The courtyard bustles with life.

  Rubble and corpses are hauled away. Dust and blood swept and scrubbed clean, the water conjured by the handful talented enough to produce it in sufficient quantities.

  They still look fearful—but I’m sure they’ll warm up to me.

  I stare out my room’s window, watching the soldiers restore order. My mind wanders, pondering the absurdity of it all. How did I become leader of hundreds of men, in a fortress hidden deep within a jungle, on some continent I’d never even heard of until recently?

  But then again, it wasn’t random at all.

  My body’s father orchestrated this. How deep his schemes run, I can’t even begin to guess. Koln knew far too much to deny the truth—this was no coincidence. Was this body’s deployment against Anreik prearranged? Was my battle with that mage and subsequent promotion to this mission a setup from the start?

  And why me? Was my arrival in this world—the moment I opened my eyes on that battlefield—planned long before I was even conscious of it?

  Am I the anomaly here, or is my very consciousness part of some grand design?

  Koln said my father was the closest our family had come to redeeming its lost honor. Is that tied to the promise, too? Is redemption found only in conquest?

  I sigh, shaking my head as another corpse is dragged away, another bloodstain mopped clean.

  Whatever answers lie ahead, they won’t be simple. They never are.

  Knock. Knock. Knock.

  “Come in.”

  Alfrick opens the door and steps inside, standing at attention.

  “At ease. Alfrick—tell me about your home nation.”

  He hesitates, just slightly—probably confused by the question. Not surprising, considering I slaughtered a good chunk of his comrades not long ago. And now I’m asking who they were.

  But he doesn’t falter.

  “My homeland, sir—Retrevia. A small, landlocked nation… renowned for—nothing.”

  “Okay… then who were the people attacking Retrevia? That battlefield two days away from here.”

  He stiffens. “The scum. They call their nation Kretoria. Greedy bastards. They already have too much—but they want the little we have left.”

  “Very well—tell me, are they aiming for this fortress? And why is it important?”

  “Yes. They want this fortress. It’s key to our nation’s sovereignty… but you hold it now—sir.”

  “Yes. I do. So—what did you come to report?”

  “Sir—we’ve made sure the mess will be cleaned up before the day is over. And we await your next order.”

  “Very good. After today’s labor, we celebrate in the hall.”

  He looks surprised.

  “Sir—are you sure?”

  “Of course. My new army deserves to celebrate their new commander.”

  “Sir. Yessir.”

  “Good. Prepare the festivities once the cleanup’s done. Dismissed.”

  “Sir.”

  He salutes and exits the room, sharp and prompt.

  Wait, this is kinda easy.

  But beyond figuring out this whole commander thing, I was severely lacking in that last fight. I barely used Dreamer’s Curse, defaulting instead to brute-force mana like some half-trained recruit. I got lax. Earlier victories came too easily, and I’m sure the next ones won’t be so generous. If there’s something out there that can counter my foresight, I’m dead unless I sharpen up.

  Koln appears behind me again.

  “They’re coming.”

  “Who?” I ask, no longer surprised by his favorite party trick.

  “Kretorians. I’m sure you already know about them.”

  “So what’s the plan—sally out and meet them, or wait? And how long until they reach us?”

  “We stay. Two weeks.”

  “Okay, one more thing—I don’t get it. You’re stronger than me, so why am I the one doing all this?”

  “Certain obligations bind me. And you’re not powerful enough—yet.”

  “So you can only do small things that won’t get you noticed?”

  He nods.

  Figures—secret obligations and secret promises, all tangled with this body’s family honor. My body. I should stop drawing lines. I’ll inherit this mess why not. I didn’t exactly leave a family behind on Earth anyway.

  ***

  Evening falls.

  The sun’s sinking. The courtyard’s cleaned, the mess I made down the hill too. The gate’s still wrecked, but repairs are underway—apparently they keep spare materials on hand. Convenient.

