The blast hits—white flash, ringing skull. Hein

  yanks me upright and, as always, flicks those runes that asks the predestined

  questions—third verse the same .

  My hearing seeps back, just enough to function.

  “Hein—where can I grab a communication stone?”

  He pauses, brow knitting. “A what? Why—?”

  I draw a long breath. Because I’m trapped in a

  cosmic rerun and need to turn a glorified mailbox into a grenade—but where do I

  even start explaining that?

  He watches me a beat longer, then shakes his head.

  “Forget it. If you’re serious, the signal squad keeps it in the bunker north.

  Now hurry—we don’t have time!”

  Just my luck—the nearest stash is under a collapsed

  bunker.

  Everything unfolds exactly on schedule: the officer

  barking, the warning shouts, me mowing down platoons, then collapsing on the

  corpse-pile for a quick breather—but not too long.

  I haul myself up and sprint towards Hein. “Hein!

  Come on, now!”

  No time to explain. We race to the northern

  bunker—close, but ten minutes already burned, leaving twenty before the lunatic

  mage arrives.

  “Hein, help me—find the stone!”

  He hesitates, baffled by my mania. “Quickly!” I

  snap, jolting him into motion.

  We dig through shattered crates, overturned cots,

  and mounds of dirt. Ten more minutes bleed away before we finally unearth the

  mystical messenger pigeon—a bright-red octagonal stone, no bigger than my palm

  yet light enough to toss.

  Shit. Ten minutes left.

  I still have to figure out mana control, then jam it

  into this thing—before the maniac drops in.

  I drop to the dirt, cross-legged, eyes shut, and

  pull on the knowledge Swart burned into my skull—Aspiration’s Folly, First Dream,

  step one. Let it rise like steam.

  Inhale—cordite and churned mud. Exhale—strip away

  the noise until only the pattern remains.

  Deep inside my chest, a glow sparks, warm and

  buoyant, racing through veins until my limbs hum.

  Move it to the palm, then feed the stone, just like the diagrams branded behind my

  eyelids. Sounds easy; feels like threading a needle in a hurricane.

  Seven minutes just to sense the current, and I still can’t steer it. Time stretches, snaps.

  If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

  With one second left, I finally squeeze a whisper of

  mana into my hand—nowhere near bomb-grade.

  A black speck drops from the sky. Hein goes

  sheet-white. “Run!” he yells, already bolting.

  I stay.

  This is gonna hurt.

  The mage’s grin eclipses the sun. White fire

  follows, and loop three ends in a heartbeat.

  Hope doesn’t. Loop four will be different.

  ***

  Loop four drops me straight into the trench—no

  stopover in Swart’s void, just mud, smoke, and Hein’s worried glyphs. Same

  start, new plan: skip the firefight, hit the bunker early, buy myself time.

  “Hein—come with me.”

  “Where?”

  “The northern bunker. I need the stone.”

  “Why? That’s desertion.” He firms his stance. “I’m

  staying.”

  No shifting him. “Fine.” I break for the bunker.

  The gravel-voiced officer steps into my path.

  “Soldier! Are you—”

  No time for explanations. I lower my shoulder and

  charge.

  He’s quick—sidearm halfway up.

  Bang! The shot goes wide.

  I tackle him, both of us skidding through muck. We

  grapple; he jerks the pistol for another try.

  Bang! A wild blast; searing pain slices my

  bicep—just a graze.

  Teeth clenched, I wrench the gun free and crack it

  across his temple. The officer slumps, out cold.

  I don’t wait to check the wound.

  Back on my feet, I sprint. Alarm shouts echo behind

  me, but I don’t slow. At the bunker I drop to my knees at the same patch of

  rubble, clawing until my fingers hit stone.

  There it is.

  I fold my legs, shut my eyes, and channel the drill

  Swart burned into me. Inhale—feel the current. Exhale—guide it. Minutes crawl.

