The Sergeant, a man named Taggart, did not care about near-catastrophes. He cared about discipline. The moment the tuning fork clattered onto the muddy floor, sending a jarring sound through the tense barracks, Bartholomew ceased to be a potential hero and became a certainty for punishment.
"Insubordination in the face of a direct order! Tampering with government-issued material!" Taggart's voice was a gravelly thunder, amplified by the low-grade Aether Gem he wore—a regulation piece designed only to boost vocal projection.
Bartholomew barely registered the words. He was still wrestling with the fading phantom image of Private Peterson's disintegration from forty-odd years ago, the terror of the memory a raw, physical ache behind his eyes. He had earned the EXP, but the cost was always visceral.
His punishment was relentless. While the other recruits were allowed to retire to the mess hall for their watery stew, Bartholomew was forced into an exhausting drill routine: running laps around the muddy parade ground, then holding a full plank position with his arms outstretched while Taggart tossed wet gravel onto his exposed back. It was intended to break him physically, to drive the chaotic instinct out of him.
But the body of an eighteen-year-old was a powerful, resilient machine. And the soul of an eighty-year-old veteran, tempered by thirty-one years of unending trenches and twenty years of asylum confinement, simply refused to shatter. His Endurance stat, though only at a base 10, was subconsciously reinforced by the sheer willpower that had kept him alive in his first life.
Endure. You survived worse than this for six years, you old fool. This is a picnic.
When Taggart finally allowed him to fall, hours later, Bartholomew lay panting in the mud. He was covered in sweat and grime, but he hadn't broken. He had only gained a headache and a chilling realization: the military wouldn't tolerate his disobedience, but they wouldn't let his unnatural foresight go unnoticed either.
The summons came just before midnight. Two grim-faced MPs, both wearing the distinct, high-grade blue fabric of a specialized unit, ordered him out of his cot.
"Put your uniform on, Private. You're required for interview."
They led him not to the standard disciplinary office, but to a temporary administrative hut tucked away behind the main barracks. The interior smelled of sterile paper and ozone—the distinctive, sharp scent of high-grade Aetheric processing equipment.
Seated behind a folding table piled with technical schematics was a man in his late thirties: Major Elias Vance. Vance's uniform was immaculate, his boots polished to a mirror shine, and his expression was one of cool, clinical curiosity. He wore a complex Aether-Gem harness that was unlike the combat rigs of the front lines; this one was designed for data acquisition, studded with small lenses and fine-tuned regulators. He was the head of the Aetheric Intelligence Corps (AIC) Logistics Division.
Vance waved the MPs out, indicating a battered wooden chair for Bartholomew.
"Sit, Private Bartholomew," Vance said, his voice flat and analytical, devoid of the emotion Taggart possessed. "I have reviewed the incident reports and the resulting Aetheric data logs from the Gem Calibration exercise this afternoon."
Bartholomew remained silent, adopting the blank-faced weariness of a thoroughly disciplined recruit. Act simple. Act like a lucky fool. Do not show intelligence.
Vance tapped a sheaf of papers with a gloved finger. "The official conclusion is that you disrupted a standard, safe training exercise due to a momentary lapse of discipline, possibly brought on by pre-existing mental instability. However, I ran a secondary analysis."
Vance leaned forward, his eyes locking onto Bartholomew's. "The frequency 14.88—the standard defense band, as Taggart called it—is indeed safe under ideal laboratory conditions. But in the volatile, damp Aetheric field of this region, it causes an unstable resonance in the low-grade F-Rank Gems issued to recruits. A sustained use of that frequency in the field would lead to a feedback loop and the catastrophic rupture of the Gem, resulting in a minimum of sixty percent casualties in any close-packed formation."
Bartholomew's heart hammered against his ribs. He knows. He's confirming my flashback.
"You, Private," Vance continued, a flicker of something close to amusement in his eyes, "an F-Rank recruit with zero technical training, overrode an order and tuned your own Gem to 15.21 Emergency Bypass, an obscure, non-standard frequency used only once, experimentally, by the Imperial Guard in 1909 before the war began. That frequency provided triple the expected defensive output while maintaining perfect stability."
Vance paused, letting the silence hang heavy. "Explain your luck, Private."
Bartholomew swallowed, his throat dry. "Sir, I… I can't explain it. When the tuning fork hit that frequency, sir, I saw something. A flash."
"A flash of what? A memory?"
"No, sir. A feeling. Like a pit in my stomach. I knew, absolutely knew, that tuning to 14.88 was going to kill me. So I did the opposite. I fiddled with the dial until the pit went away. I just got lucky, sir."
Vance studied him, not believing a word, but unable to deny the result. He was dealing with a soldier who acted on instinct that bordered on precognition. Prophetic Aetheric Stabilizer. The term Vance had secretly coined in his official report flashed into Bartholomew's mind—another piece of future knowledge given freely by the universe.
