Kloric decided to implement scenario three, and everything went as expected—until a captive from the far back snorted.

  “So should we bow like dogs to the enemy?”

  Kloric turned and strode toward him, steady despite the faint sway beneath his boots.

  “Bow like dogs?” he echoed. “Easy for you to say. I’d rather live and find another way out than waste my only life over pride and morality.”

  He stopped a few paces away, catching himself lightly on a hanging strap as the vehicle jolted, his shadow falling across the man’s chained hands. Then he glanced around at the others.

  “We were foot soldiers for the kingdom of Valyrith. Do you know what that meant?”

  All heads turned away as his gaze swept over them.

  “It meant no one is coming to rescue us.”

  The words lingered in the dim, enclosed space.

  “Let that realization dawn on you,” Kloric said quietly. “And if you don’t like the way I put it, that’s on you.”

  A battle-hardened man’s voice cut through the heavy silence.

  “So what exactly is your plan, kid?”

  Kloric held his gaze.

  He remembered him.

  In the previous loop, this was one of the few who hadn’t run. The third to kneel. The third to beg. The third to die.

  Good. That meant he valued survival more than pride.

  “My plan?” Kloric repeated calmly. “We survive the first five minutes.”

  A few captives frowned. The Speaker looked irritated but stayed quiet.

  Kloric continued, lowering his voice so they had to lean in.

  “When that tarp opens, no one runs. No sudden moves. No shouting. No heroics. We walk out slowly, hands visible. We kneel before they tell us to.”

  A murmur of discomfort rippled through the truck.

  “Yes,” Kloric said firmly. “We kneel first.”

  The hardened man narrowed his eyes. “And then?”

  “Then we look disciplined.”

  The truck rattled over uneven ground. Kloric steadied himself.

  “Think about it. We’re soldiers of Valyrith. They expect fear. Chaos. Maybe even resistance.” He shook his head. “If we give them obedience instead, it changes the dynamic.”

  “How?” someone muttered.

  “It makes us useful.”

  That word hung in the air.

  “Dead prisoners are entertainment. Useful prisoners are assets.”

  The hardened man folded his arms as much as the chains allowed. “Useful how?”

  “Labor. Information. Leverage. Exchange. Doesn’t matter.

  Armies don’t waste resources without reason. If we show we’re orderly and compliant, they’ll categorize us as manageable.”

  The Speaker scoffed. “Or they’ll execute us anyway.”

  “Yes,” Kloric said bluntly. “They might.”

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  That silenced him.

  “But running guarantees bullets,” Kloric continued. “Obedience at least forces a decision.”

  He turned to the hardened man again.

  “You asked for a plan. That’s phase one.”

  “And phase two?” the man pressed.

  Kloric’s eyes sharpened.

  “Phase two happens after we confirm they intend to keep us alive.”

  He leaned slightly closer.

  “We observe. Guard rotations. Weapon placement. Who’s lazy. Who drinks. Who talks too much. Who likes to show off.”

  A few soldiers straightened unconsciously.

  “We don’t escape tonight,” Kloric said. “We earn the right to attempt it later.”

  The hardened man studied him for a long moment.

  “And if someone runs anyway?”

  Kloric didn’t hesitate.

  “Then we tackle them before they reach the tarp.”

  A ripple of shock moved through the captives.

  “You’d turn on your own?” someone whispered.

  Kloric’s voice turned ice-cold.

  “I’d stop one fool from getting twenty-three people killed.”

  Silence again.

  The hardened man nodded slowly.

  “That’s not pride talking,” he said. “That’s survival.”

  Kloric gave a small nod.

  “Exactly.”

  From the side, Terren whispered, “You really think this will work?”

  Kloric didn’t look at him.

  In his mind, he already knew not everything would go as planned. That was why he checked every detail again and again, searching for flaws only he could see.

  Then the truck came to a sudden halt.

  He grabbed the strap as the force nearly knocked him off balance. The jolt rattled through his bones. A second later, the gate groaned open.

  Panic clawed at his chest. His heart pounded just like before—fast, heavy, threatening to betray him. But he couldn’t afford that now. Not again.

  He forced himself to stay calm.

  He had to.

  If he lost control, the others would too. And he needed to lead by example.

  Then it played out like before.

  A voice called from outside.

  “Hey, Chello! What’ve you got in the truck?”

  Chello stretched his neck. “Just a group of Valyrith soldiers. Commander said to bring them back to base.”

  “How was the trip? They give you any trouble?”

  “Nah. Had them cuffed tight. Drove through the desert too. If any tried running, they’d be dead before sunrise.”

  Low chuckles.

  “Nice thinking, Chello. Alright, boys—let’s see our guests.”

  Boots approached.

  The tarp rustled.

  Inside the truck, no one moved.

  Kloric inhaled slowly.

  This was the point where it shattered last time.

  He turned his head just enough to address them without raising his voice.

  “Remember,” he whispered. “No sudden movement. Hands visible. Kneel immediately.”

  The hardened man was already positioned near the exit.

  Good.

  The Speaker’s jaw was tight, but he didn’t speak.

  Better.

  “Survive the first five minutes,” Kloric murmured.

  Chains clinked softly as they adjusted into position. No scrambling. No panic.

  They were already lined up when the tarp was yanked open.

  Cool night air rushed in.

  This time, they were ready.

  Things were heading smoothly.

  One by one, they stepped down from the truck.

  No running. No shouting.

  They knelt.

  The guards hesitated.

  “What are they doing?” one muttered.

  “Just surrendering without resistance? Pathetic.”

  Kloric kept his head lowered, hands visible. He knew it was bait. They wanted someone to react. To lash out. To prove them right.

  No one moved.

  Good.

  Then the last prisoner stepped down.

  The moment his boots hit the dirt. He froze.

  Kloric felt it instantly.

  That shift in air. and spike in emotion.

  The man wasn’t afraid.

  He was staring.

  One of the guards noticed.

  “What’s wrong, punk?” the guard sneered.

  The prisoner’s jaw tightened. His breathing changed.

  Kloric lifted his eyes just enough to follow his gaze.

  Recognition. Rage. Resentment. Danger.

  Then the man spoke.

  “You killed them.”

  Silence dropped like a blade.

  The guard blinked. “What?”

  “You killed them,” the prisoner repeated, voice shaking but loud. “She begged you. She was holding my son. You shot them both.”

  Kloric’s stomach dropped.

  This wasn’t panic.

  This was personal.

  He calculated rapidly.

  If he stood up, the guards would see aggression.

  If he lunged—immediate gunfire.

  If he shouted—escalation.

  The guard’s expression shifted from confusion to irritation.

  “Careful,” the guard said, lifting his rifle slightly.

  The prisoner’s shoulders tensed.

  Kloric could feel it.

  This was the fracture point.

  One wrong move—

  And the first five minutes would end in blood.