The road of frozen seconds felt like walking on broken glass that did not cut. Each step cracked a tiny sound—tick, tick—and the sound stayed in the air, hanging like small ghosts. Lin Yan walked forward, shoulders hunched, the black lotus on his chest beating slow and heavy. Behind him, the shattered pieces of the hour-glass floated like stars that had lost their sky. Ahead, darkness waited—darkness shaped like a giant clock.
Kai had warned him: "Time remembers every second you stole from death."
Now Time stood before him, tall as a mountain, faceless, its body a round clock of black iron. The hands did not move; they bled seconds—liquid light dripping into a pool that circled the base like a moat. Each drop made a sound—boom, boom—like a heart too big for any chest.
Lin Yan stopped at the edge of the pool. The air tasted of rust and regret. He spoke, voice steady.
"I am here to break the fourth law."
The clock did not speak. It showed.
Images flashed on its iron skin—his life, his deaths, his memories—speeding up, slowing down, running backward. He saw himself die in the labyrinth, rise, die again—a thousand deaths in a blink. He saw Wan-Er hand him the peach bun, then take it back, then hand it again—on loop, faster, faster, until the bun became a blur of light.
He shut his eyes. The images did not stop. They played inside his eyelids.
The lotus whispered: "Cut the hands. Stop the heart. Free the seconds."
He opened his eyes. The pool of liquid seconds parted, revealing a narrow bridge of frozen ticks leading to the centre of the clock—where a keyhole shaped like a lotus bud waited.
He stepped onto the bridge.
Each footfall echoed—tick, tick—and the hands of the clock twitched, bleeding faster. The pool rose, trying to swallow him. He walked faster. The bridge melted behind him—seconds collapsing into nothing. He ran.
Halfway across, the hands moved—sweeping toward him like scythes of light. He ducked, rolled, jumped—barely avoiding each cut. One touch—he knew—would age him a hundred years in a heartbeat.
He reached the keyhole. Pressed the black lotus to it.
The clock screamed—a sound of a million clocks breaking at once. The hands froze mid-swing. The bleeding stopped. Silence fell—heavy, perfect.
He drew Memory Blade, plunged it into the keyhole, twisted.
The clock-face cracked—spider-web lines racing outward. Light—white, blinding—poured out. He pushed harder. The blade shattered, but the crack widened. He punched his fist into the light, grabbing whatever was inside.
His hand closed around a beating heart—cold, metallic, pulsing with seconds.
The heart of Time.
He pulled. It came free with a wet snap.
The clock shuddered, hands falling off, face collapsing inward. The pool of seconds evaporated, rising as silver mist into the starless sky.
The heart in his hand beat once—BOOM—and stopped.
It melted, flowing into the lotus on his chest. The lotus opened—ninth petal—full bloom. A glyph burned across his collar-bones—Fourth Law Severed: Time—black letters glowing, then settling like tattooed stars.
The road of frozen seconds shattered beneath him. He fell—not down, not up—into a tunnel of swirling clocks, broken watches, dying calendars. Time collapsed around him, folding into nothing.
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The Moment After Time
He landed on soft grass—green, real, smelling of rain. The sky above was normal blue, clouds drifting slow. No clocks, no bleeding seconds, only quiet.
A girl sat nearby, sketching in a small book. She looked up—familiar eyes, fox mask pushed to her forehead.
Kai.
She closed the book. "You did it. Time is broken. But broken things have sharp edges." She stood, brushed grass from her cloak. "The final law is near. It has no name. It is the wall that holds all other walls. Break it, and the city opens. Fail, and everything—even void—ends."
She offered her hand. He took it. Her palm felt warm, real, alive—the first warmth he had felt since Wan-Er's hand in the snow.
She pointed to the horizon—where a giant wall of white stone rose from the earth, tall enough to touch the clouds. No gate, no door, only smooth face and single crack—a hairline fissure shaped like a lotus bud.
"The Nameless Wall," she said. "Law Five. The last. The oldest. The cruellest."
She squeezed his hand. "Are you ready to forget even forgetting?"
He looked at the wall, at the crack, at the lotus blooming on his chest.
He breathed—slow, steady—and stepped forward.
Behind him, the grass withered in a perfect circle—time's last revenge—but he did not look back.
Ahead, the wall waited—patient, absolute, final.
And Lin Yan—nameless, faceless, lawless—walked toward it, carrying nothing but absence, and the hunger to fill it.
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End of Chapter 7