Time Cursed Mage - Chapter 3: Panic

[Initiating Curse]

[Restarting Day]

"AAAAAH!"

A raw scream pierced Kaspar's throat, wrenching him from the depths of his sleep. The sound echoed through the camp, a haunting cry that carried all the pain and fear he had ever known. 

He gasped for breath, his chest heaving as he tried to expel the memory of being torn apart, limb from limb.

"What's your problem? Some of us are trying to sleep!" a voice screamed angrily from a nearby tent.

"Quiet down, will you?" another shouted, irritation edging their tone.

Their words barely penetrated Kaspar's consciousness. Adrenaline still ran through his veins, leaving his fingertips tingling and his hands shaking.

But it was only a memory, a vivid, horrifying recollection of a death he had experienced yet again. He remembered the sensation of being crushed. The excruciating pain of bones snapping and flesh tearing. Yet, here he was, unscathed. The contrast between the agony in his mind and the lack of wounds left him confused and on the edge of panic. Each repeated death eroded his grasp on reality; the echo of pain was the only proof of his ordeal.

"I... I have to get out of here," Kaspar whispered to himself, his voice barely audible. "But if I leave, they'll die. All of them."

His instincts screamed at him to run, to flee from this place and the inevitable doom that awaited. Every fiber of his body urged him to disappear and spare himself the torment of another death.

But he couldn't. Not while others were at risk.

He had trained for moments like this and had steeled himself against fear and death. As a firefighter, he had faced death head-on countless times. He had met infernos that threatened to consume everything in their path. Kaspar knew what it was to confront danger, to suppress the urge to run so that others might live.

Closing his eyes, Kaspar drew a shaky breath. He did a breathing exercise his commander had taught him long ago. It helped to suppress panic and reclaim control. He inhaled through his nose, held for a count of four, and exhaled through his mouth. He repeated the cycle, each breath pulling him back into sanity.

Gradually, his heartbeat slowed, and the adrenaline faded from his body. The tremors subsided, leaving a calm resolve. He opened his eyes to the dim interior of his tent. 

Determined to find answers, Kaspar knelt on the rough blanket that served as his bed and started to search through his belongings. He went through the pile of mud-stained clothes, patting down pockets. His fingers closed around several slender objects. Pulling them out, he found a handful of pens. They were like the ones he had used on Earth, but their metallic casings were etched with tiny symbols.

Setting them aside, his gaze fell upon two books tucked beneath the clothes. He retrieved them carefully, brushing away specks of dirt from their worn covers. The first book was filled from beginning to end with dense writing. However, the second book seemed incomplete. It halted abruptly halfway through. The ink on the final page glistened as if it had dried recently.

"A journal?" Kaspar mused aloud. He flipped through the pages, his eyebrows knitted in confusion. "But I can't read these characters."

"What I know," he wrote. He spoke the words aloud as if hearing them might solidify the fragile fragments of his reality.

"My name is Kaspar." He paused while writing on the paper. He didn't know where the ink was coming from, but touching the pen to the paper was enough.

"I remember the previous days." Kaspar's eyes flickered upward. The memories were sharp, vivid snapshots etched in his mind.

He hesitated, then amended his previous note. "I remember almost everything from the previous days." The emphasis was important.

"I am in a world that has magic. But I don't know how to use it, and it seems I have no mana." Frustration seeped into his thoughts. Here, magic was as common as breathing, yet he was an outlier, a spectator unable to take part.

"Opening the gate leads us to a room full of wyverns."

He underlined the last point. The memory of serrated fangs and scorching flames made his body shiver. 

Turning to a fresh section of the page, he penned a new heading.

"What I don't know:"

"Why do we want to enter the room?" Orders were given, and the crowd complied without question, yet Kaspar needed to know.

"Why don't I have mana? Or rather, how does one use magic?"

He tapped the pen against his chin thoughtfully. The other students wielded magic without much effort. They were conjuring shields and summoning elemental forces as one might lift a hand.

"Can I get any weapons or shields?" If magic was beyond his reach, then physical means could offer some chance of survival.

"Can we prevent ourselves from entering the room?" The idea of not opening the door was the easiest one. If he could convince others of the danger, they might alter their course.

Kaspar leaned back, reading over his notes. A faint sigh escaped his lips. "Maybe I can convince someone of the danger," he mused, "It wouldn't hurt to try."

But in truth, it did hurt.

---

The first attempt had been a disaster.

He had approached Lieutenant Blut von Omstr, the fat officer with the gaudy blue cape. Kaspar recalled standing before him as he tried to articulate the impending danger.

"Sir, we mustn't open the gate," he'd urged, fighting to keep the tremor from his voice. "There are wyverns inside. Creatures that will attack as soon as it's breached."

Blut had fixed him with a withering glare. "Nonsense," the lieutenant snapped. "How could you possibly know that? Return to your duties at once."

