Lester gasped as he awoke—back in the briefing room.

  The same dim lights. The same stale air. The same map spread across the table, marked with red lines and fading hope.

  General Jones stood at the front, his voice unwavering.

  “We hold this ground today! No more losses!”

  The same words. The same orders.

  Lester’s hands clenched. *I’ve done this before.*

  Franklin sat beside him, staring straight ahead, unaware—just like always. Around them, soldiers nodded grimly, preparing for a fight they didn’t know they had already lost.

  But Lester knew.

  The moment they stepped onto the battlefield, he moved differently. His instincts screamed before the first shot was fired. This time, when the sky split open with Watts’s lightning, he was already dodging, twisting through the chaos like a man who had lived this moment a thousand times.

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  He struck first.

  Ink surged from his fingertips, his Dragon forming in a swirl of black tendrils. It roared, lashing out with claws of liquid shadow. Franklin followed, his power coiling around them both, their movements synchronized.

  For a moment, it felt like they had the upper hand.

  Then Watts laughed.

  Lester’s blood turned cold.

  “You’re catching on,” Watts said, his eyes glowing with unnatural amusement. “But it won’t change a damn thing.”

  Lester’s grip tightened around the hilt of his blade. This was different. Watts had never acknowledged it before.

  The realization hit too late.

  Watts extended a hand, and Franklin's body jerked violently. Dark energy tore through him, ripping his shield apart like paper. He barely had time to scream before he collapsed, lifeless.

  Lester lunged, fury overriding fear. He pushed beyond his limits, striking with everything he had—every ounce of ink, every stroke of power.

  It wasn’t enough.

  Watts’s power surged, a tidal wave of force that swallowed Lester whole.

  Pain. Cold. Darkness.

  And the world reset.

  Lester jolted awake in the briefing room, his breath ragged.

  The same dim lights. The same stale air.

  The same nightmare.

  Across the table, Franklin sat motionless, staring at nothing. Slowly, his gaze turned to Lester.

  This time, his hands were clenched, too.

  And in his eyes, for the first time, was recognition.