voice—low, tired, hesitant—carried the weight of revelation.
He scoffed, shaking his head, unsure of what else to do.
Then, almost instinctively, the word slipped from his lips.
"Time."
The sound of it lingered, heavy in the awkward time of his realm reverberating through its endless expanse. He exhaled, a slow, deliberate breath, and a faint, strained smile curled at the edges of his lips.
Of course.
Time.
It wasn't just his Specter—it was his prison. His weapon.
It had bound him, broken him, mocked his every attempt at escape. And yet, now—now it was his to wield.
His voice turned playful, laced with a dark, ironic amusement meant only for himself.
"My Specter is time…" He paused, letting the thought settle, letting the gravity of it take hold.
He breathed in deeply.
A remnant. The embodiment of something. And the will that makes the laws of the universe tremble.
A whisper left him, barely audible, yet brimming with undeniable conviction.
"So, in a sense… I am the remnant of time."
Damn.