  Inside, the main hall is full. Food’s set out, and booze flows freely. I’m supposed to lighten the mood—maybe even inspire them. They’ll be fighting for their lives in two weeks, after all.

  I head down the stairwell toward the hall. As soon as they see me, silence spreads like fog. I’m alone except for Voi curled in my shadow. Koln’s vanished again—standard.

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  I walk toward the throne at the head of the room, elevated above the crowd. Gothic arches loom overhead, stained-glass windows casting kaleidoscopic light over polished stone. Feels like a cathedral decided it wanted to be a fortress.

  On the way, I grab a pint of something dark—probably ale. The soldiers part for me in rigid quiet. Am I really that terrifying? I mostly defended myself.

  I stop three steps above the crowd—about four hundred of them, all staring.

  I lift the pint.

  “To surviving. To new leadership. And to me.”

  A half-hearted cheer rises. My eyes flicker with lightning. That helps—the cheer grows louder, though not any braver.

  “Let’s drink until we pass out.”

  And with that, I conclude my exquisite speech of unreported regalia and providence.

  I’m probably butchering both those words, but I’m the one in charge, so who’s gonna argue?

  I turn and drop onto my new throne.

  Mahogany frame. Velvet lining. Surprisingly comfortable.

  The stained-glass behind me catches the sunset just right. Beyond it is a sheer drop. The glass, like the walls, hums faintly with mana—it won’t be easy to break. Good. A paranoid part of me finds comfort in that.

  The celebration kicks off—kind of. They try to enjoy themselves. Not because they want to, but because I told them to. Still too tense. Like they think I might smite the first man who laughs too loud.

  I don’t bite. Usually.

  I spot Alfrick in the corner, speaking with a small knot of officers. I wave him over. He appears quickly, standing at attention. I motion for him to relax. He does.

  “Alfrick, what’s your rank—and the others’?”

  “We’re all majors, sir.”

  “Congratulations, Lieutenant Colonel Alfrick. You’re promoted. After today, you’ll be preparing our defenses. Get everyone inside the fortress—no one sleeps out in the field. And bring me a full headcount.”

  He blinks. Not quite doubting—just stunned.

  “Thank you, sir. Are you sure you want everyone inside?”

  “Yes. Why not? It’s dangerous out there.”

  “Yessir. We already have a headcount—four hundred thirty strong. I’ll begin preparations. We should be fully ready in a month.”

  “Make it two weeks. Go enjoy yourself. It’s going to get busy.”

  “Sir, yes sir.”

  He salutes and disappears into the crowd.

  See?

  Outsourcing is king.

  ***

  Day One

  After the “exuberant party”—

  The party of boundless vitality.

  The party of the century.

  The party filled with party animals.

  No—it was awkward as hell.

  They never really got over the fact that I was there. So after exchanging a few words with the senior officers, I dipped. Hopefully they enjoyed it without me. Woe is me.

  It’s the morning after the world’s most lifeless celebration, and I’m out on the battlements, overlooking the valley.

  It’s mostly clean—aside from the burning corpse piles and the scattered rubble. Most of the tents have been moved inside the courtyard, and the troops are sleeping in the adjoining buildings near the main hall. The hall itself? Still just mine. Lucky, I guess.

  Strange, though—the previous commander left all his soldiers out in the dirt. I think the only reason I found men inside when I stormed the place was because, while I was busy mopping up the valley, they fled through the blown-open gate and took shelter wherever they could.

  We know how that turned out.

  The Kretorians—

  I call them Critters.

  They’ll be here in two weeks. I assume they had intel. Still might. At the very least, they knew there were over two thousand men stationed here, which means they’ll come with numbers to match—or more.

  Sieging a fortress while rifles and mortars exist is a bizarre choice, but with magic in the mix, I guess it makes some sense. Even so, I get the feeling their tactics are… outdated. Or maybe I’m just a savage with no formal education in warfare.

  Hey—I’m no general.

  If I had to guess? Their force is probably comparable in size. Maybe a little bigger. They were about half the size of the cowards on that first battlefield, but their quality was higher.

