Chapter Text
Fear.
Encrid had gotten used to such a thing. Heck, he’d adapted to it. He’d learned how to live inside it, how to fold it into himself, how to let it fuel him rather than paralyze him. Fear had become… a companion of sorts, a shadow that whispered its warnings only for him to step forward anyway.
Over and over again.
It had been constant, relentless, inescapable. It came in waves at first—the sting of a missed strike, the sudden flash of darkness when his body betrayed him, the cold, biting realization that this might finally be the end. But death had stopped being an ending for him a long time ago. The first time his lungs filled with blood and burned like fire, the first time his vision blurred and his limbs refused to obey, he had thought—this is it.
The end.
The finality had been sweet in a way, a promise he could understand. The body breaking, the life fleeing—those were things that had made sense. But then he woke up.
And eventually, with painful clarity, he learned.
Why fear? What was there to fear when every end became a beginning?
Don’t fear. Adapt.
Overcome.
The.
Wall.
It became a rhythm as steady as a heartbeat. Train. Train. Die. Train. Train. Die. Train. Train. Die. Each cycle burned into his consciousness, etched into the sinews of his body and the marrow of his bones. Each repetition was a whisper and a roar at the same time: survive. Improve. Break the boundaries you never thought you could.
Overcome.
The.
Wall.
He had carved those words into his heart long ago, back when the sharp edge of exhaustion still cut him, when doubt lingered like a shadow at the edge of every action, when failure tasted bitter and left him hollow. Back then, each misstep hurt. Each stumble left him raw. Each time he fell, the pieces of him scattered across the ground, and he learned to gather them, to forge them into something sharper, something stronger.
But months—years, perhaps, though the counting had long lost meaning—had dulled the ache. The despair had hardened into rhythm. Pain had turned into pulse. Doubt had been absorbed into discipline.
Routine. Reflex.
He moved through each cycle now like a blade through cloth: smooth, precise, unflinching. No hesitation. No wasted motion. Just forward, always forward. Every strike had a purpose, every fall was calculated, every rise was inevitable. The rhythm was a kind of music, though cruel and relentless: the clang of steel, the thrum of his own heartbeat, the hiss of air and pain.
Even the ferryman—once a looming terror at the edge of the black waters, a figure who had haunted his dreams—had become part of the rhythm. Its presence was constant, a fixture, an audience he could ignore and yet could not escape.
"Do you not tire of it? Doing it over and over again?" the ferryman asked, voice rippling across the waters like oil spreading over a dark surface, thick and insidious.
Encrid didn’t hesitate. His reply was as natural as the pull of breath into his lungs, as automatic as the tightening of his fingers around a weapon.
"No, never," he said, the words sharp, unyielding. Steel in his eyes, a certainty that could not be challenged. "I’ll overcome all the walls you’ll send my way."
He always did. Always.
The ferryman’s laugh was low, almost amused, a sound that vibrated beneath the surface of the water and into his bones.
"Is that so?" it murmured, the voice curling around him like smoke. "Ah. You’ll be eating those words soon enough."
The words were nothing. They had never been anything. The ferryman thrived on riddles, on mockery, on the illusion of danger—but every time, Encrid proved him wrong. Every cycle, every repetition, he rose again, stronger, sharper, more exacting.
Each time, he climbed higher.
Each time, he watched the wall crumble beneath his blade.
Each time, he became better. Stronger. Faster. More untouchable.
He’d overcome it all.
…Or so he thought.
The first time fear came back—real fear, the kind that dug its claws deep into his chest and refused to let go—was during a fight with the enemy.
The smell hit him first. Copper and iron, thick and wet, clinging to the air. Blood. The battlefield was a tapestry of it—splattered across armor, pooling beneath boots, sprayed across dirt and stone. The battle cries, the whistle of arrows, the shriek of steel clashing against steel—all of it blended into a single, deafening rhythm. A sound he’d grown so used to that it had long since faded into the background of his life.
This was routine. This was the world as he knew it: chaos reduced to pattern. The battlefield was predictable, even beautiful in its brutality. The noise, the screams, the rush of heat and motion—it had all become a rhythm he could conduct with ease. A twisted symphony. His symphony.
One moment, everything was fine.
A cut here. A deflection there. His blade found its targets with precision. He moved like a machine wound too tight to ever falter.
And then—
"Fuck—! You son of a bitch—!"
The voice cracked through the air like lightning.
Ragna’s voice.
It sliced through the battlefield’s noise so sharply that for a moment, all else went silent. It wasn’t the familiar rasp of annoyance, nor the raw snarl of anger that usually burst from him whenever he and Rem butted heads over something stupid. No—this was different. This was panic.
Real, raw, panic.
Encrid’s head snapped toward the sound before his mind could even process why. Instinct, pure and sharp, drove his body forward. His chest tightened, breath catching as his eyes swept across the chaos—blades clashing, men screaming, bodies falling—to find the source.
And then the world… stuttered.
A figure lay slumped on the ground.
A hole in his stomach.
Blood spilling freely.
Rem.
“Rem,” Encrid breathed, the name leaving his lips like a prayer that came too late. Disbelief twisted in his gut, curdling into dread that made his legs move before he could think.
He ran.
He ran harder than he ever had, shouldering past soldiers, ducking beneath the arc of blades, kicking through the blood-slicked mud. The metallic taste of the air filled his mouth as he swung his sword, the edge cleaving through anyone in his way. His movements blurred together, a single line of motion cutting through the storm.
Until he dropped to his knees beside him.
It was wrong. All of it. The scene in front of him didn’t fit. Couldn’t fit.
Rem was wrong.
Rem—who laughed at death like it was an old drinking buddy, who made jokes mid-battle, who swung his axe like it was an extension of his arm—was lying in the dirt, pale and shaking. His hand was pressed hard against his abdomen, where blood spilled out in dark, steady pulses—staining the bandages he would meticulously wrap around his forearms and fingers every morning.
Rem—who was always strong. Stronger than most. Stronger than Encrid.
—was bleeding out.
