I expected the pleasure district of Small Night to have changed. After all, I haven’t visited in years but, of course, it hasn’t. The walls still look tired while the garish lights slumber under the much stronger radiance of the district lamps. The same people are sweeping the ground before their stores. It still smells of spilled alcohol and vomit so early in the morning while the automatic cleaners haven’t come yet.

I feel alienated, but I still walk a familiar path strewn with familiar people with no idea who I am. The back entrance of the Splendor captures my attention. It’s completely deserted at that time but there used to be a reality where I could just walk in and get nothing but a polite nod from one of the bouncers. If I were to try that now, the new Steve corpse at the end of the loop would be missing his knee caps and most of his fingers.

Xan’s training room is barely open when I come in. Only the massive Tavor is already there curling with enough metal to build a car. His grumpy eyes find me.

“Hello,” I greet, feeling a pinch in my heart. “I am looking for guidance on the Art of the Ape. Is Xan here?”

Tavor grunts, dismissing me with a wave towards the back of the shop. I’m only first awakening right now, beneath his notice. I remember Sallurian banish their children if they cannot keep up with their standards. As far as he’s concerned, I don’t even qualify as an adult.

I knock on Xan’s office door, knowing he would be here, of course. I felt his presence long before entering the place. He takes his sweet time to reply. Once again, I am struck at how strange his wiry frame looks behind the tiny desk. He surveys me with clear eyes. He looks thinner than I remember, his scars more obvious, and his hair more gray than silver. I repeat my request. The little I can feel of his soul lets me know he’s genuinely surprised. Perhaps a little wary.

“May I ask how you knew I was well versed in this style?”

Ah, I didn’t prepare a lie.

“If that’s alright, I’ll tell you more after we spar. I will compensate you for your time, of course,” I say.

He considers me in silence. Did I mess this up? Ugh, I don’t want to have to have to start the loop again. Should I reveal my soul awakening right now? It helped me last time.

“If this is a trick from my brother…” he continues.

“I am not associated with the Hiero clan,” I swear to him. “Not in any way except through you.”

“So you know who I am. Explain.”

Damn, I messed up.

“I promise I’ll explain everything, but it will be much easier to do if we spar first.”

Xan’s expression hardens.

“You will tell me now , or —”

He closes his eyes to take a deep, calming breath. I wait while he considers me in silence for a while. I remember him mentioning he had to fight his own affinity’s bias which was inflexibility.

“You will tell me after the spar.”

“I promise.”

***

Long form flows into short form as Xan unleashes a deluge of attacks. I hate this first awakening body of mine. It’s slow, weak. I feel like I’m fighting from inside a diving suit. Nevertheless, the old warrior slows his speed down to match mine and so I move into a prepared defense. I know what he’ll do. He’s done it a thousand times before, and hasn’t realized yet he needs to match the ape a bit more. I feint low, then go for his head. He ducks and counters, but I’ve already moved away, using long form to strike at his flank, which he blocks. And then I freeze. And then I attack again. The break in the flow surprises him, not because he’s in danger though. I idly wonder why he would ever pick a style that doesn’t match him at all.

A complex exchange later and he’s just fast enough to walk into my blind spot.

I briefly freeze time. He’s going to rotate on his left foot to strike my waist. I move on instinct, staff low.

He kicks the back of my knee instead. I use my staff as a pillar, jump up and kick him away. There it comes.

One to the heel, he lifts his foot. One to the head, he steps back. A thrust to the belly while he’s slightly off balance. Dead center.

His own favorite trick, one he taught me. One that isn’t part of the original style.

My staff bounces off metal, a piece of armor that wasn’t there an instant before. Xan is looking at my staff.

“Stop!” he says, then softer. “Stop.”

I can feel Tavor’s confusion when Xan signals me to follow him. He’s tense, I can tell from the shoulders. I can also congratulate myself because I’ve made progress. Hours upon hours of forms and the occasional battles have helped me rise to the level of, well, I wouldn’t say I’m good yet, but I’m half decent. As a duelist. With no combat affinities to speak of. As we walk, I go over the short practice and what I could have done better.

