Only silence remained—a suffocating stillness that pressed in from all sides, blanketed by the frozen world of halted time. Outside the windows, the twisted roots of some unseen underworld sprawled across the city's districts, wrapping everything in an unnatural, tightening grip. The sky above remained warped, reflective, and wrong.
Souta didn't speak again. He didn't need to. His insults had already been delivered with precision, and now he simply watched—waiting to see how his words would echo in the minds of those before him.
Marin had instinctively shifted behind the boys, her breath shallow, fingers trembling at her sides. Though she didn't say a word, her eyes darted constantly—between Timeo, Souta, and the flickering phantom that loomed with quiet menace.
Leo, by contrast, stood firm, planted like a wall between her and whatever this realm had become. He wasn't hiding—but he knew. He was just a person. A boy with clenched fists and boiling blood.
And that thing behind Souta. That wasn't human. It was a presence, a monstrosity cloaked in silence, feeding on the space between the seconds. And Leo, as furious as he was, understood what kind of line they were standing on.
Then it surged again—deep, resonant, and undeniable.
The pulse in Timeo's chest wasn't his own anymore. It echoed through his bones, like a war drum behind the silence. Louder. Heavier. Each thump shook the air inside his lungs. The world outside remained still—but within him, something ancient was clawing toward the surface.
And then, the voice returned. No longer faint or ethereal. It was commanding, dark, and immense.
"So still… yet so loud beneath the surface. You walk blind through a world of puppets and shadows, unaware of the storm you cradle within."
"But I have seen it. I have waited for it. This world rejects the truth. It chains the awakened. It fears what it cannot name. But you... you are no longer just a boy. Summon me. Not with fear, but with will."
"Let them tremble. Let the silence shatter. Born not of light, nor fate, but of defiance. Call my name, and awaken the fire that sleeps beneath your blood. I am your truth. The edge between worlds."
"Unleash me. Call my name... I am known as... Legion."
The air grew heavier around Timeo. His pulse—its pulse—pounded louder than the bells of Covet Hollow. His eyes narrowed. And something behind them began to burn.
Timeo reached inside his jacket, his fingers curling around the hilt of the dagger. But this time, something felt off—or perhaps, too right. The blade pulsed against his palm like it was alive, as though it had been waiting for this moment to answer its summons. A faint vibration traveled up his arm, deep and rhythmic, like the echo of a distant war drum.
Leo stepped back instinctively, tension flaring in his voice.
"Yo, man… maybe it's 'bout damn time you do somethin'!" he shouted, his fear barely hidden beneath the anger. His eyes were locked on the dagger, on Timeo's expression, on the unraveling moment none of them understood.
And then it began.
Timeo's head snapped up. His eyes widened, the irises flashing with a violent burst of silver—cold and luminous, like moonlight refracting through broken glass. The light didn't flicker—it pierced, casting sharp rays across the dim, frozen room.
Then came the pain.
It wasn't a jolt. It wasn't even a surge.
It was a devastation.
A sudden, catastrophic collapse within him—as if his entire chest had been crushed from the inside. His heart didn't just race; it convulsed. Every beat was like a hammer blow against bone. His breath hitched, then shattered, as an invisible pressure slammed into his ribcage.
A searing pulse of agony exploded through his skull, blinding, roaring. Timeo staggered, unable to steady himself. His knees gave way. The world tilted sideways as he dropped hard to the ground, one hand bracing against the cold tile, the other still clutched around the trembling blade.
His scream tore from his throat—raw, involuntary, inhuman.
His vision fractured. His mind spiraled. The pain wasn't physical alone—it was existential, like something buried beneath years of silence had been torn violently open. He gasped as the dagger pulsed once more, and the silver in his eyes surged brighter, bleeding into the veins along his face.
The edges of the room distorted. The air thickened like molasses. And Timeo, chest heaving, body shaking, tried desperately to stay upright as the voice within him roared louder than ever—
Demanding to be awakened.
Timeo clutched the dagger tighter as the pain surged again, more vicious than before. His entire body convulsed with the weight of it—his muscles locking, his lungs straining for air that wouldn't come.
He let out a strangled breath and dropped the dagger to the floor with a metallic clatter. Both hands flew up to his head as if trying to hold his skull together, his fingers digging into his scalp. It felt like something inside him was splitting apart—like his mind was being torn open from the inside out.
He stumbled forward, eyes wide with agony, vision blurring and doubling as the pressure inside his head pulsed violently. His legs refused to cooperate—every step was a forced, broken movement, like he was dragging dead weight behind him. His knees buckled again, but he caught himself against a desk, arms trembling under his own weight.
The pain didn't let up.
It pounded through his skull like a drumbeat made of fire, radiating down his spine, through his limbs, into every nerve like electric blades. He staggered, his breath ragged and shallow, shoulders shaking as he tried to move, to do anything, but the weight of the awakening crushed him beneath it.
His face was twisted in agony, teeth clenched so tight his jaw ached, silver light leaking from the corners of his eyes as he dropped to one knee again—still holding his head, still gasping, barely conscious through the pain.
It felt like the world was peeling him open from the inside out.
And still... something deeper inside him demanded he stand.
The agony finally began to subside—slowly, but completely.