How? How did this even happen? Who had managed to get close enough to hurt him? How—
“Shit!” Ragna’s voice again, closer now, breaking through Encrid’s spiral. He cut down an approaching soldier in a single swing, blade slick with blood, moving to cover them.
“We gotta get him out of here!” Encrid shouted. His hands pressed down hard on the wound, but the blood kept slipping between his fingers, hot and wet, impossible to stop. It was futile, he knew. The gaping hole in Rem’s stomach wasn’t something he could easily deal with. His heart hammered so violently he thought his ribs might break.
“I’ll cover you!” Ragna yelled back, his voice already distant over the noise of steel and screams.
Encrid couldn’t think. He couldn’t focus. The battle raged around them, a storm of death and noise and movement—but all of it blurred. His mind was white noise.
Where was Sachsen? Audin? Krais?
He couldn’t see them. Couldn’t hear them. The unit had scattered again. It always happened. But he couldn’t bring himself to care. Not when—
All he could see was Rem.
His comrade. His friend.
Bleeding out in front of him.
“Fuck,” Rem rasped, the sound bubbling in his throat. His lips twisted weakly, trying for that same grin he always wore when things got bad. “This is… embarrassing…” His voice was hoarse, shaky. “Don’t look at me like that, boss. I’m…”
“Rem, stand up,” Encrid said, voice frantic, words tumbling out faster than thought. “We’ll get you to the med tents. I’ll—”
“No,” Rem interrupted with a choked laugh that turned into a cough. His whole body jolted with the force of it. “I’m as good as fuckin’ dead. Got a hole in my stomach, as you can see…”
It didn’t make sense. It wasn’t right.
“You’re not,” Encrid snapped, the words cracking under the strain. “You’re not.”
He couldn’t die. Not now. Not here.
No, no—he could fix this. He had fixed things before.
But then the realization hit him like a hammer to the chest.
If Rem died here—if Encrid survived this battle—then when the next loop began… Rem would still be gone.
Permanently.
The thought tore through him, cold and sharp, cutting deeper than any blade ever had.
His breath came shallow and fast as he reached for his sword, his hands trembling violently. He didn’t need to think—he couldn’t. His body already knew what to do. The pattern had been engraved into him, an instinct older than reason.
When something went wrong—he fixed it.
The only way he knew how.
He’d have to die.
He’d reset.
He’d save him.
So he needed to kill himself.
The sword’s edge glinted red with blood—he didn’t know whose—and he raised it toward his throat, the motion so natural it felt rehearsed.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
A voice. A grip.
A hand—large, trembling, soaked in blood—clamped down on his wrist. Hard. Stopping the blade just inches from his neck.
Encrid froze. His lungs seized. His pulse stuttered.
“I—” He faltered, eyes wide, meeting Rem’s bloodshot stare. There was confusion there, and anger, and something like disbelief. “I’m killing myself. So I can go back and save you.”
Rem’s expression twisted, pained and baffled. “You’re not making any—” He winced, another shudder racking through him. “—sense.”
“There’s no time,” Encrid said, voice breaking into pieces. “If you die now—if I don’t go back—then you’ll be gone. You’ll stay gone. I can’t—”
“Encrid,” Rem wheezed, tugging at his wrist with what little strength he had left. It was weak, but enough to pull Encrid closer.
Up close, Rem’s face looked worse. His skin was ghostly pale, his forehead slick with cold sweat. His breathing was shallow and uneven. His hand, once unshakable, was trembling. The grip on Encrid’s wrist was losing strength by the second.
He was fading. Too fast.
Encrid’s heartbeat roared in his ears. He didn’t know what to do. He’d fought monsters, men. He’d died countless times. But this—watching someone else die, someone he knew personally—it made everything inside him unravel. It hurt in ways he’d forgotten how to feel. It reminded him that he was still human.
And he hated it.
He was going to—
“Hey…”
Rem’s voice was barely a whisper now.
And then—warmth.
A fleeting, fragile touch brushed against his lips.
Encrid froze. His mind went blank. His whole body went still. It was over almost before it began—just a fleeting press of warmth, absurdly gentle in a world drowning in violence and noise.
Then it was gone.
Rem smiled—a faint, broken smile. “Guess I… win this one, huh…”
He slumped back.
The light in his eyes flickered. Then faded.
“Rem,” Encrid whispered.
No response.
“Rem!”
But it was already too late.
The battlefield shattered around him—sound, color, smell—all of it dissolving into nothing. The blood, the screams, the fire—all washed away like water draining from a broken world.
And then…
Darkness.
The ferryman’s river.
Cold air pressed against his lungs as his eyes met the same black waters, the same endless void.
The same place.
Except this time, his heart was still racing. His hands were trembling. His lips burned with the ghost of something he didn’t understand.
Fear was back.
And this time, it didn’t fade.
He met the Ferryman’s gaze—the same shadowed thing, the same haunting smile that split too wide, all teeth and nothing human. The air itself seemed to crawl over Encrid’s skin, pressing down with that unnatural weight.
“There it is,” the Ferryman murmured, amusement curling through his voice. “That’s what I’ve been missing.”
Then came the snap.
Encrid’s eyes flew open.
He bolted upright.
He was… on a bed.
His bed.
The walls of the tent rippled faintly with the wind outside, and pale morning light spilled through the flaps in soft gold streaks. Everything smelled achingly familiar—leather, dirt, and the faint tang of oil and steel from the nearby armory.
For a heartbeat, Encrid just stared at his hands. They were clean. Whole. His chest rose and fell too fast, lungs still caught somewhere between drowning and breathing. The images still burned against the back of his eyelids—blood, Rem’s body going still, his voice choking out before silence took it.
But now—
Now, the only sound was the rustle of fabric and the quiet clink of metal.
“Got a nightmare, boss? You don’t normally wake like that,” came a familiar voice.
Encrid’s head whipped to the side.
Rem.
Sitting there, like nothing had happened. Perched on the edge of the bed, carefully wrapping bandages around his forearms. His smirk was there too—that infuriatingly lopsided thing that always made the rest of the squad snort or roll their eyes. Alive. Real.