When Kaspar persisted, desperation edging his pleas, Blut's patience had worn thin. "You're a coward, just like a Bastard should be," he'd declared coldly. "Guards, escort this man to the holding cells until we have time to judge him."

Locked away in a cell, Kaspar was powerless to act when the wyverns unleashed havoc upon the camp. The sounds of screams and the roar of flames haunted him while he waited to be consumed by the inferno.

In the next try, he tried a different tactic.

Standing atop a supply crate in the midst of the bustling camp. He shouted warnings to anyone who would listen. "Beyond the gate, there're wyverns! If we open it, we will all die!"

Faces had turned toward him, expressions ranging from confusion to scorn. Murmurs rippled through the crowd; words like "madman" and "heretic" were thrown at him.

The guards seized him, with accusations of insanity leading to his imprisonment once more. His protests fell on deaf ears, and the outcome remained the same. A fiery onslaught and lives lost in another cycle.

In his third attempt, Kaspar waited until the gates began to open. He then tried to rally those nearest to him. "Run! We have to get away before it's too late!"

But fear and skepticism held them back. They'd eyed him warily, some edging away as if his panic were contagious. When the wyverns appeared, their doubt turned to terror, but escape was no longer an option.

Once more, waking alone in his tent, Kaspar rubbed his temples. He tried to draw out learnings from so many attempts. The first thing he had learned was that no one trusted him for reasons beyond his grasp. 'Maybe they simply don't like me?' Kaspar also raised this option.

The second realization was that he always returned to the day. He woke up in his tent with the remnants of his latest death still fresh in his mind.

But there was something useful.

Between the loops, he also noticed that his death could alter the next try. The more agonizing the death, the more pain he carried into his next attempt. This made him wake up in more agony and sometimes earlier. Gaining a few, but precious, extra hours.

Seated alone within the confines of his tent, Kaspar ran his hand through his hair. It was a simple gesture, yet it triggered another question. Until now, he hadn't given much thought to his own appearance or age. But at this moment, he realized how little he knew about his new self.

Without a mirror or even a basin of water to catch his reflection, he had no means of seeing how he looked. All he had was his senses and the tactile feedback they provided. As his fingers threaded through his hair, he noted its softness.

Curiosity piqued, Kaspar grasped a few strands and gently pulled them free. Holding them up to the dim light, he squinted to examine them more closely. They were utterly white.

"Is that why they despise me?" he pondered aloud, his voice barely more than a whisper swallowed by the shadows.

Sighing, Kaspar pushed the thought aside. "Well, on to Plan B..." he muttered. Determination hardened his features. "I need a weapon. Something that will help me survive."

Moving with caution, he slipped out of his tent, taking care not to make any sound that might wake someone. Time was difficult to define without any clues, like stars or the sun. Yet, Kaspar guessed it might still be ‘night’ for everyone else since he had to force himself to wake up earlier.

Only a few soldiers walked through the labyrinth of tents. Slowly patrolling with practiced silence, their footsteps muffled against the packed earth.

Kaspar watched when the patrols were far enough to slip between the tents. His senses were heightened, ears attuned to the slightest rustle or movement. The adrenaline coursing through his veins sharpened his focus. He felt acutely aware of every beat of his heart.

He headed toward the higher area of the camp, a vantage point he'd scouted during previous loops. This section was more heavily guarded, likely due to being close to the cavern's entrance. If he could get a better lay of the land, he could devise a new strategy.

Keeping to the shadows, Kaspar navigated the uneven terrain, his path lit only by the faint glow of torches. He paused behind a cluster of boulders, surveying the dungeon before him.

The upper tier of the camp, indeed, lay close to the cave's entrance. A massive arch carved into the rock guarded it at all hours. Guards stood at their posts, alert despite the late hour. Kaspar observed them carefully. None appeared to carry any kind of weapon. No swords hung at their hips; no spears rested at their sides. There wasn't even the glint of a dagger or the curve of a bow.

‘Do they rely only on magic?’ Kaspar wondered. The thought unsettled him. If the guards were capable mages, slipping past them would be much more difficult.

The sprawling encampment was divided into three distinct sections.

In the middle area lay a maze of tents pitched haphazardly. This was the heart of the camp, where the common soldiers and apprentices resided. Kaspar's own modest tent was nestled among them.

Further down, the lower area sprawled closer to the colossal gate. Only a handful of tents stood here, housing the equipment required for the ritual. Kaspar had observed the proceedings five times. Each cycle etching the sequence of events more deeply into his memory.

‘In the middle area, there are only students,’ he considered. 'They only used magic in any of the past loops. I doubt I'll find any kind of weapon there.'

His eyes shifted toward the lower area. ‘Down there, it's all about the ritual,’ he thought. ‘I've never seen anything close to a sword, a spear, or any weapon for that matter.’

His attention turned upward to the highest point of the camp. The upper area sat on a slight elevation. Majestic tents loomed there, far grander than those below. Their canvas was dyed in rich colors and adorned with sigils denoting rank and power.

