Country Mage 3: A Slice of Life HaremLit Fantasy Adventure by Jack Bryce

Author:Jack Bryce [Bryce, Jack]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2023-01-26T13:00:00+00:00

Chapter 22

The moment James manifested in the ancestral memory; a gunshot rang out.

He jumped, startled by how loud it was, and it took him a moment to remember that he was invulnerable in these ancestral memories — invulnerable and invisible.

He blinked and took in his surroundings.

A low-hanging mist drifted over the land and screams filled the air. Clamor was all around — the cries of men wounded and dying, coupled with the ecstatic and enraged roars of victory.

All of that to the staccato clap-clap-clap of gunfire, like some obscene bass drum to a song that none should ever be condemned to hear.

A moment later, James realized it wasn’t mist that was obscuring his vision.

No, it was smoke.

He took a step forward, felt the muddy soil under his feet despite the ghostliness of his being.

As he stepped forward, a wall of wooden planks, hastily nailed together, manifested through the mist. In the cracks between the planks, thick mud was visible. The smell of earth and the filth of days drifted to his nostrils and combined with the coppery tinge of blood to make him nauseous. Mud sucked at his feet below him.

Behind him was a similar wall.

He stood in a trench.

A shout roused him from his contemplations, and James wheeled around.

“Zurück!” a shrill voice shouted. “Erschiess! Verdammt!”

James ran toward the sound, a sudden rush making him speed up, even though he was aware that there was nothing he could do to change the course of history. What he saw in these visions had already happened.

A loud bang sounded, and something or someone fell down into the trench, rolling down the steep slope and slamming into the mud with an audible thud.

Dead eyes looked up at James from a mud-spattered face.

A young man.

A moment later, another figure landed beside the corpse, vaulting over the edge of the trench with a muddied M1903 Springfield in his hand. A bloodied bayonet was attached to the barrel.

Despite the mud, the dirt, and the filth, James recognized those bright green eyes blazing under the steel rim of the man’s helmet. Familiar, too, was the dark hair, matted as it was with mud, sweat, and grime.

An ancestor.

The man crouched down as his gaze swept left and right.

He held his rifle almost like a spear, ready to stab at anyone or anything who would challenge him.

When he assured himself that there were no enemies in the trench, no direct danger to him, he reached down to his belt and opened a pouch. His hands were dirty. Grime had built up under his fingernails, but his grip was steady as he retrieved a five-round stripper clip from the pouch.

He took a knee, his gaze ever watchful. The man was experienced enough to not even need to look at his rifle as he pulled back the bolt and placed the stripper clip in the open action.

His breathing was calm. He pushed the rounds in, discarded the metal clip, and worked the bolt with a metallic click.

Then he rose into a low crouch, his rifle at the ready as he dashed through the mud, every step measured and silent.

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