Something in Encrid snapped.
He moved before he could think, muscle and instinct taking over. Days, weeks, years of repetition had sharpened his reflexes to an edge finer than thought. But this wasn’t battle instinct. It was something rawer, deeper.
He lunged forward.
The bed creaked under his weight as he practically pinned Rem down, straddling him with a force that knocked the breath from the man’s lungs. His hands found Rem’s shoulders, holding tight; not in aggression, but as if to anchor himself to this moment. His eyes darted down, scanning every inch of Rem’s torso, chest, stomach—
No blood.
No gaping wound.
No fading warmth.
Just heat. Solid and alive under his palms.
“Woah—! Boss—!” Rem’s startled voice cracked mid-laugh, his composure faltering. A flush spread across his cheeks, bright against his skin, creeping all the way to the tips of his ears.
Encrid didn’t notice.
Or rather, he didn’t register it. His mind was too caught between disbelief and relief, somewhere between wanting to confirm this was real and fearing that it wasn’t.
That he’d blink and Rem would vanish again.
Something burned faintly against his lips—a memory, something warm and fleeting, a phantom touch he had experienced just mere moments ago. It stirred something uncomfortably human inside him, but he shoved it back down, crushing it under habit and necessity.
Not now. Focus.
“Uh… what’s happening?” Rem managed, eyes wide, smirk wavering into something uncertain.
Encrid exhaled, a long, shaky breath escaping his lungs. The tremor ran down to his hands before he finally let go.
He’d done it.
He’d died.
He’d reset.
Rem was alive.
“What are you doing?”
Ragna.
The words were flat, but the weight behind them was anything but.
Encrid turned his head, slowly, almost reluctantly, and found Ragna standing a few steps away—his shadow cutting across the ground. The man’s expression was unreadable, but his eyes were sharp, cold in the way that always seemed to make the others fall silent. His gaze flicked from Encrid… to Rem pinned beneath him… then back again.
For a heartbeat, no one moved.
Encrid’s brain stuttered, trying to piece together why Ragna’s tone felt so heavy, why the air suddenly felt like it was pressing down on him. He opened his mouth—then closed it again, words scattering before they could form.
It wasn’t like there was anything wrong with this. He’d just been checking if Rem was alive, that was all. Rational, necessary, practical. Right?
Even if they wouldn't understand why.
But the silence around him said otherwise.
He looked around.
His squad.
They’d all stopped what they were doing—half-armored, mid-task, frozen. The air inside the tent was suddenly thicker, heavy with something he couldn’t quite place. Eyes lingered on him, tracking every movement.
At first, he thought it was confusion—maybe concern at his outburst, or surprise at his sudden leap. But then he noticed the other things.
The clenched jaws. The twitching hands. The faint, sharp inhale from someone who quickly looked away when he glanced their direction.
He could almost feel the heat behind their stares—simmering, barely restrained.
Tension.
That was it, he thought. Tension.
He’d seen it before in past loops—subtle, fragmented moments that never quite made sense. He’d assumed it was just stress, or the exhaustion of endless campaigns (though even that sounds ridiculous in his head). But now, seeing it all focused entirely on him—on him and Rem—it felt… different.
He couldn’t place why.
But it wasn't the time to think about that. Not now. Not now.
He shifted back, climbing off the bed. The mattress dipped under his weight, and Rem finally exhaled, rubbing at the back of his neck as though trying to dispel the heat that had gathered there.
“It’s nothing,” Encrid said finally, forcing his tone back to its usual calm.
Controlled. The words came out low, quiet, like steel drawn from a sheath. “Just… a bad dream.”
He stood, straightening his uniform, and turned toward the tent flap. He went through his usual morning routine, preparing for the day he would have to become familiar with for the next few days or months.
Or years.
The sunlight was stronger now, cutting through the pale haze of morning. He could hear the clang of practice swords, the shouts of soldiers, the forest wind sweeping through the camp—familiar sounds grounding him back to routine.
Every reset followed the same rhythm. Predictable. He’d learned to use it, to map every movement, every outcome. This time, too, he would fix it. Prevent Rem from dying. Again.
But how?
Who killed him?
Rem was strong—skilled enough that his death made no sense. Encrid’s thoughts turned sharp again, the strategist’s rhythm returning, fitting back into his bones like armor.
And then it hit him.
Like a blow to the chest.
The day had reset.
But he hadn’t died.
The realization made his breath catch. A new kind of dread slithered into his veins—colder than before, alive and crawling under his skin.
Relief warred with panic, twisting together into something almost unbearable.
Fear coiled deep in his gut, sharp and suffocating.
His hands trembled once.
That Ferryman.
~
The morning felt wrong.
Even with the sunlight spilling through the clouds, with the clang of swords and chatter of men echoing through camp, everything felt slightly… off. Not visibly. Not tangibly. But something in the air had shifted—a breath caught between heartbeats, a silence that wasn’t silence at all.
Encrid moved through it like a ghost, every step deliberate, every breath counted. It was the same day. He knew it. The same camp, the same sequence of events, the same chatter by the fires. Even Rem’s voice carried the same rhythm, loud and unbothered, echoing somewhere across the tents like it always did when he made fun of Ragna.
Except Encrid couldn’t join in this time. Couldn’t even pretend.
Because the memory of Rem’s blood—thick and hot on his hands—still clung to him like tar.
He kept his eyes on him. Every movement. Every gesture. Every laugh.
Rem looked perfectly fine—alive, loud, his grin bright as ever as he slung his axe over his shoulder. He looked at Encrid once, brows arching at the stiffness in his posture. “You’re scowling again, boss,” he drawled, grin widening. “That a new wrinkle I see?”
Encrid didn’t answer. He couldn’t. His jaw locked, his body still wound tight with something that refused to ease.
“Geez,” Rem muttered with mock offense, “what’s with you today? Didn’t sleep well? Or was it that bad dream you mentioned?”
