The air stank of damp earth and rotting leaves. For the third time, the knight opened his eyes to the emerald canopy overhead, the same birdcall echoing through the forest.
He didn't panic this time.
His breath was steady as he rose from the ground, brushing soil off his knees. The familiar weight of failure sat in his chest, but he had learned to wear it like armor. Regression wasn't a blessing; it was a curse demanding perfection. And he was far from perfect.
His fingers trailed across the worn leather pouch at his belt, something they all got at the start,—it was empty. No potions, no powders. Just like the first time. His thoughts drifted back to the bitter concoctions he'd crafted, how they'd saved his team during many enemy attacks. That was a different him. A time when he first started.
The second life had been even closer—so close he'd tasted victory. He'd become a spirit contractor, wielding ethereal fire and shadows, only to unravel his entire team's effort when the final trial revealed the truth. He still remembered the look in their enemies eyes as him and his team faded from existence.
He clenched his fists. Not this time.
He looked around. He saw the same 6 people that were always there.
They lay scattered across a clearing, stirring as the haze of summoning wore off. Some blinked at the canopy overhead, others sat up abruptly, eyes darting like cornered animals.
He studied them carefully. He already knew their faces, their strengths, their weaknesses. Yet, to them, he was just another stranger, another unlucky soul dragged into this nightmare.
The blonde girl, Elera—the Seer—was the first to notice him. She flinched when their eyes met, already grasping at fragments of visions she didn't yet understand. She always woke first. And always looked afraid.
"Where… where are we?" she asked, her voice brittle.
He didn't answer right away. He knew how fragile this moment was. Too much truth would break them. Too little would leave them unprepared.
He crouched down, keeping his movements slow, deliberate. "Stay calm," he said. "You'll feel weak for a few minutes. That's normal."
A low groan drew his attention to the others. The Beastmaster—Ren—was sitting up now, rubbing his temples. His connection to the creatures of this world would stir soon, and the fear in his eyes would shift to instinct. Not yet, though.
The Strategist, Dorian, was already scanning the clearing, his sharp gaze measuring threats. The Healer—Lena—knelt beside the rouge—Darin—, trying to soothe her trembling hands. And the Titan—Gregor—sat like a stone, his massive frame hunched over as if afraid to move.
It was always the same.
He knew who would recover first and who would falter. He knew who would fight and who would freeze.
But that didn't matter.
Not this time.