Steam still curled in lazy ribbons around John's body, the mingled scents of thawed earth and melted frost lingering in the air.
The ground around him was a patchwork of ice and puddles, like two opposing seasons frozen mid-battle.
Tony exhaled slowly, his tense shoulders finally easing—until Eccaruss's voice broke the moment.
"Don't relax yet," the old man said, eyes never leaving John. "The ice and fire are only the first steps."
---
The next trials came quickly—each one like a wave crashing before the previous ripples faded.
The Wind Calamity howled into being two days later, invisible blades slicing the very air around John. Leaves, stones, and even shards of ice spun in violent spirals, slashing at him from every angle.
Then came the Earth Calamity—but it was not the ground trying to crush him.
It was him.
It began with a strange heaviness in his legs. Then, the pale tone of his skin deepened into dull grey, hardening into rough stone. Cracks formed where muscle had been. The transformation crept upward in slow, merciless inches, as if the earth itself was claiming him piece by piece.
Even his heartbeat began to sound faint, muffled—as though it too was being buried in rock.
The more he moved, the faster it spread. Every step cost him another patch of skin, another joint stiffened. Only by standing perfectly still, focusing on the tiny pulses of energy within him, did he slow the petrification until it finally retreated, leaving his body aching and cold.
A Lightning Calamity followed, splitting the sky in violent arcs that struck again and again—each strike more violent than the last.
Through it all, John stood unmoving, his figure battered by forces that would have reduced mountains to rubble.
Tony could barely watch. His fingernails dug into his palms, his chest tight with every moment.
But compared to what was coming… these were storms before the real winter.
---
Two days later, the air itself seemed to still. No wind, no sound, no movement.
A faint shimmer spread from John's feet, crawling up his body like unseen threads. Then—he was gone.
Not physically, but his presence… disappeared.
Tony took a step forward instinctively, but Eccaruss's hand clamped down on his shoulder.
"This," he said, his voice quieter than before, "is the Time Calamity."
Tony's brows drew together.
"Time calamity?"
---
John opened his eyes—and the world was different.
He was standing in a modest workshop with sunlit windows, the faint smell of machine oil and hot metal curling in the air. Wooden shelves lined the walls, cluttered with old blueprints, dusty tools, and jars filled with tiny gears and bolts. A half-disassembled engine sat on a table in the middle of the room, its brass and steel catching the afternoon light.
A familiar voice came from behind him.
"Hey, little brother, pass me that wrench!"
John turned and froze.
It was Tony—only younger. His hair was shorter, messier, his face free of the lines of worry it now carried. His hands were stained with grease, and sparks danced from the open panel of an engine as he worked. His grin was wide, easy, like the weight of the world had never touched him.
John's body moved on its own, reaching for the wrench lying on the table. The tool felt solid and real in his grip, its surface warm from the sunlight streaming in. He passed it to Tony without thinking.
"Thanks," Tony said, already focused on tightening a bolt.
From that moment, the days flowed naturally.
John learned to work with tools, to measure with precision, to weld without error. He found himself sketching ideas late into the night—machines with long legs that could traverse mountains, armor that could shield a man from storms, ships that could skim over oceans.
They built things together—small at first: clocks, radios, drones that buzzed like oversized insects. Then larger: walking mechs with hydraulic limbs, armored carriers that could move over sand and snow, even sleek silver ships capable of touching the edge of space.
Years passed. The workshop grew bigger, tools more advanced. Their walls became covered in blueprints, each one a story of an invention that had changed the lives of people they helped.
And in the evenings, after long days of welding and tinkering, they would sit at the workbench with glass of alcohol, talking about the future.
John never questioned it.
It felt too real, too warm, too perfect.
---
One winter morning, John woke to find snow drifting in through the half-open window. His hands shook as he picked up a wrench—no longer with the strength of youth, but with the stiffness of age. His hair was white. His back was bent. The sunlight felt weaker, thinner, as though time itself had grown tired.
Tony, now older as well, still worked beside him. They didn't get married. His hair was peppered with grey, his smile softer but unchanged.
They finished one last project together—a compact machine that could fold itself into a cube small enough to fit in a pocket. John didn't even know what it was for. He just enjoyed making it.
That night, he sat at the bench alone, staring at his hands. Wrinkled, trembling, but still his. The scent of metal and oil filled his lungs one last time before he closed his eyes.
He died—not in battle, not with the roar of power in his veins—but quietly, peacefully, in the place he had called home for decades.
---
And then… he opened his eyes again.
Back in the workshop.
The same sunlight.
The same smell.
The same voice.
"Hey, little brother, pass me that wrench!"