Tick Tock On The Clock [LITRPG Deckbuilding with Time Ticking down]

[04: 16: 58: 15]

...

Cassian floated. Or at least, he thought he did. Hard to be sure when you can't feel your limbs. Or your lungs. Or, frankly, any part of your body that wasn't screaming. Water slapped against his skin in slow, rhythmic pulses, dragging him downstream like a soggy sock caught in the world's most scenic death trap. He drifted—half-conscious, half-dead, half-pissed.

Which made one and a half Cassians, give or take.

Half-formed memories swirled around him like oil on water: his mother's voice, a scream, a monster's teeth, a fall, the taste of blood, the smell of burning.

Then… A soft, too-cheerful ding.

Cassian groaned internally. I can hear you, asshole, you know...

Unfortunately, thinking in sarcastic italics didn't mute the wild one after all they were wild.

Everything twisted. Time bled like spilled ink across memory. Then—Fragments of light. A face. Laughter? A shout?

His next sensation was not gentle.

Cassian's consciousness came screaming back into his skull as a boot slammed into his ribs.

He jolted upright, gasping. A sharp spear of pain shot through his side. His skin prickled from the sudden exposure to cold mountain air. His mouth tasted like blood and river grime. And his vision—yep, still blurry. Good to know some things stayed consistent.

"On your feet, maggot!" barked a voice like gravel being strangled.

"What the hell" Cassian blinked rapidly, vision sharpening just in time to catch the towering figure looming over him.

A knight?

The man standing above him looked like he'd just walked out of a museum and decided to colonize a mountain. Full plate armor, dented and blood-stained. A long spear in one hand, the other already reaching for Cassian's collar.

Oh good, Cassian thought. I'm hallucinating again. Or dead. Maybe both.

"Who the hell let you lounge around in plain clothes during watch? Where's your gods-damned armor, you bald brat?!"

Cassian, still dazed, just looked at the knight strangely.

The knight, however, was mean. "Did your hair also leave you like your ability to speak?"

But before Cassian could answer, he was assaulted by floods of system notifications.

"What's happening?" Before he could string together a single coherent sentence, the knight grabbed him by the collar and yanked him to his feet with all the tenderness of a prison warden throwing out trash.

"Oh, you can speak. Sadly, wrong answer," the man growled. "Which unit?! Don't just stand there gawping like a milk-eyed idiot. Speak!"

Cassian stared at him for a beat, then reached up and peeled the knight's hand off his shirt with surprising, quiet force. Not like a threat. Just... firmly.

"I would appreciate it," Cassian said slowly, mildly surprised at how much strength he needed to pry off the knight's grip, "if you would give me one goddamn second to figure out where I am and why everything hurts."

Cassian's eye twitched. I swear to god I will mute you again...

The knight, to his credit, blinked once. Then again. His jaw flexed beneath his helmet, and disbelief flickered across his features. Cassian didn't look strong—despite his bloated stats, his body was still on the lean, scrawny side.

For a moment, the knight just looked at Cassian. Then, with a burst of strength, he managed to free himself from Cassian's grip, which shocked Cassian as well.

Huh?

The knight stepped back and removed his helmet. Underneath was a broad face, weather-worn and irritated. A glorious, oil-slicked mustache framed a sneer that belonged on a man who wholly embodied the "I hate this job and everyone in it" philosophy.

"Oh, Lord have mercy," the knight muttered. "Another noble brat tossed on my wall like I'm some damn holy teacher."

He rubbed his forehead. "I ask for reinforcements. I get this."

Cassian blinked. "Okay. You clearly have me confused with someone else. I'm not a noble—"

"Silence," the knight snapped, raising a gauntleted hand. "Doesn't matter who your daddy dearest is. You're on my battlefield now, and I'll be damned before I let some soft-palmed snotling get himself and a dozen good men killed because he doesn't know which way to point a spear."

He jabbed a gauntleted finger at Cassian's chest. "Is that clear, brat?"

"Yes—"

"Yes, what, maggot?!"

"Yes, sir!"

The knight groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "By the bleeding moons of Solmarch…"

"I'm Sir Gareth Rancoor the Third," he continued, "Defender of the Northern Gate, Warden of Wyrmwatch Keep, and current babysitter to whatever divine mistake just landed on my wall."

Sir Rancoor called out without looking. "Brandon! Get your arse over here and see this idiot clothed in something vaguely resembling armor!"

Another soldier jogged over—bulkier and less polished. His plate was dull iron, scratched to hell, and hung like it had been welded in a hurry.

"Aye, Sir Rancoor! This one'll see to it the green one's all war-dressed and fire-ready, sir!"

The knight winced.

"For the love of... Gods. Proper diction, Brandon! You're not a one-man tavern play!"

