A City Regressing in Time: London

After the debut of Meta Nature, while the rest of the world surged forward, one city—so old, yet so steeped in history—stepped away.

Not forward, not still, but backward.

Day by day, stone by stone, the years unraveled like thread from an old tapestry.

They say it has been a very, very long time since a child last gasped its first breath within the City of London.

No wails in the night, no new names to etch into history.

Not silence—absence.

All because of one person's selfish desires, centuries of progress had been halted—no, reversed, like water flowing uphill, like autumn leaves returning to their branches.

A legend, whispered from Weymouth to Month among those who still remained, told of a man. Not just any man, but one who had become more myth than mortal. A man who still lived somewhere in the city's twisted forgotten streets. A man whose hands gripped the very wheel of time—and with all his might, he was pushing it back:

One day at a time.

One year at a time.

One lifetime at a time.

The city of broken dreams.

The city of broken time.

London— where the past wasn't just remembered, but relived, over and over, in an endless cycle of temporal regression. Where history wasn't just preserved, but actively reclaiming its territory, brick by brick, Victorian brick.

Yet, though London regressed, not all of its people regressed with it. A few, very peculiar residents—Timeless and Ageless—still tried to move forward, resisting the weight of a city caught in its own past.

Morning arrived cloaked in gray, the rain pouring heavily as it had countless times before. But to the residents of London, it was nothing new. A mere expectation, woven into their lives like an inescapable rhythm. Rain was a common occurrence—no, a daily occurrence. It was relentless, inflexible, pressing the new day backward before it could properly begin.

The Storm of Time.

That was what the aristocrats whispered at their lavish parties, sipping golden champagne as they watched the downpour from behind crystal-clear windows.

But somewhere on the rain-slicked streets, far from the warmth of those gilded halls, a girl was running.

Elysia: "A young girl who dreamed in colors."

She clenched her fists, determination flickering in her eyes as she crossed the street, her boots splashing through shallow puddles. Her backpack secured tightly on her back. And when she reached a particularly large one, she leaped over it with all the resolve of someone leaping toward something greater than just dry pavement. And in the wake of her footsteps, something bloomed. A single flower, soft and delicate, sprouted from the concrete—only to vanish an instant later, swallowed back into the cold, unfeeling city. Elysia barely noticed. She dashed toward the sidewalk storefronts, her pace light, almost too cheerful for the dreary morning. But beneath that mask of brightness, something restless lurked.

A question. A fear she never spoke aloud.

If I stop dreaming, will I disappear?

The thought clung to her like a second skin.

And then there was another oddity about her, one most people failed to notice, or simply dismissed as a trick of the light.

She never blinked.

Not once.

Not ever.

The urgency of her current task had thrown her off her usual rhythm. The unexpected call had sent her running out the door, head full of thoughts, and she had forgotten—for the first time in forever—to carry her umbrella.

And in this city, in this endless storm, that was no small mistake.

Elysia moved swiftly, trying to keep her clothes from getting completely drenched before her important meeting. Her pace quickened as she darted under awnings and sheltered storefronts, but no matter how fast she moved, she couldn’t outrun the storm.

Somewhere else, in a forgotten corner of the city, another figure moved through the downpour.

A tall man walked with an easy, rugged posture—unhurried, unconcerned. His golden eyes gleamed beneath the dim light of streetlamps, and when he grinned, his sharp teeth caught the glow like a predator baring fangs.

His shadow was not his own.

Trailing behind him, shifting unnaturally against the rain-slicked cobblestone, was the outline of a great wolf.

Thorn, "The Laughing Hunter." A large umbrella rested in his grip, a stark contrast to the wild energy that clung to him. His footsteps were steady, deliberate, carrying him toward the heart of the city, toward the tallest clock tower that loomed over everything like an unblinking eye.

And elsewhere still, another presence arrived—a presence the city knew.

A luxurious carriage rolled to a smooth stop before the grandest building in the district. The curtains of its velvet-draped windows parted slightly, and from within, a slender, delicate hand emerged. Immediately, a man stationed at the entrance rushed forward. He took the offered hand with hesitant reverence, his breath catching in his throat. The fingers were cool, impossibly fragile. He trembled, afraid he might shatter them with the slightest pressure.