Encrid didn’t correct him. He couldn’t even bring himself to lie convincingly. “Just… focus on your preparations,” he said finally, voice quieter than usual. Controlled. Distant.
Rem blinked, clearly taken aback, then let out a low whistle. “Oh, he’s serious today.” He nudged Ragna as they walked, his grin returning full force. “Think there’s a prize for most uptight squad leader? If so, I call second place.”
Ragna didn’t respond—just gave him a look that silenced even Rem’s humor for half a second. The kind of look that made the air feel colder.
It should have been funny. It should have been normal. But Encrid felt that same crawling awareness under his skin again—that weight of eyes on him.
The others.
He caught them sometimes. The small, unspoken flickers when he stood too close to Rem.
Something was wrong there. He didn’t know what, didn’t care enough to pry. Not now. Not when the memory of blood was still fresh enough that his fingers twitched toward his sword every time Rem stepped out of reach.
Not now.
The day passed in fragments—briefings, weapon checks, drills. All of it routine. All of it familiar. And Encrid followed every motion with the precision of someone walking through a dream he couldn’t wake from.
By the time the horns sounded—the call to arms—his pulse had already started to race.
He found Rem easily amid the flurry of movement, the chaos of soldiers preparing for battle. He stood close. He didn’t care if it looked strange. He didn’t care if the others noticed.
Rem noticed.
Of course he did.
“You planning to babysit me today?” he asked, flashing that grin again. “Not that I’m complaining, but I don’t need you hovering. What, afraid I’ll steal your kill count?”
The tease hit too close to something Encrid couldn’t name. His throat tightened. “Stay near me.”
“Wow,” Rem said with mock surprise. “An order. Didn’t even say ‘please.’ You’re really pulling rank today, huh?”
Encrid didn’t answer.
He didn’t need to.
The march began, boots thudding against dirt, armor clinking, the dull roar of anticipation rising around them. The world felt sharper, edges clearer, like everything had been drawn in ink instead of color.
Encrid’s every sense was fixed on one thing; the sound of Rem’s axe swinging beside him, the steady rhythm of his breathing. He matched his movements to his, ensuring he was always within reach.
It was exhausting, but he didn’t care.
Every strike, every clash of steel; he moved with calculation. Even when Rem laughed, loud and reckless, hurling taunts across the field, Encrid’s focus didn’t waver.
Not this time.
Not again.
He wouldn’t let it happen.
The battlefield unfolded just like before. The same terrain. The same formations. The same enemy push. Encrid’s mind worked like a clock, anticipating each step before it happened.
And still, somewhere in the chaos—
He blinked.
Just one second.
Just one.
It was enough.
He’d turned his head to parry a blow, but by the time he turned back—
“Fuck—!”
Ragna’s voice again.
The same sound. The same pitch. The same panic.
“No,” Encrid whispered, even before he saw it. “No, no, no—”
Rem was on the ground.
A hole through his stomach.
Blood pouring freely, the crimson soaking into the dirt, blooming beneath him like a grotesque flower.
It was exactly the same. The same wound. The same expression twisting across Rem’s face.
The same nightmare.
“Rem!” Encrid dropped to his knees beside him, his voice raw, his hands already pressing down on the wound. Again.
“Boss—” Rem’s voice was strained, a weak, trembling laugh slipping through his teeth. “You… stop making that face… hahaha…”
Encrid’s chest caved inward. “Not again. Not—”
Ragna’s blade met another enemy’s, the clang deafening. “We need to move!” he barked, covering for him. “Get him out! I got your back!”
“I can’t—” He couldn’t think. Couldn’t breathe. He pressed harder on the wound, his palms slick with blood. It wasn’t stopping.
It was the same. Exactly the same.
Rem coughed, his smile wobbling as he reached up—trembling fingers brushing against Encrid’s wrist, trying to pull him closer. “You’re doing it again,” he whispered.
Encrid’s pulse thundered in his ears.
Rem’s eyes fluttered shut. “I said stop making that face, or I’d think you have feelings for me, boss,”
“Stop joking around—”
Warmth.
A fleeting, familiar warmth pressed against his lips.
Like before.
A ghost of something impossible, soft and brief amid the blood and chaos.
Encrid froze.
And then Rem slumped back.
Still.
Again.
The world around him shattered, color and sound dissolving in the same violent collapse as before.
Screams, fire, motion… all gone.
Darkness swallowed everything.
The river.
The Ferryman.
That same quiet, dreadful amusement curling through the air. “Try not to die, cause who knows what might happen…”
Then—
He gasped awake.
His body jerked upright, breath catching in his throat. Sweat clung to his skin, his heart pounding so hard it hurt.
The same tent. The same morning light. The same sounds of men outside.
His hands were clean again.
But the weight—the fear—stayed. Became much, much worse. He pressed a palm against his chest, feeling the frantic rhythm of his heartbeat beneath his ribs. His breath shook.
The first repeat never gave way easily. He knew that. He’d done this before—countless times, countless cycles, countless failures. But this time…
This time, the idea of having to watch Rem die again—and again, and again, for however long it would take to fix this—made his heart constrict.
It wasn’t supposed to matter anymore.
He’d trained himself past grief. Past fear.
But as the dawn light spread across the tent, Encrid could still feel that phantom warmth on his lips.
And for the first time in a long time, he was terrified.
Day 4
Encrid shifted their positions in the early formation. He wasn’t supposed to, but maybe the change of it would prevent Rem from dying again. Rem noticed immediately.
“Boss,” he whispered with a crooked grin, nudging Encrid lightly. “Trying a new strategy today? Fancy yourself tactical?”
Encrid’s lips pressed into a tight line. “Stay close.”
Rem chuckled softly. “Always so serious. Fine, fine. I’ll stay in your orbit.”
The rest of the squad glanced, curious, but said nothing. Something about Encrid’s gaze made them hesitate—watching, calculating, always precise. Encrid ignored it. He had a job: keep Rem alive. And still… it happened.