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Cassian exhaled, watching chaos build all around them. Men running to posts. Horns blaring in the distance. Shadows stirred beyond the valley.

Sir Rancoor sighed again, loud and theatrical. "Survive the night, whelp. Maybe I'll ask your name again. Die? And I won't have to live with the guilt of knowing another face that's going into the dirt."

He turned on his heel. "Now move!"

Cassian exhaled and turned to Brandon. "So… where the hell am I now?"

Brandon grinned under his dented helm. "That's not gonna work. Brothers in arms now. Noble scions before you tried that same line—didn't work too well for them."

Cassian's eyes instinctively went to his arm. [04: 16: 42: 15]

Great. Still ticking, and I've been out for almost three hours... goddammit.

Cassian sighed, shaking his head. "Just one question," he muttered, mostly to himself. "What am I supposed to do?"

Brandon's grin widened. "Don't die, and we won't have to dig another grave."

Fair enough.

Cassian groaned again… I should and would summoning a behemoth be considered blasphemy? Given the time frame.

...

Brandon, it turned out, was the kind of person who talked like silence owed him rent.

Cassian barely had time to remember how his legs worked before the soldier was already half-dragging, half-barking him down a narrow stone ramp carved into the fortress wall. The whole thing smelled like oil, steel, and men who'd been living too long with the certainty of death.

"So. You're pale. Skinny. Bald as a frog's ass," Brandon said, nodding in pity. "Must've pissed your daddy off real bad to get kicked here."

Cassian's eye twitched.

These people had already made a backstory for him—some banished noble, shaved bald, and exiled to the ass-end of the world for being too pretty or too loud or too him. Fine. It worked. Let them believe it.

But did they have to keep dunking on his bald head?

"It's growing back," he muttered. "Couple more weeks and I'll have a full head again."

"Sure you will," Brandon said without looking back. "And maybe next month I'll shit gold."

Cassian rolled his eyes. "So, who exactly are we at war with?"

That got Brandon laughing. "Oh, nice try, brother. That amnesia act might work on old grannies, but not me."

"I'm not acting," Cassian said louder. "I really don't know."

Brandon stopped mid-step. Turned. Crossed his arms and scanned Cassian like he was deciding whether to shake his hand or throw him off the wall.

Cassian sighed, placed a hand lightly on Brandon's shoulder, and gave his best imitation of a man who didn't want to deal with this right now. "Just humor me. Tell me what we're fighting."

Brandon stared for another beat, then relented with a smirk.

"Fine. We call 'em Demons. The whole damn breed. Came in like rats through a sewer from god knows where. Razed the Eastern Continent to cinders. Now they're here knocking on our door."

He bit his lip and, after studying Cassian's face, added in a low voice, "The old king, under the minister's advice, started force drafting while keeping most of his real army closer to the capital... but don't say this out loud or it's off to the chopping block you go."

"But we're Sahasharn... whatever our king's decisions, we know one thing: every single Sahasharn is born a warrior. I'd rather die on the battlefield than in my bed."

He paused, then grinned again. "There. Story time's over. And would you look at that—we've arrived."

The barracks—if you could call it that—was less "bunk room" and more "live-in war machine." Stone walls, blackened with soot. A dozen bellows hissing. Sparks flying from three anvils at once. Apprentices scurrying like mice with hammers. The air was thick with metal and sweat and the very specific stink of hopelessness cooked on coal.

Demons here too, huh... Cassian thought. At least I'll learn more about them. Speaking of—hey guys, those demons we fought earlier used Soul cards, right?

I see, so we Timebounds get more privileges than them? Also, pretty sure I get banners. They don't get banners, do they?

Wow! Amazing. I never thought of that, dear Wild One. You're great.

Haa... This is stupid.

"Hey! Cassian!" Brandon's hands slammed down on Cassian's shoulders. "You spacing out again?"

"Yes. Yes, I am. Please stop shaking me."

"Don't lose hope just yet," Brandon said, flashing a grin. "Who knows? You might even survive the night."

"Is that optimism or a bet?"

"Bit of both."

Brandon shoved through a pair of half-open doors and into the forge as if he owned it. "Oi! Gavril! Need a full plate set for our greenie!"

The man who turned toward them looked like someone had glued muscle onto a brick wall and dared it to learn how to scowl. His beard alone could house wildlife. Gavril, presumably.

"Another one?" Gavril grunted, eyeing Cassian like he was a puzzle made entirely of disappointment. "What're the higher-ups thinking, sending brats to the frontlines?… And are you sure, Brandon? A full plate set?"

