——When Cores Collide
June 6, 2031
8:15 AM
The school gates loomed before Shawn like the rusted jaws of some ancient beast.
Wrought-iron bars glistened with morning dew, droplets clinging like saliva at the edge of a hungry maw.
Shawn shifted his backpack strap. The dormant Thunder Core pressed cold and heavy against his chest.
Three days had passed since he'd returned from the capital. Yet Elder Lee's parting words still coiled through his thoughts like smoke:
"There won't be a storm."
What should have been reassurance now lingered like the hush before a hurricane.
A familiar scent cut through the crisp autumn air—sandalwood and something burnt.
Shawn turned.
Dan emerged from the student swarm. His usual varsity jacket was gone, replaced by a tailored blazer that looked absurdly out of place.
But it wasn't the clothes that made Shawn's breath catch.
It was the pendant hanging at Dan's throat.
A Fire Core—no doubt about it. It pulsed with a deep red glow, like a hot coal sealed inside translucent stone. The casing wasn't metal, but jade meteorite—dark, streaked with veins of crimson. Etched across its surface was the outline of a wild pheasant, wings flared mid-flight.
Dan smirked. "Nervous, superstar?"
He tapped the pendant with deliberate ease. Heat shimmered in the air between them, faint but unmistakable.
"Don't worry," he added, his gaze steady. "We'll make today memorable."
A sound rose behind Shawn—Judy humming "Brother, Can You Spare a Dime?" in a haunting, watery vibrato.
Her usual neat braids had unraveled into loose waves, drifting around her shoulders with an unnatural grace, as if her hair were moving through water rather than air.
The Water Core at her throat shimmered faintly. Its casing—smooth jade—caught the light like liquid glass, etched with the outline of a wild boar mid-charge.
A cold weight settled in Shawn's gut. They have Elemental Cores too?
His fingers twitched toward the pendant hidden beneath his shirt.
But the Thunder Core remained inert. Not just quiet—empty. As if its usual electric hum had been hollowed out, replaced by silence.
The feeling reminded him of waking from a nightmare—limbs heavy, breath caught, mind unable to move.
8:30 AM - Examination Hall
The hall smelled of industrial-strength cleaner and adolescent anxiety.
Shawn took his assigned seat by the left window. Instinctively, he noted the positioning—
Dan to his right.
Judy directly behind.
A perfect triangle. And he was the apex.
At the front of the room, Mr. Rook loomed like a misplaced relic—thick glasses slipping down his nose, gray hair in a permanent state of disarray, and a sweater vest that might've once been ironic but now just looked tired.
There was something almost comical about him, like a cartoon owl forced into human form. But the severity in his eyes cut through the absurdity.
This was a man who could detect cheating with sonar.
9:00 AM - Language Arts Exam
The test booklet crackled as Shawn turned the first page.
Question 1:
"Compare pre-WWII economic collapse narratives to post-economic literature, with particular attention to cyclical motifs."
His pen hovered.
Normally, the Thunder Core would whisper connections to him.
Today—only static.
Broken by occasional bursts of what sounded like… old radio broadcasts?
A sizzling sound pulled his attention rightward.
Dan was writing. The Fire Core's glow intensified with every word. Heat radiated from his desk, making the air shimmer—warping Shawn's view of his own test.
Behind him, gentle sloshing.
Through the window's reflection, Shawn saw Judy's Water Core pulse. Ink flowed upward from her pen—defying gravity—forming perfect characters that rearranged mid-sentence.
They weren't just cheating.
Their Cores were feeding them answers.
An intimacy Shawn had never achieved with his own Core.
Ice water flooded his veins.
10:15 AM
Dan was the first to finish.
SLAM—
His test booklet hit the desk with unnecessary force. Several students flinched.
He strode forward, the Fire Core pulsing like a racing heart. Its afterimages burned into Shawn's vision.
As Dan passed Shawn's desk, he dragged his fingers across the surface.
The laminate bubbled and warped instantly, molten plastic branding a message into existence:
THEY REMEMBER 1931.
Judy followed.
Droplets trailed from her pendant, darkening the exam sheet. One expanded—shimmering—before evaporating, revealing elegant cursive:
THIS TIME, WE CONTROL THE RESET.
Shawn's hands trembled.
The Thunder Core stayed silent.
But something deeper stirred.
An instinct older than the pendant itself.
Something that recognized this for what it truly was—
A declaration of war.
11:00 AM
The exam bell rang.The first exam is over.
Relief should have followed.
It didn't.
Instead, the Thunder Core stirred—three sharp pulses, the first reaction all morning.
11:05 AM
Sunlight filtered through the schoolyard trees, dappling the ground in gold.
Everything looked normal. Peaceful. Safe.
And then—
A scream pierced the calm.
Dan stood atop a concrete bench, arms outstretched in mock benediction.
The Fire Core at his throat flared to life. Flames erupted around his head, radiating outward with a hiss—like a predator exhaling hot breath before the strike.
Students recoiled, their cries caught in their throats. Chaos bloomed like wildfire.
Judy stepped forward with eerie composure, untouched by the panic swarming around her.
Her Water Core surged, glowing beneath her collar. Behind her, the decorative fountain exploded into shards, and from the ruins rose a dome of water—fluid, shimmering.
"AGI-ST will reshape history," she said, her voice layered with ghostly echoes, as if others were speaking through her—other versions of her, from other times.
Droplets suspended in midair began to harden, forming crystalline icicles that spun and aligned with terrifying precision. Each shard mirrored the chaos unfolding around them.
"The great moment is coming."
The icicles pointed—toward Shawn.
"No one can stop it. Look—the countdown has begun."
High above, the quartz clock tower flared to life.
Its hands spun violently as glowing blood-red numbers etched across its face:
2031.07.01 | 24D | 03:15:23
Shawn's chest tightened.
They didn't just know about the loop.
They planned to trigger it.
A sudden grip clamped down on his arm.
Rook.
The old proctor stood tall amidst the pandemonium, coat whipping in the wind.
In one weathered hand, he flipped open a brass pocket watch, its face engraved with two dates:
1931 — 2031.
"They think repeating 1931 will save them," Rook growled. "But they don't understand—"It'll doom us all."
He met Shawn's eyes, voice low and bitter.
"The Conclave doesn't want to stop it. They want to own it."
Shawn opened his mouth to ask, "What Conclave?"
But before the words could leave his lips, a fireball screamed toward them.
He didn't think—he moved.
Shoved Rook out of the way and dove behind a stone planter as heat roared past. The acrid scent of burning hair curled in the air.
From somewhere behind, Rook shouted over the din:
"The clock tower! Last time—it was the clock! That's how they started the reset!"
Shawn looked up.
The tower's hands spun faster now. Roman numerals warped and melted like wax in a furnace.
Another blast—closer.
Dan's flames surged forward.
No time.
Shawn lunged, yanked Judy into the path.
Water met fire.
The explosion of steam split the air with a deafening crack. The ground shook. Windows shattered inward.
Students scattered like dry leaves ripped from branches.
The Thunder Core finally woke.
Lightning tore the sky open, raw and ragged, like something screaming through the heavens.
And in that moment, Shawn understood:
The storm wasn't coming.
It had already arrived.