Chapter 4: Sword

“Shit. Shit. Shit.”

The curses spilled out of me the moment I could breathe again.

I grabbed the nearest piece of clothing and beat it against my knee like it was the thing responsible for my misery. Fabric snapped and flopped uselessly.

Being imprisoned for falling off a chair.

In a life that had already included being burned alive and crushed in a wyvern’s jaws, it should not have mattered, yet somehow it did. It felt humiliating in a way the other deaths weren’t, like the world wasn’t just trying to kill me; it was trying to mock me while it did.

At least now I know where it is.

That was the only thread of consolation I could pull from the wreckage of the last loop.

The swords.

The coat of arms.

The tent.

I could picture the layout perfectly.

Avoiding the guards was easy enough last time, I told myself. I can do that again, just better.

I pushed myself up, rolled my shoulders once, and slipped out of my tent.

The camp still lay in that in-between state where it wasn’t fully awake. Most tents were quiet. I dropped immediately into a crouch, letting the shadows swallow the outline of my body.

I left the middle tier behind and climbed the gentle slope toward the upper area. Up here, the tents were straightened and spaced out. The air smelled less like unwashed bodies and more like wax and oil.

It was near the end, I reminded myself, eyes fixed on the orderly row of larger tents.

Each time a guard’s lantern swung closer, I flattened myself against canvas or stone and waited until the light passed. Their conversations drifted faintly, half-muttered complaints, bored laughter. They weren’t looking for threats.

After some time, I reached the tent.

It looked exactly the same as before.

I didn’t approach from the front this time.

With practiced caution, I circled around to the backside, where the tent pressed closer to the cavern wall and the shadows were deeper. I paused, listening.

No footsteps close.

No voices.

I lifted the heavy canvas only as much as I needed and slid inside.

My eyes lifted immediately to the central pole.

There it was.

The ornate coat of arms mounted high. And behind it, crossed like a promise, were the two swords.

I didn’t rush this time.

I crossed to the desk, fingers closing around the chair’s back. I dragged it slowly, lifting each leg a fraction so it wouldn’t scrape.

I positioned the chair beneath the emblem.

Then I tested it.

Press down on one corner of the seat.

Then the next.

Then the next.

A methodical check. Every creak a warning.

Satisfied, I climbed onto the chair.

It held.

No wobble. No shift.

My hands reached up, fingers stretching… and this time the swords were just within grasp. The nearest hilt was wrapped in leather, cold beneath my palm.

I wrapped my fingers around it and pulled, easing it free from its mount.

A soft sching whispered through the tent, far too loud in my mind, yet faint enough that the sleeping officer didn’t stir.

I held the sword in both hands for a heartbeat, not moving, listening for any change in breathing.

The officer snored on.

A grin tugged at my mouth despite myself. Relief hit me so fast my eyes stung.

Finally.

I didn’t waste time admiring it. I eased off the chair, keeping the blade close to my body, and slipped it beneath my tunic. The scabbard’s weight pressed against my stomach. I secured it at my waist as best I could, hiding it under cloth.

The point was that for the first time since waking into this curse, I had something more than bare hands.

I slipped back out the way I’d come.

Outside, the camp was beginning to wake. I kept my hood up, my face down, and moved away from the officers’ corridor with quick, quiet steps.

The weight of the sword against my side was… reassuring.

And immediately troubling.

What do I do with this?

Possessing a weapon was one thing. Knowing how to use it was another.

I made my way toward the secluded patch I’d found in a previous loop. A small section of the cavern littered with rocks and jagged boulders, uneven enough that pitching tents there would have been a nightmare. Students didn’t wander there. Guards didn’t patrol it. It was a pocket of forgotten space inside an overcrowded camp.

I slipped between stones until I found a narrow hollow that hid me enough from those looking outside.

I sank to a crouch, then drew the sword.

The blade slid free with a muted whisper.

In my hands, it looked… wrong.

The balance was light, almost too light. The blade was polished and pretty, but when I turned it toward the faint torchlight, I noticed it immediately. The edges weren’t true.

