Two months had passed since Ethan traveled back in time.
His aunt Aurora, determined to give Ethan the best life possible, enrolled him in the district's daycare.
There, Ethan spent most of his time lying on a thin mat, staring at the cracked ceiling, or perched on a worn couch beside the caregivers, watching news reports flicker across an old television.
The screen's hum was a steady backdrop to his thoughts, grounding him in a world that felt both familiar and strange.
"I heard his parents died recently," whispered one of the caregivers, a young woman with a nervous glance, leaning toward her colleague. "It's such a shame... They were really successful, and I heard they were about to get exclusive rights to Venus's resources."
"Shhh!" warned the older caregiver, a stern woman with gray streaks in her hair, pressing her index finger to her lips. "Have some consideration for the kid."
The younger caregiver glanced at Ethan, who sat beside them, his small frame slouched, violet eyes fixed on the television, seemingly unaware of their conversation.
"I'm sorry..." she mumbled, her face flushing.
"Just be more careful," the older woman replied with a heavy sigh. "The boy still needs time to heal. He doesn't talk to anyone or play with the other kids. The last thing we want is to remind him of his pain."
Ethan lingered on their words, though his expression didn't change. Losing his parents again had been painful, but not because he missed them.
Their faces were a blur, erased by time in both his lives. His pain stemmed from knowing what their deaths meant for Aurora—the crushing burden she now carried, the sacrifices she'd make to raise him alone.
He didn't speak to anyone because his mind was consumed with planning the changes needed to forge a better future.
Every moment was spent calculating risks, mapping out possibilities, and fearing the butterfly effect of altering the timeline.
The idea of joining the other children, giggling over blocks or chasing each other in circles, was absurd.
A 25-year-old man stuck in a toddler's body didn't exactly feel like playing tag.
Beyond that, doubts swirled in Ethan's mind, each more troubling than the last.
His pulse remained unnaturally slow, a sluggish beat every five seconds, far from normal for a three-year-old. But that wasn't his only change.
He had no appetite. He forced down the daycare's soggy vegetables and stale crackers to avoid suspicion, but even when he skipped meals, his body buzzed with an eerie energy, as if powered by something beyond food.
Lost in these thoughts, seated beside the caregivers on the couch as usual, Ethan caught a city propaganda ad on the television.
It opened with a sweeping aerial view of Atlas, a fortified city cut off from the outside world. Towering steel walls and a glowing force field shielded it from the desolate, rocky plains and colossal magical beasts prowling beyond.
The ad then showed the planet's flagship slicing through the clouds before rocketing into space.
A man in a navy-blue robe, his glasses catching the light, spoke.
"We remind all citizens of Atlas that the annual census is approaching. We will categorize youths with mana or blessings, and parents will be informed which district they can apply to. The schedules are as follows—"
The older caregiver, scowling, snatched the remote and turned off the television.
"Damned mages..." she muttered, her voice thick with contempt. "Anyone without a ton of mana or a blessing is just trash to them..."
"Hey! You can't say that—what if someone hears you?" her colleague warned, her eyes darting nervously.
"Please! Now I have to worry about not offending them? All mages are selfish jerks!" the woman griped. "They left us stranded on this barren planet just because we don't have enough mana."
Ethan ignored their bickering, his attention snagged by something far more alarming.
In the dark reflection of the television screen, he saw his eyes. Faint blue flecks dotted his violet pupils, shimmering faintly.
His breath caught.
Those were the early signs of mana disease. His body, somehow, was now brimming with mana.
'But this is wrong...' Ethan thought, leaning closer to the screen, his eyes wide with shock. 'I'm too young. Developing mana disease this early shouldn't be possible...'
Mana disease struck when someone failed to expend excess mana, whether through tools or blessings.
The body naturally absorbed mana from the environment, but the condition typically took years—sometimes decades—to develop if the mana wasn't used. For a three-year-old to show symptoms was unthinkable.
Yet it explained so much.
'That's why I felt so much pain in my body... It was the mana coursing through my veins,' he realized, his small fists tightening.
Children raced around the daycare, shrieking and stumbling, some knocking into Ethan as they passed. He barely noticed, his mind grappling with why a toddler would have mana disease.
'A side effect?' he wondered. 'Maybe overexposure to the Collider's mana caused my body to absorb some of it... No, that doesn't make sense. Only my memories traveled back, there shouldn't be physical changes.'
His theories came fast, each one torn apart by his own logic. Nothing fit. The Collider's mana should have affected only his consciousness, not his physical form.
Was this body unique? Had time travel altered him in ways he couldn't fathom?
Then he saw something worse. The blue flecks in his eyes were moving, spreading wildly across his pupils like wildfire.
'It's progressing too fast!' he thought, panic surging as he turned to the caregivers.
If he didn't expel the excess mana soon, his body would collapse. He sprinted toward the caregivers, his tiny legs churning as fast as they could.
They stared, horrified, as his eyes glowed a solid, unnatural blue.
"How is this possible?!" the older caregiver cried, her voice shaking, before shouting to her colleague, "Quick, call a hospital!"
Ethan dropped to his knees, his small hands clawing at the floor for support. Dizziness overwhelmed him, his stomach lurching as if he might retch.
"H-help..." he murmured, his throat parched, his chest tight with the sensation that he couldn't breathe.
'No,' he thought, terror gripping him. 'It's not just a feeling—I really can't breathe!'
The realization sent him crashing to the floor, his hands clutching his neck.
'Why isn't anyone picking me up? Take me to a hospital...!' But as he twisted to look at the caregivers, his heart sank.
They were frozen, their faces locked in shock. The children, mid-stride, stood in impossible poses, as if time had halted.
The room was engulfed in silence—an infinite, suffocating silence, reminiscent of the void where his consciousness had drifted in the Collider.
Ethan gasped for air, each attempt failing, his vision dimming. Trembling, he pressed his right hand to his chest and waited, holding his breath as long as he could.
His heart didn't beat. Seconds ticked by, then more, and still nothing.
'Why...?' was his final thought before his small body gave out, collapsing into darkness as oxygen ran out.