As Ryland's consciousness fades back into existence, he finds himself back in his room. A gasp escapes his lips, his hands flying to his side where he'd been mortally wounded moments before. There's no pain, no blood, just the ghost of a memory imprinted into his mind.
He stares at his hands in disbelief, flexing them open and closed. They're whole, unmarred, not a trace of the life-and-death struggle he'd just been through. It feels surreal, his mind struggling to comprehend the dissonance between his memories and the reality he's currently living.
His room is just as he left it before the start of this nightmare. His robes hang neatly from a peg on the wall, and his books are stacked neatly on his desk. Everything is calm, peaceful, a stark contrast to the chaos that had ensued mere moments before.
But his mind is a storm of thoughts and emotions, raging with confusion, fear, and an unsettling feeling of déjà vu. He remembers everything: the 'game', the demon-dogs, the blood, the pain, his failure...
He squeezes his eyes shut, the memories too raw, too fresh. But when he opens them again, nothing has changed. He's still here, still alive, stuck in a loop that seems to have no end.
Ryland gets up, his movements mechanical as he makes his way to the window. The Academy had once again arrived in barren dimension. The familiar sight a harsh reminder of the reality he's trapped in. It's as though time has been reset, everything back to square one.
But Ryland knows better. He's not the same person he was at the start of the loop. Each cycle has taken something from him, changed him in ways he's yet to fully understand. The demons may have reset time, but they couldn't erase his memories, couldn't change what he'd been through.
As he stares out into the void, he takes a deep, shaky breath. He's been given another chance, another opportunity to change the outcome.
----------------------------------------
Despite the chaotic scene unfolding before his eyes, a strange sense of calm washes over Ryland. He's seen it all before. The waves of demonic figures looming ominously outside the Academy, the headmaster's voice echoing through the corridors with words of valor and determination, the sheer panic of his fellow students as they prepare for the onslaught...
The surge of adrenaline that he'd felt the first time was replaced by a profound sense of resolve. He no longer felt the need to join in the panic or engage in the futile last-ditch efforts to repel the invaders. He knew the outcome of the initial assault all too well. He'd seen it play out, time and time again.
His eyes scan the panicked crowd, landing on Professor Thornquist. The old man stood by the window, his face set in grim determination as he watched the encroaching horde. It was him Ryland needed to talk to. He was the key to his plan.
Pushing through the throng of his peers, he approached the professor. Thornquist turned, his gaze landing on Ryland, his brows furrowing in concern.
"Ryland," he called out over the clamor, "you should be getting ready. The attack—"
"I know, Professor," Ryland interrupts, "but I have a plan."
The din of the room seemed to quieten for a moment as Ryland's words hung in the air. A flicker of interest crossed the professor's weary face.
"And what might that be?" Thornquist asks.
In that moment, Ryland's calm demeanor becomes an anchor in the tempestuous sea of fear and uncertainty that engulfs the room. He knows he has a limited time to convince the professor, to make him see the possible future that his countless trials had unearthed.
----------------------------------------
His mind had been whirring with strategies and countermeasures, his every sense honed and focused on the approaching danger. Professor Thornquist, veteran adventurer turned Defense Against the Dark teacher, was preparing to step onto a battlefield once more. Not out of desire, but self-preservation. He had seen death through countless battles, and he knew that to survive he had to stand side by side with his peers in the frontline. Cowering would only lead to ruin.
His gaze fell upon the students, the fear evident in their wide eyes, the youthful bravado failing to mask their underlying terror. He had been them once, thrust into a world of chaos and danger far too soon. But now, he was their bulwark against the impending storm.
The sudden interruption jarred him from his thoughts. Turning his gaze from the windows, he found himself looking into the eerily calm eyes of Ryland, a second-year student known for his impeccable memory, but otherwise average ability. Thornquist frowned as the boy spoke with a steadiness that belied his age.
"But I have a plan."