Xan leads me to the courtyard by the gym. I hear children playing in the nearby park. Nostalgia hits me like a truck. I remember the nearby cafe, the taste of boiled meat from the shared pot. My weird xenomorph-like landlady.

He faces me. I can hardly believe it, but he’s scared.

“Explain,” Xan demands.

“My name’s Steve. I’m the Avatar of Time. I know your ‘three points distraction’ because you taught me in another timeline.”

Xan slowly blinks, but then he relaxes.

“I… that would explain everything, yes. And yet, you are so weak?”

“I get that a lot. This is early in the, hmmm, alternate time process for me. This reality will be undone, I’m afraid, and you won’t remember it. Just like you didn’t remember the previous one. But you are the one who trained me with the staff.”

I salute the way he taught me.

“Tell me something you couldn’t possibly know,” he demands.

“You have a secret base in the shallow depths, with your old armor. You led me there near the end of the previous loop.”

“I did? Why?” he asks, surprised.

“When the Kerentis troops come looking for me near the end of the year, they tear the station apart. You protected me. You died so I could reach third ascension.”

He frowns.

“My awakenings are mostly unmade when I reset,” I explain. “But there is some progress I can keep.”

“I see.”

“And I am grateful, but the reason I came here is because you suggested I join the Bleak Hounds for a round on Obis. You thought it would be important.”

“Not at your current level. Don’t take it the wrong way, you’re good for a first awakening, but on Obis, it won’t matter.”

“I have a soul awakening as well.”

I touch his soul, the communication attempt once again directed by the implant under his ear. He doesn’t jump when I make contact.

“I see. Yes, you would learn much, and you would be better protected than most people. And you would see what the world is like. You can return even if you die violently, correct?”

“Yes.”

I don’t like where this is going.

“Then I believe this will be useful to you. I will help you set it up.”

Xan goes back in to make a call while I’m left under the suspicious gaze of the enormous Tavor, the Sallurian exile more bristly than I remember. After a short wait, I have an address and a recommendation.

I’m left wondering what it is Xan wants me to see.

***

The Bleak Hounds are a good enough outfit that they own their own barracks which, on Enderlith, means they’re pretty successful. The entrance is only lightly guarded, and their compound mostly deserted, meaning that most of their troops must already be on planet . I’m led through a bright corridor by a cheerful woman currently missing an arm and leg. Her prosthesis look like they were 3D printed out of knock off legos.

“Will you visit the fleshcrafter guild?” I ask because she mentioned losing them on Obis.

“Oh yes, of course, but it’s much cheaper if I enter the low priority queue. Don’t worry! I really wanted the holiday anyway! Oh, we’re here. Good luck!”

The recruitment spot is a small room with a very optimistic total of two windows, and an array of waiting seats pilfered from restaurants. A very surprised admin man with the lean build of a soldier walks up with naked surprise painted on his face.

“Yes?”

“I’d like to apply as a com specialist.”

He looks me up and down.

“We normally never accept anyone who hasn’t reached the second awakening, sorry.”

I reach for his soul, a scarred thing cracking at the seams.

“Even for a soul awakened?” I ask with telepathy.

“Ah!”

He jumps back.

“Sorry, that caught me off guard. A soul awakened? You can do silent communication?”

Again, I reach to his soul.

“Have I not demonstrated that?”

“Alright, hold on.”

He blinks quickly, eyes lost and mouth moving so I assume he’s thinking. Expressive lad, that one.

“Alright, yes. Hold on. Please let me talk to my superior. Hmm. Have a seat.”

I do so and lament the criminal neglect of the laws of hospitality. Woe is me. There was a time when I had tea at the Garden on the first night of the loop. How I long for this bastion of civilization and voluntary self-torture for the sake of progress. Why did I come here again? This isn’t auspicious at all. I sigh, but then I feel a powerful soul striding towards the room. A man practically bangs the door open, eyes zeroed on me with laser focus. He has one of those implants that seem to absorb my words so I easily reach him.

“Hello.”

“Founder’s bollocks, Larn told the truth? A real bloody soul awakened? Have you squad communication experience?”

I pause before realizing that yes, in fact, I do.

