Another month passed, and the routine was no longer just physical punishment. The marches, the punishments, and the daily humiliation continued, but with a new layer: technique. Constant evaluations began to classify the recruits. Tests of magical control, coordination, perception, hand-to-hand combat, and rudimentary elemental projections. Many found their paths: some manipulated the earth with a simple gesture, others moved small air currents, a few projected fire around their bodies or controlled their body temperature. Specialties and destinies were defined.

  Joel didn't fit into any category. His blood was pure, yes, and his magical potential was on par with a level 1 mage, but he didn't have any specialized magical manifestations; he simply possessed enormous physical strength. He didn't control elements, create shields, or even sense other people's mana. He was... odd. The examiners, after many attempts and evaluations, ultimately assigned him to the shock troops, that is, the front line, disciplined cannon fodder with no useful magical abilities, but with enough stamina, strength, and a cool head to survive the front lines—the fate of most level 1 mages, those incapable of surpassing the physical and psychological limits of promotion.

  The instructors, accustomed to shouting and chaos among the newcomers, watched as the section Joel was assigned to began to organize itself, not by hierarchy, but by instinct. Joel didn't impose authority; he simply spoke when necessary. His orders were simple, clear, and efficient, to the point that even during minor group combat exercises, he ended up leading unintentionally.

  Many began to follow him, not out of affection, but for effectiveness, and Joel knew it. He wasn't looking for friends, only results. In his mind, the lessons of each dreamed life began to fit together like pieces on a war chessboard.

  A few weeks into his new assignment, the officer in charge of training, a weathered man with a battle-scarred face, called him in front of the rest of the company. The veteran's voice, deep and impatient, resonated with authority:

  "This strange brat, with no projection or visible magic, has something you don't have: a cool head and common sense. I don't care if you like it or not... Starting today, Joel will be a section leader. He'll be in charge of a hundred of you. And if anyone wants to discuss it, they can do so with me."

  The murmur was immediate. Some looked at him with disdain, others with doubt, and a few with silent admiration. Joel, for his part, just nodded. He didn't ask for the position, but he didn't refuse it either, because the responsibility didn't intimidate him: it challenged him. Internally, he felt how one of his many dreamt lives aligned with that moment. From that day on, his presence began to weigh more heavily in training, and his word ceased to be a suggestion and became an unspoken order.

  Joel's sudden promotion, with no visible magical abilities, wasn't well received by everyone. One of the recruits, a burly and arrogant young man named Rhagan, didn't hide his contempt. "What kind of leader can't even throw a spark?" he snapped one day, just before a sparring match.

  Joel, tired of the constant poison, turned slowly. "Want to see if it takes magic to knock you down?"

  Rhagan laughed, confident in his muscle mass and skill with mana projections. "Go ahead, leader. Show me your lackluster tricks."

  The others stood in a silent circle; no one intervened. The instructor watched them from afar, with no intention of stopping the fight, because for them, hierarchies were also consolidated through blows.

  Rhagan charged first, swiftly, throwing a punch straight to the face. Joel side-stepped and used his opponent's momentum to force him to the ground. Rhagan rolled, stood up furiously, and launched a blast of fire that barely grazed Joel's arm, scorching his uniform. Joel didn't flinch, and with swift movements, he scooped sand from the ground and threw it into his opponent's eyes. It was a dirty gesture, yes, but effective. As Rhagan screamed, blinded and enraged, Joel slipped under his guard and hit him in the stomach with a well-aimed knee.

  Rhagan fell to his knees. Joel grabbed the back of his neck, forcing him to stare at the ground. "Next time you want to question someone, make sure you don't let them think. Because thinking is all I need."

  Joel released his grip and stepped back. The silence was absolute; no one applauded, no one mocked. But from that moment on, Rhagan fell silent. Respect had been earned, not with magic, but with strategy and cold resolve. Respect, however grudging, was beginning to cement itself.

  The maneuvers Joel had experienced as a naval captain or infantry officer were now useful strategies in simulations. The reflex reactions he developed as a modern pilot or soldier translated into an almost preternatural reading of the environment. Every movement seemed anticipated, every decision logical, every attack brutally accurate.

  Liria began to cross paths with him more often, in mess halls, on exercise fields, in narrow corridors. Sometimes they exchanged glances, sometimes words, few, but increasingly meaningful.

  One afternoon, after a sparring session, they both met in the shadow of a ruined wall, where the sun barely filtered through the cracks.

  Liria wiped her sweat with her forearm and looked at him from the side. Her still labored breathing didn't hide the curious gleam in her eyes. "You're like a wound that won't heal," she said in a low voice, as if she didn't want to be heard herself.

  This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

  Joel, sitting on a rock, looked at her without fully raising his head. His eyes were half hidden by his sweaty bangs, but there was something sharp in his expression. "And you're like an unanswered question. Annoying. Constant."

  Liria didn't smile. But one corner of her mouth trembled slightly, holding back. "I don't know if that was an insult or the closest thing you could give to a compliment."

  "Does that change anything?" Joel replied, with a calm that was more chilling than any contempt.

  She watched him for a few more seconds. There was something between them that wasn't flirtation, or closeness. It was recognition. Like two strange pieces who knew they wouldn't fit into any puzzle, except maybe each other's.

