The Progenitor
Chapter 1: The Written Future
The rain poured relentlessly, drumming against the cobblestone streets of Luminae City. The air smelled of damp stone and distant fire, as if the world itself teetered on the brink of combustion. Arthur trudged through the narrow alleyways, his boots splashing in shallow puddles, the weight of exhaustion pressing on his shoulders. A torn satchel hung at his side, its contents—a peculiar leather-bound journal—secured tightly against his chest.
The journal had appeared two days ago.
Arthur hadn't bought it. He hadn't found it. No one had given it to him. It had simply… appeared.
The first time he'd opened it, he'd dismissed it as some odd prank. Its pages were filled with dense, cryptic text—too detailed, too personal to be random. It described his life. The streets he walked, the food he ate, even his private thoughts. Every mundane moment was accounted for, up until one crucial event.
The journal ended abruptly with the phrase:
"At the stroke of midnight, he will die."
Now, as midnight approached, Arthur's heartbeat quickened with every step. He hadn't told anyone—not his estranged sister, not his old comrades, no one. A part of him wanted to dismiss it as nonsense, but another part, the part that had always believed in omens and curses, wouldn't let him.
Ahead, the faint glow of a lamppost illuminated the square. At its center stood an old clock tower, its hands nearing twelve. Arthur gritted his teeth and kept walking, trying to silence the voice in his head whispering: Turn back. Leave this place. Save yourself.
He reached the base of the tower and leaned against its cold, worn stone, his breaths shallow and rapid. The square was empty except for the rain, but his eyes scanned the shadows anyway. The journal had warned him of his death, but it hadn't said how.
That was when he heard it.
A faint scraping noise, like steel dragging across stone. Arthur froze, his hand instinctively reaching for the small dagger strapped to his belt. The sound grew louder, echoing off the narrow alleys around him.
"Who's there?" he called out, his voice trembling despite his attempt at confidence.
No answer.
Then, a figure emerged from the darkness—a man cloaked in tattered black robes, his face obscured by a hood. In one hand, he held a long, jagged blade that gleamed even in the dim light. The other hand clutched a piece of parchment.
Arthur's stomach twisted. The parchment was identical to the pages in his journal.
"You've come," the figure said, his voice low and gravelly. "As expected."
Arthur gripped his dagger tighter. "Who are you? What do you want?"
The figure tilted his head slightly, as if amused. "It's not a question of who I am, Arthur. The real question is… who are you?"
Before Arthur could respond, the figure tossed the parchment into the air. It disintegrated in a burst of black flames, and the world around him shifted. The rain stopped mid-fall, droplets suspended in the air like tiny glass beads. The clock tower froze, its hands inches away from midnight.
Arthur stumbled backward, his head spinning. "What is this?"
"This," the figure said, stepping closer, "is where the story begins."
As the man drew back his hood, Arthur's breath caught in his throat. The face staring back at him was his own—but older, scarred, and twisted with malice.
"You…" Arthur whispered, his voice barely audible.
The figure smiled, his eyes gleaming with an unsettling light. "Yes, Arthur. I'm you. Or rather, the you that you'll become. And I've come to ensure that you fulfill your destiny."
Arthur's dagger slipped from his grasp, clattering to the ground. His mind raced, struggling to comprehend the impossible. "This has to be a trick. Some kind of illusion—"
"It's no illusion," the older Arthur interrupted, his tone cold and final. "You've always wondered about the purpose of your life, haven't you? Why you've been guided to certain places, certain people. Why everything feels… orchestrated. That's because it is. I've been guiding you, Arthur. Every step, every decision, every mistake—it's all been me."
The younger Arthur shook his head, backing away. "No. No, you're lying."
The older Arthur raised a hand, and the journal at Arthur's side flew into his grasp as if drawn by an invisible force. He opened it to a blank page, then snapped his fingers. Words began to etch themselves onto the parchment, lines forming as if an invisible pen were writing them.
Arthur watched in horror as the new text described the exact conversation they were having—word for word.
"This can't be real," Arthur murmured, his voice cracking.
"It's as real as you make it," the older Arthur said, tossing the journal back to him. "You see, I've already written your future. And trust me, it's not as pleasant as you'd hope."
The clock began to tick again, its hands moving inexorably toward midnight.
The older Arthur turned away, stepping back into the shadows. "I'll leave you with a choice, Arthur. Fight your fate and suffer, or embrace it and ascend. Either way, the end has already been written."
As the clock struck twelve, the world shattered. The rain fell again, the suspended droplets crashing to the ground. The older Arthur was gone, leaving the younger one standing alone in the square, clutching the journal.
But the last page of the journal had changed.
It now read:
"This is only the beginning."
Arthur stared at the words, his heart pounding. He didn't know what terrified him more—the impossible events he'd just witnessed, or the dark truth they hinted at.
The future wasn't just coming. It was him.