Whoever that person emerged from the chaos, impossibly fast, impossibly strong, invisible. A wound opened in Rem’s stomach before Encrid could react fully. Panic surged like fire.
Warmth.
A fleeting touch of warmth on his lips as Rem smiled faintly.
Then darkness.
Day 12
Encrid adjusted his approach. Sachsen now shadowed him, and together with Ragna and Rem, they formed a tighter perimeter. He barked instructions quietly, calmly, coordinating their steps like a conductor managing his orchestra.
“Why is the alley cat with us? I’d prefer it if he was hanging out with the others,” Rem whined while Sachsen glared at him and Ragna snorted.
Encrid ignored their antics.
But the same thing happened. Rem went down again—same wound, same impossibility. Hands shaking, Encrid pressed against him. “Goddamn it!” Ragna cursed, covering for him like always. “Encrid, Sachsen! Keep him alive!”
“The extent of the injuries…” Sachsen furrowed his eyebrows beside him.
Encrid barely breathed. The warmth touched him again, brief and unexplainable. He briefly met Sachsen’s eyes right after Rem slumped, and he was unable to even read his expression—eyes blank—before darkness took him.
Ferryman’s laughter, faint, almost at the edge of perception. Encrid’s stomach churned.
Day 20
He added more. Audin joined, Krais too. The entire squad formed a shield around Rem, though he made sure his squad remained oblivious to it, opting to make them think that they were protecting him instead. He doubted Rem would also appreciate the implications of Encrid trying to protect him by making the rest of the squad surround him. He had tried variations: flanking, circling, keeping them in front, in back. Every angle he could anticipate, he prepared for.
“This is the first time we’ve done this formation!” Krais happily exclaimed while Audin chuckled, agreeing with him.
It wasn’t enough. Rem fell again, blood and life betraying them both.
The warmth came, fleeting as ever, and Encrid felt his chest tighten, a cold spiral he could not escape.
Day 34
Rem’s laughter grated at him now. Not because it was annoying—but because it sounded so alive.
He hadn’t realized how fragile that sound could be.
Encrid gripped his sword until his knuckles whitened. Every clang of metal during sparring drills made him twitch. He caught Krais watching him, puzzled.
“You’re shaking, boss,” Krais asked with concern. “Are you sick or something?”
“I’m fine,” Encrid said, too quickly.
“You don’t look fine though.”
He didn’t answer. He couldn’t. The fear was constant now, pressing down on him like another heartbeat.
When the fighting began, his focus tunneled entirely to Rem. He didn’t blink, didn’t breathe, every step shadowing him.
Still, the hole bloomed open in Rem’s gut. Warmth pressed to his lips.
Again.
Day 50
Patterns, counters, new formations, even personal duels mid-battle to lure threats away. Encrid experimented with strategies, timing, positions, rotations. But someone—someone impossibly strong—always broke through. He had tried looking for this someone but there was just not enough time.
The hole opened in Rem’s stomach before Encrid could intercept.
Ragna cursed loud enough that even the enemies flinched. “Goddamn it! Krais, try to keep him alive!”
“I’m not a healer! We need to bring him back to camp, the wound is too extreme!” Krais yelled back, frustrated and horrified at the scene.
“I’ll carry him,” Audin frowned, “But you will have to cover me, brothers.”
“I—!” Encrid couldn’t finish. He pressed his hands against Rem, cursed at the universe, at himself, at the Ferryman who lingered at the edge of perception, smiling.
Rem didn’t make it, and the warmth had pressed onto his lips while he was on Audin’s back.
Day 65
“Boss, you’ve got a thing for hovering, huh?” Rem laughed as they prepared the lines. “Try not to choke on your own obsession today.”
“Focus,” Encrid whispered. His pulse a drum, every step calculated.
The same wound opened. Warmth. Faint, fleeting, searing.
Ferryman’s eyes, always watching. The smile, always satisfied.
Day 72
Rem complained about the mud on his boots.
“Damn it, boss, you pick the worst places to march through.”
Encrid didn’t reply. The words drifted around him like echoes from another life.
Audin threw a glance his way. “Brother, are you alright?”
Encrid’s hand twitched at his side. His squad kept asking that, every loop. “Keep moving.”
He felt it again before it happened—a tightening in the air, a strange pull in his chest. His head snapped up just as the world slowed.
He turned, shouted Rem’s name—
Too late.
Blood sprayed again.
The warmth brushed against his lips.
The Ferryman stood beyond the carnage, grinning with rows of too-sharp teeth. You knew it was coming, and you still feared it.
Day 87
Encrid recognized the warmth now. Knew the sensation. Faint, but undeniably… contact. It lingered longer than before.
And again, he failed. Again, Rem slumped. The Ferryman’s grin stretched impossibly wide, as though savoring the torment. Darkness. Reset. Panic renewed, sharper than before.
Day 100
During drills, Sachsen asked if he was ill.
“Your hands,” Sachsen said quietly, grabbing his gloved hand with his own. “They’re shaking.”
“I’m fine,” Encrid lied again.
He wasn’t fine. He was unraveling.
Ferryman’s voice followed him everywhere now. Fear becomes devotion. You understand that, don’t you?
Sachsen stared at him.
“Do you want to work on your—”
“Yeah,”
He squeezed his hand once before dropping it. Encrid appreciated Sachsen's attempt at distraction.
Day 120
Encrid knew now. It was a kiss. Not fully named, not fully acknowledged in his mind, but unmistakable. Each repetition, each fleeting contact burned into him.
Encrid’s desperation sharpened. This time, he didn’t wait for it. When the wound appeared, he pressed his lips to Rem’s. Not fleeting this time.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered. Breath warm against him. “I’ll try again. Next time. Next time, I swear.”
Rem blinked, stunned, before returning a weak, crooked smile. His hand lifted, brushing against Encrid’s arm. That was all the reassurance he got before darkness claimed him.
Day 167
Morning drills. Soldiers shouted. Blades clanged. Encrid suddenly grabbed Rem mid-step before they could leave their tent, pulling him into a tight embrace.
