The sand was in his mouth again.
Private Daniel Mason gagged, coughing grit as he rolled onto his side. His body felt like it had been crushed under the weight of a Humvee, every bone aching, every muscle screaming for rest. His helmet was gone, his rifle missing, and when he blinked the stinging dust from his eyes, he saw nothing but endless tan dunes rolling beneath a burning sun. No convoy. No squad. No sign of life at all.
"Bravo squad?" His voice cracked, raspy from thirst. He pulled his canteen from his belt, shook it, and swore when it made no sound. Empty. The pounding in his head worsened.
The last thing he remembered was chaos. The mission had been routine—secure a valley road in eastern Afghanistan, sweep for insurgent camps, then regroup with the forward operating base. But nothing about the ambush had been routine. They'd taken fire from every ridge. RPGs had lit the air. His squad leader had screamed over comms to fall back, to get to cover, and then—
Then came the explosion.
He shut his eyes. Flashes of heat. Sand turning to glass. The sound of the earth splitting in two.
And then… nothing.
Daniel dragged himself upright. His body armor hung heavy, and his sidearm was still in its holster—thank God—but his rifle was gone, probably swallowed by whatever blast had thrown him out here. He checked his radio. Static. The display screen flickered once and died.
"Great," he muttered. "Real great."
He took a few unsteady steps across the dune. It was too quiet. No buzzing of flies. No whine of distant engines. No voices. Just the howl of a wind that stank of something strange—sweet, almost floral, nothing like the dry dust of the desert he'd trained in.
His boots hit harder ground. He paused. The sand beneath his feet shifted into soil, dark and loamy. He crouched, scooped some up, and frowned. This wasn't desert earth. This was… forest floor? He glanced around, startled. Just past the dune's ridge, trees swayed—towering, ancient trees, thicker than any oaks he'd seen stateside. Their leaves shimmered faintly in the light, as though dusted with silver. Birds called, warbling unfamiliar songs.
"What the hell…" Daniel whispered.
He stumbled forward into the shade. The shift from blistering desert heat to cool forest air was instant, jarring. He looked back over his shoulder—where dunes had stretched endless moments before, there was now nothing but the forest, dense and endless. No desert. No convoy route. No Afghanistan.
Something cold worked down his spine. Either he'd suffered a head injury, was hallucinating from dehydration, or he was very, very far from home.
Daniel forced himself to focus. Panicking got soldiers killed. Step one: establish shelter. Step two: locate water. Step three: find food and orient. He had some supplies—combat knife, empty canteen, a few field dressings—but without comms or a squad, his chances were slim.
He moved cautiously, scanning with every step. His hand hovered near his sidearm. The forest smelled alive—sweet blooms, damp moss, something faintly metallic under it all. The air wasn't silent, but the noises weren't right. No cicadas. No crickets. The calls were harsher, throaty. Alien.
Daniel found a stream trickling through roots. He knelt, splashing his face, drinking in greedy gulps until his stomach cramped. Relief cut through his fear. For now, he wouldn't die of thirst.
He sat back, chest heaving. And that was when it happened.
It began as a whisper, a thought so sharp it hurt: If only I had a rifle.
He blinked. His palms tingled, searing hot. The stream seemed to shimmer, the light bending unnaturally. He gasped, clutching his hands together, but the heat built until it burned his arms up to the shoulders. He fell forward, choking, and then—something heavy slammed into the earth beside him.
A rifle.
An M4 carbine, matte black, fully loaded, gleaming as though pulled straight from an armory rack.
Daniel scrambled back, terror in his eyes. His chest rose and fell in rapid bursts. The weapon was real. He reached out, touched the barrel, and hissed as static shocked his fingers. But the steel was solid. Familiar. He picked it up with trembling hands.
"How…" His words faltered.
A wave of dizziness nearly knocked him out. His body felt drained, every ounce of energy leeched away. He collapsed to his knees, gripping the rifle like a lifeline. His vision swam with spots. Every breath was agony.
Then darkness swallowed him whole.
He woke to night. Stars burned bright above the canopy, far too many, their constellations twisted into shapes he'd never seen. No moon. Just a cold glow, like veins of silver painted across the sky. He shivered, clutching the rifle to his chest. His body still ached, as if he'd run ten miles in full gear.
