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The smooth scarlet gem that easily fit within his palm was the culmination of his life's work. As Magni Dezmond stared down at the legendary Philosopher's Stone, a shaky hand gripping it as though his life depended on it, he acknowledged that it was a sinful creation. It had cost the lives of thousands of innocent people for him to synthesize it, all done behind the backs of his guildmates. The soul was a powerful thing, capable of powering truly powerful rituals and (hopefully) serving as the necessary fuel for something that he was still unsure of the plausibility of.
To call his goal with the seemingly innocuous stone impossible wouldn't be illogical. After all, the ability to reverse the hands of time was something that was not destined for the hands of mortals. It was something which only the divine should harness, not to be sullied by the greed of man. If it was possible, he gripped it even tighter. Supposedly, the Philosopher's Stone was capable of doing already mythical things. The conversion of base metals to gold, the creation of an elixir which could lead to eternal life... it filled him with hope. Yet, it also filled him with fear. Had he perhaps messed up somewhere along the line? Was this all going to be in vain, like so much of his life was? No. He had to have faith in his own work. He WAS the "Great" Magni Dezmond, after all!
A deep breathe calmed his nerves. Whether or not it worked was not the issue. He could deal with the fallout like he always did. What was one more team left to history, to haunt the deepest parts of his brain? Nothing. He couldn't truly lose in this situation. His grip loosened and he focused his intent on it. A bright glow emanated from it, the vermillion light casting his lab a bloody color.
The world paused for a moment, almost as though acknowledging the object within his hand and it's power. Then, the world lost all color and he began to experience an excruciating pain, his body doubling over from the pain. He'd been stabbed before. He'd been poisoned with some nasty things. He'd had an arrow stuck in his keister until one of his guildmates managed to tear it out. This, however, took the cake in terms of pain. It felt as though his entire body was being broken down molecule by molecule and stitched back together. It repeated, again and again, as though this was some form of punishment for daring to enter the realm of the divine with his feat.
It might've took an eternity, it might've been only three seconds. The pain kept him from accurately gauging how long it took for it to finish. When the pain faded, he opened his eyes to the green backdrop of a forest. He chanced a glance down at his hands, which were smaller than he was used to, and with that he knew he had actually done it. Tears filled his eyes, tears of joy. It hadn't all been for nothing. His life's work had not been wasted. He laughed, his teenage voice unfamiliar to him. He could actually do it, couldn't he? He wiped away the tears, but wished that he hadn't a second later. He looked behind himself, away from the forest that he had been almost fully within. A hellscape of burning buildings greeted him, an eerie juxtaposition with the tranquil atmosphere of the forest. The only time he remembered seeing so many burning buildings...
More tears left his eyes. These were not tears of joy. They were tears of sorrow. He had traveled back in time... but just barely not far enough. He was a matter of hours away from his true destination. From before this cursed mission which had set him down this path. From before his first guild had died, all thanks to him. Almost as though to spite him, his eyesight through the tears was just clear enough to see the gloves. Hastily inscribed lines and circles covered all of them, the scent of blood on them strong. A haunted feeling surrounded them, the sensation of souls clear to him, especially after contact with the Philosopher's Stone. Yet another reminder of his failure. A bitter epiphany struck him in that moment.
Truly, the more things change... the more they stay the same.