Cold did not rush into the chamber.
It unfolded.
Slowly… gently… like an unseen hand pressing the world into silence.
The drifting dust in the air began to slow.
The faint glow along the ancient walls dimmed into a muted hush.
Even the quiet echo of Xu Yan's breathing softened, as though sound itself feared disturbing whatever was about to awaken.
At the center of the stone platform, the cracked egg pulsed once more.
Silver-violet light seeped through the fracture—not shining outward, but flowing like liquid moonlight escaping a sealed memory. Each pulse carried a rhythm older than language, older than the ruin, older than the forest above.
Xu Yan felt his own heartbeat unconsciously match it.
One beat.
One glow.
One silent second stretched impossibly long.
"…This feels different," he whispered.
When the Void Devouring Dragon awakened, the world had trembled beneath endless hunger.
This presence was the opposite.
Not vast.
Not violent.
But bottomless—like a still ocean with no surface.
Inside his mind, the dragon's voice lowered.
Because this one was not born from destruction…
It was born from what remains when destruction ends.
Xu Yan's throat tightened.
"…What remains?"
The answer came as a single word.
Time.
The Egg That Remembered Eternity
The crack widened by the breadth of a hair.
A shard of shell loosened… drifted downward…
…and stopped.
Not slowed.
Stopped.
Xu Yan's pupils shrank.
Dust froze in midair.
Light halted along the walls.
Even the faint tremor inside the ruin vanished into absolute stillness.
Time had been gently held in place.
Yet Xu Yan could still think.
Still see.
Still feel the faint warmth radiating from the egg beneath his fingertips.
"You… stopped time…" he breathed—though no sound existed to carry the words.
No, the dragon replied within pure thought.
You are standing inside the moment where time has not yet decided to move.
A cradle of stillness.
A sanctuary carved from a single unmoving second.
And at the center of that second—
the shell dissolved into drifting silver dust.
The True Form of the Primordial Beast of Time
The creature within was small enough to rest along Xu Yan's forearm.
At first glance, it resembled a newborn serpent.
But the resemblance ended instantly.
Its body was not flesh.
It looked as though someone had taken a strip of the night sky, melted it into liquid crystal, and shaped it into life.
Its smooth, translucent surface shimmered between silver, pale violet, and deep midnight blue, colors shifting like distant nebulae beneath clear water. Beneath that glass-like skin, thin rings of soft radiance revolved around an unseen core—silent orbits turning with impossible precision.
Each ring moved at a different speed.
One almost perfectly still.
One flowing in calm rhythm.
One flickering forward in tiny, sudden jumps.
Past.
Present.
Future.
All layered inside a fragile newborn body.
Where scales should have been, there were instead tiny geometric fragments of light, like shattered moments of time. Some were sharp as crystal. Others blurred like fading memories. They appeared and vanished with each breath the creature took, never remaining the same twice.
Two delicate limbs rested near its chest, ending in translucent claws too gentle to wound.
From its back trailed faint, unfinished wings formed from threads of dim starlight, flowing like a comet's tail trapped in slow motion.
Its head was elegant and small, crowned by two crescent-shaped horns curving backward like newborn moons. Between them floated a tiny sigil of pale light, pulsing softly—counting something beyond mortal understanding.
Then—
its eyes opened.
Perfect circles of liquid silver.
No pupils.
No reflection.
Only endless calm… like galaxies seen through perfectly still water.
When those eyes focused on Xu Yan, a shiver passed through his soul.
It was not looking at who he was now.
It was looking at every moment of him at once.
The child.
The fallen corpse.
The man who might one day rule eternity.
Yet within that boundless perception…
there was only gentleness.
And a loneliness older than history.
The creature drifted slightly, and Xu Yan realized—
it was not touching the stone.
It floated a hair's breadth above the platform, suspended inside perfectly still time. Even dust avoided that invisible sphere, unable to enter the unmoving second surrounding it.
Xu Yan's breath trembled.
"…You're… beautiful."
A Memory Older Than Rebirth
The creature blinked slowly.
Inside its body, the revolving rings aligned for a single instant—forming the faint outline of a vast celestial clock before softly scattering again.
A voice touched Xu Yan's mind.
Soft.
Young.
Older than eternity.
"…I waited where time could not fade."
Emotion tightened in his chest.
"You… were waiting for me?"
Images flowed gently into his thoughts—not forced, but shared.
He saw the universe before stars.
Chaos without direction.
Endless motion with no meaning.
Then—
a single quiet pause.
A still moment between heartbeats of existence.
From that pause…
this being was born.
Not ruler of time's river.
Not master of its flow.
But guardian of the still second that allows reality to exist at all.
A Primordial Beast of Time.
Xu Yan's hands trembled.
"…You waited… through all of history…"
Time does not feel long… when you are time.
The Bond Between Two Lonelinesses
Xu Yan swallowed hard, voice soft.
"Then… you don't have to wait anymore."
The small creature drifted forward and pressed its forehead gently against his palm.
Light spread in a silent circle.
A bond formed.
Where Void was endless hunger—
this was endless stillness.
Opposites settling into fragile balance inside his soul.
Warm tears blurred Xu Yan's vision before he understood why.
"I'll give you a name," he whispered.
The creature listened quietly.
"…Shíyue.
Moon that watches over time."
Silver light brightened in soft joy.
Shíyue…
Yes…
I remember that name.
When Silence Broke
For one fragile moment—
peace existed.
Then the stone platform beneath Xu Yan's feet split open with a thunderous crack.
The ruin trembled violently.
Ancient pillars groaned.
Dust cascaded from the ceiling in choking waves.
Xu Yan's head snapped upward, instincts screaming.
"…Something's coming."
The dragon's voice turned sharp.
Not something.
The guardian that has hunted this child since the first age.
A roar surged down the spiral passage—
deep… ancient… starving.
The shadows at the edge of the chamber moved.
Shíyue's small body trembled once.
Not fear.
Recognition.
…It found us again.
Darkness began sliding forward across the stone—
slow… certain… inevitable.
And within that approaching shadow…
two enormous eyes opened.