That power—whatever it was—had come from him. He knew it deep in his bones. He'd thought of the rifle. And it had appeared. But the cost… the cost was nearly his life.
He checked his watch. The backlight flickered, then steadied. Twenty hours since the ambush. Or whatever it had been. His stomach growled. He hadn't eaten in a full day.
Movement snapped him alert. A crunch of leaves. Heavy, deliberate. He flicked his safety off, rising into a crouch, weapon trained on the darkness.
Shapes moved in the underbrush. Low, hulking, their eyes gleaming faintly red. A growl rolled through the trees.
Wolves. But not wolves. Their bodies were too large, their fur bristling like spines, their teeth catching the starlight like polished steel. Three of them padded closer, circling.
"Back off," Daniel whispered. His finger tightened on the trigger. "Back the hell off."
They didn't. The largest lunged, and instinct took over. The rifle cracked, muzzle flash bright in the dark. The beast collapsed mid-leap, whimpering as blood sprayed across moss. The other two snarled, pacing.
Daniel's heart pounded. He fired again, another flash, another deafening roar. One wolf's skull shattered. The last turned, snarling, before disappearing into the trees.
The forest fell silent. Daniel stood trembling, the rifle heavy in his hands. He'd survived. But the reality hit him harder than the recoil.
He wasn't in Afghanistan. He wasn't even on Earth.
And whatever world this was… it was hungry.
Daniel stood over the carcass of the wolf, chest heaving, rifle barrel smoking. His ears rang from the shots, but the silence that followed was worse than the gunfire. The forest seemed to hold its breath, every insect and bird quieting as if the very trees had witnessed his violence and were deciding what to make of him.
"Jesus Christ," he muttered, lowering the weapon. The thing at his feet was massive, easily the size of a grizzly, but its body was wrong. The fur was too coarse, bristling with jagged barbs like quills, and its mouth sagged open with teeth far too long for its jaw. Black blood oozed into the soil, smoking faintly where it touched the moss.
Daniel gagged and stepped back. His instincts screamed at him to move. Dead animals meant scavengers. And scavengers meant more threats.
He forced his body into motion, trudging deeper into the woods, away from the corpse. His legs were unsteady, the weight of exhaustion dragging at every step, but adrenaline kept him going. The rifle was still clutched to his chest, though his hands shook violently around it.
He found a clearing after what felt like hours. The stars above shifted as the forest canopy thinned, opening to a patch of sky more alien than any planetarium back home. Silver constellations twisted in shapes that looked like daggers, serpents, and endless spirals. The sight was both beautiful and horrifying. He wanted desperately to believe he'd hit his head hard enough to hallucinate all of this.
But the rifle in his hands was real. The wolves had been real. His pounding heart was real.
Daniel forced himself to act like a soldier. He stripped branches, cut them with his combat knife, and arranged a crude lean-to against a fallen log. It wouldn't stand against predators, but it would give him cover from the cold wind slicing through the night.
Fire. He needed fire. He struck stones, scraped the edge of his knife, cursed when sparks failed to catch. The forest offered no dry tinder, only damp moss and slick leaves. His teeth ground together. "Come on, Mason. Don't freeze to death your first night."
His hand trembled as a thought pushed its way into his mind. Fire. If I could just make a lighter…
The memory of the rifle slammed into him. That searing heat. The collapse afterward. His body shuddered. He didn't know if he could survive another attempt. But he was out of options.
He focused, desperate. A lighter. Just a lighter. Nothing more.
His palm burned. He bit back a scream as light flared. And then—a simple black Bic lighter dropped into his hand.
Daniel gasped, sweat dripping down his face. His arms felt hollow, as though the muscles had been scooped out. His vision blurred again. But the lighter was there. Real. Solid.
He thumbed the wheel, and flame blossomed. Relief broke him. Tears welled in his eyes as he fed the fire scraps of bark and leaves until smoke curled upward and a fragile blaze crackled.
The warmth hit him like a memory of home. Of barracks. Of safety. He curled close to the flame, rifle across his lap, and let exhaustion drag him into uneasy sleep.
He dreamed of sand and blood. Of his squad shouting through static. Of a blinding white flash swallowing the valley. He dreamed of his mother's face, fading behind glass. He dreamed of wolves tearing at his flesh while his rifle jammed, useless, his screams echoing through the endless forest.