"Luck is valuable, Private. Insanity is a liability. You are slated for six months of Boot Camp, then six months of Battle Mage School before deployment in 1915," Vance stated, his voice now crisp and official. "That path is set. I cannot alter it. The need for bodies is too high. However, I can ensure that your training is fast-tracked."
Vance picked up a small, smooth, polished stone—a refined, high-grade Aether Gem no recruit would ever see. "You have a unique insight into Aetheric failure. I need to know why. If you cooperate, if you continue to display this 'luck' during your training, I will personally ensure you are placed in the most critical, high-value assignments once you hit the front lines. Assignments where survival is difficult, but where successful survival earns you rapid, measurable promotions."
It was a twisted deal. Vance was guaranteeing Bartholomew six years of high-risk trauma—the exact horror he wanted to avoid—but offering the only path out: accelerated rank progression. Without Vance, Bartholomew would simply be stuck in the trenches as an E-Rank weakling until the war ended.
Bartholomew met Vance's gaze, the weariness of 80 years masking the calculation of a master strategist. "I'll follow orders, Major. Sir."
"Good," Vance said, standing up. "Dismissed, Private. Now get back to your barracks and start praying that your luck holds. The trenches don't care about a good feeling."
⏫ The First System Upgrade
Back in the clamor of the barracks, Bartholomew collapsed onto his cot. He pulled the thin blanket over his head, shutting out the young faces of his comrades. He had six years—1915 to 1920—to survive the front lines before he could finally leverage a position out. The front lines of the Blood War were a meat grinder designed to destroy weaklings like him.
He activated the WLS interface in his mind.
[CURRENT EXP: 50/100]
[RANK: F \rightarrow E (Next)]
[ATTRIBUTES:]
MP: 50
Endurance: 10
Luck: 99
[Available EXP to Spend: 50]
His choice was brutally simple. Vance had just guaranteed him a deployment to the deadliest sectors in a few months' time. Magical Power (MP) was useless if his body was instantly blown apart.
I survived the war because I was lucky, yes, but also because my frail body took a beating and didn't give up. I need durability.
He needed to increase his capacity to absorb both physical shrapnel and the mental backlash of trauma. He needed to survive the inevitable flashback that would come during his first skirmish.
[Invest 50 EXP into Endurance?]
[Y/N]
Bartholomew pressed the mental 'Y' command with firm resolve. The mechanical voice spoke.
[Endurance: 10 \rightarrow 15]
[EXP: 0/100]
[RANK UP! F \rightarrow E (Barely Sufficient Mage)]
[MP: 50 \rightarrow 50]
Note: Increased Endurance allows safe operation of low-tier Runed Rifles and marginally increased magical resilience.
A warm, subtly invigorating feeling flooded his eighteen-year-old muscles. The severe aches and pains from Sergeant Taggart's earlier punishment vanished instantly. His low-grade Aether Gem felt fractionally cooler on his chest. It was a marginal difference in the grand scheme of the war, but it was the first real step toward his inevitable power.
🎓 The Rush to the Trenches
The remaining five and a half months of Boot Camp were a blur. Vance, true to his word, had quietly intervened. Bartholomew was put through increasingly intense, high-stress drills. He was constantly partnered with high-ranked training officers who, on Vance's subtle command, pushed the boundaries of safety and regulation.
Bartholomew successfully navigated the traps, relying on his subconscious training and the occasional, targeted PTSD trigger. A mortar whistle might bring back a memory of a specific counter-mortar spell from 1941, or a failed defensive drill might remind him of the perfect flanking maneuver from 1930. He gained a precious few EXP points, pushing his Endurance to 17 and his MP to 55.
The transition to Battle Mage School in July 1914 was equally rapid. The training was a condensed nightmare of practical application:
How to stabilize the Aetheric flow in a Runed Rifle.
Basic defensive Shield Runes.
The proper chant sequence for a low-grade Fire Burst.
His weak E-Rank magic performed adequately, but he was far from a star. His true genius lay in his instantaneous, trauma-driven corrections to flawed methodology, which Vance's agents meticulously recorded.
By the time December 1914 arrived, his official military record was a study in contradictions: a history of minor insubordination, constant stress-related incidents, but an uncanny streak of flawless technical performance in high-pressure tests.
He stood by the railway platform in his heavy greatcoat, his E-Rank Gem humming quietly on his chest. The bitter December wind carried the scent of wet pine and distant coal smoke. He looked at the faces of the other eager, young mages. Most would be dead within weeks. He, Bartholomew, the ghost of an eighty-year-old survivor, was about to step back into the trenches.
Six years, he thought, pulling his collar up, protecting his neck from the chill and his Gem from the elements. Six years of hell before I get out. But I know the ending now. I know the game.
The train whistle shrieked—a sound that, thankfully, did not trigger a flashback. But as he stepped onto the crowded car, moving inexorably toward the sound of distant artillery, he knew he was walking back into the living nightmare that would feed his path to godhood. The front lines awaited. His survival would come at the cost of his sanity, one painful memory at a time.