When John opened his eyes again, it felt like breaking the surface after nearly drowning for a week.
The sound of his own breath filled his ears—steady, real, alive.
Seven days.
That's how long the Time Calamity had held him.
Seven days of living decades in a false lifetime, of feeling his body grow old and wither, of dying and waking and dying again.
But now… now it was over.
The shimmer of the Time Calamity faded from his skin like morning mist. The strange, invisible threads that had once bound him in that endless loop unraveled into nothing. He stood in the middle of the frozen battlefield, the last of the time distortion slipping away like water between his fingers.
And then it began.
At first, he thought his body was simply shaking from exhaustion—but it wasn't weakness. It was change.
A faint, glass-like crackle echoed from beneath his skin.
Thin flakes—his old skin—peeled away in translucent sheets, drifting down like brittle autumn leaves. Beneath it emerged a new layer—smooth, faintly luminous, and warmer to the touch despite the lingering chill in the air.
Every breath drew in more than oxygen—it drew in life itself. He could feel his lungs expand wider than before, each inhale charging him like a bellows feeding a forge. His heartbeat was stronger, deeper, echoing in his ears with a steady, unshakable rhythm.
His muscles tightened and realigned, losing any excess bulk yet packing every fiber with compact, explosive strength. His frame grew leaner, sharper, yet each movement carried a sense of caged power, like a predator ready to spring.
Beneath it all, his bones were remade.
He heard it happening—the low, resonant grinding as marrow compacted, as calcium density increased, as each bone became denser than forged steel yet somehow lighter in weight. It was as if his very skeleton had been reforged by invisible smiths.
Then came the heat in his core inside his spritual sea. His spiritual sea trembled, at the center his crystal core floated—once a marble of swirling colors, each hue a memory of power gained through blood and trial. Now, those colors dimmed, bleeding into one another until no shade remained.
The transformation was slow yet absolute.
The crystal became pure white—not empty, but impossibly bright. It radiated a soft, steady glow that filled his spiritual sea with serene light, like moonlight reflected on a still lake.
He didn't know what this meant.
But every instinct in him screamed that this was a rebirth.
The process took exactly one hour.
Sixty minutes where the world around him seemed to hold its breath.
And then… life returned.
The frost that had killed the grass receded, green blades pushing back through the earth as though months of growth had passed in seconds. Trees that had stood frozen and brittle now swayed gently, their leaves dripping with melted frost. Even the animals—those caught mid-step in icy death—shuddered once and sprang away, untouched by the horrors that had frozen them.
The black clouds overhead broke apart like shattered glass, revealing a clear, endless sky painted in warm gold by the afternoon sun. It was as if the calamities had never come—except for the faint, steaming circle where John stood, the last trace of the storm.
John looked down at himself.
His hands—steady, strong, faintly luminous under the sunlight.
His breath—deep, powerful, yet calm.
His mind—clearer than it had ever been.
He flexed his fingers, clenched them into fists, then opened them again, marveling at the smooth precision of the movement. His muscles responded like a perfect machine, every fiber under his control. Even the air felt different—lighter somehow, as if it bent subtly to his will.
He was still turning his palm over when a blur rushed into the corner of his vision.
Tony.
He flew across the last few meters, arms wrapping around John with a force that nearly lifted him off his feet.
The hug wasn't rough—it was desperate. Tony's entire body trembled as if he'd been holding in a storm for too long. His eyes were red-rimmed, the skin beneath them pale from sleepless nights. His breath came in uneven bursts, hot against John's shoulder.
John froze for a second—not from shock, but from the weight of it. Tony was shaking… Tony, the man who had always been steady, always in control.
Tony's voice cracked as he spoke, but his words were muffled against John's shoulder.
"You… you idiot…"
John didn't answer. Not yet.
Because in that embrace, he could feel Tony's memories—not through magic, but through the weight of their shared years.
Tony remembered him as a boy.
Quiet. Too quiet.
Smart enough to solve problems no one his age should, yet distant enough to refuse friends, to skip school, to shut himself away in his own little world.
Tony had wanted more for him—wanted him to laugh with other kids, to scrape his knees playing ball, to talk about crushes and dreams and the dumb little troubles of growing up. But John never listened. He had his own path, one Tony didn't understand but respected.
And yet… John was a good child. Never complained. Never asked for toys or favors. Never made trouble. He was just… there. Steady. Like Tony's shadow.
And now—after everything—Tony couldn't begin to imagine a life without him. The thought of losing John, truly losing him, had haunted every hour of the past week.
What would become of him if his little brother didn't come back?
Tony didn't know. And that fear… that was what had turned his nights sleepless and his days endless.
John's hand rose slowly, resting on Tony's back. The muscles there were tight, wound like steel cables.
"I'm here," John said quietly.
Tony didn't let go. His grip only tightened.
"You're not allowed… to scare me like that again." His voice was thick, not with anger, but with something heavier.
John almost smiled. Almost.
"I'll try."
They stayed like that for a long while—no words, no movements—just the sound of their breathing against the backdrop of a world slowly returning to life.
When Tony finally stepped back, his hands lingered on John's shoulders, as if letting go entirely might make him vanish again.
He studied John's face, the sharper lines, the strange new depth in his eyes.
"You've changed," Tony said.
John glanced down at himself, then back at Tony.
"Yeah," he replied softly. "I think I have."
The sun broke fully through the last of the clouds then, casting long golden rays over them both. And for the first time since the calamities began… it felt warm.