When he jerked awake, the fire was embers, and dawn light painted the sky pale gold. Birds shrieked unfamiliar songs overhead. For one moment, Daniel forgot where he was. Then he saw the rifle, the ashes, the alien forest. Reality sank back in like a knife.
No base. No squad. No home.
Just him. Alone.
His stomach cramped with hunger. He hadn't eaten since before the ambush. He searched, following the stream, desperate for anything edible. Berries. Roots. Anything.
He found fruit hanging from a vine—deep purple, glistening with dew. He plucked one, raised it to his lips, then hesitated. Could be poison. Could kill him faster than starvation.
He cursed under his breath, slammed the fruit into the mud, and kept walking.
The thought returned. Food. I could make food.
But his body still trembled from the lighter. His head ached, every nerve raw. He remembered the near-blackout after conjuring the rifle. His gift—if that's what it was—demanded a price. And he couldn't afford to push himself into unconsciousness with predators roaming the woods.
"Every two days," he whispered, testing the theory aloud. "One use. Maybe two, if I want to bleed myself dry."
The realization chilled him more than the night. He wasn't invincible. He wasn't some superhero with infinite ammo and gear. He was a soldier with one miracle at his disposal every couple of days. And the rest… the rest was sweat, training, and luck.
By midday, Daniel stumbled upon something impossible.
Ruins.
Stone walls crumbled into moss and vine, their edges carved with strange runes that glowed faintly in the daylight. He froze, staring. The craftsmanship wasn't modern, but it wasn't crude either. The blocks were massive, fitted so tightly that even centuries of forest growth hadn't split them apart.
He crept closer, rifle raised. The silence here was wrong. Too heavy. His boots scuffed against stone steps, and his heart hammered.
Inside, the ruins opened into a shattered hall. Shafts of sunlight spilled through collapsed ceilings. Broken statues stared with eyeless sockets. One figure held a sword, chipped and weathered, its inscription still glowing faintly.
Daniel swallowed hard. This wasn't Afghanistan. This wasn't Earth. Not by any stretch.
A sound echoed. Not a wolf. Not an animal. Voices.
Daniel spun, weapon up, pulse spiking.
They emerged from the trees—three figures, cloaked, carrying spears tipped with gleaming metal. Their faces were pale, angular, their ears pointed, their eyes glowing faintly like gems.
Elves.
Daniel almost laughed, the sound strangled in his throat. Fantasy bullshit. And yet—they were here, walking, real, staring at him with the same wariness he felt toward them.
One barked words he didn't understand, harsh syllables ringing against the stone. They spread out, spears leveled.
Daniel raised his free hand, lowering his rifle slightly. "Easy! Easy, I'm not looking for trouble!"
They didn't understand. Their eyes narrowed. The tallest took a step forward.
Daniel's heart thundered. This was it. His first contact. His first chance to survive—or die—in this nightmare world.
The elves fanned out, silent but precise, their movements smooth as a drill team. Daniel recognized the formation instantly—flanking maneuver. His thumb hovered near the rifle's safety, mind racing. One wrong twitch, and this would end bloody.
The tallest of them barked another sharp order, pointing the spear at his chest. The language was alien, the words clipped and melodic all at once. Daniel shook his head.
"I don't understand you!" he said, raising his free hand higher. "American military, Private Daniel Mason, United States Army! Friendly!"
The words bounced uselessly in the air. No comprehension flickered in their glowing eyes. The spearhead pressed closer.
Daniel's training screamed two options: de-escalate or neutralize. But these weren't insurgents. They weren't even human. And his rifle's muzzle flash had already scared wolves—what would it do to these people?
The elf on his left lunged suddenly, the butt of his spear swinging for Daniel's head. Instinct took over. He ducked, shoved forward, and jammed the barrel of his M4 against the attacker's chest.
"Back off!" Daniel roared, his finger twitching on the trigger.
All three froze. For a heartbeat, none moved. Then the tall one hissed something sharp, a command.
The other two dropped into crouches, spears ready.
Daniel's nerves frayed. His lungs heaved like bellows, his arms shaking with the weight of both the rifle and the moment. He didn't want to fire. God help him, he didn't want to. But if they came any closer—
The leader barked again.
