No Man’s Wish

"I'm alive!" I shout, still half-deaf.

'I'm breathing?'

The haze thins. Shapes sharpen, and the hand yanking me upright belongs to Hein.

'Isn't he dead?'

I watched him vaporize—gone in a flash of white heat.

We were blown to hell. Weren't we?

But now—this? Something's off. Wrong. Familiar.

Hein flicks his fingers; runes of pale light knit together: *Are you okay?*

The déjà-vu hits like shrapnel.

"What do you mean? Didn't we just die?"

My voice comes out louder than I meant—ears still ringing.

Hein's brow creases. New glyphs flare: *We were hit by bombardment.*

"Yeah, I know—what about the attack-mage?"

Blank stare. No recognition.

*Get ready. The scum are pushing our line.*

"Again? We just fought them off."

My hearing finally clicks back—grainy, but serviceable.

Hein's eyes harden. He slams my rifle into my chest. "We'll talk after—go!"

He bolts down the trench, sliding into his firing niche.

I just stare. We both died. Yet we're standing here. Breathing.

I ease up to the parapet, stealing a glimpse across no-man's-land—same smoke, same ruin, same shapes.

"Soldier, get moving!" The same officer appears, voice like gravel.

Déjà vu… or something worse? Did time snap back to the start?

He reaches for me, but Hein steps in, rattling off the same excuse. The brass grunts, backs off.

Hein jerks his chin. "Go—before he changes his mind."

I reach for Hein's shoulder, but fresh shouts ripple down the trench—enemy push inbound. No time. Survive first, questions later.

Again.

I sprint the same thirty paces and drop into the same sandbagged nest, wrap my hands around the iron beast that already knows this dance.

Déjà vu sharp enough to bruise. Same cratered waste stretching out. Same shallow breaths.

The low hum swells—then the roar: one vast war-cry. Thousands of boots hammer the earth. Grey specks multiply exactly as they did last time, shaping into human silhouettes.

Instinct reclaims me.

I squeeze. The gun unleashes a torrent of lead into the tide. Bodies crumple, swallowed by mud, trampled by their own. And I can't shake the thought:

Second verse, same as the first.

Again.

The belt runs dry. I sling it clear, but the enemy is already within bayonet range. No time to reload. Rifle up, sidearm out.

Again.

Recoil bucks against my wrist, bodies topple into sludge.

But this time no bullet grazes me.

There— the marksman who drilled me last loop. He's raising his rifle.

Not today.

I surge forward. Knife flashes through cartilage, sinks hilt-deep in his heart. He crumples.

The spade-wielder behind him hesitates a single beat—long enough. I pivot, slash,shatter and drop him too.

***

Armed with this foresight, I walk away cleaner—no holes, no panic. Exhaustion hits anyway. I slump onto a mound of bodies, sucking air and listening to the gunfire fade.

This all but confirms my suspicion: time has rewound. Swart's doing, most likely—but why? Because of that man's promise?

I sweep the churned ground for Hein. We need a plan; I don't know if I'll get a third try.

There—he's finishing off a downed enemy, same grim face. I jog over. No time.

"Hein!"

He looks up, relief softening the lines in his war-torn face. "Kaizer!"

"We don't have long—an attack-mage is coming. How do we stop him?"

He blinks. "What? An attack-mage here? Come on, you know how rare they are."

"I'm serious. Explain while we move."

He sighs but humors me matching my pace.

"Attack-mages are the trump cards," he says between breaths. "Each nation trains only a handful. Up close they're walking artillery, but they're glass cannons—one anti-mage formation can snuff them— but normal rifle fire gets nullified by their shields." He jerks his chin toward the smoking horizon. "That barrage? It probably turned our wards to gravel. Command wouldn't risk a mage unless the counters were already toast."

Translation: staying means dying. Our formations are shattered; we can't duel a flying sorcerer. Only move left is to run—fast, far, and out of sight.

We sprint for half an hour—about the time the mage took last loop to show up—putting couple miles between us and the front. Behind us, eruptions bloom; the ground shivers.

Hein glances back, wide-eyed. "How did you know?"

I keep my answer to myself.

Eventually the blasts fade, leaving only our ragged breathing—until I spot a black speck descending, straight for us. He tracked us. Open ground, nowhere to hide. Hein's shoulders sag.

I see the same lunatic grin on the mage's face. "Shit—duck!"

I shove Hein aside.

BOOM!

Pain erupts; my leg is gone. "Aaargh!"

I'm going to die again.

Hein scrambles toward me, horror etched deep—but a second bolt lances down, and darkness claims me.

Loop two ends in fire and mud.

***

Total darkness—yet I can see. Swart squats in front of me, head cocked.

"My boy, my boy." He tsks in mock pity. "Can't swat a simple fly? Pathetic."

If that mage is a fly, what does that make me?

"What was I supposed to do against a flying lunatic lobbing explosions?"

Swart blinks, genuinely puzzled. "You really learned nothing?"

"Taught what, exactly?"

He heaves a theatrical sigh, stands, and retrieves a thin, leather-bound volume. Tosses it; I almost drop it.

"Basic mana circulation. Even a dunce can manage."

"Mana circulation?" I echo.

"For fuck's sake—this is the boy they leave me." Another sigh. "It's how you tap the world's weave."

"That explains nothing."

"Maybe if you weren't so dense you'd already know." He nods at the book. "It'll teach you—and it's not a normal book, so hurry."

"What's atyp—"

Light erupts from the pages. Knowledge spears into my skull—white-hot, unbidden. I convulse, pain stretching into eternity.

Then the agony breaks like a wave. I gasp, heart hammering. Concepts swirl behind my eyes—half-formed but waiting.

The method is called Aspiration's Folly. I don't know other techniques, can't judge its worth. I grasp only the entry point, the First Dream, and sense I could reach it with time.

Strangely, it feels natural—as if I was always meant to wield it.

"Woo-hoo—hello? You still breathing in there?"

I jerk back to the void, realizing I'd zoned out.

"Took ages, did it?" Swart crows, dripping sarcasm.

I scowl. "What am I supposed to do with this knowledge?"

"Swat flies, of course."

"Great. It'll take forever to bring down that lunatic with just this."

He steeples his fingers.

"Maybe you're right, empty-headed little bug. Fine—I'll give you a shortcut."

He chuckles.

"Listen closely. Snag one of those communication stones you humans dote on. Pack it with the mana you've gathered, then shoot it. Boom—instant grenade."

I narrow my eyes. "And if the mage has a shield?"

"Easy. Do it while he's launching a spell."

"Are you insane? I'll be vaporized before I get a shot off."

"Don't fret, worrywart. You've got all the time in the world." His laughter peals while I stare, aghast.

"Aah, I'm screwed."

He wipes a tear of mirth, then waves, grin razor-wide. "Entertain me, boy. Cheers."

Snap!

***

The familiar blast hits—sight whites out, ears ring. Hein hauls me upright.

Loop three begins.