High school.
I'd forgotten the smell. Sweat, cheap cleaner, and anxiety.
The hallways of Liceum Ogólnokształcące nr. XIV were a zoo. Kids shouted. Lockers slammed. I stood there, a ghost in a too-familiar haunt.
My old uniform itched.
This is 2022. A major war had just ignited on the continent's eastern flank. And I'm a teenager.
The absurdity almost made me laugh.
A shoulder slammed into mine.
"Watch it, Thorn."
Marcin. The biology class bully. Big, stupid, with a permanent smirk.
Old me would have mumbled an apology. Shrunk into myself.
I just looked at him. I didn't say a word.
The cold fire in my gut burned brighter.
He blinked, confused by the lack of fear. He muttered something and shuffled off.
First rule of time travel: Don't blow your cover.
But the second rule? Get to work.
I had a novel in my head. A universe waiting to be born. I needed to type it.
The school library was my sanctuary. Ancient computers with sticky keyboards. The librarian, Pani Kowalska, nodded at me over her romance novel.
I logged in. Opened a blank document.
My fingers hovered over the keys.
What if it's gone? What if it was a drunk dream?
I took a breath. And let the memory flow.
The words appeared on the screen. Not mine, yet mine. Perfect prose. A gripping opening line. A world of fallen gods and mortal ambition.
I typed. For two hours straight. The bell rang. I ignored it.
Pani Kowalska finally tapped my shoulder. "School is over, Alex."
I saved the document to a USB drive I'd bought with my lunch money.
"Thanks," I said, my voice distant.
The words were alive in my mind. They wanted out.
I walked home, the autumn air crisp. My brain was on fire with plots, characters, dialogue.
My mom was at work. The apartment was quiet.
I booted up the family's old desktop. It whined in protest.
I connected the USB. Opened the file.
I needed a platform. Fistoria was the biggest. The most competitive.
Where I got rejected a dozen times in the old timeline.
My hands shook as I created a new account.
Username: Chronos_Architect.
No profile picture. No bio. Let the work speak.
I copied the first three chapters from my document. Over ten thousand words of pure, polished epic.
I wrote a short synopsis. Hit 'Publish.'
The screen refreshed.
[Draft Published Successfully. Your story is now live.]
I stared at the screen.
Nothing happened. No fanfare. No instant readers.
Of course not. Patience.
But patience was for people who hadn't seen the future. For people who hadn't met a Wishbearer.
I had work to do.
I opened a new document.
Time to write Chapter 4.