Wulf had imagined his own death many times. But he never thought he’d choose how he died. He’d lived a lifetime of war and fought in many battles. People like him didn’t get much of a choice.

  But as the world basked in its last sunset, he climbed up the side of a mountain, using his splintered war-hammer’s haft as a walking stick. His cloak swayed behind him, and he’d shed his chainmail hauberk in favour of a light tunic.

  It might have been cold up here, immersed in the frigid autumn winds and whipping sleet, but his old Ascendant’s body had long-since evolved past meagre trifles such as shivering. He could bear the cold, so he did. He was remarkably determined when he wanted to be, and right now, he was determined to climb this mountain, despite his failing body.

  He wound back and forth along an alpine path, taking deep breaths and sucking in pine-scented air. His joints creaked and his bones ached, and a thousand different wounds from a thousand different battles all tried to catch up with him.

  His knee groaned from an old sparring accident with his now-dead comrades. His shoulder clicked each time he planted down his makeshift walking stick. An injury from his first attempt at riding a giant golem had done that.

  Those were good times, though. There hadn’t been enough of those. Not since the demonic armies had descended from the skies, wreaking havoc wherever they walked.

  I’m tired. Just tired.

  Wulf was sixty years old, almost on the nose. He’d lived longer than most people of his era. The world of the present was almost unrecognizable compared to the one he’d grown up in, and to make it worse, all his…acquaintances were gone.

  These mountains…they’d been Ján’s favourite meditation spot, bless his soul.

  The sun blazed crimson on the horizon. It’d swollen to four times its normal size—a byproduct of the demons’ meddling—and sent beams of harsh light coursing down to the surface, such that only the mountains were cool now. Oceans boiled, forests had become deserts, and deserts had become unlivable wastelands.

  And Wulf kept on trudging, stubbornly climbing the mountain despite the tremors in the earth. His last piece of armour, a vambrace made of granite (fitting for a stone-aspect Ascendant like himself), clattered as he walked. Its enchantments sputtered and choked on the last wisps of ambient mana.

  Out of habit, Wulf directed a pulse of his own mana into it. The enchanted parchment, which all Ascendants carried, adjusted itself. Ink automatically diffused through the paper, then condensed and stalled in place, taking on the shapes of letters:

  [Critical mana shortage. Arcane collapse imminent.]

  I know, Wulf thought, but said nothing. The Field—the living field of energy that governed all magic—was weakening.

  He carried on walking. The earth rumbled beneath his feet, and dust shook loose from the mountainside, along with loose snow and fallen pine needles. In the distance, a column of magma erupted from the crust, spewing high into the air.

  The world’s collapse was imminent. Everything he knew was about to disappear.

  He hadn’t been the strongest warrior, but despite his low mana attunement and an inability to grasp the more delicate side of magic, he’d stubbornly made a life for himself fighting off demons and other monsters. It wasn’t easy, especially after his injuries started stacking up and he began spending half his kingdom-allocated allowance on pain-killing potions. His fingertips had been stained green from all the potions he’d drank, and he was pretty sure it’d poisoned him over time.

  But it was still a life…

  Right? There wasn’t anything he was supposed to do differently?

  I wasn’t supposed to have regrets. I was supposed to go out with my chin high.

  His breaths grew faster, and the air thinned. The trees became shorter, and there was more snow on the trail. He turned, pushing between a few shrubs, and stepped out onto a rocky outcropping.

  This was where he and his party had met for the first time, only days after their last semester at the academy, following a recruitment poster from a campus job board. He snorted with amusement, remembering Ján’s overblown antics, Lisa’s half-functioning enchanted paper, and Brin accidentally snapping her bowstring in her nervousness.

  With a sigh, he whispered, “I’ll be with you all shortly.”

  He walked to the very tip of the ledge and hooked his boots over the rocky edge. Another pillar of magma spewed up from the earth in the distance, tearing through a dry forest and spewing ash and sparks miles into the sky. Molten specks pattered down on the distant inactive corpse of his giant golem—a thirty-storey-tall beast of stone which he’d used to kill a monstrous fiend.

  The demon’s corpse, now a lifeless heap of scarlet skin and chitinous armour, lay unmoving beside his giant golem.

  When he clenched his eyes, he could still remember the shrieks of the villagers it had been chasing. The terrifying way it bellowed, the horrid squelches it made when he smashed its bone armour and struck its tower-sized legs, or harnessed columns of mana-infused stone to smash its chin.