A beautiful human.

No. An elf. Lyriel, "The Glass Willow"—known by all in the city as the Elf of Shattered Beauty.

Her motto was whispered in the circles of the elite, in the quiet moments between polite conversations and careful observations:

"Perfection is a fragile thing. That is why I break so beautifully."

As she stepped out of the carriage, she finally released the man’s hand, her gaze as calm as the falling rain.

"Thank you," she said, her voice like the soft chime of crystal wind chimes.

The man—well into his fifties, a life hardened by time and work—still felt the faintest trace of embarrassment looking at her directly. There was something otherworldly about Lyriel, something that made people unsure whether to be in awe or in fear. Graceful yet distant, she carried herself with the weight of something unreachable. Her body—living glass. Ethereal. Flawless. But always fragile.

She could shatter into a thousand glittering shards and reform, each fracture leaving behind faint, iridescent scars. They weren’t wounds. They were reminders.

As she walked, her reflection in the rain-slicked streets lagged half a second behind her, as if her past self was still trying to catch up. Her silver-white hair cascaded down her back like liquid light, its strands catching the glow of lanterns and streetlamps. Her silver-white eyes held the same luminous quality, unreadable pools of depth and quiet devastation. Across her cheekbones, faint cracks shimmered, glowing softly whenever the darkness tried to consume her. Her gown—flowing, woven from moonlight and mist, embroidered with patterns of falling leaves. With every step, she left behind a faint trail of glass petals that dissolved before they could ever touch the ground.

The storm did not touch her.

Yet, these three—Elysia, Thorn, and Lyriel—weren’t even the main characters of the story. They were merely fragments of something larger, a piece of the grand puzzle that was London.

Inside the city, in the places unseen by ordinary eyes, gathered an assembly of people who defied simple explanations. The odd. The timeless. The forgotten.

And tonight, in a dimly lit conference hall, they had gathered.

The room was vast, its walls lined with towering bookshelves and chandeliers that cast shifting patterns of gold and shadow. The long, polished table at the center stretched across the room, each seat occupied by someone who could have stepped straight out of a fairy tale—or a nightmare.

At the far end of the table sat the Tooth Fairy.

Unlike the delicate, whimsical creature found in bedtime stories, this Tooth Fairy was a doctor by profession. A skilled surgeon, precise and methodical. But her hobbies? Far less conventional. She stole teeth from her patients. And not just their teeth—sometimes, she stole the expressions from their faces, leaving behind an eerie blankness in their wake. Tonight, she smiled, a wide, unsettling grin, her fingers lightly tapping against the table as she observed the others.

Beside her sat The Marionette Prince.

A young boy, thin and fragile-looking, no older than fifteen. But he was not human—at least, not entirely. His skin was smooth like polished off-white wood. His eyes blue and hair golden. A living doll. He sat unmoving, waiting patiently with empty glassy eyes.

Further down, Lady Symphony let out a huff of frustration, her fingers absently gliding over the violin resting in her lap. A self-proclaimed genius of music, young Lady Symphony had no interest in anything beyond her craft. Politics bored her. These meetings infuriated her. Every moment spent here was a moment stolen from her music. Her frown deepened. She was not happy to be here.

Finally, at the far end, oblivious to the noise around him, Elliot, The Man Who Remembers, was already writing. A thick book rested in his hands, a pen moving endlessly across its pages. He wrote without pause, without hesitation, recording everything—not just this meeting, but every meeting, every instance, every moment lost to time. Because in this city, time did not move as it should.

And Elliot was the only one who remembered everything before it was forgotten by the masses.

Then—

The doors creaked open.

All conversation halted instantly.

A single figure entered, an old man with an immaculate suit, a gloved hand adjusting the monocle on his right eye.

His steps were measured, deliberate. His presence commanded attention without demand. “Good morning, everyone,” he greeted, his voice warm, his smile too perfect, teeth shining bright.

(Undoubtedly the work of the Tooth Fairy—she had many customers wrapped around her fingers.)

“I hope my urgent call didn’t ruin your morning.”

