No void this time again. I jolt awake, eyes seared by white glare—yet my ears aren’t ringing, just a skull-splitting throb. Something’s off. Vision snaps back faster than usual, and the mud is gone. Canvas roof, rows of cots, bodies groaning: a field hospital. So I didn’t die—still Loop Five.

  I pan left. Hein’s on the next cot, propped on an elbow, hazel eyes alight, a grin flickering in the lamplight. Relief floods me.

  “We got him?” My voice is more rasp than words.

  He nods once, firm.

  Challenge cleared. I exhale.

  Only now, with the guns silenced, do I really see him: dirt-brown hair matted with soot, defiant hazel eyes, a face too handsome for this hell—about my height, maybe a touch taller.

  Recalling the webbed reflection, I know my hair is so dark it’s flirting with black, streaked silver—stress, I guess. Grey eyes that look fiercer with every loop. A single scar rakes from cheekbone to just shy of my chin. The rest of me? A patchwork of older cuts and burns—morbid souvenirs from before the loops; my body is lean but not starved, built for war.

  Finally able to breathe, I let my thoughts spool out.

  I still have no memory of my name, no clear image of my past body and how this body shows off untrained and unnatural reflexes. It isn’t total amnesia—I remember being a twentieth-century man on Earth—yet somehow I woke up here. And Swart: how does he fit, and what of that promise he mentioned?

  This world plays by different rules. Real magic. I can channel a shred of it myself, though I don’t yet know how strong.

  But the thought that matters most? For the first time in as long as I can remember, the numbness that ruled my old life is gone. This place—guns, mud, mana and all—accepts me in a way Earth never did.

  Boots thud across the loose plank floor. I look up from my thoughts; the relentless officer looms over us. I swallow, bracing for a reprimand. He glances at me, then at Hein, clears his throat. I sit rigid, nerves firing—Hein’s just as tense.

  “Soldiers—congratulations. You have new orders. You’re shipping out to the capital immediately, where you’ll receive rewards for your exemplary actions.”

  His iron mask cracks into the briefest smile—pride, maybe. Then he turns on his heel and strides off, leaving Hein and me staring at each other, stunned.

  Not knowing what to say, we both sit there with our mouths half-open—then another interruption.

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  A “doctor,” I guess, though nothing about him is textbook: no white coat, no stethoscope, just a butcher’s apron splattered red, rubber gloves to match, a beer belly, and a perpetual scowl—could be the baldness, could be the height.

  He checks Hein first. “Hmm—good enough. Pack your shit.”

  Then he turns to me, prodding ribs, testing joints. A crack appears in his fa?ade—eyebrows flick up, almost impressed. “That’s… quick. Ahem—pack your shit too.”

  I shrug it off, but I’ll soon realize my healing has taken a leap.

  ***

  It all happens so fast—one moment I’m fighting tooth-and-nail in a brutal trench war, the next I’m on a train bound for the capital to receive some prestigious reward.

  While we rattle along in the capital-bound car, I overhear a pair of young soldiers whispering about us. Word is we’ll get the medal from the Field Marshal himself—the top dog. Curious, I nudge Hein.

  “Hey—who’s this Field Marshal character?”

  Hein stares like I’ve forgotten how to breathe, then laughs, thinking I’m joking.

  “I’m serious. That shelling—and the mage—really scrambled my memory.”

  The laugh dies; he never doubts me, oddly enough.

  “Sheesh, that bad? Field Marshal Krieg—he’s the highest authority in the States—answers only to the rulers of each nation in the Union.”

  “Hmm—so where is the capital, then?”

  Still a bit stunned, he humors me.

  “It’s right in the middle of the Union, in the largest country—Alysia. Most folks say it ended up there because the whole Union was their idea in the first place.”

  “So what about Anreik—what’s their situation?”

  “Well, theirs is simpler—they’re a typical imperial monarchy. Their capital—ah, yes—is called Wish. Interesting name, that’s for sure.”

  As we talk, I learn a lot about this continent—thanks to Hein’s rare patience. I’d assumed the States united only to counter Anreik, but the two powers are nearly the same age. The States first came together when foreign empires tried to conquer our little landmass, drawn by its role as a gateway—metaphorically, at least—to the New World, a place crawling with monsters yet rich in resources.

  I’m curious what rewards we’ll receive— even Hein doesn’t know.

  ***

  Tshh—our train screeches to a halt at a station in the heart of a sprawling metropolis. Buildings stretch to the horizon—twentieth-century silhouettes, if you ignore the magical flourishes. Eight floating towers encircle the city, each glowing the same soft blue: probably a shield array. And this train? No steam—pure mana. Makes me wonder if they’ve even bothered inventing the combustion engine. The place is pristine, the atmosphere almost peaceful—ironic, really.

  We step off the train and are greeted by what must be palace staff: white-and-gold–laced formal wear, practiced smiles. They usher us toward—of course—a magical car.

  We glide through the city—blocks teeming with families, merchants, and—on occasion—figures haloed in mana: mages. Everyone seems content, as though a war isn’t grinding on just beyond the horizon. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind living here.

  At last we reach the palace. It’s not tall so much as vast—an entire district unto itself, alive with workers scurrying to finish errands. The complex sprawls across multiple wings, each handling some slice of government. We’re guided to the largest, dead-center: a marble colossus whose domed roof spears the sky. Truly grand.

  We enter—then we’re split up, hustled into separate rooms to wash, change, and absorb a crash-course in etiquette. My heart hammers; can’t deny I’m excited. Briefing done, we’re marched to the main hall for the ceremony.

  Hein and I reunite before an ivory door twice my height. A guard in ceremonial livery announces us, a resonant voice granting passage. The door swings wide. Inside: long tables, maps, and a knot of top brass—with the Field Marshal at their center.

  Intimidating.