“Boss?” Rem laughed, startled, breathless. “What the hell—?”
Encrid didn’t answer. Only held him, pulse rattling in his ears, haunted by memories of countless deaths, countless resets, countless kisses he’d only just begun to recognize.
He felt the heat of gazes burning his back, but he didn’t think much of it.
When the battle came, again, the strike was claimed. The same impossibility, the same hole opened.
The fear didn’t leave him.
Day 187
He died again.
The fear had started eating at him from the inside. It wasn’t panic anymore. It was familiarity. He woke afraid, fought afraid, breathed afraid.
Encrid was tired.
Day 200
Encrid dragged Rem into the forest, claiming it was “training” before the battle. When they were alone, he slammed him against a tree, desperation burning in every motion. He pulled at the leather armor, lips claiming another set.
“Fuck,” Rem whispered, ragged, breath hitching. “Boss, what? You… do you—mmph—”
Encrid didn’t think. Months of repeats, of deaths, of fleeting warmth. He clung, devoured the kiss, pressed every ounce of apology into it.
“Goddamn it, Encrid,” Rem growled, before flipping the positions, slamming Encrid against the tree and returning the kiss with equal ferocity. Breath tangled, hands gripping, hearts hammering.
The forest air was thick. The sounds of distant drills faded. Only the press of lips, the grip of hands, the scrape of beard against his chin, and the heavy, unspoken terror of repeated deaths filled the space.
Large hands grasped his hips and pulled him, another set of hips pressing against his roughly, grinding their stiff cocks together beneath their pants. “Hngh—” The black haired man let out, sweat dripping down his neck as his arms wrapped around equally broad shoulders.
Lips left his own, traveling down his throat instead, and he instinctively lifted his chin. His mouth parted, letting out soft pants.
“You're so sensitive…” a chuckle, followed by a nip against his skin, and he flinched, cheeks flushed red. His left hand slid up, fingers clutching onto silver tresses.
“Rem…” he panted out.
Half lidded eyes met his own from below.
“Yes, sir?” Breathless whisper. Encrid’s breath hitched.
A sudden realization. There was no denying it.
It should’ve been obvious.
He was attracted to Rem.
Day 207
They were cleaning their weapons. The sound familiar to his ears.
Rem sat, legs stretched out, humming a low tune. His hair was damp from washing, clinging to his temples, the scars on his neck catching the light.
Encrid caught himself staring. Not just a glance—long, fixed stare that lasted too many breaths. His eyes traced the curve of Rem’s jaw, the slope of his throat, the way his fingers flexed when he gripped the axe.
Rem noticed. He always did every repeat, like he was built to become aware of every little attention Encrid would give him.
It also didn't help that earlier, Encrid got too greedy and had dragged off the man to kiss him. Again.
He wanted to berate himself. He was supposed to keep Rem from dying but he was letting himself get distracted.
A slow grin tugged at Rem’s lips. “What?”
Encrid blinked, caught mid-thought. “Nothing.”
He looked away too late.
Ragna’s eyes were already on him. Blank. Expressionless. The kind of look that didn’t ask.
Ragna was as expressive as he was unreadable, and always—always, Encrid would catch him with this look, but he never understood.
A slow exhale escaped the man as he went back to his blade, but his movements were sharper than before, almost too deliberate.
For some reason, it bothered Encrid.
He looked at the others, but Krais was frowning at him. It made him falter for a moment, and he looked at Audin, hoping it wouldn't be the same.
Audin was smiling, but even Encrid could tell it was off.
Confusion was all he could feel.
Day 220
They were training before the battle.
Rem sparred with Audin first—each clash of their weapon making Encrid shiver. But when it was Encrid’s turn, everything changed.
Their blades met with a sharp ring. Rem’s grin was confident, familiar, but Encrid’s eyes were different—focused, intent, hungry in a way that made Rem falter for half a second.
“You’re off today,” Rem said, chuckling.
Encrid stepped in, close enough that the edge of his blade grazed Rem’s shoulder. “Am I?”
Rem froze. Their faces were too close, breath mingling.
“Boss.” Ragna’s tone cut through the silence.
Encrid blinked, stepping back. “What?”
Ragna’s jaw flexed. “I think I'm itching to fight. Can I go first with him?”
“No problem,” Encrid sheathed his sword. He almost regretted agreeing afterwards, because the look on Ragna’s face was different as he stalked over where Rem was, stretching his neck.
“Let's have a go,” Sachsen said quietly beside him, “Time to test out your skills.”
“Alright,” Encrid agreed as well.
Day 250
Lunch was as noisy as ever, with the rest of the soldiers in the camp. Everyone's nerves were fried—Encrid was aware of that. This lunch was the same as it always was for the past two hundred loops.
Encrid sat beside Rem again. Always beside him. Close enough their shoulders brushed whenever Rem shifted.
At some point, Rem leaned close, joking about something Encrid didn't even understand, distracted by the closeness.
Encrid didn’t move away.
Sachsen stopped eating, spoon placed back onto the bowl. He stood up, expression unreadable, and walked off into the woods without a word.
Encrid watched him leave with a frown.
Day 273
He had found him.
Finally.
Encrid’s eyes locked on the target through the chaos—the magician. A gaunt, wiry man with eyes like glass marbles and a weapon so bizarre it looked like a child’s toy dressed up as a relic. Trinkets dangled from his coat—bones, shards of crystal, teeth, feathers—useless, distracting clutter that jingled with every twitch of his wrist.
But Encrid knew better.
He knew what that ridiculous weapon could do.
He had seen it before—the way it glowed for half a breath, the way the air trembled before that single, fatal strike. The way it tore through Rem’s abdomen. The way his laughter turned to wet coughing, how his hand pressed to his stomach as if he could hold his insides in by sheer force of will.
Not this time.
Not again.
Encrid’s pulse hammered in his throat, but his body was calm. Days of repetition had trained it into instinct. Every motion smooth. Precise. Ruthless.
The magician raised the weapon.
Encrid moved.