“Yes, although only as support. I can also spot–”

“Fantastic. Bloody fantastic. I’m the base commander here. You’re sent by the Celestial Court themselves! Alright, let me draft you a contract, and I’ll have you shipped down immediately. What a boon for team 1.”

“Hmm,” I interrupt while he’s already halfway through the door. Damn high awakenings.

“I was hoping for one week before I have to go. There is something I’d need to do at the Garden.”

“What Garden? Doesn’t matter. Look, kid, I can delay our operation by one day just for you, but not one week. Either you’re ready to sign right now or I’m sorry, but you’re of no immediate use to us. We can’t afford to wait.”

Dammit. I sit back against the back of my chair.

And here it is, a reminder that I just can’t do what I want, and that time walks on regardless of the desires of its avatar. I need to arbitrate here, and I find that I’m weirdly committed to this Obis run now that Xan made it all mysterious. I feel like if I chicken out now, I will never commit to it. I don’t really want to be a soldier. It sounds like a shit idea, and yet like a bitter medicine, it must be taken before hesitation sets in. Also, I feel like I need to experience it. I have ignored Obis so far, but if I’m to be the archon then I need to know what’s going on. This is important, regardless of my qualms and the very real possibility of a painful death. Soldiers are facing that possibility all the time and they don’t have the luxury of a loop. I need to show some courage. Really.

I sigh.

I’m going to regret it, aren’t I? And yet, I want to commit. And I can’t go there at my full strength.

My mind goes to Master Arek, the shadow. Maybe I could add him to the ever expanding list of my faithful minions so I could get a day one reversal, but then that would take another long loop around Kimera, and that was precisely what I was trying to avoid…

Decisions, decisions.

I should just add Arek anyway. Later. Or one of his fellow shadows. But that will be for another time.

Fuck it.

“Ok, I’m in.”

“Then please wait here and I’ll be back with the contract”

***

I don’t know what I expected from the Bleak Hounds, but I thought onboarding would be more rigorous. I guess that’s the difference between a real army and a mercenary outfit: soldiers of fortune join already knowing how to fight. There is no such a thing as basic training here. In my case, they hurry it even more. The base commander tests my telepathy a bit more thoroughly, and two seconds later, I’m sent to a private hospital to install the proper communication implant. I wish I could do the surgery myself, but alas, I have returned to impotence.

“You’re the eleventh owner of this implant!” the doctor proudly declares while he applies a local anesthetic. Nature-made blue polyp poison, from the smell.

“Wait. Is that thing ancient?” I ask when his words register.

“Not that old, barely two hundred cycles. I know at least four of the owners had it removed voluntarily.”

He smiles. I don’t.

***

I’m given a bag with my underwear and staff, and then ushered to the spaceport as quickly as possible alongside a diverse group of grumpy merc veterans exchanging jabs and jokes using references I don’t understand. It’s abundantly clear those guys are fresh off recovery and back to the meat grinder, and they don’t look particularly happy about it. Some unfortunate voidborn pilot is given the task to look after me, and she’s delighted when it turns out I know how to put on a space suit.

“Have you flown before?” she asked.

“Yeah, with a derelict crew. But it didn’t last long enough to graduate from mudboy.”

“You would need to become a voidling yourself to graduate from mudboy,” she chuckles.

Actually I could probably do that. It’s a human variant, so except the size. Hmmm.

“Don’t be too disappointed,” she says. “Mudboy is also a term of endearement. We use other words for people we dislike.”

“Sorry, got distracted.”

“I heard it happens with soul awakened,” she patiently says. “Last checks.”

“On it,” I reply before my brain can catch up.

The gestures come easily. When I’m done and my luggage is properly stored, the pilot gives me one nod of approval before she returns to scream at the rest of the group. To leave our little corner of the space port, we will board a dropship that looks like a fat owl with tiny mechanical wings, a dropbird if you will. That thing doesn’t come with its own atmosphere and there are spell impacts on its flank, darkening the metal feathers. I’m starting to get the impression I’m catching the tail end of a conflict and possibly not on the winner’s side.

Departure comes quickly. It was less than two days from signature to getting shipped to a warzone, and my concerns only grow, but what's the point of time powers if I can’t take risks? Right? Surely Xan was correct, and this will not come back to bite me in the arse.

