Echoes of the Timeline — Chapter 1: The Weight of Morning
Ring… ring…
Light's hand fumbled across the desk, smashing the alarm shut with the grace of a corpse. His eyelids felt like lead, his face pale—like someone who had already lost a war he never signed up for.
Dragging himself upright, he stared into the mirror. Messy hair. Empty eyes. A single long breath before forcing his legs toward the bathroom.
"Light! Breakfast is ready!"
The sharp voice shot up from downstairs. Not a warm call, not even close—more like an order. His expression darkened further.
Each step down the staircase echoed heavily until he slumped into his seat at the dining table. Both his parents were already waiting, their eyes sharp and cold.
"I've enrolled you in the military academy," his father said flatly, like announcing the weather. "Someone there will handle the rest."
Light lowered his gaze, stirring his food without appetite.
"You heard him, didn't you?" his mother's eyes narrowed. "You leave this afternoon. Don't even think about running away."
The clink of a spoon dropping shattered the silence. Slowly, Light lifted his head. His eyes were hollow—yet somewhere inside, a faint flame flickered.
"What? You want to resist?" his father snarled, veins bulging. "Everything I've done is for you! I can't fight anymore, your mother can't either. And you? You're nothing! Worthless!"
Still, Light stayed silent.
"You think technology is your future? Fool! We're poor! All you ever do is waste time gaming and tinkering with junk!"
Light's hand clenched around his fork. In one sharp motion, he hurled it across the table. The glint of metal sliced the air—
His father dodged, fury twisting his face. "You little bastard!" With one swipe, he grabbed the steaming soup and flung it. Red liquid splattered across the table, the shock rattling every dish.
The heat seared Light's skin. Before he could recover, fists and kicks rained down, raw hatred spilling with every strike. Light curled up, enduring in silence, his body absorbing years of pent-up rage.
At last, his father's breaths grew ragged. Without a word, he stormed away, leaving a battlefield of shattered plates and spilled soup.
Across the table, his mother had remained unmoving, watching as if none of it mattered. Her eyes were cold, her lips parting only to stab deeper.
"Look at yourself. Pathetic. A son not even worth defending."
Light trembled, unable to respond.
"Clean this mess," she said, rising. "Or forget about lunch." And like her husband, she left—without a single glance back.
Silence returned. Soup dripping from the edge of the table, shards glittering on the floor.
Light stood there, hands shaking. His mother's words echoed: Clean it up.
Slowly, he crouched down. Bare hands sweeping glass, skin splitting, drops of blood mingling with the cooling broth. No one cared. No one ever would.
When it was finally clean, he dragged his battered body to the bathroom.
The weak light flickered overhead. Cold water cascaded from the shower, washing away the stinging soup, the blood, the bruises. Light pressed his forehead to the tiles, his pale reflection staring back from the puddles at his feet.
Memories flashed unbidden—his younger self, crying under the whip, forced to run until his legs bled. His father shouting, his mother watching with that same empty stare.
"You must be strong. Weak children don't deserve to live."
His chest heaved. One hand slammed the wall just to stay upright.
The water drowned everything else.
Later, with damp hair dripping, Light pulled on a plain uniform. He picked up the bag already waiting for him in the living room—packed by someone else, not by him. No farewells. No blessing. Just the creak of a door opening to a world outside.
Air rushed in, alive and heavy. The streets were packed—children laughing with floating digital balloons, holographic billboards swallowing the blue sky whole.
"My Healthy Cure! One pill a day, a lifetime of health and happiness!" A doctor's grinning face beamed from above.
"Evelyn—love you can trust! Your perfect partner is just a tap away!" A flawless woman smiled down, too perfect to be real.
Light moved through the tide of bodies, his shoulders brushing strangers who never once looked his way.
For a second, his reflection flickered on the glass of a skyscraper—hollow eyes, tired body. A ghost among neon dreams.
A newsflash burst across the central screen:
"Dynatech donates major funds to the military! Stability for the city walls and expeditions to the outside world!"
Applause erupted. Cheers, laughter, hope painted across every face.
But Light? He saw nothing but a lie with pretty makeup.
Still, his feet carried him forward. The world might be dazzling, but inside him lingered only silence—an emptiness no pill, no synthetic love, no corporation could cure.
The crowd grew thicker, the noise harsher, the neon brighter.
Then—
"Hey there, handsome." A voice purred beside him. Smooth, sweet, with a hint of poison.
A young woman leaned close, smile sharp, eyes glinting. Her hand brushed his arm like a snake testing its prey.
Light stopped. His eyes remained cold.
He shoved her away without hesitation.
She stumbled, fell onto the pavement. People glanced, shrugged, and kept walking.
Light hesitated, a flicker of guilt softening his face. He extended his hand.
"…Are you alright?"
The woman blinked, then smirked, slipping her fingers into his. "I'm used to it. That's just how this world is."
And just like that, she was gone—her figure weaving effortlessly back into the sea of strangers.
Light stayed frozen in the flow, staring down at the ground—dust, footprints, traces of countless lives that weren't his.
Slowly, he lifted his gaze.
And the city blazed back at him.
Towers climbed into the heavens, wrapped in neon screens like artificial stars. Colors bled into one another—blue, violet, crimson—painting the night into something both beautiful and false. Hover-cars glided above on glowing rails, holograms lit up the streets, and the sky itself had become a digital canvas.
Light's eyes narrowed against the brilliance. This time, though, it wasn't only weariness.
Something else stirred deep inside—fear, awe, maybe even wonder.
For the first time, the gray boy stood in a world burning bright.
And yet… he was still colorless.