And then, to Daniel's shock, lowered his weapon. Slowly, cautiously, he raised one pale hand. The gesture was universal—peace.
The other two followed, though their eyes never left Daniel's rifle.
Daniel swallowed. He eased his finger off the trigger but didn't lower the barrel. "Good… good. We're calm. We're cool."
The elf leader spoke again, this time softer, pointing at the weapon, then miming setting it down.
Daniel's gut tightened. Drop the rifle? No chance.
He shook his head firmly. "Negative. Not happening." He tapped his chest instead. "Daniel. Private Mason. Friend." He jabbed a finger toward them. "You…?"
The three exchanged quick glances. The leader touched his own chest. "Kaelen." Then he gestured to the others. "Theris. Maelis."
Names. Real names. Daniel's chest loosened a fraction. He lowered his rifle slightly, though not enough to be useless. "Kaelen. Okay. Kaelen."
The elf tilted his head, studying him. Then, to Daniel's surprise, he stepped forward—not with weapon raised, but with a hand extended.
A handshake.
Daniel blinked. Carefully, slowly, he shifted the rifle to one hand and reached out with the other. Their palms met. Kaelen's skin was cool, smooth, and his grip was firm.
For the first time since waking in this nightmare world, Daniel felt a flicker of something beyond fear. Hope.
The moment didn't last.
Kaelen barked an order, and Theris and Maelis moved in swiftly. Before Daniel could react, one had his rifle arm pinned, the other yanked the weapon free. He cursed, struggling, but a sharp knee to the gut stole his air.
He hit the ground hard, gasping. The rifle was gone. His lifeline, his anchor—it was gone.
"Damn it!" he wheezed, thrashing, but spears pressed to his throat and spine froze him cold.
Kaelen crouched in front of him, eyes unreadable. He spoke again, slower this time, as if to a child. Daniel caught none of it, but the meaning was clear enough. Surrender. Obey.
Daniel clenched his jaw, rage and helplessness burning through him. He could fight. He could tear free, maybe even grab the rifle back. But three-to-one odds, with exhaustion dragging at his bones? It would be suicide.
And suicide meant never finding a way home.
So, for the first time in his military career, Daniel Mason allowed himself to be taken prisoner.
They bound his wrists with cord that bit into his skin, forcing him to stumble as they prodded him through the ruins and deeper into the forest. His legs shook from hunger and fatigue, but pride kept him upright.
He memorized every step. Streams, ridges, the angle of the sun through trees. If he escaped, he'd need landmarks.
Hours passed. The elves spoke little, their words flowing quick and fluid when they did. Daniel listened, straining for any pattern, any hint of meaning. Nothing yet.
When his legs buckled, they shoved him forward. He spat dirt, coughed blood, and staggered on.
At last, lights appeared ahead. Lanterns. Dozens of them, swaying between wooden palisades. A village nestled in the forest, smoke curling from chimneys, figures moving between huts.
Not ruins. Civilization.
The sight stole Daniel's breath.
They dragged him through the gates. Villagers gasped, whispering, staring wide-eyed at the foreign soldier in camouflage and Kevlar. Children pointed. Adults pulled them back. Some looked afraid. Others angry.
Daniel kept his chin high, though his insides churned. He felt like a zoo animal. A curiosity. Or a threat.
They shoved him toward a larger building at the village center, its roof thatched but reinforced with stone. Inside, a long hall stretched, torches flickering along carved pillars. At the far end sat a figure on a chair of polished wood.
An elf, older, robes flowing, eyes glowing brighter than the others. Authority radiated from him like heat.
The villagers bowed as Daniel was forced forward.
The elder's gaze pierced him, sharp as a blade. He spoke, voice deep and commanding, words ringing through the hall. Daniel caught none of it.
"I don't understand!" Daniel snapped. His voice cracked, echoing back at him. "I don't—"
The elder raised a hand. Silence fell. He gestured, and Kaelen shoved Daniel to his knees.
For a long moment, the elder studied him. Then, slowly, he pointed at Daniel's chest.
And spoke a single word.
A word Daniel did understand.
"Human."
The elder's voice lingered in the hall like thunder.
Human.
The word cracked through Daniel's mind like a bullet, sending shivers down his spine. These people didn't just see him as an intruder—they knew what he was. Or at least, they had stories of him, his kind, something close enough that they had a word for it.