Brandon nodded, "Yes, Sir Rancoor himself assigned me to get him a set and up the walls"

"Gareth did? Then…" Gavril squinted at Cassian again, looking up and down at him. "He must have seen something… who am I to question? Now come here boy, let me get a feel for your body"

Cassian blinked. "What in the actual f—"

Gavril rolled his eyes. "Your measurements, you idiot. I don't have time to forge you a new suit. I'll hammer out something close and pray you don't die in the first ten minutes."

Reluctantly, Cassian stepped forward like a man approaching a firing squad that was also going to take his inseam. He squeezed Cassian's arms. Gripped his waist. Nudged a knee. Then he nodded to himself quite a lot with a smile. That should be good, no? Cassian thought as he felt the man's delicate yet firm touch.

"Huh," the blacksmith grunted. "Cassian, was it? You're underfed. Malnourished. Probably haven't had a proper meal in a week. But…" His eyes narrowed. "You're strong… that's good and there are indications of wisps of purity as well. Good!"

"Purity?" Cassian muttered the word he heard from Sir Gareth, the mighty mustached knight.

But Gavril just shook his head and averted his gaze, clearly not wanting to elaborate on the topic.

Oh, I see. Nice. And weren't aura users supposed to be rare?

Wait, do you mean the card is pulling strings to manipulate events? Is that even possible?

Brandon, to his credit, choked on nothing, snapping Cassian from his thoughts as he shelved those for later. "Wait, really? Gavril, you serious?"

Before that conversation could spiral into a full-on existential freakout about whether Cassian had hidden powers, he lifted a hand.

"How about," he said slowly, "something lighter? Leather, maybe. Something I can actually breathe in? Or move without sounding like a coin purse?"

There was a beat of silence, and then both men laughed. Deep, booming, undignified laughter.

"Leather," Gavril said, wiping tears from his eyes. "Gods save us. Even with your strength… What, you planning to seduce the werewolves?"

Brandon clapped Cassian on the shoulder. "Cassian, I don't know what Gavril's sensing, but all I see is bones and maybe one muscle trying its best to hold the rest together."

He gestured vaguely to Cassian's chest, then his ribs. "Those mutts out there would tear you up before breakfast, use your spine as a toothpick, and still have time to play fetch with your skull before second breakfast."

He paused. "Besides, you're not a scout. You're on wall defense. There's no stealth when you're standing in full view of everything that wants to kill you."

Cassian winced as Gavril dropped a chest plate onto the bench with a metallic clang that made his teeth ache.

"And you know," Brandon added, pointing to Cassian's freshly shaved dome, "even if we did give you leather, that shiny head of yours would reflect enough light to signal across the valley. Might as well hang a 'Bite Me' sign around your neck."

"Can't a man be bald without every person rubbing it in," Cassian muttered.

Brandon leaned in. "But it's fun and my mama used to say in desperate times like these, if ya give in to gloom, then only doom awaits"

Cassian grunted, then stood still as the armor was strapped on piece by piece. It was heavier than it looked. Restrictive. Stiff. The kind of thing designed to keep you alive long enough to regret wearing it. Each buckle, each strap, each creaking hinge felt like it had belonged to someone else—someone who'd died in this very armor, maybe.

Cassian didn't know whether that was comforting or not.

Once the last strap was secure, Gavril stepped back with a satisfied grunt.

"There. You're armored. That's something."

"Heartwarming," Cassian muttered, rolling his shoulders and immediately regretting it. "I'll treasure the sensation of metal digging into my armpits when I'm being flayed alive."

Brandon chuckled. "Come on. Time to show you your perch. Maybe the view will distract you"

They climbed back up the ramp. The wind hadn't gotten any friendlier. It bit at Cassian's exposed face like it remembered he wasn't supposed to be alive.

At the top, Brandon stopped beside a tattered red banner flapping above a gap in the parapet. He pointed.

"Your post," he said. "Keep your eyes on the valley. Don't fall asleep. Don't panic. Don't piss yourself."

Cassian stepped into the place, staring out.

The valley beyond the wall stretched like a nightmare. Mist pooled in the lowland, thick and heavy, coiling around shadowed rocks and skeletal trees. The kind of place that whispered back when you stared too long.

"How will I know when the war starts?" Cassian asked.

Brandon gave a crooked grin. "Oh, you'll know. The horns will blow. Screaming. Blood. Fire. General chaos. Just another day here."

"Hmm, have we been attacked already?"

He clapped Cassian on the shoulder, almost gently this time. "Yes, it's been almost two weeks now. They are stalling. Do survive, brother. The wall eats enough names as it is."

With that, Brandon turned and left, his armor jangling into the fog of shouts and marching boots.

Cassian stood there, alone now.

"He underestimates me," he muttered. "A lot... though I suppose I do look like a beggar."

He cracked his neck. Flexed his fingers inside his gauntlets.

"Still. He's… not the worst.. he feels like a genuine person"

And then he blinked open the notifications.

Cassian sighed.

...