If you believe the world was created by God… you're not wrong.
But are you sure that 'God' isn't just a programmer pushing an OS update every eight thousand years?
13.8 billion years ago, a four-dimensional platform launched under the name 'Earth.' Nine billion years later, the first Bug (System defect) ran itself—yep, humans.
The rest, you probably knew.
So tell me… do you still believe the universe is nothing but stars and frozen gas?
Just a reminder: truth slipped through your hands as sand did—the harder you clutch, the faster it escapes.
And if strange words start echoing in your head…
~Alarumis Lenthrós~
Congratulations.
You're being hacked.
Rumble!
The ground jolted, making his boots slide. The glove in his jacket flared on its own.
"Damn—" The blue-haired boy bolted down into the underground lab.
The steel doors hissed open—shhk!—revealing a massive metal ring splitting the air into a velvet-black rift, widening by the second. Wide enough for a cow to stroll through.
"Don't tell me—"
Wham!
Something burst through the rift and slammed him flat. His head cracked the floor—thud!—pain spiking sharp.
Something soft pressed down on his face.
His hand grabbed—clutch!—and his brain managed one question:
…Was that… a cow?
The weight vanished. He scrambled up, dazed, the sweet scent clinging to his nose. Blood trickled along his jaw.
Yeah, pain. Not a dream.
And when his vision cleared—what stood before him was even crazier than a cow from another dimension.
Two girls.
One with shock-pink twin-tails, wide eyes blazing with starlight dust, golden motes danced across her skin, a faint hum rising—the charge of a camera flash before it fires.
The other, a redhead, gazed so cold the room's temperature plunged. The air hissed, shards of glass grinding in invisible fury.
Okay… definitely not a cow.
But where the hell did this cosplay duo come from?
Thud!
A digital dossier slammed against the nano-wood desk. A streak of premature white hair fell across the left side of the man's forehead.
"What the hell does this mean!?" His voice cut sharp, demanding answers—even knowing none would come.
Data flickered up from the oak surface, a glinting off the nameplate: Valentine Whisperwind. The nameplate blazed, ready to burn every excuse to ash.
The man across from him sat frozen, statue-still.
"What are you doubting, Valentine?" His tone was flat, almost lazy—enough to make the professor want to break his jaw.
"The Quanigma Project was never meant to turn into… this!"
The man on the throne didn't answer right away. His chair rotated slowly toward the skyline, the city far below reduced to nothing more than a doormat at his feet.
"Where do you think all the funding came from?" The words should've been a question. Instead, they landed as a verdict. "And don't forget… you're no longer the owner of this project."
Valentine's jaw clenched until the muscles bulged, frustration radiating in silence from every line of his face.
If this was your true goal, Fergo… then we're finished.
And if you planned this from the start, then I'm the most brilliant fool alive.
A bitter lump slid down his throat, jagged as iron shards. He ripped off his lab coat, flinging it away—the final shred of his pride—then walked out, a man who'd just realized he'd signed a pact with the devil he once called friend.
—
Penthouse, that same night
Professor Valentine stood before the vast window, the lights of Cosmic City flickering, a thousand whispers of secrets no one would ever understand.
"Tim. We're leaving." His tone was quiet, directed at the butler droid beside him.
The android—modeled after a classic sci-fi series he'd once watched religiously—stood politely by the door.
"But sir… where would we even go?" The text of his words floated above his 8-bit display face.
Valentine didn't answer.
"Sir, this is the paradise every human dreams of. Why would we—"
"Silent mode." His cold command hit hard enough to make the panels flare, then dim.
Tim's voice bar kept pulsing, but Valentine said nothing. He was deciding to turn his back on everything—to return to where it all began.
'That one… he's from an Outer family.'
He remembered it clearly, the sneer from a boardroom a decade ago. It never disappeared—just hid beneath the fake smiles of highborn elites.
I'll prove it. Bloodline means nothing.
And he did prove it. The marble floors beneath his penthouse, polished enough to mirror his shoes, were evidence enough. He had clawed his way up from the mud.
Tonight, he'd dive back down. Because now he understood: the neon dreams of this city of the future don't lift anyone higher—
They only make the shadows of the lower classes look deeper.
Beyond the neon crown of the city, there was another world… A world without towers blocking the sun. No flashing billboards selling sleepless nights. Only the fresh scent of earth after rain—and crickets singing on the hillside.
Here, time seemed to walk a millionth of a second slower, while hearts beat years lighter.
Amid mossy shrubs and blooming wildflowers—as though nature had painted a flawless geography lesson—stood a small one-story house.
On its central pillar, scratched lines marked the boy's height—from his first wobbly step to the day he tried sneaking an extra inch on tiptoe.
The half-clear roof was fitted with solar panels his father had modded to store moonlight. Inside, everything had its place. A pot of soup simmered, releasing the steady aroma of love cooked just right.
For the blue-haired boy, this was the world where everything felt possible.
"Skyler, dinner's ready!"
His mother's voice floated in, warm as steam from the kitchen.
"Five more minutes, Mom!" the nine-year-old shouted back from his room—eyes locked on the screen, the apocalypse playing out in pixels.