Alarm bells rang in Thornquist's head. A plan? The audacity of it sent a shiver down his spine. He was used to dealing with overconfident students, but this... this was different. It was the calm demeanor, the assuredness that rang alarm bells. He couldn't help but think that Ryland was either on the brink of madness or... worse.
His eyes narrowed as he studied the boy. Ryland stood his ground, his gaze never wavering, a sharp contrast to the pandemonium around them. It was that unwavering certainty that unsettled Thornquist the most.
"What might that be?" he asked, not disguising the skepticism in his voice.
Every instinct screamed at him to dismiss the boy, to concentrate on the immediate threat. But there was something about Ryland's demeanor, the unwavering gaze and the firmness in his voice. The boy was not in the throes of panic, nor did he reek of treachery.
For a fleeting moment, Thornquist found himself questioning his own instincts. Could the boy be onto something? Or was he being led into a trap? The ticking clock in his mind echoed the dwindling time, amplifying the weight of his decision.
----------------------------------------
Ryland took a deep breath. There was no easy way to say what he was about to say. So, he decided to just come out with it.
"I've... seen the future, Professor. A future where we fail to stop the demons."
Thornquist's face turned hard, and for a moment, Ryland thought he had made a mistake. But before he could retract his words, Ryland lifted his hand, palm open.
"I have proof," he added hastily. His magic surged forward, pooling in his open palm. A soft glow emerged, rapidly taking shape into a familiar item – Thornquist's charm.
Ryland's eyes narrowed in concentration, his magical energy working to recreate not just the physical form, but the underlying signature. It was a challenging task, attempting to duplicate the unique magical imprint of an experienced mage. But he had interacted with the charm before, he knew its signature intimately.
It wasn't a perfect copy. His magic lacked the fine control and sophistication of Thornquist's. But it was close, closer than anyone else could ever hope to get without having used the charm themselves.
Thornquist's eyes widened as he recognized the projected charm. The magic signature, though an approximation, was unmistakably his own. His gaze darted between Ryland and the glowing charm, disbelief and confusion marring his features.
"This is your charm, Professor. A close approximation, but your charm nonetheless. The signature, your signature, I retrieved it from... your body, in that future," Ryland finally said, a heavy silence following his words.
Stolen content warning: this tale belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences elsewhere.
The implications were serious. If Ryland was telling the truth, then it was a future they couldn't afford. Thornquist was a crucial part of their defense. Losing him would be a significant blow. The professor looked at Ryland, seeing the earnestness in the young man's eyes. He was either a very good liar or he was telling the truth. The question was, which one was it?
----------------------------------------
Under the critical gaze of Professor Thornquist, Ryland felt an intense pressure. His heart pounded, but he held his ground, trying to keep his composure intact. The professor, his features hard and stern, had withdrawn his charm. He scrutinized it, turning it in his fingers before stowing it back into his cloak's pocket.
"Stay back and don't move," he warned, stepping away from Ryland. He then began muttering under his breath, his hands moving in elaborate gestures. Ryland recognized the incantation instantly—it was a banishment spell. A wave of relief washed over him. The spell was meant to counteract supernatural beings. If he were an imposter, the spell would harm him, or even worse, banish him from this plane of existence. But he wasn't.
As the professor completed his spell, a bright surge of magical energy pulsed from his hands, washing over Ryland. For a moment, he tensed, bracing for the impact. But it was as he thought—the banishment spell had no effect on him.
He stood there, in the center of the energy waves, completely unharmed. He met the professor's gaze with a look of determined resolve. "I am not a demon, Professor. I am Ryland. And I've lived through the future where we lose to the demons, where I found your charm on... you. I need you to believe me," he implored.
Thornquist stared at him for a long moment, the glow of the banishment spell fading around them. His gaze was piercing, as if trying to pry out any hidden deceit. But all he saw was a young man with desperate determination in his eyes. Finally, the stern lines on his face eased.
