I Killed The Main Characters

Xander sat hunched over the wooden desk, his eyes bloodshot and rimmed with exhaustion, flipping through ancient books with brittle, yellowed pages.

Around him, the tower room was cluttered with scraps of parchment—some crumpled into tight balls, others folded messily in half—each one bearing intricate drawings of complex magic circles, some half-finished, others rubbed away in frustration.

A thin layer of dust danced in the candlelight, stirred up as he feverishly sketched, muttering calculations to himself under his breath.

Several books lay open, pages fluttering in the cool draft that seeped through the narrow stone window.

The room was a chaotic mess, papers strewn across the floor like discarded leaves, and the air was thick with the smell of ink, old parchment, and the faint metallic scent of magical residue.

He paused for a moment, his fingers hovering above the page as he scrutinized his latest attempt, a hastily drawn sequence of glyphs within a circular diagram that was meant to stabilize a temporal anchor—an attempt to delve deeper into the forbidden and elusive magic of time.

But something wasn't right.

The lines were wrong, the sigils misaligned.

With a growl of frustration, he swiped his arm across the desk, sending the sheet spinning to the floor and scattering ink bottles, quills, and fragments of broken crystals.

Suddenly, the heavy oak door to the study tower creaked open, and a figure stepped inside.

Xander's eyes snapped up, momentarily startled, then relaxed as he recognized the intruder.

It was Professor Loran, the one person in the academy who had believed in him from the very beginning.

Professor Loran was a man in his late fifties, his thinning hair a mix of gray and white, his beard neatly trimmed, though streaked with silver.

He wore a heavy, dark-blue robe lined with gold that shimmered faintly in the dim light, and around his neck hung a simple silver chain with a single, faintly glowing crystal.

His eyes, however, were sharp, intelligent, and full of warmth—the kind of eyes that saw potential in places where others saw only failure.

"Well," Loran said, stepping inside and closing the door behind him.

His gaze swept over the chaotic room, taking in the scattered papers, the ink-stained desk, and the weary figure of Xander in the dimly lit tower.

"Still at it, are we?"

Xander nodded, not looking up from the torn and ink-splattered page he had just unfolded.

"Yes," he replied, his voice hoarse with fatigue.

"I have to be. There's no time to rest, not now."

Professor Loran stepped closer, his footsteps light and unhurried, though he swayed slightly, the faint smell of alcohol wafting off him.

He raised an eyebrow at the state of the room and then smiled softly, a hint of sadness in the curve of his lips.

"Delving into the concept of time…" he said, trailing off as he looked over the symbols Xander had been obsessively drawing and redrawing.

"It's even more difficult than I thought it would be. This isn't something you can brute-force, you know."

Xander stiffened, the grip on his quill tightening as he glanced sideways at the professor.

"Why do you smell like that?" he asked sharply, the hint of bitterness in his voice hard to mask.

"You went drinking again, didn't you? I told you—I hate it when you come back drunk."

Professor Loran chuckled, a deep, rumbling sound that filled the room. He leaned against the desk, steadying himself with one hand.

"Ah, Xander… you know me too well," he said with a sheepish grin.

"Just a little celebration, that's all.

You should loosen up a bit; not everything needs to be so damn serious."

Xander scowled, turning back to his work.

"It's always serious," he muttered, but Loran either didn't hear him or chose to ignore the words.

Instead, he began to gently push aside some of the crumpled papers, straightening them into neat piles as if trying to bring some order to the chaos around them.

"You know," Loran began, his tone shifting from playful to contemplative, "you can't change the past just because you want to undo a mistake.

Time doesn't work that way.

It's not a simple river you can turn back just because you don't like the way it flows.

Some things… well, some things are just meant to happen."

Xander's fingers froze mid-draw, and he felt a cold weight settle in his stomach.

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"What do you mean by that?" he asked slowly, his voice low and dangerous.

Loran's eyes softened, and he sighed, leaning back against the desk with a wistful look.

"You can't change fate, Xander. Even if you reverse time, if something is meant to happen, it will.

Life doesn't just follow a script you can edit whenever you want."

He hesitated, then added, "Like your father's illness, for example. Some things are beyond our control."

Xander's breath hitched, and he turned to glare at Loran, his eyes blazing with an intensity that made the older man falter.

"What about my father?" he said sharply, his voice cracking.

Loran raised his hands in a placating gesture, his expression turning apologetic.

"I didn't mean to—" he started, but his words were cut off by a laugh that sounded far too bitter for his usually lighthearted demeanor.

"It's just... I know how much you've struggled, Xander. I know you're doing all of this for him.

But no matter how hard you try, some things are inevitable. You have to accept that, or you'll drive yourself mad."

The room seemed to grow colder, the candlelight flickering ominously as Xander glared at the man who had taken him in, who had given him a chance when no one else would.

"You don't know anything."

Loran opened his mouth to protest, his eyes widening slightly, but he never got the chance.

In a single, fluid motion, Xander's hand shot forward, his fingers outstretched, glowing with a brilliant blue aura.

The air crackled with raw magic, and for a split second, Loran's face was a mask of confusion and shock.

Then, with a deafening roar, Loran's head exploded in a spray of blood and bone.

The door and walls behind him were painted with a dark, visceral splatter, and Xander's outstretched hand smoked with a faint blue glow.

A thin line of blood trickled down his cheek, and he watched, almost detached, as Loran's headless body crumpled to the floor, blood gushing from the neck like a fountain, pooling on the cold stone.

Xander stood motionless, his breath ragged, his eyes glowing with an eerie, unnatural light.

Slowly, he lowered his hand, staring down at the lifeless corpse with a mixture of contempt and satisfaction.

The tower was deathly silent except for the faint drip-drip of blood that echoed through the empty space.

"Tch...," Xander murmured, his voice low and trembling.

"You were just like the rest of them. You couldn't understand. None of you can understand."

He took a step forward, his boots splashing in the blood, and he leaned down over Loran's body, his expression cold and distant.

"My father's illness wasn't fate," he whispered, as if speaking to himself.

"It wasn't some unchangeable law of the universe.

It was because I wasn't strong enough—because I wasn't ready when he needed me."

His eyes hardened, and he straightened up, his glowing gaze piercing the shadows of the tower.

"I've studied for years," he said, his voice rising with a feverish intensity.

"I've poured over every forbidden tome, every lost scroll. I've mastered the magic of the arcane, pushed myself to the very brink of death, all to achieve what everyone said was impossible."

A twisted smile curved his lips as he glanced at the smoldering remains of his latest failed experiment, the scattered pages and the ruined sigils that had cost him months of work.

"They said time couldn't be altered," he continued, his tone almost mocking.

"They said it was a boundary not even the gods dared to cross. But they were wrong. I'll make them see... I'll make everyone see."

His voice dropped to a hoarse whisper, the glow in his eyes flickering dangerously.

"I won't let my father die," he said, his tone unyielding, almost desperate.

"I won't let him suffer while I stand by, powerless and useless.

I'll turn back time, even if I have to tear apart the fabric of reality itself. Even if it means breaking every law of magic, every rule of existence."

He raised his bloodied hand, the blue aura swirling around his fingers like a living flame, and a manic grin spread across his face.

"Time will bow to me," he said softly, his gaze distant and unfocused.

"I'll make it bend. I'll make it scream. I'll change everything, no matter the cost."

He glanced one last time at Loran's lifeless body, his expression hardening into one of cold determination.

"And anyone who tries to stop me," he said, his voice a low, dangerous murmur, "will meet the same fate."

With that, he turned away, his glowing eyes fixed on the darkness beyond the tower's narrow window