Lady Symphony, without hesitation, lifted her violin and dragged the bow across the strings, creating a jarring, unpleasant screech that echoed through the chamber. Though she didn’t and couldn't speak, everyone understood her words.

The old man chuckled, unfazed. He stepped forward, pulled out the grand chair at the head of the table, and took his seat. “This,” Sir Heir repeated, his voice grave, “is a very urgent matter.”

Every single person in the room—every being that had long abandoned the constraints of time—immediately straightened at his words.

Because in this city, among these strange and ageless figures, time was their enemy.

Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.

They called themselves TimeKeepers.

The Constant Foundation.

Their purpose? To prevent London from regressing further, to stop the city from unraveling as its people de-aged with each passing day, slipping backward into nothingness.

“What happened?” Thorn, the wolf turned man, leaned forward, his golden eyes gleaming. “Did any of the Sheltered get attacked last night?”

“No,” Sir Heir shook his head slightly, his monocle glinting under the dim chandelier lights. “The problem is much more serious.”

Across the table, Dante let out an irritated growl. “Did the words get stuck in your old mouth?” he snapped, his patience already worn thin. “Say it quickly. I’ve got work to do.”

No one flinched at his rudeness. Dante was fire. He could walk through infernos, touch molten metal with his bare hands. His personality was no different—blunt, searing, impossible to ignore.

But Sir Heir wasn’t bothered. Instead, he exhaled and cut straight to the point. “Something is happening to the rest of the world,” he said, his voice ringing through the chamber. “It’s repeating itself upon a single day.”

A stunned silence fell over the room. A sharp inhale. A hushed gasp. A chair scraping backward. Some froze in place, their hands tightening over the table’s edge. Others sucked in cold air, eyes wide, mouths slightly open as their thoughts struggled to process the weight of what had just been spoken.

Even those who had long abandoned the illusion of time could feel the magnitude of the words.

The world—stuck in a loop.

One day, over and over again.

“…Say that again.”

The voice belonged to Virgil.

He sat unnaturally still, his shadow flickering despite the lack of wind. His fingers were locked together, his expression unreadable—but his eyes. His eyes were focused, waiting, demanding clarity.

Sir Heir met his gaze evenly and repeated: “The rest of the world is stuck in a single day.”

“How could that happen?” Lyriel asked, her voice as calm as ever, yet edged with polite skepticism. “An event of this magnitude… Are you certain? I find it very hard to believe something like this could simply happen.”

“I’m certain. Very certain, actually,” Sir Heir replied, meeting her gaze directly. He did not waver, did not lower his eyes in discomfort as others often did when facing The Glass Willow.

For a moment, Lyriel studied him, her silver-white eyes reflective, calculating. She did not press further, but the doubt remained in the way her delicate fingers tapped lightly against the polished surface of the table.

“Do we know the reason? Who’s causing it?” a voice from the other end of the table inquired.

Sir Heir exhaled, clasping his hands together in front of him. “Not yet.” His tone was even, but the weight of those words was undeniable. “That is why I have called Mr. Seer to this meeting today.”

He turned slightly, gesturing toward the man seated in the dim light—a figure draped in a long trench coat, his wide-brimmed hat casting a deep shadow over his face. Resting against the table was his cane, its polished handle inlaid with swirling silver patterns that mimicked constellations. And on his wrist, a pendulum. A shimmering delicate crystal. But it was no mere decoration. A tool, perhaps, for scrying, divination, or intercepting mystical knowledge.

“Mr. Seer,” Sir Heir continued, “would you care to explain the situation to the rest of the council?”

A hush settled over the room as all eyes turned toward the man with the star-kissed cane.

“Certainly,” Mr. Seer said, clearing his throat. His voice was smooth yet weighted with something unreadable.

Reaching into his coat pocket, he retrieved an old, weathered map. The parchment, aged and brittle, unfurled with slow deliberation, revealing a sprawling web of constellations. Some recognizable, others unfamiliar—shifting, rearranging themselves in unnatural patterns, as if the stars themselves were in flux.

He traced a gloved finger over a particular set of celestial bodies, his pendulum swaying slightly with the movement. “You see,” he began, “both the spirit world and the astral realm have been in a state of great turmoil recently.”

A pause.