  And the morale?

  Fanatical.

  I didn’t see a single man flee.

  Except for that mage. Pulled a Koln-specialty vanish right when things got hot.

  Figures.

  Alfrick is nearby, barking orders. So reliable. Like a war dog in uniform.

  “Alfrick.”

  He turns immediately and strides over—prompt, predictable. We go through the same routine.

  “Bring me all the communication stones you can get your hands on—without interrupting the chain of command. And tell me how long the gate repair’s going to take.”

  “Sir, I’ll have the stones before midday, the gate should be finished in a week and a half. But—pardon me if I’m overstepping—what exactly are the stones for?”

  “The stones—I’ll load them with mana and bury them in the ground like mines. Then we mark the positions for our marksmen. They’ll pop them when the Critters start marching in and—boom. Critters in pieces.”

  He seems to like the idea.

  Swart made it sound like this was common knowledge. Maybe it is. Or maybe these people are just too damn orthodox to try anything fun.

  “Sir. Understood.”

  He walks off before I can say more.

  Next time I’ll remind him to stop with the whole attention-and-at-ease routine. It’s getting old. I’m not running a parade.

  ***

  Day two

  Today, I decide to break the news of their impending doom.

  Not mine, of course. I don’t exactly believe I’ll die—so this is more of a heads-up for them.

  I had Alfrick rally the troops into the courtyard. They gather fast, tense. Anxious. Maybe excited to see me?

  A temporary platform and podium have been set up.

  Nice touch, Alfrick. Overachiever.

  I step up and peer out over the unsteady crowd—four hundred plus, all watching, all waiting.

  I clear my throat.

  “My soldiers! I might be fearful. I might be terrifying. But I’m not your end—

  In fact, I’m your future.”

  That lands. Some flinch. Some murmur. A few faces flicker with something close to belief.

  Alfrick’s grinning like I just gave him another promotion.

  I keep going.

  “In thirteen days—Scum will come. They’ll try to rip away what’s rightfully mine.

  But make no mistake—”

  Lightning flickers across my skin, crackling through the air.

  “I will bring a storm of lightning down on anyone who dares take what’s mine.

  And you—” I sweep a hand over the crowd—

  “you are mine now.

  So we make ready.

  Because nothing—nothing—gets stolen.”

  I step back and let silence hang.

  They don’t cheer.

  But they don’t look away either.

  Good enough.

  I call Alfrick up to the stage to explain what needs to be done.

  The defenses need repair. Troops need more training. Traps need to be set. Supply levels look good—probably because I killed most of the people who were eating them.

  Alfrick takes over smoothly. He speaks like he was born doing this. The troops listen. I step back, let him handle the logistics.

  No need to micromanage when your lieutenant colonel’s already better at this part than you.

  ***

  I return to my chambers.

  Time to overload these communication stones—fill them with mana until they hum and pulse like they’re ready to burst. Then bury them deep and label them “gifts” for our visitors.

  After that, training.

  More Dreamer’s Curse. More repetition. More sweat.

  I’ve got thirteen days to hammer it in until it’s muscle memory. Until it’s instinct.

  No shortcuts. No guessing.

  Just sharpen until I cut through anything.

  ***

  Day Three

  I’m running with the soldiers.

  They look shaken, but hey—I need my morning run. Decided that yesterday, no regrets.

  After a quick lap around the grounds, I head to the training grounds connected to the main hall. The private one. Spacious, quiet, and blessedly mine. There are larger grounds near the courtyard for the soldiers, but they can have it. This one’s for real work.

  I grab my sword and begin drilling Dreamer’s Curse.

  Yes, I’ve trained in it for months.

  Yes, I got high on brute-forcing mana and let technique slide.

  And yes, that stops now.

  This has to be second nature—doesn’t matter who I’m fighting.

  I go through the five forms.

  Again.

  And again.

  And again.

  Hours pass. My body doesn’t burn out like it used to—not with this much mana coursing through it. Just sweat, focus, repetition.

