“We’ll buy your lifespan.”
That advertisement had flooded the streets only a few years ago. ChronoBank—a startup that blurred the lines between medicine and finance—had introduced a revolutionary system: treating human lifespan as a tradable currency. By quantifying and exchanging time itself, a new era of economic disparity had begun.
Minato was one of the early adopters. Born into poverty, with insufficient scholarships and dreams of becoming a writer slipping away, he sold “a portion” of his lifespan at a ChronoBank branch. Twenty-five years—nearly half of his life as a healthy young man. In return, he received a fortune worth billions in time currency.
“This will change everything.”
Minato bought a home with time, funded his first publication, and debuted as a novelist. His stories quickly became bestsellers, and he rose to fame as a literary sensation. From his high-rise office managed by AI, every aspect of his life was optimized.
But one day, he noticed something was off.
People’s “speed” was clearly diverging.
In the city, some moved in strange slow motion, while others moved with unnatural speed. Young people speaking like the elderly. Writers typing a thousand words in ten seconds. Those who possessed time were fast, beautiful, and long-lived. The time-poor aged rapidly, slowed down, and died young.
“The world’s time is skewed.”
ChronoBank had created a hierarchy by manipulating time. The wealthy could buy longevity and youth. The poor could only survive by trading their life away. Minato, too, was left with just ten years—his success had come at the cost of time.
Then one day, his old friend Yuuta appeared. Yuuta had never sold his time, choosing to live humbly—but he had developed severe “Time Deficiency Syndrome.” At only thirty, he had the body of a seventy-year-old. He told Minato:
“Reading your books… was my only joy. But now… I’m out of time.”
Those words shook Minato to his core.
His success had been built atop someone else’s fleeting life.
Determined, Minato went to ChronoBank’s headquarters to sign a Time Reversal Contract. But the process came with an astronomical penalty. His remaining time alone wasn’t enough. So he gave up all his time currency—everything he had earned—and signed over more years of his life as collateral.
“Remaining lifespan: five years.”
The clerk stated it coldly.
Still, Minato was content. If Yuuta could live longer, that was enough.
Days later, Yuuta’s condition began to improve. He wept with joy and whispered:
“You idiot… but thank you.”
Minato gave a quiet smile.
Five years. Short, yet it felt like an eternity. He picked up his pen and began writing his final story.
Its title: The Time Bank.
A confession—and a question—about the true worth of life.