The room remained silent and listened.

No one interrupted.

…

…

…

“You will each be handed a special suitcase,” Sir Heir announced, his voice even but carrying undeniable authority. “Inside, you will find devices designed by Mr. Camera. These devices will prevent you from forgetting that the day is repeating.”

Another murmur swept through the group.

Sir Heir clasped his hands together and pressed forward. “Your mission is simple. Each of you will use your own methods—observe, infiltrate, manipulate, or confront. However you choose to proceed is up to you. But the goal remains the same.”

His monocle caught the candlelight as he leaned slightly forward. “Confirm the cause of the loop. Make sure we have the right person. And above all, determine how to stop it.”

His voice dropped, the weight of his words anchoring deep into the minds of those present. “If we succeed,” he continued, “this might not only help the world escape its cycle—it might finally allow us to halt London’s regression forever.”

The room was once again utterly silent.

“Let us begin.”

----------------------------------------

I was on my way to the academy, utterly baffled and on the verge of ripping my hair out. I hadn’t just checked my phone—I had checked my aunt’s phone, scoured the web, everything—just to make sure I wasn’t hallucinating or caught in some elaborate prank by a meta. But as the rain kept falling, relentless and unchanging, I knew the truth. The day was still yesterday. I took a deep breath, adjusting my grip on the battered umbrella I had patched up with tape. My pockets were empty—not a single coin to my name—but if time was truly repeating, it wouldn’t matter. Hell, I could win a billion dollars today, and by tomorrow, it would all reset like none of it ever happened.

Let’s wait and see…

I decided.

When I had all the time in the world so there was no need to freak out.

Like yesterday, I took the bus to the academy, and—just as I had feared—the same boring lecture repeated itself. At least my clothes weren’t soaked this time. Small victories. But then, just like before, the nameless background boy—the slave to his own habits—threw a crumpled ball of paper at me. This time, I caught it mid-air with ease and tossed it right back at him, flashing a smile. The boy looked utterly confused. His two lackeys stared at me like I had just rewritten the laws of the universe. I smirked to myself. Oh, you poor idiot.

If this day was doomed to repeat itself, I needed to find ways to keep myself entertained. And messing with him? That was now priority one.

Later, after class, Alex once again cornered me about his offer for the semester party in three days.

This time, I agreed without hesitation.

“By the way,” I said as he was about to leave, “do you want to grab lunch?”

Alex paused mid-step, considering. “Hmm… where?”

What do you mean where? Did he think I had some grand meal plan? I was broke. Obviously, the answer was the cheapest place possible.

“Student cafeteria,” I shrugged.

“Sure,” Alex agreed, then—without warning—slung his arm over my shoulder, shifting almost his full weight onto me as we walked.

I grunted under the unexpected burden but didn’t shake him off.

At the cafeteria, I grabbed a big slice of cheese pizza—cheap, only two dollars. Alex, on the other hand, piled his plate with meat and veggies like he hadn’t eaten in days. It was only when we finally sat down at a table that I realized… damn, this guy really eats a lot.

“So, what do you think about the academy?” Alex asked, glancing at me between bites. “Are you enjoying it?”

I let my pizza slice hang half out of my mouth before answering. “Kind of,” I mumbled, chewing before swallowing.

“Half the city dreams of getting into this place, and I got a free ride,” I said, my tone thoughtful—though, obviously, half-lying. “Why wouldn’t I enjoy it?”

Alex grinned as he bit through an entire chicken leg in one go. “I mean, someone’s always trying to mess with you,” he pointed out, licking the grease off his fingers. “You’re not exactly powerful, and you never try to defend yourself. So, of course, the troubled kids pick on you more than others.”

“True,” I hummed, poking at my plate. “But I just don’t want to get into unnecessary trouble. A lot of the students here come from big families, important backgrounds. Who knows what kind of power plays they’ve got going on behind the scenes? And my parents, well… I come from a normal family. No impressive lineage. My meta itself isn’t all that helpful most of the time.”

I sighed, leaning back. “It’s just four years. I think I’ll manage somehow.”

Alex’s expression darkened. With a sharp flick of his wrist, he tossed the cleaned-off chicken bone onto his plate, the motion carrying more frustration than necessary.