His sword cut through the distance like lightning through silk—a single, fluid arc that severed the moment before it began. The weapon fell. The magician’s eyes went wide, disbelief blooming across his face just before blood did. He tried to speak, to scream, but no sound came out, only a wet gasp, a collapse, a body hitting the ground with the dull, final weight of something already gone.
Silence followed.
It was almost… anti-climactic.
Encrid stood over the corpse, chest heaving once. Twice. Then still. No adrenaline rush. No triumph. Just the quiet, hollow ache that came after a victory that had taken too long to earn.
Rem wouldn’t die this time.
That thought should’ve felt like relief and it did, for a moment. But it was followed by something heavier. Something he couldn’t name.
When the battle ended eventually with their side winning, everything fell into that post-war rhythm he’d come to know by heart: the shouts of medics, the dragging of the wounded, the sound of steel being cleaned and counted, the banners lowering in the smoke-choked air.
And in the distance, Rem was standing.
Strong. Unharmed. Laughing at something Audin said.
No blood. No trembling. No wound.
The sight made Encrid’s breath hitch in his throat.
Rem was alive.
And the sight of it—of a future that hadn’t been rewritten by death—made Encrid’s chest feel too small for his own heart.
But with it came a strange emptiness. Because he realized, with a dull, sinking clarity, that over countless loops, death had become their only constant point of contact. The kisses—those brief, frantic, dying moments—had marked each failure, each desperate attempt to save him. At first, Rem kissed him; the past few days Encrid stole it. Sometimes he would get greedy—kissing him even before the battle. Sometimes it was gratitude, sometimes fear. Always, it ended the same.
But now… there was nothing.
No goodbye. No taste of blood or salt or regret.
And that absence, that unbearable peace, ached just as much.
It wasn’t logical. But it didn’t matter. Logic had stopped guiding him long ago.
By the time they returned to the squad tent—Encrid, Rem, Ragna, Sachsen, Audin, Krais—the air was heavy with the familiar after-battle quiet. Boots thudded dully against the ground as armor came off piece by piece. The scent of metal polish mixed with sweat, ash, and blood.
Human. Mundane. Alive.
Encrid’s uniform was a mess of dirt and dried blood. His knuckles were bruised, his hair plastered to his temple. His heart, though—it was still running. Still waiting for a blow that never came.
Rem rolled his shoulder, flexing his arm with a grunt, glancing across the tent. Unaware. Unbothered.
And before Encrid knew it—before logic, hesitation, or self-awareness could catch up—he moved.
He stepped forward, grabbed Rem’s wrist, the same way one would seize something that might vanish.
“Boss?” Rem blinked, confused. “What’s—”
Encrid didn’t answer. He didn’t think. He let instinct take over him.
He simply leaned up, closing the distance between them, and kissed him.
The sound of it—the quiet, wet, real sound of lips meeting—seemed to echo too loudly in the tent. The air stopped moving. Every breath in the room seemed to die mid-inhale.
And then Rem responded. His free hand came up, fingers sliding to the back of Encrid’s neck. The kiss deepened, tongues meeting each other. Too fast. Too much. Relief, fear, longing—all compressed into that single heartbeat of contact.
Encrid exhaled shakily against him.
He’d done it. He’d saved him.
And yet—
Bloodlust. Not aimed towards him, but it was unmistakeable.
Crash.
The sound hit like thunder. The bed beside them splintered, frame cracking under sudden impact.
Encrid’s eyes snapped open, disoriented.
Ragna’s back was to him—rigid, trembling. His hand was still outstretched, as though he’d just thrown something.
Rem was on the floor, wood shards around him, breathing hard, shock flashing across his face, then rage.
“What the fuck,” Rem hissed, voice raw, low, dangerous. “Do you want to fucking die?”
Ragna turned slowly, his movements taut, controlled in that way rage sometimes was when it teetered on the edge of violence.
“I could say the same fucking thing, bastard,” he spat, voice dripping venom.
His glare was murderous. Not wild, not unhinged—no, this was colder than that. Fury disguised as command.
Encrid stared. His mind went blank for a beat, then started scrambling for sense.
They fought often. Everyone in the squad did. Ragna and Rem especially—they clashed over everything: strategy, ego, stupid competition. Maybe this was just another argument, another flare-up after battle stress.
But… no.
The air felt different. He could feel it, a pressure crawling up his spine like static.
Rem pushed himself up, standing, teeth bared, chest heaving. He was taller than Ragna by a few inches, and the two stood close enough that the space between them seemed to vibrate.
Their rage was palpable.
But underneath that—something else burned.
Ragna’s jaw tightened as his gaze flicked, for half a heartbeat, toward Encrid—then back to Rem.
It was fast, but Encrid caught it. He just didn’t know what to make of it.
“I’m so fucking mad I could die,” Ragna muttered, voice hoarse but low enough that only Encrid, standing nearby, caught it.
It didn’t sound like battle fatigue. It sounded… personal.
Encrid blinked, confusion swirling in his chest. He opened his mouth to speak, to ask what was happening but he stopped.
Rem and Ragna were squared off, teeth bared, eyes burning. The air between them shimmered with hostility, with something alive.
Dread coiled in Encrid’s gut. This wasn’t their usual fight. This was serious.
“Stop it. What are you two doing?” Encrid’s voice rang out, low but firm, carrying across the space of their tent. He reached instinctively, grabbing Ragna’s forearm to pull him back. The grip was deliberate, precise—just enough to anchor him, to force a pause.
Nothing.
Neither of them moved. Neither of them spoke.
They just snarled at each other.
Encrid’s mind raced. He tightened his grip slightly, reasoning. Tension. Stress. Adrenaline. They’d just basically finished a long battle, maybe tempers were frayed…
“Ragna, Rem!” he barked, voice sharper this time, trying to cut through the fog of heat and rivalry.
To no avail.
The hold on Ragna’s forearm slipped.
Ragna lunged. Rem responded instantly, matching the movement, their bodies colliding with a force that made the tent walls shiver and the air vibrate with the tension between them.
