Time is immemorial, a vague whisper in the vast reaches of the cosmos. Those who lay claim to mastery over it, even the greatest of beings, are no more than children playing in a field of endless stars. Time flows, it pauses, and it repeats. But there is only one who can say that he has seen every corner of its infinite currents: the Time-Smith.
He is ancient, older than galaxies, crafted by the primordial elements themselves. He was born not of flesh, but of the raw essence of existence. Fire, Earth, Water, and Air—the great forces that had shaped the universe—had also shaped him. Yet in their act of creation, they bestowed upon him a gift, and a curse. The Time-Smith, in his unparalleled mastery, understood everything. How stars were born and died. How planets formed, how life bloomed and withered, how the vast emptiness between worlds teemed with mysteries beyond mortal comprehension. But unlike those he created, unlike the fragile beings that clung to the planets he shaped, he could not escape the crushing weight of his knowledge.
The Time-Smith stood at the edge of a dying sun, the embers of its final light flickering in his pale, hollow eyes. He had seen it all before. Stars lived. Stars died. Everything was a cycle, and he was its watchman. The forge of time, which he had once wielded with pride, now lay cold. He had crafted it long ago from the heart of a collapsed star, merging it with the breath of eternity. It had once hummed with purpose as he sculpted the universe's wonders. But now, it too seemed tired, as if reflecting the weariness of its master.
With each new creation, the Time-Smith had sought something more—a flicker of novelty, a spark of unpredictability. He created worlds of endless beauty, of thriving life forms, of complex societies and intricate systems. He made creatures that lived for mere moments and others that lived for aeons. He forged civilizations that rose to dizzying heights of enlightenment, only to crumble into dust.
Yet, no matter what he created, no matter how intricate or varied, it was all predictable to him. He saw the end in the beginning, the fall in the rise. His creations, beautiful as they were, could never surprise him. They followed the laws he had woven into the fabric of existence. The laws that governed all things but him.
The question haunted him, an eternal echo in the silence of his thoughts: What does a being who knows everything do?
He had pondered this question for eternity. The life forms he created, though inferior in power and understanding, lived in blissful ignorance. They experienced joy, fear, love, and sorrow, all because they did not know what lay ahead. They could hope, dream, and aspire. The Time-Smith, on the other hand, knew the end of every path before he even took the first step.
In his loneliness, he had once tried to live among them, disguising himself as one of his own creations. He walked their streets, felt the warmth of their sun, and tried to immerse himself in their limited existence. But the knowledge within him was like a burning ember that could not be extinguished. He could not unsee the truth. He could not erase his own knowledge of the future. Every action, every word, every relationship was weighed down by the certainty of its conclusion. In the end, he always returned to the cold, empty reaches of space, to the solitude that mirrored his own mind.
One day, while wandering the cosmic void, the Time-Smith encountered something he had never seen before: a rift in the fabric of time itself. It shimmered, pulsing with an energy that defied his understanding. He approached it cautiously, his once-dormant forge humming softly to life at his side.
The rift was unlike anything he had ever created, anything he had ever known. It was chaos, a break in the order he had so carefully constructed. As he gazed into it, for the first time in eternity, he felt something stir within him: uncertainty.
It was a small thing at first, a whisper at the back of his mind. But it grew, blossoming into something he had long forgotten: curiosity.
Without hesitation, he stepped into the rift.
On the other side, he found a universe unlike his own. The elements here danced in wild, unpredictable patterns. Stars were born in flashes of colors he had never seen, and time itself twisted and bent in ways that defied all his laws. Here, in this strange new universe, he felt something he had thought lost to him forever: wonder.
The Time-Smith smiled for the first time in eons.
In this new place, he could not predict the future. He could not see the end. Here, he was not the all-knowing, all-powerful creator. He was simply a being, lost in the infinite, like so many others.
And for the first time, he felt free.
He would wander this new realm, unbound by the chains of knowledge, exploring its mysteries without the weight of certainty. He would not create, but experience. He would not know, but discover.
And perhaps, in this wild, unpredictable universe, the Time-Smith might finally find what he had sought for all eternity: a purpose beyond knowing.