Lin Xiaoxia began meticulously documenting her dreams, treating each fragmented vision as a piece of a temporal puzzle. Xiaoya joined her in this nocturnal archaeology, cross-referencing the symbols with ancient dream lore and modern psychology. The patterns that emerged were unsettling.
The Clock Tower Dream:14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ4PTWNqQvEi
A gargantuan spire piercing the sky, its hands spinning backward with a low, grinding hum. At its peak—a luminous orb pulsing like a diseased heart.
"Counterclockwise movement often represents temporal reversal or chaos in oneiromancy," Xiaoya noted, flipping through weathered texts. "The orb... could be a power source. Or a prison."
The Future City Vision:14Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡ7S4VkyaaKt
Neon-lit skyscrapers branded with a chilling logo—"CHRONOS CORP."
Research revealed the truth: Chronos (Χρόνος), the primordial god of time in Greek mythology. A corporation wielding time itself?
Then—the silver ring glinted in the dream-fog.
Not Li Mingzhe’s. Another.
"They’re still out there," Lin Xiaoxia whispered. "Maybe not just in our present."
Meanwhile, Xu Yuan’s perception of time grew erratic. He’d blink, and the world would stutter—a dropped cup hovering mid-air for three seconds too long; a bird’s wings frozen mid-flap. It felt less like a gift and more like the universe glitching around him.
Xiaoya rigged up temporal sensors. The readings confirmed their fears:
Residual chronon particles.
Faint but unmistakable, the energy trails snaking toward—
"Coordinates match the industrial district," Xiaoya said, zooming in on the map. "But there’s nothing there except..."
An old railway yard.
And at its center, according to municipal archives:
A decommissioned clock tower.
"We need to go," Xu Yuan said, his voice edged with something dark. "Before whatever’s calling us decides to come here instead."
Lin Xiaoxia packed the pocket watch—now inert but still cold to the touch—and a knife.
As they stepped into the night, the streetlights flickered.
Somewhere, a clock struck thirteen.
The hunt for time’s loose threads had begun.
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