Extra To Protagonist
Chapter 151: War

Chapter 151: War

The sweat hadn’t cooled yet when the instructor found him.

Rethan was halfway through wiping his face with a coarse towel when a voice clipped the air behind him.

"Ever try watching your feet?"

He turned. Instructor Dren. Not the tallest, not the loudest, but the one who always had something to say after the bruises were already blooming.

Graying hair cropped close to the scalp. Arms crossed. The kind of scowl that didn’t come from anger, just habit.

"No," Rethan said. "Didn’t think they needed supervision."

Dren didn’t laugh.

He stepped closer, gesturing at the field they’d just left.

"That first dodge—against Yorran. You pivoted left, overextended your back foot. You gave him your center for half a second. If he wasn’t built like a sack of wet bark, he could’ve floored you."

Rethan blinked. "Noted."

"You always move like you think they’ll follow a script. Like if you react fast enough, everything’ll be fine."

He shrugged. "It’s worked so far."

"Yeah? So far." Dren tilted his head. "What happens when they stop playing dumb?"

’Then I bleed, probably.’

"I’ll adjust," Rethan said.

"Adjust faster," Dren shot back. "And stop telegraphing every feint. That little shoulder twitch before you cut right? Might as well hang a sign."

Rethan’s jaw ticked.

"Anything else?"

"Plenty." Dren didn’t blink. "You take hits on purpose. You think it builds trust or something. Makes you look less dangerous. You do it without thinking."

"I don’t—"

"You do." Dren’s voice stayed level. "You let Sarrin tag your leg. You let Elik get too close. You’re not testing your limits. You’re protecting theirs."

’Shit.’

He hadn’t realized he was doing that.

Dren nodded once, like he’d read the pause correctly.

"I don’t care what story you’ve got in your head about fairness or what people can handle. You’re in a pit with wolves. If you keep shrinking to make space for them, you’re the one who’s going to get eaten."

Rethan glanced toward the edge of the sparring ground. A few of the others still lingered there, Yorran rubbing his ribs, Elik staring at the dirt, Sarrin getting his shoulder wrapped by one of the aides.

"They’re not wolves," Rethan said.

"They will be," Dren replied. "Or they won’t make it."

A silence settled between them.

Then—

"Anything else?" Rethan asked.

Dren squinted. "Yeah. Your stance when you parried Elik? You dropped your elbow too fast. Just once. But someone faster than him would’ve seen it."

"Understood."

"Good. Now get your ass to the medic before you start walking crooked."

Rethan nodded, turning to go.

Then paused.

"You always talk like this to the others?"

"No," Dren said plainly. "Most of them won’t last long enough to benefit from it."

’Great.’

—

As he limped toward the infirmary tent, sweat clinging under his shirt, the system flickered.

[Correction Recognized.]

[Reaper Path Integrity: Stable.]

[The Messenger is unimpressed.]

Rethan snorted under his breath.

’Yeah, well, tell the Messenger to fight three half-trained teenagers in dirt next time.’

He stepped inside the tent.

One of the medics looked up, already holding a salve tin like they’d taken bets.

"Sit," they said. "Shin or ego worse?"

"Shin," Rethan muttered, easing down onto the bench.

’Barely.’

—

The salve stung. Not in the way it was supposed to. Not deep, not numbing. Just surface-burn, like someone rubbing vinegar into an old mistake.

"You need better footwork," the medic muttered, packing the tin away. "Or more padding. Preferably both."

Rethan didn’t argue. He tied the wrap back over his shin, stood, rolled the ache out of his shoulders.

’Feels like I got folded into a suitcase and mailed to a different life.’

Outside the tent, the air was colder. Cloudy sky, distant wind. The field had emptied out except for a few stragglers near the water trough.

He spotted Elik first, back turned, shirt soaked, head down like he was trying to scrub his jaw with his own shoulder.

Sarrin and Yorran sat nearby on the ground, both looking like they’d aged five years in the last hour. Sarrin had one boot off.

Yorran had his hands behind his head like he was pretending to relax and failing miserably.

Rethan crossed to them.

Sarrin looked up first. "Still breathing?"

"Barely."

Yorran huffed. "You should’ve seen your face when Elik went for your knees. Looked like someone stepped on your lunch."

"I was trying to keep from snapping his arm," Rethan said, sitting down.

Sarrin whistled. "Kind of you."

Yorran stretched his legs out. "That instructor’s a nightmare. Told me I block like I’m trying to apologize."

"You do," Rethan said.

"I do not."

"You bow your head when you brace. That’s not a block. That’s a prayer."

Sarrin snorted, then winced, clutching his ribs. "Ow. Don’t make me laugh."

"I didn’t," Rethan said. "You chose that reaction."

The mood didn’t lighten, but it spread out. Like tension loosening just enough to give them room to breathe again.

Elik walked over next. Quiet. Not sheepish, just tired. He didn’t sit. Just stood there, arms crossed, breathing through his nose like he wasn’t sure what came next.

"Good hits," Rethan said, not looking up.

Elik shrugged. "You let me have them."

"No, I didn’t."

Elik blinked. "I—"

"You earned them. Doesn’t matter if I held back. You still found the opening."

The boy nodded once. Slowly. Like he didn’t want to believe it, but he would take it anyway.

"Thanks," he mumbled.