"Alright, Ryland," he sighed. "Let's say I believe you. Now, tell me about this plan of yours." The air between them was heavy with tension
----------------------------------------
Ryland swiftly launched into a rundown of the grim realities he'd experienced in the previous loops. He painted a stark picture of the academy being overrun by demons, the horrific casualties including all figures of authority, the introduction of a human-demon hybrid named Razar, and a twisted game of survival designed by the demons that rewarded the strong and crushed the weak.
He avoided any mention of his own experience with the demon's boon, unsure of how Thornquist would react to that revelation.
"The best course of action," Ryland concluded, his gaze intense, "is for you to retreat into the depths of the Academy. Keep your distance from the demons and focus on digging up any information that could be useful. I'm the only one who seems to remember these loops. If you can find something—anything—I'll be able to use that knowledge in the next loop."
Thornquist listened to Ryland's words with a grave expression. He was a seasoned mage, a hardened veteran of many battles against dark forces. Yet, the situation that the young man before him described was chilling, even to him.
"Regarding that charm..."
----------------------------------------
The walls of reality were crashing down around Thornquist as he was caught in the throes of an internal storm. The choice before him was as cruel as it was unavoidable - the weight of potential truth against the gravity of immediate duty. His place, by all rights and responsibilities, was at the forefront of the upcoming battle. But the path Ryland was outlining... it whispered of possibilities, of a desperate chance that might just turn the tide in their favor, and above all, survival.
The doubt gnawed at him, a monstrous entity of its own, feeding on his uncertainty. Ryland's words echoed in his mind, painting an apocalyptic future that was too horrific to dismiss outright. His gaze flickered towards the boy, standing calm amidst the impending chaos, an island of resolve in the eye of the storm.
The request for his charm cut through his thoughts, sharp and incisive. It wasn't unreasonable, considering the boy’s account. But Thornquist felt a cold shudder of dread at the thought of parting with his charm. It was a part of him, a reservoir of his magic, his spirit, his strength. In this moment of uncertainty, he clung to it, finding in its familiar thrum a silent assurance.
"No!" he heard himself say, voice steadier than he thought capable at that moment, "If what you've said is true, then I'll need it." His grip on the charm tightened, the pulsing energy serving as a much-needed anchor. The path he chose was dangerous, and yet, it held the allure of hope.
With a last lingering look at Ryland, Thornquist turned towards the labyrinthine depths of the Academy.
----------------------------------------
Ryland stood still, watching Thornquist's retreating form until it disappeared entirely into the labyrinthine depths of the academy. The weight of their conversation sat heavy on him. He'd initiated a ripple into the previous timeline, the results of which he couldn't yet fathom.
A cold shiver ran down his spine as he contemplated his next course of action. He was far from powerless, his intellect and acquired knowledge being his most potent weapons. But he was still just one person against a horde of demons. A single person, with a peculiar power that could, if revealed, make him a prime target.
Would the demons discern his interference? Could they track this deviation back to him? The questions spun in his mind like a whirlwind. The risk was substantial. But so were the potential rewards.
If he remained in the background, focusing on powering the wards, he would be safe, but also stagnant. Time, as he'd come to understand, was a valuable resource, and wasting it felt like a crime.
Caught in the middle of this dilemma, Ryland sighed, ruffling his messy hair with his free hand.
----------------------------------------
Argoth, the Demon Prince, strode towards the Wyrmspire Academy, his massive, muscular form towering over the chaotic battlefield. The sky churned with darkness, a violent canvas painted with streaks of demon fire and flashes of defensive magic from the Academy's defenses.
The landscape was a symphony of chaos. The screams of battle echoed through the air, intertwining with the deafening sounds of demon roars and the sickening squelch of flesh being torn apart. Yet Argoth moved with an eerie calm through the havoc.
