Location: Planet 10 – Solmerea, Region: Oth'Rel Exarchy Capital
Time: [Arrival Synced – Chrono Pulse Indexed @ 0.99 ∞]
It was called The Clocktower of Silence.
Which, to Ren's absolute and immediate annoyance, was complete bullshit.
REN (yelling over the noise):
"This place is louder than Blaze in a shampoo commercial!"
BLAZE (mock offended):
"I don't yell in commercials. I seduce shampoo. There's a difference."
They stood at the edge of the Oth'Rel Exarchy's capital, a sprawling metropolis built in a bowl-shaped valley, layered with ancient architecture cradling new-age tech like a grandfather who couldn't figure out how to mute his hologram TV.
Imagine cathedrals made of bronze and bone-wood, with digital sun-orbs floating above them like programmable halos. Stone towers had mechanical gears exposed and spiraling up the sides, while plasma trams zipped past in dead silence — countering the rest of the population yelling about "temporal queues" and "who's ahead in causality."
It was a city that had evolved in both directions.
Old spells etched on glass tablets.
Digital glyph-keys jammed into stone shrines.
Neon signs in languages only ghosts remembered.
TIME (delighted):
"Welcome to Oth'Rel, baby!
The only place in the Verge where time flows like traffic — and no one uses blinkers."
REN (frowning):
"This is supposed to be a silent zone."
SPACE:
"It is.
It's the Clocktower that's silent.
Everything else? Glorified time circus."
As they walked deeper into the city, Ren noticed a strange pattern: everyone wore some kind of chrono-device. Some wore wristwatches made of crystal and pulse-matter, others had tattoos that ticked. One lady floated by with a pocket sundial orbiting her shoulder like a pet.
Every single person moved in harmony with a personal tempo — like they were all running on custom time loops.
FROST (watching nervously):
"...No one's out of sync here. That's not natural."
REN (quietly):
"It's coordinated."
A child skipped past him.
Their feet landed precisely as a digital bell rang out above — not early, not late. Every single pedestrian paused, blinked in unison, then continued.
Like they'd been programmed.
SNARKSTEEL (muttering):
"Oh yeah. Definitely not creepy at all. Time cult with fashion sense. Totally chill."
They approached the base of the legendary Clocktower, expecting some dead ruin choked with silence and memory rot.
Instead?
There was a line.
A long-ass line.
Of people.
Waiting to enter the tower.
REN:
"Is this a DMV for timelines?!"
BLAZE (snickering):
"Hey, you try resetting reality — see how many forms you gotta fill out."
Hovering above the line was a massive floating clockface, spinning in all directions. Time on this one didn't tick forward — it expanded, like ripples from a stone dropped in a still lake.
A voice called from a nearby guide terminal — an AI construct shaped like a robed librarian whose face was a blur of flipping calendars.
CLOCKTOWER GUIDE AI:
"Greetings, Riftborn traveler.
Your presence has been timestamped.
Entry into the Clocktower will be granted in 7 minutes, 13 seconds, and 2 alternate echoes."
REN (tilting his head):
"I feel like that number makes sense until I think about it."
AETHERIUM CORE:
shellCopyEdit> LOCATION CONFIRMED: CLOCKTOWER OF SILENCE > STATUS: VERGE FRAGMENT LINK – PARTIAL > ACCESS REQUIRED: TEMPORAL IDENT CODE > ACQUISITION SUGGESTED: SPEAK TO 'THE FORGOTTEN MINUTE'
REN:
"The Forgotten Minute? That a guy, a place, or a badly named jazz band?"
Before anyone could answer—
a pulse shook the tower.
A tremor in the chrono-flow.
Everyone paused.
Every. Single. Person.
Even the air.
Even the light.
Only Ren and his allies moved.
GRAVITY (quietly):
"You've been marked.
Clocktower's watching."
SNARKSTEEL:
"Oh, perfect. Big Ben has opinions."
The AI blinked once.
Then turned to Ren.
CLOCKTOWER GUIDE AI:
"Your presence is no longer queued.
You are expected."
The massive doors to the Clocktower groaned open.
REN (dry):
"Cool. No pressure. I'm just walking into the heart of a time-worshipping death cathedral."
TIME (cheerfully):
"Say hi to my ex if you meet her!"