I pushed myself to my feet, brushing dirt from my clothes with hands that still shook from the memory fragments. The earthy scent of the forest floor clung to my clothing, grounding me in the present moment even as parts of my mind seemed to exist in times and places that hadn't happened yet—or had happened too many times already.

"See ya later, Sylph," I called over my shoulder as I followed the other boys back toward the village proper. Her eyes followed me—gentle, curious eyes that seemed to see more than they should. In some of the memory fragments, those same eyes had looked at me with terror as the Rabbits closed in. In others, they had been empty, lifeless, staring at nothing as her blood pooled beneath green hair.

I shuddered and forced myself to focus on the present, on this timeline, on this chance to maybe, finally, get it right.

The walk back passed in a blur of half-remembered conversations and fragmented sensations. My mind felt like a shattered mirror, each piece reflecting a different version of reality—all of them ending in failure, all of them ending in death. By the time we reached the main village road, the sun had climbed higher, burning away the morning dew and replacing it with the kind of heat that made dust dance in the air like tiny spirits.

Somar's house came into view, its humble timber walls and patched thatch roof speaking of a family that worked hard for every copper coin. His mother was waiting for us in the doorway, her eyes glinting with something predatory as she raised her hand and delivered a sharp slap across her son's face.

"You little monster!" she snarled, but there was something calculated about her anger, something that spoke of opportunity seized rather than genuine outrage. "Bullying that poor child! What will people think of our family?"

I watched the scene unfold with a mixture of present confusion and impossible foreknowledge. She would drag Somar to Paul's house, I knew somehow. The knowledge felt like déjà vu and prophecy rolled into one, another fragment of lives I'd never lived but somehow remembered.

Our cottage looked exactly the same as always—humble timber walls weathered gray by years of rain and sun, a thatched roof that needed repair, small windows that let in just enough light to chase away the shadows. But even these familiar sensations felt strange now, overlaid with memories of this same house consumed by light, reduced to ash and memory in the span of a heartbeat.

Inside, the familiar scents of my mother's cooking filled the air. Root vegetables and herbs simmered in an iron pot over the hearth, filling our small home with warmth and the promise of sustenance. But even comfort felt different now, filtered through the lens of loss and the knowledge that all of this would be taken away.

"Claude?" My mother looked up from her work, concern creasing her weathered features. Lines of worry that spoke of a hard life lived with love and dignity. "You look pale, dear. Are you feeling well?"

I wanted to tell her about the memories flooding my mind like water through a broken dam. I wanted to explain the impossible knowledge that now filled my head, the weight of seeing endings before their beginnings. I wanted to warn her about the light that would come, the disaster that would tear our family apart. But how could I make her understand something I didn't comprehend myself?

"I got into trouble today," I said instead, choosing the simple truth over the incomprehensible one. "We were bullying Law's daughter."

The disappointment in my parents' eyes hurt worse than any physical punishment could have. They were good people, my mother and father—simple folk who worked hard and tried to do right by their neighbors. They deserved better than a son who carried the weight of lives he'd never lived and failures he'd never experienced but felt with agonizing clarity.

My father set down his eating bowl with deliberate care, the kind of movement that spoke of controlled emotion. "Claude," he said, his voice heavy with disappointment, "why would you do such a thing? We raised you better than that."

The words cut deep, but they also sparked something else in me—a kind of desperate cunning that felt both natural and foreign. If I was going to carry this burden of knowledge, then I needed to use it. I needed to become stronger, more capable, if there was any hope of changing the disasters I could see approaching like storm clouds on the horizon.

In the memory fragments, I had been strong—a sword saint whose blade could cut through anything, a mage whose flames could melt steel. But strength alone hadn't been enough. It was never enough.

"I know it was wrong," I said carefully, letting genuine remorse color my voice. "That's why I want to make it right. I want to learn to protect people instead of hurting them."

My mother's expression softened slightly, but my father remained skeptical. "And how do you plan to do that, son?"

"I want to learn swordplay," I said, the words coming out in a rush. "From Paul Greyrat. He's the best fighter in the village, and if I'm going to be strong enough to protect people, I need proper training."

It was a calculated gamble, one that relied on my parents' respect for Paul's abilities and their desire to see me channel my apparent aggression into something constructive. I held my breath as they exchanged glances, having one of those wordless conversations that long-married couples developed over years of shared experience.

The muscle memory of sword forms flickered through my mind—Alex's legacy, the phantom skill of a life I'd never lived but somehow mastered. If I was going to save anyone this time, I needed every advantage I could claim.

Finally, my father nodded slowly. "If Paul is willing to take you on, and if you promise to apply yourself properly, then we'll consider it. But this had better not be just another childish whim, Claude. Training with a sword is serious business."

I felt a surge of triumph, quickly suppressed. The first step in my plan had succeeded, but I was still far from my goal. I needed strength—real strength, not just the shadow memories of skills I'd once possessed in lives that might have been dreams.

The next morning, I set out early to find Paul during his patrol of the village. The sun was still low on the horizon, painting the world in shades of gold and amber that made even the humblest cottages look touched by magic.

I found him near the eastern gate, checking the simple wooden barrier that marked the boundary between safety and the wild lands beyond.

"Hey, Paul!" I called out, forcing a cheerful tone though my stomach churned with nervous energy. The words felt strange on my tongue—was this really just a chance meeting? Or was it desperation disguised as coincidence?

Paul turned at my voice, his hand resting casually on the pommel of his long sword. The weapon caught the morning light, throwing bright reflections that danced across the packed earth of the road. He was a handsome man, I had to admit—the kind of features that belonged in heroic tales rather than rural guard duty.

"Oh... hey kid, who are you again?" Paul looked at me with a puzzled expression, his eyes narrowing slightly as he tried to place me among the village children.

Perfect. His confusion gave me the opening I needed.

"Hey, you didn't even remember me!" I said, trying to sound hurt while fighting back a grin. "I'm one of the kids your son got into trouble with yesterday." The careful balance of hurt and cheekiness came naturally, as if I'd practiced this conversation before.

"What a rude brat," Paul muttered, his cheeks coloring slightly with embarrassment as he tried to remember who I was.

I pressed my advantage, the words coming out in a rush. "You're not Somar, and I heard that Mike was taken to another place. So, you should be Claude." Paul's finger snapped as the memory clicked into place, satisfaction evident in his voice.

"Heh, so you do remember stuff," I said with a cheeky grin, pleased when his eyebrow twitched slightly at my boldness.

"So, what is it, kid?" He questioned me with genuine puzzlement, shifting his weight as if preparing to continue his patrol.