Anxiety gnaws at me while the dropbird quietly disengages from the station, wings extending in a futile attempt at grasping air — or so I believe until I notice a greenish aura around the tip from the tiny window next to me, apparently used to check a landing site before the central door opens. I’m the only one showing any sort of curiosity so far among all the passengers. An older mercenary woman is praying, one is sleeping, and there’s even someone reading erotica on his datapad. I watch the seemingly endless surface of Enderlith extending into the void, then we’re past the shield. A great emptiness rips the breath away from my chest. After years, the energy envelope of the station leaves me and I am naked in a dead expanse of nothing.

The dropship accelerates. In the quiet of vacuum, I watch a small angle of Obis under us progressively grow larger. It takes less than an hour for us to tilt backward.

“Prepare for reentry,” the bored pilot warns us, as an afterthought.

Slowly, the tips of the wings turn orange, then the entire wing and the ship itself. We shake horribly, the silence only broken by the increasingly frantic prayers of the nervous mercenary. The landmasses in the distance might be mostly green, but now that we’re lower, I can see vast patches of brown and black on the martyred ground past the shield of fire slowing our descent. I’m well shaken and ready to be served by the time the sky around us turns blue, and the fluffy underneath resolves into lazy stratocumuli. The energy here feels weak and diffuse, though it’s not unpleasant. Rather than a single pure layer ever-present at the back of my consciousness, a constant swirl of colors buffets my souls, some I recognize and others not. The dropship smoothly goes horizontal while we fly towards our destination.

Dense fields and factories extend under us but as I progress, I can see more: broken and abandoned machines, a few impacts, lines of people in drab colors walking on muddy roads. We turn slowly until my side of the dropship faces a massive city in the distance: Prime, the world’s capital and seat of the Royal House of Obis. The break from cultivated fields to high walls is sudden and brutal. Massive buildings in the distance defy my understanding of architecture: cupolas the size of stadiums, columns that should collapse, impossible roofs… the city harbors the sort of white stone grandeur only magic makes possible. The palaces and temples could have been part of some hubristic show about conflicting deities from the sheer size of them. There are even flying vehicles and people moving over there like flocks of birds over an ancient cathedral. Sadly, my sense of wonder does not last. A second look shows the cracks in the idyllic landscape: broken buildings, cleaned but left maimed, missing towers, here and there, empty spaces exist where there should be none, but the most telling sign is beneath the walls themselves.

Slums and haphazard constructions of wood and metal cling to the walls like calculus on otherwise pristine teeth, clawing their way up with uneven stairs like so many parasitic growths. Smoke from fires darken the stone around, and the squirming mass of a dying humanity weaves their way through the narrow streets of this sprawling favela. We are moving too fast for me to really see much, but I can tell abject poverty when I see it. We pass through, however, and fly over some more fields before quickly slowing down, the compartment lurching under my arse. We land hard.

“Alright, ladies. Get off my ship,” the pilot says.

She’s out before someone properly opens the side door. I’m the last out because I had to recover my luggage and because the mercs are all third awakenings. It takes a minute for me to change back into the provided uniform jumpsuit in some sort of barebone locker room, then I’m out and on solid ground for the first time since the loop began.

It feels immensely weird. The gravity is slightly higher. The ceiling is too high. There are clouds. And wind that carries the scent of growing cereals, sweat, and… what the fuck is that? It stinks. Like rotting meat. Ew.

“Something the matter, recruit?” a stern male voice asks. “Is Obis not to your august tastes? Hmm?”

I turn to see a man in a crisp mercenary jumpsuit stride to me with the energy of a hurricane, two soldiers trailing behind. He has some of the darkest skin I’ve seen on a person, almost blue, and his eyes are the shade of cobalt though I cannot tell if those are modded or natural. His handsome face is screwed in an expression of intense disapproval. I think if I had to cast the ‘constantly irate OR’ in any movie, this guy would make the top five every time. He wouldn’t make first only because he lacks the ridiculously square chin. A hint of wind mana makes me blink when he breathes out hard.

“My name is Lieutenant Osiru, recruit. Are you the com specialist we were promised?”