Rethan didn’t reply. He didn’t need to.

’It matters how they see me,’ he thought. ’But it matters more what they start seeing in themselves.’

The sky overhead rippled with a patch of faint blue. The clouds weren’t thick, just sluggish. Like they didn’t know where they were supposed to go.

Sarrin picked at his boot. "You think we’re gonna be ready?"

"For what?" Yorran asked.

"I don’t know. The next phase. The real stuff."

Yorran made a sound. Not quite a laugh. "Sure. Long as the next phase involves lying down and complaining."

"We’re not ready," Rethan said.

The others went quiet.

"But we’re closer than we were yesterday."

Elik exhaled, heavy. "That’s not comforting."

"It’s not supposed to be."

Silence settled over them again, but it felt... less empty now.

The wind picked up. The bell tower across the field chimed once. Shift change. Afternoon drills were coming.

Sarrin stood with a grunt. "Guess we’re back at it."

Yorran groaned, but stood too. Elik followed a beat later, rubbing the back of his neck.

Rethan watched them walk off.

Then followed.

His shin still ached. His side twinged. His lungs felt like old bellows.

But he walked tall.

Because in this memory, he wasn’t here to survive.

He was here to understand.

And the only way forward was straight through.

—

The training ground vanished in the middle of a sentence.

Rethan, no, Merlin, wasn’t even sure which one it had been. Sarrin had just said something dumb about mud or muscle cramps. Then—

Wind.

Ash.

Heat.

And the smell of blood so thick it felt like it coated the back of his teeth.

He staggered, catching himself against a broken wall. The stone was scorched. Still warm. His palm came away black. Not from soot, char. It was bone.

’Okay. This isn’t training anymore.’

Screams cracked the air. Not near, but not far either. Metal hit stone. A body hit ground. Magic tore a hole in something that used to be solid.

He ducked.

Instinct, not thought.

A bolt of red light burned past his ear and slammed into a collapsed column twenty feet away. The blast sent grit into his mouth, into his eyes.

He spat, wiped his face, blinked hard.

The field was a ruin.

Bodies, some in familiar uniforms, some in jagged black armor, littered the wreckage like discarded tools. Torn flags twitched in a hot wind.

’No system message. No transition. They just dropped me here.’

Another scream. Closer this time.

He turned.

Sarrin was crawling.

One leg gone. Blood pulsed from the ragged stump. His face was white. Not pale, drained. He was shaking.

"Rethan," he gasped. "They got Elik."

Merlin didn’t respond. He couldn’t.

His body was already moving.

’It’s not real. I know that. It’s a memory. But—’

But his pulse didn’t care.

He dropped beside Sarrin, tore off the outer wrap of his uniform, and pressed it hard against the wound.

Sarrin cried out.

"Don’t move," Merlin muttered. "Don’t move, don’t scream. Just breathe."

A shadow passed overhead. He tensed.

No weapon.

Just instinct.

The shadow passed.

He counted three seconds.

Then five.

Then ten.

No strike came.

Sarrin’s breathing slowed a little. But not much.

"He’s dead, isn’t he?" the boy whispered.

Merlin’s jaw locked.

"Elik’s fine," he lied.

Sarrin didn’t believe him. But he nodded anyway.

A body hit the ground ten feet away with a wet thump.

Merlin turned. Slowly.

It was Yorran.

Head twisted the wrong way. Uniform blackened.

’Gods.’

He looked away.

The wind changed again.

This time, it carried a voice.

Deep. Angry. Not in words, just rage. Directed, searching.

He stood.

Smoke rolled through the ruins like fog. Something behind it pulsed. Footsteps. Not many. Just one.

Heavy.

Unhurried.

A figure emerged from the smoke.

Dark armor. Not black, darker. Like it ate light. No insignia. No exposed skin.

A blade in one hand. The other dripping magic. Red and gold and sick.

The figure raised its hand.

Merlin raised his own without thinking.

No spell. Just stance.

And then—

[The system is watching.]

[The Crownless Mother leans forward.]

[Observer Count: 73]

’You’re late,’ he thought bitterly. ’Thanks for nothing.’

The figure charged.

Merlin moved.

Not Rethan.

Not whoever this was supposed to be.

Just him.

He rolled under the first strike, felt the heat skim past his scalp, landed hard on one knee. His fingers grabbed a fallen weapon, cracked staff, burned at the edges, and brought it up.

The clash rang like metal screaming.

But he didn’t fall.

Not this time.

The figure staggered.

Merlin twisted, kicked it in the side, forced it back two steps.

Then—

A spear shot through the figure’s chest.

Not from him.

From behind.

Elik.

Burned. Bloody.

But alive.

He was shaking so hard he could barely hold the weapon.

Merlin stared at him.

"You were dead," he said dumbly.

Elik coughed. "I was hiding."

The figure hit the ground.

Didn’t move.

Didn’t dissolve.

Just stopped.

Elik fell to his knees.

Merlin caught him.

Somewhere behind them, the sky cracked. Not thunder. Not magic. Just pressure. Like something was coming.

He looked up.

Not to the heavens.

To the system.

’This memory’s not done.’

[Next Phase: Collapse.]

[Brace.]

Everything turned white.

And the next breath he took...

...was in another ruin.

Different.

Same war.

Same body.

But a different day.

And more names already gone.