  Eventually, Koln materializes. Naturally.

  He offers to spar.

  Naturally.

  I accept.

  Naturally, I lose.

  But I’m improving faster this way. Each mistake burned in, each correction sharper.

  ***

  Day Five

  Still sparring with Koln.

  Every day. No breaks. No pity.

  Dreamer’s Curse is etching itself into my muscles now—deeper than instinct.

  I’ve also started joining the soldiers for their morning sparring sessions.

  At first, they looked unsure. Nervous.

  Now?

  Now they look at me like I’m part of the drill.

  And surprisingly… I’m actually a good sparring partner.

  I think that helped my reputation.

  Turns out nothing builds morale like nearly getting your arm dislocated by your terrifying commander before breakfast.

  You’re welcome.

  ***

  Day Seven

  Rain today. Heavy. Thick enough to chew.

  The courtyard turns into a swamp. Mud everywhere. Spirits slightly lower.

  I make them train anyway.

  We’re not here to be comfortable.

  The soldiers groan, some curse under their breath. But no one dares stop.

  I join them. Soaks right through the shirt. Mud up to the calves. Blade slipping in my grip—but I keep going.

  They watch me. Not as afraid now. Just… trying to keep up.

  Koln doesn’t show. Probably watching from some cozy shadow, sipping tea and judging form.

  After drills, I check in on the traps.

  Alfrick walks me through the buried charges, We’re creating a death maze. I like it.

  Supply’s still good. Even with training, rations are steady. Medical stock’s running low, though. Alfrick says he’s sent scouts out for herbs. I approve it, but remind him: if they’re not back in three days, they’re assumed dead.

  He doesn’t flinch.

  Good man.

  I head back inside, drenched—but clearheaded.

  War’s coming. We’re not ready yet.

  But we’re closer.

  ***

  Day Eight

  Something breaks the routine today.

  Villagers.

  A handful of them show up at the gate, soaked, muddy, and begging for refuge. Apparently the rains flooded everything. Probably destroyed their crops.

  Koln confirms—simple nod, says it’s likely true.

  I could kick them out. That would be the smart play, right? Keep enemies closer—said no one ever.

  But against my better judgment, I let them in.

  Sure, it might leak our weaknesses. Sure, it could backfire.

  But honestly? If Koln and I are wrong about their intentions—and they are just desperate people—I can’t exactly let them rot out in the jungle. Not on my watch.

  I don’t have much of a moral compass left, but that still crosses a line.

  So in they come. I issue some rules. Alfrick sees to it they’re given food and a roof—but nothing more. Temporary status. No weapons. No wandering.

  Just in case.

  Then, because paranoia is survival, I give Alfrick another task:

  Have some soldiers whip up a sob story for the villagers to “accidentally” leak if anyone’s spying.

  Something about our supplies running low. Morale crumbling. Command structure falling apart.

  The usual lies.

  The army turns into an acting troupe.

  If the villagers are scouts, they’ll carry back exactly what I want them to.

  And if they aren’t?

  Well… we needed some warm bodies for the next illusion of mercy.

  ***

  Day Nine

  The jungle’s quiet.

  Too quiet.

  Like it’s waiting for something to scream.

  The soldiers are moving better now—less like frightened conscripts, more like weapons with legs. The traps are set. The fortress breathes mana and murder.

  Even the most terrified have stopped flinching when I walk by. Maybe they’re warming up to me. Or maybe they’re too scared to blink.

  Either way, I’ll take it.

  I don’t feel like an intruder anymore.

  I feel like the curse that lives here.

  And the best part?

  They’re coming.

  The Critters. The fanatics. The next wave of meat to hurl against this gate.

  Two thousand bodies marching straight into my arms.

  They think I’m going to let them take whats mine.

  Let them try.

  I’ve got a fortress full of weapons, a wall of magical stone, and a death wish shaped like foresight.

  Let them come.

  I’m tired of waiting.

  Let’s find out if fanaticism bleeds red like the rest.