  Not subtle, not pretty, but it did the job. If something didn’t die when he hit it, that just meant he hadn’t hit it hard enough. If something didn’t move when he pushed it, then he hadn’t pushed it hard enough.

  He inched forward, moving to the edge of the cliff. Did it make a difference if he died now, or in a few minutes when the world’s core finally imploded?

  But he still hesitated. No regrets?

  It felt wrong. That’d be giving up, and Wulf of Carolaign didn’t give up.

  Even a few days ago, when over nine-tenths of the world’s population was dead, he still clung to some faint hope that they’d find a way through this—as if the tremors hadn’t already started, as if the demons hadn’t ripped the moons to shreds, and as if the sun wasn’t expanding before their very eyes.

  But yesterday, the last demons had just left, like they knew the world they’d pillaged and destroyed was truly beyond repair. Probably moving off to some other poor world to destroy it too.

  Just do it, he told himself. Come on.

  He lifted his foot, and—

  “Are you busy?”

  He froze mid-step, still somewhat unsure if he was going to plant it ahead of him or behind him. The voice had been young, but it was hard to tell. It sounded like it was coming from the ground behind him.

  “Depends who’s asking.” He tilted his head to the side.

  I can’t even have a moment of peace at the end of the world.

  He turned around. A small black cat with green eyes and a star-shaped patch of white fur on its chest stood on the path behind him. It plodded in a circle before slapping its tail down and sitting. It stared straight at him. When it spoke, its mouth moved with the same vague pattern as a human’s lips.

  “The Field is asking.” Its eyes flashed a bright lime green, and a wave of invisible power radiated off it.

  A Messenger. He’d rarely ever seen the Field send them, and never to him. They came only to the other stronger, luckier Ascendants he’d served with, who had the honour of talking directly with the Field.

  He sighed. “It’s a little late for accolades, don’t you think?” Still, he marched over to the cat, knelt beside it, then scratched it between the ears. The poor creature was probably scared, too.

  The Messenger purred and leaned toward him, then said, “I have come to make a deal. There isn’t much time before the world ends—and with it, the Field. My master. That means me as well.” The cat walked a circle around him, rubbing against his legs. “With you being one of the last remaining Ascendants, I want to offer you a deal.”

  “A deal?” Wulf scratched the back of his head. He didn’t much like being beholden to others, a trait that had often led to him…not having the most stable financial situation. But taking a stable job had never been his dream.

  “With my last authority, I will send you to the past. Forty-one years ago, as is the limit of my power. Your side of the bargain is simple: use what you know, and do what you can to prevent this calamity.”

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  Wulf was silent.

  The Messenger said, “Tell me this: are you afraid of death?”

  It was an easy answer. “No.”

  “Then why didn’t you jump?” The cat stopped in front of him and placed its paws on Wulf’s knees. “We have seen you on the brink of death many times, always fighting against it, always resisting the pull. You practically caused this encounter with how stubborn you were.”

  “Because there were still things to do. Skills to learn, Marks to earn. Demons to slay.” He crossed his arms.

  Admittedly, he’d spent more time in sparring pits or dark dungeons than anywhere else. He’d learned his class’s Skills, which he used to control golems and create enormous stone obelisks.

  But that meant no time to start a family, no time to explore, no time to taste exotic foods or even see the rippling waves of the ocean.

  With a pang of remorse, he patted the red demon-leather pouch at his belt. No time to spread his instructor’s ashes, like he’d promised so many years ago.

  “Ah, yes, there is the Wulf of Carolaign we know. Slayer of the First Leviathan, Cleanser of the Third Gate, Watcher of the Broken Moon—and the Pilot of Fiendhammer. But your great deeds, though numerous, were not your true calling. That is why you never spoke to a Messenger. You’re holding yourself back. Stop doing that.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The Field rewards those who strive for their deepest desires. We recognized your efforts, but you weren’t aiming for what you truly wanted. A warrior like you may be powerful in some ways, but he always lacks in others.”

  Wulf sighed, then ran a hand down the cat’s back, basking in the softness of its fur.

  “What would you do if you had a second chance?” the cat asked.

