The mud of the Argonne didn't just coat you; it became a part of your identity. It was in your pores, your lungs, and the very grain of your wooden rifle stock.
"Lorenz! Move your ass or the Kaiser will do it for you!"
The voice belonged to Sergeant Miller—a man who smelled of sour cabbage and cheap tobacco. Fredrik was crouched in a trench that was rapidly filling with rainwater and the gray-tinged runoff of a nearby mass grave.
This was the "Old World." No sapphire skies. No silver-veined leaves. Just a horizon of jagged, blackened stumps that used to be a forest, and a sky the color of a bruised kidney.
"Rifle's jammed, Sarge," Fredrik muttered, his fingers working the bolt of his Kar98 with a mechanical, desperate speed.
"Fix it or use the bayonet! They're over the wire!"
Fredrik looked up. Through the freezing rain, he saw them—a wave of gray shapes emerging from the fog. This was the moment he had always remembered. The moment where the "rhythm" first appeared. The world slowed. The rain seemed to hang in the air like diamonds. He didn't feel fear; he felt a cold, mathematical clarity.
He didn't fix the jam. He didn't have time.
He stood up, the mud sucking at his boots, and watched a shell-burst bloom like an orange rose fifty yards away. The shrapnel whistled—a high, lonely sound. He felt the heat. He felt the impact.
And then, the voice from the forest—the one he thought he'd imagined—finally spoke. But this time, it didn't sound like a bell. It sounded like a hammer hitting an anvil.
[CRITICAL DAMAGE DETECTED: NEURO-ELECTRICAL TRAUMA]
[SOURCE: ARCANUM DISCHARGE (LIGHTNING)]
[ANALYZING HOST HISTORY...]
[COMPATIBILITY FOUND: PROJECTILE SPECIALIZATION]
The memory of the trench began to bleed away, replaced by a grid of glowing, neon-blue lines that traced the anatomy of his own unconscious body.
[INITIALIZING SYSTEM: "THE BALLISTIC ARCHITECT"]
[CONVERTING RESIDUAL ARCANUM INTO KINETIC POTENTIAL...]
Fredrik's mind drifted in the dark. He saw his old rifle, the wood cracked, the steel rusted. Then, he saw it begin to change. The wood turned to matte-black polymer. The bolt-action mechanism smoothed out, becoming a semi-automatic gas system. The iron sights shifted into a holographic red dot.
[UNLOCKED: THE GHOST'S ARMORY (LEVEL 1)]
[ACTIVE ABILITY: MANIFEST MUNITIONS]
[PASSIVE ABILITY: CALIBRATED REFLEXES]
"Wake up, Lorenz," the Sergeant's voice whispered, but it was fading, replaced by the crackle of violet electricity. "Don't let them catch you sleeping on the job."
Fredrik's eyes snapped open.
He was back in the emerald forest, lying in the violet grass. The obsidian beast was still there, standing over him, its mandibles dripping with that blue, electrical saliva. It raised a massive, crystalline claw, preparing to drive it through his throat.
Fredrik didn't roll this time. He didn't have to.
His right hand twitched. He didn't reach for a holster; he reached for a thought.
With a sound like a metallic intake of breath, a heavy, matte-black handgun materialized in his grip. It felt cold. It felt heavy. It felt like home.
The beast's claw began its descent.
Fredrik didn't blink. He pressed the barrel of the 1911—or the shimmering, magical approximation of it—directly into the pulsing violet throat of the creature.
"My turn," he rasped.
Bang.
The sound wasn't a spell. It wasn't a chant. It was the sudden, violent expansion of gas and lead. The back of the creature's head didn't just break; it vanished in a spray of purple crystal and blue sparks.
The beast collapsed, its six legs twitching in a dying rhythm.
Fredrik stood up, his body still tingling from the lightning, but his hands were as steady as stone. He looked at the gun in his hand. It didn't have a magazine. It didn't have a hammer. It was a projection of his own lethality, fueled by the very magic that had tried to kill him.
A golden screen flickered into his vision, hovering over the corpse of the monster.
[TARGET NEUTRALIZED]
[LEVEL 1 -> LEVEL 2]
[AMMO REPLENISHED: 7/7]
Fredrik looked around the silent, beautiful forest. The "System" was finally online. The soldier had his weapon.
"Alright," he said, checking the weight of the handgun. "Now we're speaking a language I understand."