CHAPTER 15 - 15 – EX-CHRONIST (PART 1)

Chapter 15 – Ex-Chronist (Part 1)

After that day, Jack resumed his classes as usual, without encountering any problems. On the surface, life moved on, but internally, he spent much of his time thinking about what he needed to do when The Skip finally occurred. No matter how many plans he came up with, he knew he had barely scratched the surface.

'This world... It's the size of the solar system.' The very idea still baffled him. 'The fact it hasn't collapsed in on itself is impressive in its own right. Maybe The Clock is somehow holding everything together in a stable state.'

Each region alone was the size of an entire planet. Just thinking about the scope of it all made Jack feel impossibly small. Whether he liked it or not, he would have to rely on luck to survive.

To clear his mind, he pulled out some empty sheets of paper and started sketching—random drawings of the places he imagined he might see.

Lune, who had been quietly listening to the lecture, noticed the movement beside her.

"You're drawing, Jack?" she asked, peeking curiously.

"Yeah."

He was sketching a vast plain, with a chain of jagged mountains rising far in the distance. His hand moved fluidly across the page, each stroke controlled, confident. He hadn't lost his touch.

"I haven't seen you draw in ages," Lune said, her eyes lighting up with nostalgia. "You used to paint me sometimes, remember? I'd pose for you."

"...Is that so?"

"Mhm. And they were really nice paintings. But you never seemed happy with them."

"Why not?"

"You'd always say you couldn't even capture one percent of how I looked, so you thought the paintings weren't good enough."

Jack paused, staring at her with a deadpan look. "I said that?"

"You did. And you looked really upset about it too. I had to spend the rest of the day cheering you up. Hehe... good old days." She smiled, but there was a subtle bitterness mixed into her warmth. A longing for something lost.

Jack had no words. He couldn't reconcile this version of himself with who he was now. The difference was staggering. 'Does getting married really change someone this much?'

He couldn't say. He'd never even had a romantic interaction before. Still, a small part of him was... curious. About what it felt like.

"So," Lune said softly, "will you draw me again, someday? Please?" She looked at him with those wide, pleading puppy eyes—an expression so disarming that even the coldest hearts would've caved.

"..."

"Jack?"

"I'll think about it."

"Yay! Thank you!"

"I said I'll think about it. I didn't say I'll do it."

"Hm? Oh, that's just your usual way of saying yes," she replied with a grin. "You rarely say it directly."

"..."

The last two classes of the day ended at around 4:00 PM. The final bell rang, but none of the students moved to leave. Their teacher remained at the front, waiting.

"I have an announcement before you go," he said. "Today, for this class, we have someone very special joining us to talk about The Skip."

"Someone special?"

"Who is it?"

Questions immediately rippled across the room.

"Yes, very special," the teacher continued, his tone growing more serious. "The one who will conduct this lesson is an Ex-Chronist. Someone who was Skipped three generations ago."

The moment Jack heard that, his eyes sharpened. 'An Ex-Chronist, huh? That's... interesting.'

Around him, the rest of the class erupted in a mix of murmurs and gasps.

"A Chronist? Someone actually agreed to speak?"

"That's rare. Most of them avoid the media like the plague."

"Really? I thought some were like celebrities."

"Those are different cases entirely."

"Quiet, please," the teacher interjected. "Mr. Shane Farlia has graciously accepted to speak with us today. But I want to make something very clear. Most Ex-Chronists give up that title because of severe trauma. What they saw during The Skip... most of it is unimaginable. So please, be respectful and understanding."

The room went silent.

'Not surprising,' Jack mused. 'Everyone knows most Chronists never return to Aevum. PTSD, mental breakdowns, or permanent injuries... It makes sense why the info we have on The Skip is so vague. No one wants to relive it.'

"Now, please welcome Mr. Shane Farlia."

At those words, the classroom door opened.

A man stepped in—middle-aged, though he looked older. Long white streaks ran through his hair, and deep wrinkles lined his weary face. His entire presence exuded fatigue. A heavy, invisible weight seemed to hang over him.

"Good evening, everyone," he said in a hoarse, worn-out voice. "Thank you for having me today."

'He looks like he's about to keel over,' Jack thought, narrowing his eyes.

"Please, take my podium, Mr. Shane," the teacher offered, stepping aside.

The man nodded and moved to the front of the room. He stood still for a moment, then took a deep breath.

"Before I begin," he said, his gaze lowered, "I want to share something with you all. I've struggled with this decision for years. Every night, it gnawed at my mind. Should I speak and relive the memories—or should I stay silent, like most do, and live a normal life?"

He looked up. There was fear in his eyes.

"I couldn't live with myself," he said. "Not after what I saw. Not when I know others might walk the same path. I've seen too many people get Skipped... and never come back. If there's even a small chance that sharing my experience helps someone survive... then it's worth it."

A heavy silence fell over the room. No one dared to speak. The weight of his words crushed any urge to respond.

"I'd like to spend this first lesson just telling you about myself and my experience. In the coming days, we'll dive deeper into the details. Any questions before I start?"

The room remained still. Not a single hand went up. The students' uncomfortable expressions said everything—they didn't have the strength to speak.

"No questions? Then I'll begin."

He adjusted his stance slightly.

"As Mr. Oliver mentioned, I was Skipped almost 30 years ago. My generation of Chronists was unique—mainly because of how many of us were sent. Typically, the number doesn't exceed 100 million. But in my cycle... over 300 million were Skipped."

''The Populous Generation'', Jack recalled. 'That's what they called it. I remember reading about that. But strangely, there's very little public information about what actually happened. Maybe this is why...'

"We were sent to a particularly harsh region of the outside world," Shane continued, his voice turning cold. "The locals called it The Hanging Pearl Deserts. Imagine vast deserts suspended in the air, each one linked to the next by massive, never-ending sandstorms that kept them connected with their pulling force. The climate... it was hellish."

His hands trembled slightly, but he kept going.

"I still remember the moment I arrived. My skin started burning instantly. The sand underfoot would melt during the peak hours, turning into molten glass. That's where the 'pearl' part of the name comes from. From a distance, it looked like the desert sparkled with countless pearls. But in reality... it was molten glass born from unbearable heat."

The vivid descriptions sent chills down everyone's spine and made them go pale visibly. Many of them had already heard morbid details about Aevum from their families and the Chronists they knew. But, even then, every time they hear about something new, they would feel an incessant fear of this world.

"It was chaos. We were burning alive, unable to even walk on the sand because our shoes would melt... And on the very first day there. Fifty million met their end."