“Err, yes? Sir?”

“We’re not the army here, recruit. We don’t stand on formality, but you’ll listen to what I say and do what I ask, or the reavers will be the last of your worries. What’s your name, recruit?”

“Steve Prentiss.”

“Steev? Plentiss? What backwater ass nation are you from?”

“... England.”

“Never heard of the dump. And I have it written here that you’re a citizen of Enderlith?”

“Yes.”

He glares even harder, which I thought was impossible.

“Are you heavily in debt?”

“No.”

“Do you have any army experience?”

“No.”

“Have you ever served in law enforcement or a mercenary company?”

“No.”

“Clan guard? Sect guard?”

“No.”

“Have you ever killed a person, Steev Plentiss?”

“...no.”

I don’t think any of the cultists I beat down during the attack on Malice died from their wounds. At least, not from the ones I inflicted.

At this stage the lieutenant just leans back as if blown by a particularly intense explosion of stupidity. His eyes widen with theatrical flair.

“So let me get this straight, recruit. You are a debtless citizen of Enderlith, a status in life that we are all trying to achieve by wading through kilometers of guts while saving every scrap of credits we can, and you decide, of your own free will, with no war knowledge whatsoever, to come down to the pus-riddled wart on the galaxy’s taint?”

When he puts it that way.

“... yes?”

“May I ask why?”

“... no.”

“Have you ever been diagnosed with a mental illness?”

“No.”

The lieutenant takes some kind of excitant from his chest pocket, then chews it like it insulted him. I can’t tell if he’s genuinely pissed or really playing it, but from his face you’d think I had just ravished his daughter.

“By every godly asshole on the Celestial Court, recruit, I’ve commanded soldiers that weren’t the sharpest spears in the arsenal during my half a century of service, but you? You have to be the dumbest motherfucker ever to grace my warband. I like you, recruit. I hope you survive the year. Now, where’s the comedic duo?”

“Scars and Sunny? Sir?” one of his soldiers asks.

“Who the fuck else?”

But we don’t have to wait for long. Coming from behind one of the tents is a pair of soldiers in the same boring jumpsuits as the rest, and I can see why they’d earn the nickname. The man of the pair is short and muscular with a wide smile, tanned, brown-haired and handsome. He waves when he sees me like I’m an old friend. A radiant halo hovers around him. The golden light is barely visible, but it’s there so this must be Sunny, I presume. A light affinity person. The other one is a woman of average size with well-defined muscles and smoldering black eyes, literally in this case as embers sometimes spark from under her pale skin. Ghastly black scars decorate most of the visible skin, or rather they look like ritualistic scarring except she should have died during application. Too symmetrical to be anything else. Too aesthetic. Hmmm.

I’m getting distracted. Anyway, this is clearly Scar. She notices my interest and bares her teeth, but before anything else can happen, the man grabs my hands and shakes it like I’m a gravid pinata.

“Hey! You must be our brand new com specialist! I can’t believe we got a soul awakened! Is it true that you’re even on a higher level? You guys are so rare!”

“Hmm, yes.”

“Kasha, say hi!”

“Sunny, Founder dammit,” the lieutenant interrupts with a long-suffering groan. “Stop talking for one damn second. You two, you’re responsible for this whelp’s health. Get him settled and ready, then it’s your job to babysit him all the way to Karngrad. If he dies, you’d better make absolutely sure you’re dead first. Because I will  skin you alive. Got it?”

Sunny nods, but ‘Kasha’ moans in despair. She clearly doesn’t want to be here.

“Yessir!”

“Dismissed.”

 “Let’s go,” Sunny exclaims. “What’s your name? Come with me. Are you hungry? Thirsty?”

“Hmm I’m fine,” I say, following the pair down the nearby alley. “I’m Steve. Can I ask you a question?”

“Ask away!”

“Why does this place smell like a charnel pit’s asshole?”

Lud’s light wavers ever so slightly.

“Obis lost 60% of its original population over the past five years,” he replies.

“Holy shit.”

“Yeah. It left the world’s qi… befouled. You get used to it. Why, two years here and I barely notice it anymore!”

Obis lost 60% of the population? In this conflict I’m about to join?

