I woke up in the middle of screams.
No sheets. No soft light. Just mud, blood, and the acrid stench of burning flesh.
A body fell two meters from me. A kid. Fifteen at most. His helmet cracked, eyes empty. An arrow lodged in his throat. I didn't even have time to breathe before someone screamed:
— TAKE COVER!
The ground exploded to my left. Shards of rock scraped my face. I rolled to the side on reflex. My hands sank into blood-soaked earth. My heart pounded like a drum. My lungs burned.
But I moved. I was alive.
I got up. The memories were already flooding back — the mirror, the return, the bed. And now… this. A fucking battle. A war. The war where I had earned my first stripes.
Except this time, I had ten more years of experience.
A scream pierced the air. I looked up.
A soldier — one of ours — was running toward me, blade drawn. He wasn't aiming at me. He was fleeing. Something was chasing him. A massive silhouette, strapped in black leather and chains. One of the Black Legion scouts.
No time to think.
I lunged for the weapon half-buried in the corpse at my feet. A short, chipped blade. Heavy. I yanked it free with a sharp tug, the handle sticky with blood. The soldier screamed as he fell. The creature raised its axe.
I took it from the side.
One step, two. I was behind it before it could turn its head. I drove the blade between its ribs, just below the left shoulder blade. A grunt. Then a rasp. It collapsed.
I wasn't trembling. Not this time.
I stepped back, scanned the surroundings. Trenches. Burning catapults. The sound of horns. The wind carried the clamor of spells, the clash of shields, the cries of the dying.
— They're everywhere! someone shouted. FALL BACK!
I ran toward the front line. I knew this day. I had lived it. But this time, I was ready.
I had just come back, and already… death was waiting.
I crawled between two collapsed embankments, breath short. My eyes moved faster than my thoughts. Over there — a squad surrounded, less than fifty meters away. Five men, maybe six. Poorly equipped. Their officer already down, throat ripped open.
Around them, the dark shapes of the Howlers. Mutant scouts. Fast. Vicious. They were toying with their prey. A bloodbath in progress.
I circled around from the right, silent. My bow wasn't on me — of course, I had just resurrected in the middle of a fucking battlefield. But on the back of a dead soldier, I saw exactly what I needed.
A long yew bow. Reinforced tendon string. Three arrows still in place.
I grabbed it without hesitation.
My fingers remembered instantly.
I drew. Aimed.
A Howler exploded on impact, his temple split in two. The second looked up — too late. Arrow in the throat.
The third charged.
— Get down! I shouted to the survivors.
They obeyed. I sent the last arrow into the monster's eye. It flipped backward, convulsing.
Three shots. Three kills.
I leapt from my cover. A half-melted saber lay in the mud — I grabbed it, slashed the throat of an enemy who never saw it coming.
The soldiers stared at me, stunned.
— You're under my command now, I said. Crescent formation, archers behind. Blades at the front. Fall back to the ruins. They're defensible.
They obeyed. Not because they knew who I was. But because I was alive, standing, and not shaking.
Another group of enemies was approaching. A dozen. Too many for exhausted recruits.
The ruins formed a natural crescent of cut stone and broken walls. Probably an old watchtower. Solid enough to hold.
— Crossbow, there! Set it up on the breach! Two archers, fast arrows, rotate. You, with the scar — cover me. I need your quivers. Move.
I barked orders without hesitation. My voice cut through the chaos. They ran. They obeyed. And most importantly: they knew I knew what I was doing.
The Howlers were coming. Twenty meters. Their claws gleamed. Their flesh was blackened, swollen. They ran on all fours, growling, yelping, hungry.
— Fire on my signal. Not before.
I stepped forward. Standing. Exposed. My bow ready, string taut.
Ten meters.
— Now.
Arrows flew. The front line dropped. I followed up with three shots — throat, eye, heart. The saber in my other hand helped fend off the one that reached me. A shard of bone sliced my cheek. I felt the blood run. I didn't back down.
A soldier next to me screamed. A beast had pounced on him, crushing his chest with a sickening crack.
I finished him with an arrow to the neck. Then stabbed the Howler through the gut with the saber.
Its guts splattered my boots.
I roared back:
— We don't fall back. We bleed them dry.
And we did.
I lost count. I emptied three quivers. Took arrows from corpses, pulled them out, cleaned them, reused them. I slit throats. Pierced hearts. Split skulls.
I knew their blind spots. Their speed. How they swarmed in packs.
I butchered them one by one.
And when the last one tried to run, I calmly aimed — and dropped him with an arrow to the spine.
Silence.
Blood oozed between the stones. My arm trembled, exhausted. One soldier fell to his knees, vomiting into the dirt. Another wept, hands full of guts. The rest stared at me.
They'd survived. Because of me.
I stood up.
— Count your wounded, gather weapons. We don't move until I say so.
I glanced at the corpse of the young dead soldier, eyes open to the sky. I hadn't even asked his name.
I never needed to anyway, so I was already looking ahead. Toward what was next.
The calm was just a lie.
The blood had stopped flowing, but my nerves stayed taut. I scanned the survivors. Five men still standing. Most young, too young. Two lightly wounded. One missing an arm, one bleeding, and one dead. Not glorious. But alive.
I approached.
— Names and roles. Now.
The oldest — a bald guy covered in soot — gave a vague nod.
— Sergen. Broadsword, front line. That's Kal — heavy shield. Tank. Those two, Alik and Roud, archers. And the girl's Irla. Healing magic. Low reserves, but she's holding up.
I glanced at the girl. Barely sixteen. Fingers red with blood, eyes blank. But she stood.
— You were on patrol?
A silence. Glances exchanged.
— No, said Sergen finally. We had a special mission.
I crossed my arms.
— What mission?
He swallowed, then said:
— Extraction. A young noble stuck behind the ridge. Daughter of Marquis Velnara. Lady Althéa.
The name cracked through the air like a silk slap. Althéa of Velnara. I'd heard of her. One of the White Circle's heiresses. Daughter of a man who could buy a city.
I narrowed my eyes.
— How many of you at the start?
— Eleven. She had three personal guards. We were ambushed. The Howlers cut us off from the main force. We holed up in the ruins. Thought we'd hold out until morning. But they came back… in greater numbers.
I took a deep breath. Made sense. They'd stuck recruits with a high-value target, thinking it'd be enough. Result: a massacre.
— She's alive?
— Yes, sir. She holed up with two guards in an old sanctuary. About a hundred meters north. But we've had no contact in two hours.
I looked at the sky. Daylight fading. And the Howlers would return. They always did.
I made a decision.
— We're going. Recover the noble. If there are enemies left, we slit their throats. Then we hole up there until dawn.
Sergen hesitated.
— But… who are you, exactly?
I stared at him.
— The one who kept you from dying today. And the one who can get you through tomorrow.
He lowered his eyes.
— Yes, sir.
I turned toward the ruins.
Althéa of Velnara. A noble in distress. Trapped, isolated, and soon to be in my debt.
Fuck. Fate had a sense of humor.
And me — I had a plan.