Daniel's mouth went dry. "Yeah. Human. That's right," he said hoarsely, half to himself, half to them.
The elder leaned forward, his piercing eyes sweeping over Daniel's gear, his uniform, his dog tags glinting in the firelight. He spoke again, longer this time, his tone harsh, commanding. Daniel didn't understand the words, but the rhythm was unmistakable: interrogation.
Questions.
Daniel could only shake his head. "I don't know what you want. I don't know how I got here. I don't even know where here is." His voice broke into a bitter laugh. "Hell, maybe I'm dead. Maybe this is purgatory."
Murmurs rippled through the gathered villagers. Some pointed at him. Some spat on the floor. Others crossed their hands over their chests as if warding off evil.
Kaelen stepped forward, speaking to the elder, gesturing to Daniel's rifle. The elder nodded, then pointed at the weapon. His gaze locked back on Daniel, eyes demanding.
Daniel frowned. "You want me to show you? No way. That's not a toy."
Two guards jabbed their spears against his ribs, forcing him upright.
Daniel clenched his teeth. He could shoot, show them the power of his weapon, but he knew the cost. Every bullet would paint him as a monster. Still… maybe he could control the narrative.
"Fine," he muttered. He lifted the rifle, aimed at an empty section of wall, and fired a single shot.
The crack shattered the silence. Sparks and dust exploded from the stone. Villagers shrieked. Some ducked. Others stared, stunned.
The elder didn't flinch. His gaze only hardened. He spoke again, sharp and deliberate, his voice like iron. He pointed—not at the rifle this time, but at Daniel himself.
At his hands.
Daniel's stomach dropped. They knew. Somehow, they knew.
He shook his head violently. "No. I can't… it's not safe."
The guards pressed harder, spears digging into flesh. Blood trickled down his side.
Daniel's pulse hammered. He didn't have the strength left. Not yet. The lighter had nearly killed him yesterday. The rifle before that had drained him to the bone. If he forced it now—
But they weren't giving him a choice.
"Goddammit," he whispered. He closed his eyes, focused, and thought of something small. Harmless. A symbol, not a weapon.
Water. Just water. A canteen. Please…
His palms burned. His vision darkened. Pain lanced through his skull. Then, with a hiss and a thud, a battered metal canteen dropped into the dirt at his knees.
Daniel collapsed forward, gasping for air, sweat pouring down his face. Every muscle screamed. His body felt hollow.
But the canteen was real. Solid.
The hall erupted into chaos. Villagers shouted, some falling to their knees, others screaming and pointing at him as if he were a demon. Children cried. Elders prayed. Guards shoved him back down, their grips trembling with fear.
The elder rose slowly from his chair. His face was unreadable, but his voice carried like judgment itself.
He spoke one word.
This time, Daniel didn't understand it. But he understood the tone.
Condemnation.
They dragged him out into the night, through the stunned and fearful village, and locked him in a crude wooden cage near the edge of the square.
Daniel slumped against the bars, his body too weak to resist. His wrists ached, raw from the bindings. His stomach twisted with hunger. His mind spun with disbelief.
The rifle was gone. Confiscated. The lighter too. His miracle ability left him drained and half-dead. He had nothing left but himself.
Villagers gathered to stare. Some threw stones. Others whispered in awe, as though he were some cursed prophet. A little boy crept close, eyes wide, before his mother yanked him back.
Daniel shut his eyes, resting his head against the wood. Every part of him screamed to give up. To collapse. To admit defeat.
But a voice inside—the same voice that had carried him through boot camp, through firefights, through the hell of deployment—snarled back.
You are a soldier. You don't break.
He opened his eyes, staring at the alien stars above.
"I don't know what you people think I am," he whispered, voice hoarse. "But I'm not dying here. Not like this."
His fists clenched, even through the pain.
No squad. No backup. No way home.
But he was still alive. And as long as he was alive, he had a mission: survive.
The night stretched on, cold and merciless. In the distance, wolves howled—the same kind he'd killed. The villagers huddled in their homes, fearful of both the beasts beyond and the stranger within.
And in his cage, Private Daniel Mason sat with fire in his eyes.
The elder had called him human like it was a curse.
But here, in this world, Daniel swore it would become his weapon.
Because if this place wanted a monster… then it would damn well get one.