They called it a guard job.
"Easy money," they said. "Just walk beside the wagon and look scary."
Yeah, right. Easy my ass.
By the time dusk rolled in, the fog was thick enough to choke on. The torches hissed and spat, throwing light that didn't reach past my own damn boots. The four Sparkless rejects walking with me were the usual Gloom trash—busted Crests, busted teeth, busted pride.
The biggest one kept glancing at the tattoo on my neck. "Hey, neck-mark," he said, grinning that half-rotted grin. "That Crest of yours even work, or is it just for show?"
I gave him a glare. "You wanna find out, asshole?"
He barked a laugh. "Relax, hero. Just don't freeze up when something bites."
"Bite me," I muttered.
They snickered—the kind of laugh that says you'll die first and I'll loot your boots afterward.
We hit the bridge, and the air went wrong. Heavy. Cold. Every hair on my arms stood up.
Then the fog moved.
Something crawled out of it—gray skin stretched tight, blue light pulsing through the veins, eyes like empty holes. The air stank of burned mana.
A MANA WRAITH.
"Holy hell—back, back!" one of them shouted.
The Wraith didn't care. It blurred forward and tore a man in half before he could even scream. Blood splashed the wagon wheel, hissing as it hit the stone.
"Shit!" another yelled, swinging his blade. His Crest flickered once, then died like a guttered candle.
I froze. My sword felt like dead weight in my hand. I couldn't think. Couldn't breathe.
The Wraith's head snapped toward me.
"No, no, no—" I stumbled back, nearly tripping over a corpse. The thing shrieked, that sound crawling straight through my skull.
I swung—a pathetic, desperate swing—and hit nothing. The blade bounced off its arm like I'd smacked a wall.
It backhanded me. Pain exploded across my ribs. The sword flew out of my grip. I hit the ground hard, gasping.
"Get it off me! Fuck—get it off!" the last guard screamed before the Wraith tore him open too.
Then it was just me.
I scrambled backward, palms sliding through blood and mud. My chest burned; every breath was knives.
The thing stalked closer, twitching, leaking light from the cracks in its body.
"Come on," I croaked, shaking, "just—stay back, you piece of shit!"
It didn't. It lunged.
Claws slammed into my chest. The pain was blinding. My scream ripped out raw and broken. I could feel my life draining, heat leaving my skin, the world dimming around me.
"I—don't wanna die!"
The shard in my pocket pulsed—hard—then split.
Light swallowed everything. My body went weightless, then nothing at all.
Steel clanged.
Another spark. Another cheer. And, of course, it wasn't mine.
I blinked. Sunlight. Sweat. The smell of dust and chalk.
The training grounds.
I looked down. Wooden sword in hand. My hands shaking. No blood. No wound.
The instructor's voice cut through the air. "Kale! You're still swinging wrong! Stop wasting your time!"
The laughter hit me like a hammer. Same voices. Same moment. Same damn humiliation.
I dropped to my knees, breathing hard. My chest should've been ripped open—but it wasn't. Not even a bruise.
This wasn't a dream. It was a rewind.
I'd died screaming like a coward—and now I was back here.
I clenched my jaw so hard it hurt. "You've gotta be kidding me."
If death couldn't keep me, then fine.
Let's see how many times this cursed world can kill me before I break it in half.