The train ride away from the trenches was not a release; it was a transition into a different kind of pressure. Staff Sergeant Bartholomew arrived at the Advanced Tactical Observation and Support Hub—a massive, fortified complex far behind the forward line, buzzing with the mechanical whine of powerful Aetheric generators. Here, the war was fought in silence, measured in runes and logistical projections rather than blood and mud.
Bartholomew, still reeling from the low-grade trauma of the previous months, felt like an impostor in his clean, newly issued uniform. He had gained a minor rank, but the terror was escalating. He had three months to reach the C-Rank threshold or face certain doom in a designated sacrifice zone.
He was led immediately to the secured analytical section of the Aetheric Intelligence Corps (AIC). The air inside was cool and filtered, smelling of ozone and freshly printed schematics. The walls were covered in glowing, interactive displays depicting complex, three-dimensional Aetheric flow patterns across the Western Front—a map of magic itself.
Major Elias Vance stood waiting. He wore a crisp field uniform, and his face was impassive, yet his eyes held the keen, clinical focus of a predator finally cornering its prey.
"Sergeant Bartholomew," Vance began, without offering a greeting or a handshake, gesturing toward a padded chair. "Sit. We have much to discuss, and little time. Your official cover is temporary assignment to Signal Latency Analysis. Your true purpose is known only to myself and my closest aids."
Bartholomew sat, remaining rigid. "I am prepared to follow orders, Major."
"Orders are irrelevant until we establish understanding," Vance countered, circling a large central table displaying a luminous model of the entire Allied front. "You are not here because of luck, Sergeant. You are here because of physics."
The Revelation: The Temporal Conductor
Vance stopped and faced Bartholomew directly. "The military believes you possess prophetic instinct. I know better. I know, with quantifiable certainty, that you possess knowledge you could not possibly have acquired in this lifetime."
Bartholomew's heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He fought to keep his expression blank, ready to resort to his prepared facade of "lucky fool."
Vance preempted him. "Do not insult my intelligence, Sergeant. I am the head of Aetheric Logistics, and I specialize in reading the signature of impossible magical work. Let us examine your two primary field successes."
Vance activated a display that showed two distinct, glowing Aetheric resonance charts.
"Incident One: The Boot Camp Gem Calibration. The standard defense band, 14.88—which is structurally sound according to all current research—was overridden by you using the 15.21 Emergency Bypass frequency. That frequency was scrubbed from all accessible military databases in 1910 after its inventor went rogue. Your action was impossible, yet your Gem's resulting Aetheric stability was off the charts. The resulting signature showed temporal displacement and non-linear rune coherence—a phenomenon only theoretically possible when a mage accesses a future Aetheric field to stabilize a present one."
Vance moved to the second chart. "Incident Two: The Ammunition Check. You corrected a structural weakness in the Type-IV shell casing. The flaw was not visible, audible, or detectable by our best X-ray runes. Yet, you instinctively applied a Grade-C Micro-Rune—a counter-pressure array that requires the mathematical precision of a Rank B Master Mage—using only your D-Rank power and a field knife."
Vance leaned over the table, his face devoid of emotion. "The mathematical imprint of that specific Micro-Rune, Sergeant, was not formally discovered by Allied engineers until the Spring of 1938. It is, quite simply, an advanced future technology. You did not guess, Sergeant. You knew."
He concluded with chilling clarity: "I have theorized that you are a Temporal Aetheric Conductor. Some event—your death, perhaps—forced your consciousness back in time, and your System, whatever latent magical force governs it, is now fueled by the raw trauma of accessing that impossible future knowledge. Your PTSD is not a weakness; it is the catalyst that unlocks superior power and foresight."
Bartholomew finally spoke, his voice quiet. "If you know that, Major, why don't you simply experiment on me?"
"Because, Sergeant, my analysis also shows that your survival is tied to autonomy. Any attempt to forcibly control the process would result in immediate psychological collapse, rendering you useless. I do not deal in hope; I deal in efficiency. I need your foresight intact. Therefore, we will maintain the illusion of cooperation."
The Autumn Offensive: The Critical Failure
Vance deactivated the charts, bringing up the map of the Western Front. "We now move to the reason you are here. In precisely three months, the Allied forces launch the Autumn Offensive—the largest coordinated push of the war to date. Its success hinges entirely on the integrity of the new, centralized Long-Range Aetheric Communication Network."
Vance's expression tightened. "Based on the patterns of large-scale future failures I have charted from your previous incidents, this Network is not safe. It will fail catastrophically. The Network requires Rank C mages to stabilize under operational stress. If it collapses mid-offensive, the resulting chaos will cost us a million lives and extend the war by at least three years."
"I saw the war last for thirty-one years, Major," Bartholomew stated, the memory of the trenches hardening his resolve.
"Indeed," Vance acknowledged with a nod. "Which is why you must fix it. To analyze and stabilize that network under operational stress, you require the innate capacity of a C-Rank mage. Your current D-Rank power will not sustain the necessary corrective runes. You have three months to bridge that gap."
Vance paused, letting the magnitude of the task sink in. "Your current EXP standing is insufficient. You need a massive, systemic trauma to break the C-Rank threshold, and I cannot risk spontaneous, uncontrolled battlefield trauma. We must engineer the perfect psychological test."
The Terms of Exploitation
Vance outlined the terrifying, calculated plan:
The Training: For three months, Bartholomew would undergo highly specialized, technical training under Vance's direct supervision. This would focus on the intricacies of the Communication Network's schematics and the rare, complex Aetheric stabilization runes.
The Stimulus: Concurrently, Vance would utilize precise audio and visual stimuli—replicated environmental conditions, historical records of mass failures, and high-frequency resonance—all designed to mimic the environment and cause of a major, strategic past-life failure that only a C-Rank solution could avert.
The Deadline: "You have ninety days. If, by the end of this period, your System has not processed the necessary trauma and awarded you the C-Rank status required to operate the Network safely, you will be reassigned. Your final posting will be Aetheric Battery 7, Sector X-9. It is currently facing a strategic deficit, and my analysis predicts an 100% casualty rate during the winter assault. It is a sacrifice zone, Sergeant, and you will be its final, disposable contribution to the war."
Bartholomew felt the cold weight of the choice. He was being offered a path out of the war's early horror, but the price was a forced, self-inflicted psychological breakdown.
"And if I succeed, Major?"
"If you succeed, Captain Bartholomew, you will be a permanent asset to the AIC. You will have a protected logistics role, providing the foresight we need to manage the war efficiently. You will have escaped the trenches. But understand this: you will never be truly safe. Your success will only be rewarded with more critical, more difficult assignments."
Barthomew looked at the glowing map, then at the journal Vance had placed on the table. He understood the equation. Vance was not his enemy; he was his cruel, necessary handler, and the WLS was his terrible, demanding god. To survive, he had to embrace the trauma that had broken him once before.
"I accept the terms, Major," Bartholomew confirmed, his voice devoid of emotion. The path to godhood, he knew, was paved with the screams of his past self.
He picked up the journal. The training—the forced descent into memory—began tomorrow.