They had been faster than ever before. A whirlwind of pure, terrifying power, obliterating anything that dared to oppose them. The human defenses had crumbled like fragile glass under their onslaught, their desperate attempts at resistance proving futile.
In his clawed hand, he held the severed head of the Academy's Headmaster, the lifeless eyes staring into nothingness.
As he stood at the entrance of the Academy, his crimson eyes glowed with malevolent satisfaction. The once formidable fortress of knowledge and power belonged to the Demons, just as planned.
----------------------------------------
As the demon horde flooded into the academy, Ryland found himself amidst a stampede of desperate students. Panic gripped his peers, their faces a mask of terror as they tried to flee, their frantic screams echoed through the vaulted hallways.
But Ryland was eerily calm amidst the pandemonium, a lone ship sailing steadily through a storm. He knew running was futile. He had seen this play out before, he knew the inevitable end. The most rational option was to surrender and live to fight another day.
His mind buzzed with the memory of his previous loop experiences. Each death, each failure, and each lesson learned was etched into his memory. His lips tightened into a grim line as he steeled himself for what was to come.
As the first wave of demons closed in on his position, he fell to his knees, arms raised in a gesture of surrender, hoping that others would follow.
----------------------------------------
Ryland was frozen in place as the horrific scene unfolded before his eyes once again, a violent tableau etched into his memory from the last loop. The crack of the whip, the agonized screams, the malicious delight in the demon's eyes - it was an echo of the past, a nightmarish déjà vu.
He knew he could possibly prevent Lysandra's suffering by intervening, by cautioning her against her defiant outburst. Yet, he was also acutely aware that any deviation from the script could alert the demons to the changes, to his secret.
In his mind, he weighed the scales of choice. On one side lay the possibility of a brief reprieve for Lysandra, on the other the threat of exposure, and ultimately, the failure of his plan. His gaze slid to the crumpled form of Lysandra, her frail body trembling under the harsh treatment. Guilt gnawed at his conscience, yet he suppressed it, steeling himself against the wave of emotion. He knew he could not afford to act on impulse, not now.
----------------------------------------
The echoing footfalls of Thornquist ricocheted off the ancient stone walls as he descended deeper into the Academy's catacombs. His lantern swung rhythmically, casting long, dancing shadows in the labyrinthine passages beneath the great school. The air was cold, musty, redolent of age-old secrets and long-forgotten lore.
In his hands, he held an antiquated tome, its pages brittle with age, each leaf holding its own piece of a puzzle. They were cryptic scripts of old, sagas that spoke of the last time when man and demon had locked horns in battle. These pages held the wisdom of the ages, keys to the questions that now plagued him. The ritual ingredients in his pack were the physical components he'd need to cast a summoning of his own.
As he ventured deeper, the distant cacophony of the demon invasion grew fainter, replaced by an eerie silence that only the deep underground can offer. He had known these tunnels as a young man, having been fascinated by the ancient architecture and the enigma of the forgotten. Now, these dusty corridors were his only sanctuary.
A flicker of fear crossed Thornquist's mind as he thought of the students and his fellow teachers fighting for their lives. However, he quickly pushed it aside, focusing instead on the task at hand. Facing the demons was a suicide mission and that his survival was paramount. Ryland's words still echoed in his mind, the young boy's calm demeanor had unnerved him, but he had seen sincerity in his eyes, and more importantly, he had felt it in the boy’s magic.
He arrived at a cavernous chamber, its walls adorned with intricate carvings of celestial bodies and glyphs of the Old Language. Placing his lantern on a stone pedestal, he laid out the ancient book and the ingredients he carried. The room flickered in the soft glow, casting an ethereal light onto the sacred etchings.
With a deep breath, Thornquist began his task. Unraveling the cryptic verses, cross-referencing with texts he'd memorized, piecing together spells and rituals with his vast knowledge of magical lore. His hands moved with a practiced ease, the actions of a man well-versed in his craft.