Bang! Whizz! A bullet shears past my ear, nearly taking it off. Thirty paces out, a soldier's eyes blaze with primal rage—he fired, missed, and now he's chambering another round.
I raise my sidearm, exhale, squeeze—
Click.
Jam.
"Shit."
For one heartbeat the universe feels intent on collecting my debt.
Bang! The man who saved me earlier drops the shooter with a single round. No time for thanks.
I clear the jam just as another enemy vaults the trench. Breath, trigger—Bang! A perfect shot, dead center, yet he keeps coming.
No wound—only a flickering blue glow where the bullet should have punched through.
"Great."
Melee it is. I rip my knife free. Spade-wielding, he hacks at my head; I ride his momentum, pivot behind, plunge the blade deep. He staggers, recovers, swings again. I parry, strip his weapon, slash his arm to the bone.
One last strike at his neck—blue light flares, but I drive through, shattering the shield and the windpipe beneath. He crumples, choking out the last of his life.
I snatch up my faulty sidearm and brace for the next attacker—wearing a grin I don't recognize as my own.
***
I sag onto a mound of bodies—victims of my own slaughter—sucking ragged, powder-tainted air.
Everything between the first shell and the last scream has blurred into a single smear of noise. Now only nausea remains as I stare at the lurid crimson soaking my coat, my hands, my skin—blood branding me for what I've done.
The line held, but at a cost counted in limbs and silence. Survivors shuffle like ghosts among corpses spilling over the trench lip and clogging the walkway. No cheers; only the metallic reek of iron and smoke.
I still don't know where I am—or why my muscles fight with a skill I never learned.
As I pan my head around to assess the situation, a flash of metal catches my eye. I slog through the marsh of carcasses and kneel—nearly tipping—beside a dented locket. Its hinge is twisted, so I pry it open with the tip of my bloody knife.
Inside: a photograph. A soldier, a wife, a daughter, a son—smiles captured in a summer that will never return.
Sorrow pricks, but regret does not. He would have done the same to me.
I start to toss the trinket away, then pause. My reflection stares at me from the spider-webbed glass.
"Who are you?" I mutter.
This face isn't mine.
I grope for memories of my own features, my own name—nothing. Both wiped clean, replaced by this stranger and his borrowed reflexes.
A hoarse grunt escapes me.
Whoever I was is gone, replaced.
"Kaizer!"
I turn; it's the man who saved me. He's battered—uniform torn, face streaked with grime—but the wounds are superficial.
His expression softens, then knots with confusion.
"Why are you … smiling?"
"What?"
I am. The grin fades as fast as it came. Did I—enjoy that? No. I only did what I had to. Still, the hollow gnawing inside me is quiet for once.
"Sorry—bit out of it," I mutter.
He studies me, concern edging his eyes. What was this body's connection to him?
"Yeah, we all are," he sighs, defiant spark still burning.
I have to risk it. "Who am I?"
He blinks. "What? Who are you?—Don't you know?"
"I know the name—Kaizer, right?—but nothing else."
"Damn. That shell really scrambled you. Do you at least remember me?"
I shake my head. "No—nothing."
"Well then, let me re-introduce myself: Hein—your best friend."
"My best friend? Wait— you're just going to accept this that easily?"
He frowns, a surprisingly boyish look for a man who's clearly seen too much.
"What do you mean? That's what friends are for—especially best friends." He chuckles, then gasps theatrically. "You're not making this up, are you?"
Panic tightens my face. "No, no—I swear I'm not lying."
He bursts into laughter. "Sorry—had to. But seriously, your memory's just… gone?"
I'm stunned by his lightness, given we were fighting for our lives moments ago. "…Yeah. Gone."
"Alright, then I'll have to debrief you. Listen up."
And just like that, Hein accepts the new reality and begins laying out the facts of our situation.
A quick briefing falls from Hein's lips—names, borders, grudges.
Two regional powers share this battered continent of Aresia.
The Free States: a loose union of small nations bound by necessity.
The Principality of Anreik: larger, richer, hungrier.
We wear the States' colors, holding the line against Anreik's latest push. Hein and I hail from a border village caught between the flags. We volunteered, he says—though most here were dragged in by the draft.
"So that glowing script you drew in the air…" I start.
Hein blinks, puzzled I'd even ask. "Light magic. Basic stuff." Then, softer: "You used to work it better than I do."
I stare at my hands, as if spark might bloom from my fingertips. Nothing—only dried blood. My own past is as blank as the sky after a shell burst.
But while we're still plotting our next move, something prickles at the edge of my awareness—danger overhead. A black speck hangs in the sky, drifting closer.
"Is that… a man flying?" I murmur.
Hein follows my gaze. The moment recognition hits, horror flashes across his face—then survival instinct seizes him. He hauls me to my feet. "Shit—cover! That's an attack-mage!"
"What!?"
We sprint for the nearest bunker. Behind us, explosions blossom, screams shredding the air as the mage descends.
The bunker's entrance yawns before us—collapsed, crushed by the earlier shelling.
"Just my luck," I growl.
"Then we run," Hein pants.
We veer along the trench, but the mage swoops in—now close enough for me to see the lunatic grin splitting his face.
BOOM! A blast scorches past, flinging dirt
BOOM! The next hits Hein square in the back, charring flesh to ash. He staggers to one knee.
"Run! I'm done for!" he wheezes.
"I can't leave you!"
"You don't have a choice!" He shoves me aside—just as another blast vaporizes him in a flash of white heat.
"No!" My scream tears out, but instinct drags my legs onward—until
BOOM!
***
Everything snaps to black.
I don't know where I am.
The stench of charred flesh is gone.
The screams of agony have fallen silent.
Only darkness—yet I can still see, the void outlining every shape in thin ribbons of ghostly silver.
'Did I die?'
"Did I die?" My voice echoes.
'Where am I now?'
"Where am I now?"
'Wait—did I say that out loud?'
"No—I did," answers a voice beside me.
A figure wrought of pure shadow stands shoulder-to-shoulder with me, his hand resting on my arm as if we're old friends.
"Well, that's no good—you die just like that?" He clucks his tongue and pats my shoulder. "This simply won't do. How are you going to fulfill that man's promise?"
Too stunned to speak, I stay frozen.
'Is this hell? Is that the devil?'
"What?! Me, the devil? No, no—I'm just a humble being looking for entertainment."
'He can read my thoughts.'
"Not exactly, but close enough. Now, are you going to say anything, or should I just send you back?"
"Back!?"
"Details later; you'll figure it out. Next question." He leans in, impatience flashing like a blade.
I decide it's safer to comply; he feels far too dangerous to keep waiting.
"Okay, okay—give me a second…"
"—Where am I?"
"My realm, of course."
"Okay… am I dead?"
"Yes and no. Next!"
"Wait—wait, what do you mea—"
"Next!" he barks, voice laced with menace.
I swallow hard. "Who are you?"
"Me? Just call me Swart."
"What do you mean, entertainment?"
"Exactly what it sounds like—so entertain me, okay?" His tone is softer, but no less dangerous.
"Okay… whose promise am I supposed to fulfill?"
Shock ripples across his shadowed face. "You don't know, do you?"
"Know what?"
He bursts into laughter that feels like it lasts for minutes. "Ah, poor boy—you'll find out soon enough. But that's all for today!"
"Wait, I have more to ask!"
He chuckles. "Goodbye, Child of-"
'What?'
Snap!
***
BOOM!
I jolt awake, ears ringing, vision drenched in white light. Shapes swim into focus—a man hauling me upright, shouting words I can't hear over the high-pitched whine.
"I'm alive!" I shout, still half-deaf.