  “I’d spend my time more wisely. With my knowledge, I’d do the very best I could to stop the end of the world. And I’d have the adventure of a lifetime while doing it.” He chuckled, then patted the pouch on his belt. “I’d keep my promises. I’d enjoy my time at the Academy. I’d see wondrous sights, explore the Great Plains, meet the dragons of the Litterlands, and cross the Rift Sea, and…”

  Another burst of magma erupted from the earth behind Wulf, making the ledge shudder. Boulders tumbled down the mountain’s slopes, and the heat of the explosion warmed his back.

  “I see,” said the cat. “When you return, you will not have the same Class or Skills. You will only have this one chance, and you may fail. You may never see another Messenger again. But remember: follow your heart, strive, and you will become more powerful than any other Ascendant. No more holding back. Do we have a deal?”

  Wulf responded immediately. “Yeah. It’s a deal.”

  “Then this is farewell.”

  Wulf opened his mouth, about to ask another question, but he couldn’t find the right words to voice it.

  It didn’t matter. The earth shattered behind him, and a plume of lava burst out. In an instant, it vapourized the ledge, and he couldn’t even process that he had died.

  ~ ~ ~

  “Harrel knocked him out?”

  “Did you hit him that hard?”

  “That can’t be it!”

  “I thought he’d last a little longer!”

  Wulf awoke on his back, staring up at the timber rafters of a high roof. Chandeliers swayed above him, their candles flickering, and everything smelled of sweat, perfumed fabric, and torch smoke.

  A training gym.

  His body quivered, trying to come to terms with the fact that it was, in fact, still alive—not incinerated in a plume of lava. One by one, his fingers regained feeling, and he blinked rapidly. For a few seconds, he didn’t move. He just tried to take in his surroundings.

  He was inside a suit of armour. Something covered his head, restricting his vision to a thin slice, and his arms felt sluggish.

  The armour wasn’t metal. It was stone. He was inside a golem. He was piloting one, as most who wielded a stone aspect did. They climbed inside the seven-foot-tall golems and controlled them, almost like a living suit of armour.

  The seven-foot golems were the little ones, though. Good practice.

  Wulf gasped, then sat up, and the golem obliged. Stone panels peeled away, and mana-suspended gravel chainmail shifted aside, letting him bolt straight upright.

  Wulf jumped to his feet, blinking and rubbing his head, trying to stave off the disorientation and confusion. The Messenger said he’d get sent back in time, but didn’t warn him that it would feel like an archfiend had punched him in the face, or that someone had scrambled his mind like an egg.

  His mind was still slow, and at first, most of his memories resisted, trying to stay in the back of his mind. He could only recall the immediate conversation with the Messenger.

  Once more, he looked down at his wrist, where now, a simple leather bracer clung to his forearm—and, pinned to its top, a sheet of enchanted parchment. Ink took the rigid shape of letters:

  [Class altered.]

  [Will of the Field detected. Adjusting Marks.]

  [Mark received: Memories of the End. Mark will be consumed in one minute.]

  Without warning, his mind ran at double speed. Memories of his past life flooded in, all the way up to the very end—to his conversation with the Messenger, and his abrupt death. There even came a twinge of pain that he hadn’t felt before.

  Your promise. Remember your promise.

  He patted himself down. He wore a simple sweat-stained tunic and trousers. An Academy uniform. Only one item had come back with him: the leather pouch containing his master’s ashes, which now hung from his belt.

  Wait. My fingers.

  They were smooth. Only one or two scars, and no hardened calluses, but their tips were still stained green. Potions…

  He patted down his body. His bulky muscles had faded, replaced with the lean body of a nineteen-year-old Academy attendee. His hair was still long, still in a ponytail, but it was a deep brown, and as usual, his chin was clean-shaven.

  He’d just gotten forty-one years younger.

  “It worked…” he breathed.

  “You definitely hit him too hard, Harrel,” someone said.

  Harrel. Wulf knew that name. He dove through his memories, trying to explain why, but drew a blank. He blinked again, then flicked his head side-to-side, trying to take in his surroundings.

  The Istalis Academy gymnasium was a massive hall fit for a king. Its roof was taller than a ship’s mainmast and it was large enough to fit an army of a thousand men. Today, only a crowd of about twenty or so other students gathered around. Boys in their formal white collared tunics, girls in skirts and tights. They formed a circle in the center of the gym.