‘That leaves only the upper area,’ Kaspar swallowed hard, a knot forming in his throat. 'If I'm caught, they'll imprison me, and I'll end up roasted again.' The memory of previous deaths sent a shiver down his spine.

Kaspar wasn't trained in the art of stealth or infiltration. He lacked the agility of a thief or the cunning of a spy. Yet, he used the shadows to his advantage, relying on the dim lighting and his lean physique to slip by unnoticed.

'One of these tents must be a warehouse or some logistical storage,' he reasoned, pressing himself against the fabric of a nearby tent. ‘Someplace the officers keep supplies. Maybe even weapons. Something only they have access to.’

He peered around the corner, eyes scanning the scene before him. A long corridor stretched out, flanked on either side by the imposing tents of the elite class. 

The guards moved with a lazy stride. Their expressions were one of boredom rather than vigilance, as if no threat could breach their camp. They carried themselves with the overconfidence of those unfamiliar with being challenged.

'What are the chances these tents have protective magic?' Kaspar wondered. The thought hadn’t occurred to him before, but it was a possibility he couldn’t ignore.

He took a deep, steadying breath. ‘There's only one way to find out.’

Lowering himself into a crouch, he approached the first tent. His eyes darted to check that the guards were far enough away.

He gently tugged at the edge of the canvas, lifting it enough to peer inside. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat echoing like a drum in his ears.

‘Luck, luck, luck,’ he chanted silently.

Lowering himself a bit more, Kaspar looked inside. His heart pounded like a war drum as he took in the luxurious accommodations. A massive bed dominated the space, draped in rich fabrics and adorned with plush pillows. Upon it lay a stout man, his corpulent form rising and falling with each thunderous snore.

He scanned the room with keen eyes, searching for anything that might serve as a weapon. A sturdy chair stood near a small writing desk cluttered with scrolls and maps. 'Maybe I could use one of the chair legs?' he pondered. But almost immediately, he dismissed the idea with a shake of his head. 'Who am I kidding? A wyvern would set that ablaze in an instant.'

Frustration gnawed at him as he backed away, careful not to disturb the sleeping officer. Time was slipping through his fingers like sand, and he knew the camp would soon wake up. He moved faster between tents, each one a new hope. Some were bedrooms like the first, occupied by slumbering soldiers or officers. Others served as meeting rooms, their tables filled with tactical plans and arcane instruments. However, nowhere did he find a weapon.

Kaspar could see some tents starting to move and people beginning to wake up. He needed to hurry. 'Only six more tents,' he counted, clinging to a thread of optimism. 'I have to keep trying.'

Dropping to the ground once more, he lifted the flap of another tent. Darkness greeted him, along with the familiar rumble of someone deep in sleep. Stifling a sigh, he prepared to retreat when a glint caught his eye. A faint sparkle of metal high above.

Peering upward, Kaspar's gaze settled on an ornate coat of arms mounted on the tent's central pole. Intricate designs intertwined around a family crest he didn't recognize. But more importantly, crossed behind the emblem were two swords.

His pulse quickened. Slipping into the tent, he moved toward the bed where a young man slept soundly. 'He looks about my age,' Kaspar pondered. 'Wait, my age before I died. How old am I now? I don't even know anymore.' Pushing the thought aside, he focused on the task at hand.

Standing on his tiptoes, he reached for the nearest sword, but the weapon was just out of grasp. The frustration was evident. Not willing to give up, Kaspar dragged a chair from beside the desk. Every scrape against the ground sent a jolt to his nerves. Casting a quick glance at the undisturbed sleeping noble, he climbed onto the chair.

Stretching upward, Kaspar extended his fingertips, brushing the sword's hilt. 'A little more,' he urged silently, inching it toward him. The blade began to shift, sliding free from its place.

'Almost there. Just a bit mo—'

Suddenly, the chair wobbled beneath him, its balance lost. Kaspar's arms flailed as he tried to steady himself, but it was too late. With a muted crash, the chair toppled forward, sending him sprawling onto the bed and directly atop the sleeping noble.

"AAAAH! Assassin!" the young man screamed, jolted from his dreams by the unexpected weight and the cold touch of steel. His eyes were wide with terror as he thrashed beneath Kaspar, tangled in the sheets.

Chaos erupted. Footsteps thundered outside as soldiers rushed toward the commotion. Kaspar scrambled to his knees, the sword still clutched in his hand. "Wait, I can explain!" he stammered, but the words fell flat amid the commotion.

The soldiers took in the scene in an instant. There was nothing to question: the panicked noble and the intruder wielding a sword.

"Seize him!" barked the lead guard.

Before Kaspar could react, they grabbed him from all sides and yanked the weapon from his hands. He felt the cold bite of metal as shackles closed around his wrists.

"Really? Just great," Kaspar muttered under his breath. 

[Initiating Curse]

[Restarting Day]