Timeo froze in place.
He remained kneeling, hunched low to the floor, his limbs trembling into stillness as if something had drained the last of his energy. His posture didn't shift. His breathing slowed. He knelt there motionless, like a broken sculpture cast in flesh and bone—silent, still, unreadable.
Marin took a small step back, her hand instinctively reaching for Leo's sleeve. Her voice was low, shaken, almost a whisper.
"W-What's going on…? This is… scary."
Leo didn't answer, but his expression said enough. He was tense, jaw clenched, eyes fixed on Timeo as if bracing for something none of them could name.
Then—without a word—Timeo's fingertips began to crawl across the tile.
Slowly. Unnaturally slow.
His fingers dragged along the floor, leaving a faint smear of blood in their wake—a red line tracing his pain. And then, in a single, deliberate motion, he closed his hand around the dagger's hilt once more.
He lifted it.
His face still hidden beneath the veil of his black hair. Shoulders slightly hunched. Waiting. Silent.
But there was no hesitation in his grip now.
Only a stillness that felt far more dangerous than any outburst.
Timeo remained still, his breath shallow, body tensed like a wire pulled to its limit.
Then, through the curtain of hair masking his face, his voice rang out—low, steady, final.
"Legion... come forth."
And in one swift, decisive motion, he dragged the blade across his neck.
The metal hissed against flesh, and in an instant, blood erupted—dark and vivid—spurting forward like a bursting seal. It didn't fall naturally. It spiraled, unnaturally, unnervingly, twisting through the air like ink in water. The droplets didn't scatter—they shaped, coiling upward into the air behind him.
Marin gasped in horror, stumbling further back. Leo's eyes went wide. Neither of them had words.
The blood did not stop. It danced. It carved itself into the form of something not of this world.
A shadowed figure began to emerge from the torrent, solidifying slowly—torso first, then arms, then a towering frame. The smell of iron filled the air. The temperature dropped.
And then—he appeared.
A tall, monstrous figure, draped in a tattered black coat, its insides lined with glowing crimson. Thick metal buckles strapped the fabric together in mismatched places, like the body had been sewn from chaos itself. Across his left shoulder rested a spiked pauldron—scarred, rusted, and cracked—whispers of lost honor clinging to it like ghosts. His head was crowned with jagged, crown-like headgear, twisted and regal in a way that was both noble and nightmarish.
In his right hand, he gripped a long-handled scythe. Its curved blade gleamed with cold, cruel intent, shaped like a crescent moon fractured by time. It hummed with a savage, undeniable power—made not for ceremony, but for death.
This was not the divine guardian Timeo once summoned in extremis.
This was Legion—raw, vicious, unrefined.
A dethroned king of shadows. A reaper. A creature forged for nothing but relentless, efficient combat.
The air trembled.
Timeo remained kneeling, blood dripping from his neck, the wound already sealing as the last strands of crimson spun into the Eidolon's form.
And behind him, towering and silent, Legion answered.
The towering phantom stood fully formed behind Timeo, the tattered coat flaring in the dead wind of the frozen realm, buckles clinking faintly as if resonating with the blood still lingering in the air.
His scythe scraped gently against the floor as he took one step forward, the weight of his presence alone pressing against the walls like gravity had doubled. The light in his crescent-shaped blade pulsed once—cold, cruel, and alive.
Then the voice came.
It didn't echo. It resonated—from within, from behind, from everywhere.
A low, distorted growl that bled with ancient authority.
"I am Legion."
His crown glinted in the hollow skylight as he lifted his head slightly, revealing those hollow, silver-burning eyes beneath his twisted regalia.
"Wrought from the severed will of the forsaken… and the wrath buried beneath silence. I am no guardian. I am no savior. I am the blade of the forgotten—the fury born of restraint… the answer unspoken."
He raised the scythe slightly, the air around it distorting in arcs of red and black, like smoke and blood clashing.
"Timeo Yamamoto. You have bled to awaken me. You have cut away the boundary. And now, I stand—unyielding, unmerciful."
His cloak swayed with unnatural rhythm as his voice dropped into a thunderous final chord.
He still wore the same school attire he'd arrived in that morning—creased from the struggle, faintly dusted from the floor, but untouched by transformation. Just the boy as he was.
Then he moved.
Slowly, deliberately, Timeo pushed himself upright. His arms hung loosely in front of his knees as he rose, shoulders slightly hunched, his body leaning forward as though the weight of what had just occurred still lingered. His hair swayed around his face, masking his expression beneath its dark strands.
And then—just as before—the blade appeared.
It materialized without sound, forming in his grasp: the same weapon that had once summoned Seigetsu into the world. Its surface gleamed with a deep, muted sheen—less like steel, more like something alive. Something bound to him.
He raised his head at last.
The wound across his neck was still faintly visible, a thin line of crimson marking the moment of release. But the pain had vanished. The contortion of suffering that twisted his features only moments ago had melted away.
Now, Timeo stood still.
Composed. Stoic.
His face returned to its usual stillness, unreadable and cold beneath the curtain of hair.
One hand slid casually into his pocket.
The other held the blade at his side.
And he faced forward—not with rage, not with fear—but with calm, unshaken resolve.
To be continued...