I remember the final moments of my past life, every detail burned into my mind as though it was yesterday.
The cold steel of the gun pressed against my temple. The sharp click of the trigger. A single, hollow second of absolute silence before everything was gone.
It wasn't supposed to end like this. I had fought my way to the top, clawing my way through the muck of politics.
A politician, a leader, a man who believed he could change the world.
And yet, I was betrayed. Stabbed in the back by those I had called allies, left to die in a pool of my own blood.
The irony wasn't lost on me. I had lived my life surrounded by power, by the games men played to maintain it, but in the end, power was fleeting.
Even the greatest minds, the most ambitious souls, could be snuffed out in an instant.
I had seen it happen countless times. Revolutions, wars, empires rising and falling. Nations built on the sweat and blood of men, only to crumble under the weight of their own greed.
I had promised myself that I would be different. That I would build something that would last. Something more than just power. Something eternal.
But I was wrong. Power doesn't last. Not in the way you think.
The world grew cold. Then dark. The next thing I knew, I was suffocating. The air tasted different, muddied, heavy with the smell of decay.
My lungs, my body, everything felt wrong, as if I had been stretched too thin, torn apart and put back together again.
But how? How could I still be alive?
I opened my eyes, blinking against the pale, oppressive light. For a moment, I thought I was back in the streets of Berlin, or some other cold, sterile room.
But no. This was not Berlin.
I was lying on the ground. Mud. Wet and sticky. The smell of earth, sweat, and blood clung to my skin. I tried to sit up, but the weight of it all pulled me down. I blinked, forcing my senses to sharpen, trying to make sense of the world around me.
My body, stiff and unresponsive. I reached for my chest, feeling the unfamiliar weight of a uniform—dark, drab, and torn in places. The fabric was rough against my fingertips.
'Where was I? What was this?'
I turned my head, forcing myself to focus through the fog that clouded my thoughts. Trenches. I was in a trench. The smell of gunpowder and human misery filled the air. Blood smeared the mud.
Corpses, too many to count, were scattered around me—men, broken and unrecognizable, their faces frozen in the agony of their last moments.
I closed my eyes, feeling a wave of nausea rise up, but forced myself to push it down. 'I have to figure out what's going on.'
I knew I died, but here I am, wearing what seemed like a German WW1 uniform.
'Maybe it's just a dream?' I stepped over corpses with a disgusted look. 'I'm used to death, but this is absurd,' I thought.
The trench around me was destroyed, but ahead, I saw several soldiers resting, injured or not—they were all wearing the same uniform as me, except they had rifles on their backs.
"Otto!!" one of them shouted after seeing me. He ran toward me with an exhausted look on his face.
He looked no older than 17. The others behind him, who were previously resting, also stood up. "It's a miracle!!" one of them shouted. He also looked no older than twenty.
"How are you alive? We thought you were dead!" another one said.
"I… I don't remember," I said, my voice hoarse, barely above a whisper. "The artillery... everything is just... a blur." It was the only excuse I could come up with.
The soldiers exchanged glances, but no one seemed to question my words.
I had a feeling that they wanted to believe that I had been through something terrible. And in truth, I had. Just not in the way they thought.
"Damn, Otto," said the soldier closest to me, the one who had called my name. He gave me a half-hearted grin, though it was strained, like a mask. "You've got some kind of luck, I swear. How the hell did you survive that blast?"
I shrugged, though inside, my mind was a storm of confusion. Otto. That was my name now, apparently. It felt strange, unfamiliar. But it was mine. I could only focus on that for now.
"I don't know," I murmured. "But... I can't remember much. It's like my mind's been wiped clean." I was experienced in lying, I was a politician after all.
"Well," the young soldier who'd spoken first said, clapping a hand on my shoulder, "doesn't matter. We're just glad you're alive. You gave us all a hell of a scare, Otto."
Suddenly, the quiet voice of reason that had remained locked away in my mind began to stir. You're not the same person. The words echoed through my thoughts.
I couldn't deny it any longer. This was not a dream. This was reality, a new one, one where I wasn't who I used to be. But I couldn't quite grasp how or why.
"I need to see myself," I muttered, more to myself than to anyone around me.
"Hey, what are you doing? Your orders were clear!!" Behind me, a middle-aged man screamed at us.
"Yes, sir," said one of them before walking off without hesitation.
"You, where is your rifle?" he said to me.
"It was destroyed, sir." I tried to sound calm, but wasn't sure it was working.
"Take one of the corpses, and join them in collecting bodies," he said with a demanding tone.
"Yes, sir." I saluted and started searching for a rifle.
In the puddle, next to the body of a young soldier, I could only look in shock at the young face of a 16-year-old, blond-haired, grey-eyed, and malnourished soldier looking back at me. A big scar ran across his cheek.
I took a step back, my breath catching in my throat. 'It can't be.' was my only thought. I wanted to deny it, but I already knew what happened.