Encrid stumbled back a step, arms half-raised instinctively, caught between wanting to intervene and avoiding becoming collateral.
He looked at the others, mouth opened. Someone had to help, right? Someone had to listen. But the sight that met him only widened the confusion coiling in his chest, words dying in his throat.
Sachsen.
Jaw clenched, eyes hard and sharp, but the gaze he leveled at Encrid was fleeting, almost imperceptible. He glanced away immediately, shoulders stiff, as though looking directly at him would make him break—or betray what he felt.
Audin.
He didn’t even meet Encrid’s eyes. Head lowered slightly, lips pressed into a thin line, expression locked in something neutral that felt anything but.
Krais.
“Boss… we should wash up,” he said, voice light, smile faint, practiced. But Encrid saw through it—the tension under the surface, the eyes that flicked between Ragna and Rem. His smile didn’t reach his eyes. Not fully. Not when every inch of the room was saturated with the heat of their scuffle.
Encrid’s gaze flitted rapidly from one to the other, trying to read strategy, trying to impose order. His mind ticked like clockwork—Sachsen won’t intervene, Audin is disengaged, Krais is hedging… I can’t rely on them. Only I can stop this before someone gets hurt.
He forced his feet to move, lunging forward, aiming to wedge himself between them, arms outstretched, eyes blazing with authority.
“That’s enough!” he shouted, voice slicing across the charged air like steel.
He barely avoided a swing—a punch from Rem that wasn’t meant for him, the motion just slightly off, enough to make his heart lurch.
“You two! Stop! I’m ordering you!”
Still nothing.
Encrid felt a strange, hollow weight pressing against his chest. He should be angry. He should feel frustration at the insubordination, at the lack of respect for his authority. He never minded it, but it was different now. All he felt was a cold, creeping confusion.
Because none of this was directed at him.
Not really. It was for each other.
Every glint of Ragna’s teeth, the tight flare of his nostrils, the narrowing of his eyes—aimed at Rem. Every flicker of Rem’s expression, the slight hunch of his shoulders, the sharp intake of breath before he moved—aimed back.
And the rest of the squad… they were watching. Measuring. Waiting. Burning quietly in ways Encrid couldn’t comprehend. There was a reason why they weren’t helping and Encrid had no clue why.
He caught a flash of Krais’s jaw, tight, almost imperceptibly clenched. Audin’s shoulder had stiffened. Sachsen’s eyes lingered just a second too long on Rem, blank, then slid away.
And still, Encrid didn’t understand.
He reached out again, adjusting his stance, planting himself more firmly. Breath even, posture precise, movements honed through hundreds of resets. I can control this. I must. This is tactical. They’re soldiers, not children.
“Enough! Both of you! Stop!” he barked, louder now, every syllable deliberate. He tried to command, to impose authority like a blade cutting through confusion. He lunged between them, arms outstretched, trying to assert control over the storm that had erupted in the cramped tent.
But the movement was miscalculated. Ragna swung instinctively, elbow flying in a wide arc meant for Rem. Encrid reacted, but the edge of the blow still caught him.
Pain blossomed instantly, sharp and hot, and he staggered back, a hand going to his face. Blood slicked his fingers.
The scuffle froze.
Every pair of eyes in the tent snapped to him, shock radiating from the squad like a physical force. Even Ragna, still fuming, had a flicker of guilt flash across his face, before the anger was back, directed towards Rem.
“Look at what you just did!” Ragna exclaimed, voice rising, tension cutting through every word.
“It’s you swinging like a fucking lunatic!” Rem spat back, chest heaving, fists clenched, body trembling with anger.
The movement, the anger, the noise—it all seemed to escalate in that brief heartbeat.
Encrid stood still, hand on his bleeding lip, feeling the weight of the room pressing down, and the frustration of hundreds of repeated loops in a single, unbearable moment.
Audin moved like a predator finally exerting control. Hands large and firm, he slid between the two, holding them apart by the scuffle of their clothes with an effortless strength that made them hiss and struggle against him.
“Brothers! Stop it!” he barked, voice low and commanding. “You’ve hurt Brother Squad Leader!”
Encrid’s jaw tightened. He felt exhaustion wrap around him like a second skin. His lip throbbed, his head felt heavy, and every nerve in his body was frayed to the edge.
Sachsen stepped forward quickly, large hand on Encrid’s shoulder, tilting his head to check the wound. “Your lip…”
Krais moved faster, pulling an ointment from his pack and handing it towards Sachsen, but the voices around him only grew louder.
“You’re impossible!” Ragna shouted, struggling against Audin’s hold.
“Fuck you!” Rem barked back, his fists clenched tight.
“Fuck you too!” Ragna countered.
“Brothers,” Audin scolded.
Krais muttered under his breath, reaching up to pull down the tent flap. “If you can’t control yourselves, at least keep it from the others outside.” The flap fell, muting the last remnants of daylight, cocooning them in a tense shadow that mirrored the chaos inside.
Encrid’s shoulders sagged. He let out a slow, shuddering breath, stepping back and pushing his hands down. The world felt too loud, too sharp, too heavy. He was tired—so tired.
He shrugged off Sachsen’s hold and straightened, voice flat, emotionless but cutting through the tension.
“Fix whatever this is, or I’ll be leaving.”
The words carried no heat, no real threat. They were an observation, a statement of exhaustion, of disappointment. He wasn’t leaving for real—but he wanted them to feel the weight of the moment, the consequence of their chaos.
The tent seemed to pulse with tension around him, the air now thick with silence as pairs of eyes stared at him in disbelief at the implications.
Encrid turned, stepping past them. His uniform was smeared, hair plastered to his forehead, lip bleeding. The tent smelled of sweat, leather, and the faint tang of iron.
“Boss! Where are you going?!” Krais called, voice cutting through the noise, concern laced with urgency.
Encrid ignored him. He didn’t answer. He needed to think right now.
About his feelings, their reaction, and how to move forward. He had overcome… the wall of Rem dying, but what if it didn’t stop there?