  "I guess not. See you tomorrow," she said finally, turning on her heel.

  Joel watched her walk away, without moving. He said nothing. But for the first time in a long time, his mind wasn't filled with noise, only echoes.

  When a month had passed since his last dream, Joel tried with all his might to resist sleep. He kept his eyes open beyond exhaustion, mentally recited absurd phrases, pinched his arms, and begged his mind to leave him alone. He feared losing himself again and feared waking up as someone else.

  And he succeeded... in part, because he didn't dream of a life, he dreamed of the absence of everything. A white, infinite void, without sound or form, without gravity, without a body. He was there, suspended, and there was nothing, not even himself, only a floating consciousness, trapped in the eternity of silence. He didn't know if seconds or centuries passed, but in that no-place, the notion of self began to crack, feeling his essence being erased, his mind unraveling.

  When he finally awoke, he screamed, and his screams alerted the entire dormitory. Shaking and crying for no reason, he took hours to regain his speech, and when he did, he didn't speak about it. No one insisted, no one asked, only Liria looked at him with different eyes that morning, as if she'd understood something the others couldn't. That night, Joel promised himself never to oppose a dream again, for he preferred to be someone else than nothingness itself.

  Days later, an announcement came: the camp was preparing for its first test outside the perimeter. It was the highest-ranking commander of the compound who announced it in the middle of the dining hall, without preamble or compassion:

  "In three days, you will all be transported to Broken Land. There you will face real combat tests. These will not be exercises with wooden weapons or domesticated creatures. Your enemies will be wild beasts, and also prisoners of war from the other empires, humans like yourselves... Some with magical abilities, some willing to die, others desperate to kill."

  The silence that followed was absolute, thicker than any moonless night. Many recruits gulped, and others averted their eyes. Fear seeped into every corner of the mess hall, like an invisible current. For the first time, they understood that what they had experienced until now had only been a preface; now they were entering the realm of the irreversible.

  "There will be no second chances," the commander added. "Those who fail will never return."

  Joel watched everyone's reaction with a blank stare. Nothing on his face betrayed fear or tension, not even attention, as if the news were nothing more than distant noise, unimportant. Deep down, he had already crossed that line, having died many times in other bodies, in other times. What was to come was nothing more than another stage, another role in his theater of other lives.

  The war was about to begin for them, not with enemy armies, but against what they still were, and what they must become.

  The day of the transfer arrived with the sun still hidden behind dense, heavy clouds. A thick fog covered the camp when the recruits were called to the center of the compound. There, several dozen enormous war chariots awaited, with reinforced wheels and armored sides. Each one was pulled by muscular, six-legged beasts with dark eyes like pits, used only for missions requiring long journeys.

  The recruits climbed aboard in silence, their backpacks on their shoulders and their stomachs empty from more than fear. No one spoke. Some peered through the slits in the chariots, trying to take in the scenery; others kept their heads down, and one vomited before getting in. Joel sat at the back of his chariot, in the far corner. He gazed at the ground indifferently, his thoughts calmer than he expected; it was as if his soul floated slightly above his body.

  The journey lasted hours, crossing valleys covered in silver moss and plains of red stone. They saw dead forests, with trees twisted like skeletons in prayer, and mountains that looked like blades embedded in the earth. As they advanced, the climate became drier, colder, and the sky turned from dull gray to a strange metallic hue, as if something were watching from on high.

  Finally, after midday, the carriages stopped, as they could go no further. The terrain was steep, and the paths dangerous for such heavy wheels. The recruits dismounted, as the march had to continue on foot.

  The walk was brutal, more than four hours among uneven rocks, frozen mud, and hidden crevices. Many stumbled, others bled from cuts on sharp rocks littering the path. Boots filled with thick, sticky mud, temperatures dropped rapidly, and breath became visible as steam.

  Joel walked at the front of his section, his eyes scanning the terrain without emotion. His steps were calculated; he didn't complain, in fact, he didn't utter a single word. While most people cursed under their breath or exchanged fearful glances, he thought only of defensive positions, blind spots, broken necks... and survival.

  When they finally reached the edge of a cliff, they saw their final destination for the first time: Broken Land. A wide valley surrounded by jagged hills, with black stone structures scattered like scars across the landscape. There was smoke in several places, and small figures moved in the distance. This wasn't a training camp; it was a contained war zone, a kind of hunt disguised as exercise.

  No one spoke, because no one dared. Only Joel, seeing the place, sighed softly, not out of fear, not out of resignation, but because for the first time, the scene seemed familiar. As if he had walked there in a previous life.

  But as they descended toward the temporary camp, set up on the outskirts of the valley, Joel noticed something else, details both small and large that didn't fit with the official narrative: the structures there were too meticulously fortified to be used solely for training. Decomposing corpses were piled next to wagons, with torn uniforms, burnt insignia... some of which were recognizable, like the very ones they wore.

  It was there, among the shadows cast by the columns of smoke, that Joel understood the truth. They weren't there to face beasts or prisoners. They were there to face others like them, recruits thrown into this hell for the same purpose: to prove themselves. A form of sifting, a theater of war where casualties were assumed as part of the cost.

  Perhaps they would even be fighting against compatriots. No one would know, no one would say. And in that brutal silence, Joel felt the confirmation of everything he already suspected about the world.