The hilt was worse. Excess of golden decoration, ornate scrollwork that would catch on gloves and clothing.

“It’s a decoration,” I muttered. “Not a weapon.”

Still, a decorative sword could cut if it was swung hard enough. Steel was steel, even when dressed in gold. And if it bought me a single second, a single opening, it was worth having.

I raised it overhead and brought it down in a swift arc.

If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it’s taken without the author’s consent. Report it.

The movement was ugly. My wrists wobbled, the tip drifting off-line. The blade hummed through the air in a shaky path, and when it stopped, I had to tighten my grip to keep it from jerking sideways.

I tried again. Another slash, another wobble. My shoulders protested almost immediately, muscles burning with unfamiliar effort.

I had strength, just not the kind trained for this.

I began mimicking what I remembered from action movies. The dramatic parries, the quick thrusts, the sweeping cuts. I sidestepped and pivoted, forcing my feet to move with the blade instead of dragging behind it. The sword traced uncertain patterns, neither elegant nor lethal.

“How am I supposed to use this when the time comes?” I whispered, frustration gnawing at me.

I swung again, trying for a diagonal strike.

The blade caught on an overhanging rock with a jarring clang that reverberated up my arms. Pain shot through my wrists. My teeth clenched hard.

“Damn it.”

I lowered the sword, breathing hard. My arms trembled, a burning ache settling into my biceps and shoulders as if the muscles were protesting this sudden demand. I flexed my fingers, trying to shake out stiffness that felt far too real.

“This body. It isn’t trained for this,” I muttered, more observation than complaint now. “Any physical activity is too much for him. What did you do with your life?”

The words were sobering. In my old life, my body had been built for carrying weight, for climbing stairs in heat, for hauling people out of collapsing places. This body, Kaspar’s body, felt lean, light, more suited to books and mana and chanting than to steel.

But bodies learned.

They adapted.

And time was the one resource I had that no one else did.

I tightened my grip on the sword again and began again.

---

The first thing that reached me was the sound.

The ritual was beginning. Even from my little pocket of rocks and shadow, I could hear the camp shifting. Murmured chants threading together, the clink of crates being opened, soldiers marching in formation.

It’s time.

I slid the sword back beneath my tunic, tugging the fabric until the scabbard rested flat against my waist. I exhaled slowly through my nose, then rose from between the stones.

A moment later, I melted into the crowd.

To the outside eye, I was just another robe among hundreds. Head down, shoulders drawn in, moving with the tide. But my senses stayed razor-alert. I watched for patrol routes, for officers who might recognize my face, for any sign that the theft had been discovered.

The sword was hidden, but I felt as if it shone through the fabric anyway.

As we drifted forward, the ritual sounds grew louder.

Then a familiar voice cut through the murmur like a knife.

“Kaspar! You son of a—”

My stomach tightened on reflex. I turned.

Blut von Omstr was shoving his way toward me, face flushed red with anger and exertion.

“Where have you been?” he barked. “You neglected your duties! As soon as we’re done here, I’ll have you assigned so much labor you’ll beg to be sent to the frontiers!”

I met his glare and let my face remain still.

In my first loop, words like that would have landed hard. In my second, they would have sparked anger. By now, after being burned alive, caged, crushed, and torn apart, Blut’s threats had become background noise. He could promise me a lifetime of punishment and it would mean nothing if I didn’t survive the next hour.

“Yes, sir,” I said flatly.

The response had no heat in it. No apology. No challenge. Just the correct syllables to prevent him from escalating in front of witnesses.

Blut blinked as if my lack of reaction offended him more than defiance would have. His scowl deepened.

“Worthless,” he muttered, and stormed away to find a softer target.

As he moved off, the crowd closed in behind him, and with it came the other kind of hate: the students.

I heard them before I saw them.

“That idiot disappeared all morning,” someone sneered behind me.

Another voice, sharper with resentment: “Just because he can’t use magic, he thinks he can skip out and study on his own.”

“I hate people like that,” a third chimed in. “Leaving all his work to the rest of us.”