“Why are you saying bullshit like that?” he snapped.

I blinked at him, caught off guard.

“Who said you can’t fight back?” he continued, his gaze locked onto me. “You just need to surround yourself with the right people. Who cares if your meta isn’t flashy? Well… it’s not useless if you were automatically selected based on it.”

He leaned in slightly, his tone intensifying. “I heard about a senior in third year, he was in the same boat as you—dude had a meta so insignificant it barely got noticed. All he could do was adjust his surroundings temperature to match his own body temperature.”

I frowned. “And?”

Alex smirked. “And the last I heard? He’s on an actual mission to terraform a planet. The government needed him to cool down an entire fucking planet. Would you believe that? A ‘useless’ meta turning into a straight-up blessing?”

I sat there, processing his words.

“There are a lot of stories like that in this academy,” Alex went on. “If you just made a few more friends, you’d hear them. So, quit acting like your meta is some kind of dead weight.” He leaned back, crossing his arms. “I’m sure it’s a blessing in disguise.”

Alex slammed his hand onto my shoulder, and I winced, wondering how someone who could act so smart sometimes could also be so damn reckless.

"You need to loosen up," he said, grinning. "You're always so tense."

"And you're always too careless," I shot back, rubbing my shoulder. "One of these days, you're gonna break something—probably me."

Alex laughed and waved me off. "You're tougher than you look."

We ate quietly for the next fifteen minutes, trading bits of conversation between bites.

"You finish the calc homework?" I asked absently, nudging a piece of food across my plate.

"Define 'finish,'" Alex muttered.

I sighed. "You didn't do it."

"I'll copy yours before class."

"No, you won't."

"Sure, I will."

"Not if you want to live."

He snorted but didn't argue further. Before we could drift into another mundane topic, a sudden commotion erupted in the hallway. The cafeteria doors swung open violently as a few students came barreling in like bulls charging into a fight. They grabbed trays, piling food onto their plates while talking over one another in loud, excited voices.

“What the hell’s going on now?” Alex asked, his head swiveling toward the chaos.

I shrugged, but we both perked up as snippets of conversation reached us.

"Did you hear? Neo challenged Davien and every other system meta user in the academy to fight him—anyone who dares to take him on!"

"No, you’ve got it wrong," another student interjected, shaking his head. "He’s calling for a full-on competition between all the system metas in the academy—to finally create an official ranking of who’s the most powerful!"

Someone scoffed. "They both belong to the System Meta category. What are they even trying to prove? We all know how they fight and what kind of skills they have."

Another student snickered, shaking his head. "If you’re stupid, just say so. System users don’t just fight with raw skill—they have stats, actual numbers on their hands that track their strength. Their stats go up and down based on ranking and power."

He leaned in, lowering his voice slightly as more students gathered. "You realize how many system users we have in the academy, right? Most of them are the best this city has to offer. There’s barely anyone outside of this place with higher stats than them. So if they’re going all out, the challenge is on another level."

"So, what you’re saying is… they’re in cahoots? Creating this whole commotion just to grind and level up?"

"Yeah," the boy nodded thoughtfully. "Probably. It’s most likely just a game to them."

"A game that could turn the whole academy upside down," someone else muttered.

I shifted my attention back to the last bite of my pizza, barely sparing the conversation another glance.

Alex turned to me, eyes gleaming with excitement. "This is gonna be insane."

His grin was wide, like a man standing at the edge of a storm, ready to throw himself into the chaos without hesitation.

I didn’t respond.

Something inside me twisted, a familiar pull that I could never quite shake.

Another fracture in the timeline.

I chewed my food slowly, barely tasting it, my thoughts heavy, tangled. The conversation around me blurred into background noise, distant and unimportant. The world was unraveling more and more, cracks that splintered through the foundation.

Yet, a quiet, aching sense of emptiness gnawed at me.

A sense of loss.

Of emptiness.

It was subtle at first—a whisper in the back of my mind, an echo of something I couldn’t quite grasp. But the more I ignored it, the stronger it grew, sinking into my bones, weighing down my every breath.

I was missing something.

Or maybe...

A certain someone who shouldn’t be there in the first place.