Web of Timelines

They had loved the same woman. In every timeline, in every version of the world Asahi clawed his way through, that singular truth remained unchanged.

Aiko.

She was the thread that wove their fates together – Asahi's anchor, Haruto’s ghost.

Even when Haruto took lovers in timelines where Aiko no longer existed, he couldn't escape her. He would stare into his partner’s face during intercourse, eyes wide with delirium. In the curve of a cheek, the soft gasp of breath, the arch of a spine — he searched for her. Only when her name filled his head could he be pleased.

Because she had been his wife. In another life. In a past that never truly passed.

And though he never told her in those timelines, in one fractured reality, they had lived together, married in the middle of a ruined world, Aiko’s voice the only thing that tethered Haruto to sanity.

She’d whispered once: “Even if the world ends, I’ll be here. Say goodbye only if you really mean it."

But Haruto never did.

But she had been consumed by the Veil. The sky cracked open and swallowed her up without a second though. She had now disappeared from every single timeline.

For Asahi, this was it. The end.

Days passed without definition. Memories tangled like roots around his throat.

His mind dissolved at the edge of existence. He came close to death. Close to surrender.

And then, he appeared.

A masked figure cloaked in dull gold and black stepped from the darkness.

He spoke not with words, but with understanding. Asahi blinked — and suddenly knew where to go. The Archivists. The ones who remembered what the world had chosen to forget.

Among the Archivists, Asahi found records that tore his mind open.

It was Haruto who had killed Ren in that timeline. It was Haruto who performed the ritual wrong. And it was Asahi’s death — his fall into the Veil — that allowed him to slip through time and awaken in a timeline not his own.

He should not have been there. And yet — here he was.

But the Archivists were passive. They studied. Observed. Watched. They refused to interfere.

Asahi needed more than knowledge. He needed a way back.

So he lied.

He crafted a new cause, a purpose that would hide his true goal beneath noble language. He formed The Order — a brotherhood sworn to prevent the world's collapse.

He promised salvation.

But what he sought… was resurrection.

Aiko’s.

Flashback

Warm sunlight spilled through the curtains, casting golden streaks across the wooden floor. The scent of coffee lingered in the air, mingling with the faint trace of paint and old books.

A voice — soft, teasing — broke the silence.

“Asahi, you’re spacing out again.”

He turned.

She was there.

Aiko.

Her amber eyes shimmered, full of quiet laughter, and for a moment he couldn’t breathe.

He choked on nothing. His chest constricted.

“Oh… what’s wrong? Are you okay? Here, drink some.”

She held out a chipped mug — the one she always meant to replace, but never did.

He took it with trembling fingers. The heat of the ceramic grounded him, barely. He stared at her, trying to memorize the way the light caught her hair, the motion of her fingers as she stirred.

“You always do that when you’re thinking too hard,” she said, smiling.

His eyes swelled. Everything he had buried rose to the surface. Grief. Guilt. The monstrous, gaping want.

He wanted to tell her — about the timelines, the loss, the deaths, the way her laughter still echoed after centuries of silence.

But something shifted.

The sunlight dimmed.

The warmth faded.

Her smile grew distant.

Like light slipping beneath the ocean.

“No — wait!” he gasped.

He reached for her.

But she was too far gone.

Another flashback.

A park.

Dusk sky overhead.

Aiko’s arms were outstretched, spinning among the pigeons that flapped around her.

“They’re just like us, Asahi,” she laughed. “Scattered, restless… but still searching for something.”

He had smiled then, truly.

He never told her what he saw in that moment:

That she was the center of his searching.

He never said goodbye.

Because he didn’t want it to be real.

But the truth was inescapable:

The ritual demanded loss.

And Asahi — even after everything — still couldn’t accept that she was gone.

In the present, the world was ending.

The sky above was cracked and bleeding light. Trees stood like skeletons. Rivers ran black. Wind howled with voices from beyond.

And in the middle of it all, stood Ren.

Small. Alone. Mute.

His hands were stained with color — trying to paint the world back into place, one stroke at a time.

But his paints were drying.

His canvas: breaking apart.

He looked up at the sky and whispered without words:

"Aiko… Asahi… Haruto…"

He was the last one left.

And the world was giving its last goodbye.