  The other students surrounded him and another boy. Only problem was that the other boy was still inside his golem, still in a fighting stance. It was like staring up at the statue of a knight. Grey stone armour, and a helmet with a fake stone plume. Behind the helmet’s eye slit, two piercing blue eyes stared out.

  Harrel. Harrel, Harrel, Harrel…

  “Are you done yet, dog?” a muffled voice sneered from inside the helmet. “Lowborn don’t deserve to share the Academy with us. Keep to yourself, and with any luck, you’ll have dropped out by next semester. But if you make me, I’ll rough you up again.”

  Wulf pressed his eyes shut as hard as he could, and finally, it came to him. That voice, that cadence of speaking. “Ah. Kareon Harrel…”

  A lord presumptive. Wulf vaguely remembered the man from his youth. They’d gotten into a few fights, hadn’t they? Well, the memories were blurring together a little. He’d fought so many people.

  But Harrel probably deserved it.

  “I’m not done yet…” Wulf groaned, pushing himself up to his feet. This had been a formal challenge between two golem pilots, hadn’t it? Or, conducted in a formal manner. That meant between rounds of sparring, the contenders were entitled to a break.

  But, since he didn’t see any professors or staff overseers, this fight was probably off the books. It was up to Harrel…

  “Fine, take your five minutes,” Harrel sneered. He turned away, his golem moving smoothly along with his steps, like it was attached directly to his limbs. When he stepped, the thatched mats on the floor shuddered, and the crowd swayed. Everyone stared at Harrel.

  Wulf rubbed his chin and groaned. His chin stung, and his body ached, but not because of old wounds. He’d just been in a fight.

  He concentrated on Harrel, and though his memories of the day were vague, he was pretty sure he’d lost this fight in his past life.

  But things were different now.

  He staggered away from his inactive golem, huffing for breath, not in the least because his body still thought he’d climbed a mountain and been incinerated in an explosion of magma. He bent down over a water canteen he’d left near the edge of the room and took a long swig of water, downing nearly half of it in one gulp.

  Then, finally, he lifted his left arm, holding his bracer up in front of his face and examining it.

  The sheet of enchanted parchment fluttered, but he tightened the clasps and pinned it down flat, then guided a wisp of mana into it. He filled it with enough intent to bring up his main status sheet. For nineteen-year-old Ascendants, a difficult task, but not for Wulf. He’d spent years figuring out how to work the Field. Viewing his status was a habit he’d gotten into, a feeling he’d gotten used to, and though this body didn’t have nearly as much mana as he once did, it was more than enough.

  The inky letters rearranged into his main status sheet:

  Name: Wulf

  Class: Fate Alchemist (Unique)

  Rank: Low-Wood

  Skills:

  [By Your Will] All potions made by your hand have a random side effect regardless of the ingredients, but the side effect’s strength will be one tier higher than your rank would normally produce. Likelihood of producing a harmful potion scales with the quality of the ingredients.

  Marks:

  [Unquenchable Drive] You have demonstrated great stubbornness in a past life. Your resistance to poisons has greatly increased.

  [Alchemist’s Presence] You have consumed many potions in a past life, and they have left an impression on your soul. Consuming a potion temporarily creates a mana-aura that fuels all magical objects. Aura strength scales with potion tier.

  Wulf blinked. The Messenger had said he wouldn’t have the same Class or Skills, but…this was a crafting class. An alchemist, no matter how unique, was just an alchemist.

  Not a warrior. Not a combat class of any sort, with no ability to manipulate stone or use spell Skills. They’d kick him out of the Academy if they found out. He wasn’t even an artificer, so they couldn’t even enroll him in the constructs department.

  He cursed under his breath, then tongued his molars. But to say he saw no potential in this class at all would be a lie. Being able to use any ingredients to make a potion would be invaluable, but he’d definitely need to find a way to control what sort of potion he made at some point. He couldn’t just go—

  You’re getting ahead of yourself.

  To say he wasn’t intrigued would be a lie, and…with a Class that didn’t require him to fight and kill to gain mana, he might be closer to his desires than he thought. Not that he wouldn’t fight, but he didn’t need to. It left more time for a proper adventure. For spending time with his friends, for living.

  But he had to get through this encounter, and he couldn’t get himself expelled from the Academy just yet.

  That meant he needed to figure out how to use that golem, or his stint here was going to be much shorter than in his last life. Preferably, he’d use alchemy to do it.