  At last the flow steadies, filling the octagonal gem until it glows from bright

  red to pulsing crimson, hot and unstable in my palm.

  This might actually work.

  Stone secured, I race back toward Hein and the

  front. The assault should still be roaring, yet the closer I get, the quieter

  it grows—no gunfire, no screams, just a dead hush.

  I round a corner and skid to a halt. A squad of

  Anreik soldiers blocks the trench, rifles raised.

  My hand flies for the rifle slung across my back—

  Shit.

  How could I forget it?

  Their first volley whistles past—lucky miss. I dive

  behind the corner, sidearm already out. Mana still hums in my veins; the world

  sharpens. Weak links glow like targets.

  Four shots, four bodies drop before the rest can

  blink.

  The survivors freeze, stunned—two more pulses of

  lead punch them down. They finally return fire, but I’m back in cover, swapping

  mags.

  Too late. They’re on me.

  Knife flashing, I leap forward. The nearest soldier

  jerks as the blade slides through his throat; hot spray paints my coat. Four

  left.

  Another lunges—I drive steel between his ribs, but a

  rifle cracks; agony flares as a round tears through my thigh. I rip the knife

  free, finish him anyway.

  Three remain. Blood loss blurs my vision; I stagger,

  and they see their chance.

  One wrenches the rifle from my weak hand, hurls me

  to the trench floor. I’m down to a single arm and a dripping blade—no strength

  left to rise.

  The muzzles bloom orange.

  Loop four ends in gunfire.

  ***

  The flash snaps me awake—skull-splitting whine, Hein

  dragging me up, the officer barking his recycled orders.

  Time’s tight. If I duck this assault the line buckles; I’ve watched it happen. So

  the plan is fight first, bunker second, charge the stone—everything on a razor

  timetable.

  I sigh, bone-deep tired. “Another assault, another

  day.”

  I settle behind the iron beast, checking rifle,

  sidearm, knife. Loop five begins.

  ***

  “Hein—move!”

  I sprint for the collapsed bunker; he follows,

  bewildered.

  “Here—dig.” I jab a finger at the half-buried “X.”

  Hein hesitates, so I bark again and he drops to his knees. Together we claw

  through rubble until the red octagonal stone emerges.

  Eleven minutes left. Tight but doable.

  I sit, cross-legged, eyes shut. Mana floods my

  veins—inhale, guide it, exhale. Nine minutes crawl by.

  “There.” The gem thrums, crimson and unstable. Two

  minutes remain—just enough to brief him.

  Hein’s staring, mask of confusion.

  “Plan’s simple,” I whisper. “When the mage fires,

  you lob the stone. We shoot it mid-air—boom.”

  “Mage?” His frown deepens.

  “No time.” I haul him to better cover as distant

  explosions bloom at the frontline.

  “That’s the mage,” I say.

  “How did you—”

  “Focus. Stone up, mage attacks, we blow it. Got it?”

  He glances toward the rumbling horizon. “Why not

  just run?”

  “He can track us. Understood?”

  A resigned sigh. “Fine.”

  The black speck finally drops into view.

  “I’ll draw his fire—wait for my signal.”

  I shove the stone into Hein’s hands and sprint

  before he can object.

  From the corner of my eye I see him duck behind a

  mound, gem clutched tight. Ahead, the mage’s crazed grin widens: another soul

  to roast.

  I rake him with rifle fire. “Over here, you flaming

  bastard!”

  His head snaps toward me, palm rising.

  “Now!” I roar.

  The crimson stone arcs through the air just as a

  lance of white hell tears toward me. I dive, squeeze a shot—miss. My stomach

  plummets.

  Another bolt screams down the line; no time to aim.

  Boom!—scarlet flash. Hein’s

  bullet finds the gem, and the mage disappears in a blossom of fire.

  Relief slackens my guard for half a heartbeat—long

  enough for the second lance to slam nearby hitting me.

  Loop five ends in searing light… but the mage is

  dead.