Because this was Unlock: Cross-Dimensional Saga—the legend of Hegarty, a teenage genius who hacked the universe in hi-tech armor.
Right now, the hero was upgrading his 'smart glove' into a hybrid weapon—a plasma-sword slash electro-gun combo that every chuuni kid online called the Gunblade. It could slice through dimensions… or raised zombies, depending on the wielder.
"Skill unlocked!"
The boy's shout mirrored the episode, a special quest from Raid into the Magic Realm—one he'd rewatched at least ten times (not counting the scenes he paused to sketch glove blueprints).
Mini-Skyler leapt off his bed, remote turned into a blade in his grip, spinning mid-air (on a chair), dodging spells only he could see.
"Take this, you seven-eyed demon!"
He smashed the remote down, shattering something (hopefully not Mom's glassware), then struck a victory pose—background: messy sheets and dust motes.
"How do you like that!" He gripped the remote as if it was a weapon that could save the universe.
"My boy…" A deep, weary tone came from the doorway. Reno Everhart—father, survivor of quantum wars and empty fridges alike—leaned against the frame.
"This show's ancient. Same world-domination plot, same recycled villains. Good thing they at least change the skin color. Stuff like this will rot your brain."
Yeah, sure. Says the guy who knows exactly what color the demon was.
The boy stayed frozen in his hero pose.
"Skyler! How many times have I told you—no axion stones in the house!" Mom's words rang sharper this time.
"Yes, Mom, I'll handle it—" Skyler answered, unaware she'd already reached the door and was standing there, watching.
"Mina, I'll talk to him," Reno cut in, stepping forward to intercept.
"You always cover for him. I may not be a scientist, but I know how dangerous axions are. You…" Mina exhaled, turning her gaze to her son. Her eyes held both affection and understanding.
Like father, like son. Two peas in the same cosmic pod.
From the moment Skyler's genius began to shine, he and his father spent countless hours in the old barn-turned-lab—building gadgets, testing code, and probing the mystery of axion: a translucent green mineral no one had ever truly harnessed.
Every week, the schedule was the same: Boom! Some failed experiment rattling the barn—followed by Mina's voice, equal parts lecture and poetry slam, the kind of scolding you could publish as 'How to Curse in Verse.'
Then, one day, after months of late-night tinkering, it worked.
The boy had built something that could actually control the axion.
It seemed nothing more than a DIY glove, stitched from household junk his mom had tossed into storage—yet it was something even his father had never managed to create.
Clutching the glove to his chest, Skyler dashed past the cowshed and the hay bales, his grin so wide it nearly split his face. In his head, he was already rehearsing the perfect line to roast his dad:
"What's that useless thing?"
"Something you couldn't pull off, Dad!"
But before he could reach him, Skyler collided head-on with a stranger.
A middle-aged man in a sharp suit, his shoes gleaming mirror-bright. Definitely not a local.
The man steadied him with a single hand, pulling him upright with a flicker of unseen force. "You okay, kid?"
"S-sorry, sir!" Skyler bowed awkwardly and bolted off—without realizing he'd dropped something behind.
The stranger stooped, picking it up. A dust-stained glove. Not a toy.
He turned it over with interest. Beneath the fabric, wires and circuits were woven into perfect order. Axion threads glowed faint green along the seams.
His eyes narrowed. He flicked the glove, brushing off dirt—and a holographic screen flickered to life at his touch.
"Hey! Mister! Don't take it—I haven't shown Dad yet!" Skyler came sprinting back, breathless, panic flashing across his face.
The man didn't look up. He studied the glove with the precision of a scientist dissecting a miracle. Even half-broken, the thing kept functioning.
"Interesting," he murmured, then finally glanced at the boy. "You built this?"
Skyler froze. He didn't know who this man was—but his gaze carried such weight, the boy found himself smiling, lifting his other hand and babbling with pride.
"My mom sewed the glove, but I wired every circuit myself! It even simulates environments. I based it on Hegarty's Glove—you know that anime? Actually, mine's way cooler!"
He struck a hero pose he'd practiced hundreds of times.
The stranger chuckled, leaning closer. He pointed at a junction in the circuit. "If you switch this wire with this one… it'll stabilize. Watch."
His finger traced the path. A few quick adjustments—the glitchy hologram steadied, coming into sharp, perfect focus.
This man hadn't asked a single question—yet he understood everything.
Because this was Professor Valentine, director of the secret Quanigma Project. The one man who knew axion better than anyone alive—And now he'd just seen a prototype no one expected could come from the hands of a nine-year-old.
"We'll meet again, kid," Valentine said, ruffling the boy's blue hair before returning the glove.
Skyler clutched it tight, his face lit with triumph, before racing off to brag to anyone who'd listen about how awesome his invention was.
Valentine stayed behind, watching the boy's shadow disappear down the path—while the wind stirred, carrying dust laced with the faint scent of the future.
And then—
A whisper in the void brushed against his ear:
'Time is only the reflection of its maker…'
Valentine spun around. "Who said that!?"
No one. Only emptiness answered.