Past Steve, you are a fucking moron.

***

I have my own bunk in the barracks and wonder of wonders, it’s an individual room. Apparently because I’m important enough to warrant it. Sunny explains that they will be guarding me constantly when we’re not inside a base. He and the taciturn Scar, or Kasha apparently, are part of the Bleak Hounds’ first team which is their rapid response team. And by that he means they’re the strongest group called in the thickest of the fight every time, all the time. It will be my job to coordinate them.

“We use enchanted communicators and the likes,” Sunny explains, “but the Blood Conclave has those horrible creatures that can distort magic around them. And the martials still have some assassins left and they’re good at sniping essential equipment.”

“And personnel,” Scar growls in a low alto.

“Don’t worry, we’ll protect you!” Sunny explains while Scar rolls her eyes in exasperation.

“Right. So, who are we facing?” I ask, and then I add the following when I see even Sunny blanch.

“Look, I know we’re aligned with the royals. I just want to know if we’re facing the martials or the Blood Conclave right now.”

I remember hearing about the war during the derelict loop, specifically from the veteran of the group: Stone. The short boulder of a man mentioned this conflict had been going for seven years and that none of the original commanders were even still alive. The Bleak Hounds worked for the Royal House of Obis, the original rulers of the planet before a powerful alliance of martial artists had defied it at the end of Archon Vrok’s reign. I’m still unsure as to exactly why they fought, but I know that thing went to shit when the major healer church of the planet went completely bonkers. The Blood Conclave started as a group of doctors, but soon turned to flesh constructs and bioweapons to wage a merciless war upon the other two groups. Major sects and groups of Enderlith provided support to one group or another during the conflict, but the massive losses of life eventually deterred anyone from touching that unholy clusterfuck with a nine meters long rusty spike. One can only lose so many fourth awakenings before realizing it’s not worth it, I suppose. I’m skipping over dozens of indecisive battles and massacres. Suffice to say, Obis has been on its knees for years, and the sordid accretion of misery around the capital actually represents the very best conditions the planet still has to offer.

Just then, a window carries the distant stench of carrion, and I shudder.

“How does this place even stink so much?” I grumble.

Scars’ expression darkens.

“You should return to Enderlith if you don’t like —”

“Hey hey hey,” Sunny interrupts, placing a hand on his partner’s shoulder.

She shrugs it off before looking away.

“I’m sure he doesn’t mean it personally.”

“Unless the entire planet’s odor comes from your armpits, no, I don’t,” I snap before realizing I’m being childish but, to be fair, it has been a long day.

“Right. So, remember I told you the planet was scarred? Obis’ energy envelope has been tainted by the massacres. It will take centuries before it’s fully cleared out and, even then, I think the worst sites will remain as corrupted. Well, not corrupted if you have a blood or flesh or death or decay or… you get the idea. Here, let me help!”

The aura he had earlier reappears in all its glory. Immediately, the air smells fresher, like clean laundry drying in the sun. Quite nice.

Scar crosses her arms, but then she relaxes as well.

“And as for what we’re going to do, no harm in sharing now that you’re one of us. There’s a rumor that the martials and the royals have finally reached a truce.”

“Peace?” I ask with no small amount of surprise since I would have heard about it in my other loops.

“Well, not exactly. More like both sides agreed to go after the worst scourge this planet has ever known from two opposite directions so as to never get within sight of one another. It will be the third truce attempt, after all. Both sides are wary. Right. Do you need anything from Prime?”

I remember the capital and its wounded cyclopean palaces. I can still see the neglect in the way the damage was patched over and left to rot until a better time when hope returns and, hopefully, it will make sense to fully rebuild. I doubt it would be a good idea to visit right now.

“I don’t suppose they allow tourists in those big palaces?” I ask.

Scar chuckles darkly before remembering she’s supposed to hate me. Surprisingly, Sunny is the one who looks almost sad.

“Tragically, no. For safety reasons. Maybe later, after we’ve won?”

“I’ve heard that one before,” I grumble. “And no, I’m good.”

“Alright! Then let’s go to the briefing room. I’m sure the lieutenant will want to bring you up to speed.”

Not this guy again.