I open my eyes and stretch out all four limbs. I blink several times before rubbing my eyes.

I stare straight ahead at the ceiling. There are a few holes near the edges, and the paint is peeling from the humidity. A warm wind drifts through the window.

It’s hot.

Makes sense. After all, today is 03 Luxenor, 1874—a Friday. The days are sweltering, and at night, the rain pours in torrents.

The Imperial Calendar consists of ten months, each with 36 days, arranged according to the Emperor’s decree during the Third Era. That’s what we were taught in school.

I remember once seeing an old calendar among my father’s things. It was different. The numbers didn’t match. There was something strange about how the months were arranged, but at the time, I didn’t think much of it.

Probably just a printing error.

I climb down from my bunk and glance out the window. It’s already daylight. I always wake up before my alarm.

"It must be around seven. Paul probably already left. He’ll be back by three, most likely."

I look at my father’s watch.

"I could swear the hand moved slightly… hmm, I’m probably imagining it."

I inspect the watch again.

It’s an ordinary timepiece, but a stubborn one. Dark blue strap, hands with white tips and a light blue body. The glass is cracked on the left side. The lugs are intact.

And this damned thing is still stuck at 11:59.

It has been for a long time.

My father—Roman Veyne, the only son of the Veyne family—was a man of few words. I never met my grandparents, nor was I particularly interested in them.

People described him as being gentle with the weak, ruthless with the powerful.

But he wasn’t particularly powerful himself, at least not in the way others were.

I don’t know much about his history.

My knowledge of him starts only after he crossed paths with my mother.

Unlike my father, my mother—Selene Aldrose—was different from most women.

She was a fighter, a woman who stood by her beliefs and refused to let anyone walk over her.

She thought differently from others.

I suppose that’s why I think this way too.

After all, I take after her.

What am I even thinking about? I should just go eat breakfast and get ready to go shopping.

Ethan rubs the glass of the watch and sets it back on his desk.

"I’ll be back for you."

I prepare a simple breakfast—week-old bread and some watered-down coffee.

Today’s special touch comes courtesy of Miss Brown.

Last time I visited her shop, she gave me a can of tuna as a gift.

You might be reading a stolen copy. Visit Royal Road for the authentic version.

I spread it on the bread to make it feel a little less miserable.

Once I finish eating, I head to my room, grab my brown jacket, and pick up the watch.

"A blue watch… those have fallen out of fashion, I suppose. No one wears them anymore."

This model has no brand.

So I assume my father made it.

Something has been bothering me about it for a while—the words at the top:

"Clock of N..."

It’s old, so I’m not surprised that the engraving has worn off.

But it has none of my siblings’ initials, nor my mother’s.

Maybe it was meant for a customer, and the job was never completed.

With everything ready, I take a few shillings from the small box above the wardrobe and head out to buy groceries.

Stepping outside, I hear Gordon complaining to the tenants.

I don’t blame him.

I owe a week’s rent.

Some people here owe more than just time—they owe favors from the months they haven’t paid.

Poor Gordon.

I don’t really empathize with him, but… I do understand.

I’d hate to have a business where no one respects me.

Maybe it’s because he doesn’t look intimidating.

Maybe it’s because he doesn’t inspire fear.

May the Goddess Athiriel watch over him.

I step onto Veymont Street and take a look around.

People cross the sidewalks.

Children play with marbles.

A bard sings at the end of the road.

Shops are opening up.

"Looks like the butcher still hasn’t opened."

I head toward Solmire Street.

It’s ironic that a general as respected as Solmire has a street in such a miserable state.

I see people in all kinds of attire.

Some wear factory uniforms.

Others wear suits.

Some wear loose-fitting clothing.

A few wear designer garments—like proper gentlemen.

A suit costs around 15 shillings.

Rent is 10 shillings per month.

And that umbrella from yesterday cost two shillings, though that was an anomaly.

One day, I’ll own a suit like those men.

I walk until I reach the greengrocer’s shop.

Miss Claus is behind the counter.

"Morning, Ethan," she greets me.

"What do you mean by ‘morning,’ Miss Claus?"

She sighs. "You and your questions. It’s just a greeting, Ethan."

"I know. I’m just a little frustrated… How much for potatoes, carrots, sweet potatoes, onions, and greens?"

"The usual, right? Two potatoes, one carrot, half a sweet potato, an onion, and some greens… Seven pence, Ethan."

"Hmm, how come the prices haven’t gone up? I thought inflation was getting worse."

"Ever since His Lordship arrived, the economy has been stabilizing."

She’s not wrong, but… maybe…

I don’t finish the thought.

I hand over the payment.

"Here’s your money, Miss Claus. I’ll be heading home to drop this off before work."

"Take care, Ethan. And remember—your face is hard to read for strangers, but for those who know you, you’re an open book. I’d recommend working on your expressions."

"…"

I didn’t think I was that easy to read.

I’ll have to work on that.

"I’ll keep that in mind, Miss Claus."

On my way back, I hear the bard’s song.

"The Emperor Traed’s March."

I thought that song was banned.

Hmm.

I enter the apartment and leave my groceries behind.

On the table, I scribble a quick note for Paul.

"Paul, I’ll be back by 5 at the latest.

Remember to buy meat—the butcher hasn’t opened yet.

If you can, try to cut down your hours.

Don’t take double shifts.

You’re not alone, idiot.

With absolutely no affection,

Ethan."

I step back outside and glance up at the Imperial Tower.

Its massive clock looms overhead, as it always has.

Its hands never stop moving, as if they dictate the rhythm of the Empire itself.

I don’t know who built it.

All I know is that, somehow, its presence has always unsettled me.

"It’s 7:30."

The morning heat settles over the streets, clinging to my skin like an invisible sweat.

If the clouds don’t come, it’ll be another one of those days where the asphalt melts beneath your feet.

I sometimes wonder—if that clock ever stopped, would we still move?

Or would we simply freeze along with it?

As I reach Bracquemont Street, I see the collection of artisan shops and specialty stores slowly decaying.

Among them, one shop stands out—

Nararte Watchmakers.

The name decided by my father and his friend German.

He took us in and cared for us when my father died.

I approach the shop, but the weight of my bag feels heavier than it should.

My fingers tremble slightly as I try to open it.

And then—

TICK.

…Hmm?

The watch is ticking.

It’s marking 12:00.