The first scent was of meat roasting somewhere, likely salt pork left too long over a low fire. The smell pierced the antiseptic layer that usually inhabited this room, bringing with it muscular memories that did not belong to him: roast pork at a Singapore night market, satay skewers sold by street vendors at Lau Pa Sat. Johann swallowed, forcing the memories back into the dark pit of his mind. He was not there. He was here. In the Seventh Division field hospital's treatment room, somewhere twenty miles from the Thares fortress.
He opened his eyes.
The white plaster ceiling, cracks like a frozen river delta. The old wooden beams, dark brown. Everything was the same. But there was a difference: the light. The light from the small window was brighter, more yellow. Morning, perhaps nine o'clock. He had slept longer than usual. The medicine? Or was this body—Johann Reth's body, which had strangely recovered from a mortal wound—beginning to truly heal?
"You woke up just in time."
The voice came from the right, from the same wooden chair. Rozemary Dornfels sat there, a thick leather-bound notebook open on her lap. But today she was not holding a pen. Her hands were folded over the book, her fingers slender and pale—the hands of a scholar, not a field worker. She wore the same white blouse, but her apron was clean, without stains of herbs or blood. Her brown hair was tied back more neatly, her beautiful face composed, like someone expecting an important visitor.
"Time… for what?" Johann's voice came out hoarse. He tried to sit up, and this time, the pain in his right leg was only a dull throb, not a sharp stab. Progress. Or perhaps Rozemary's ability was at work again.
"Time to talk," said Rozemary. She smiled, but the smile did not reach her gray, winter-cloud eyes. "And to look at something."
She stood up, retrieving a wooden tray from the table in the corner. On it was a bowl of creamy oatmeal, a piece of dark bread, and a ceramic cup of something steaming. "Eat first. Your body needs fuel for the final stages of healing. The tibia fracture is eighty percent fused, according to my medical ability."
Johann took the bowl. The wooden spoon felt light in his hand. He ate slowly, savoring each mouthful. It was bland, tasteless, like hospital food anywhere. But it was warm. Real. He drank from the cup; a warm, bitter liquid with a licorice aftertaste. Herbal tea.
Rozemary watched him from near the window, her back straight. "You have asked many questions over the past three days," she said suddenly, her voice neutral. "About the Divinum. About the classes. About how the system works."
Johann nodded, swallowing the last bite. "And you answered some. Not all."
"Because not all answers are mine to give." Rozemary turned, her eyes meeting his. "There are things known only to high-ranking officers, to Diverns level four and above. I am only level two. A Medicus. My duty is to heal, not to reveal state secrets. Besides, there are already many rogue diverns."
"But you know how to become a Divern." Johann put down the spoon, his voice deliberately flat. This was a test. He had asked this two days ago, and Rozemary had diverted the conversation to the weather.
Rozemary let out a slow breath. She returned to her chair, sitting gracefully, folding her hands over the notebook. "Many people know how, Johann. But not everyone should do it. It is not… a simple decision."
"Tell me why it's not simple."
She paused, her eyes scanning his face as if searching for something. "You are an Oculus Ater. Black. A non-user. To become Cinereus, gray, level one… you must undergo a class initiation ritual. Each class is different. Medicus has its own ritual, Warlock has theirs, Vigiles, Voleur… all different."
"And the ritual?"
"Dangerous." The word was uttered with flat emphasis. "Every ritual involves a deep philosophical understanding of the essence of your class. You must… prove to reality that you comprehend the nature of the power you will wield. For a Medicus, it is about sacrifice and healing. For a Vigiles, about protection and restraint. For a Warlock…" She shook her head. "The rituals are personal. And if you fail, the consequences are permanent. Mental impairment. Loss of function. Even death."
Johann felt a chill down his spine. "But people still do it."
"Because the power is tempting." Rozemary looked down, opening her notebook, flipping a page. "And because the Empire needs Diverns. We are strategic assets. Living weapons. But every weapon has a price. For Diverns, the price is our own minds." She looked at Johann again. "You asked why I didn't answer directly? Because suggesting someone become a Divern… is like suggesting they slowly dig their own grave with a golden shovel."
The room fell silent. Sounds from outside—footsteps, the clatter of equipment, muffled conversation—drifted in like noises from another world.
"But," Rozemary continued, her voice softer, "there are situations where that golden shovel is necessary. Where the price to be paid is worth what is being protected."
Johann stared at her. "Such as?"
Rozemary closed her notebook. "Such as when an ordinary soldier survives a level five Divinum operation and attracts the attention of high command. Such as when that soldier is to be promoted to a position where becoming a Divern is no longer an option, but a necessity."
The blood roared in Johann's ears. "Promotion?"
"Lieutenant Whitmore, commander of the cleanup operation at Thares, recommended you for a promotion." Rozemary said it in a flat tone, as if reading a report. "Based on eyewitness accounts from the cleanup troops who found you, and based on… the extraordinary resilience you displayed, he proposed you be raised to the rank of Hauptmann, with a salary of 10 to 20 Thalers."
Johann frowned. His memories of general military hierarchy mixed with Johann Reth's hazy recollections. Hauptmann. Equivalent to captain. Commanding a company of 150-200 men. It was a huge leap. From an ordinary soldier, Soldat, directly to a junior officer. That was unusual. And speaking of the salary, it was truly enormous! He remembered that in the Empire, the currency had four types: Pfennig, Groschen, Thaler, Gulden. 1 Pfennig = 1 loaf of bread, 1 Groschen = 12 Pfennig, 1 Gulden = 24 Groschen, 1 Thaler = 2 Gulden. The numbers were dizzying!
"The hierarchy," Johann murmured, more to himself. "From the bottom: Rekrut, Soldat, Obersoldat. Then non-commissioned officers: Gefreiter, Unteroffizier, Unterfeldwebel, Feldwebel. Junior officers: Leutnant, Oberleutnant, Hauptmann. Field officers: Major, Oberstleutnant, Oberst. Senior officers: Generalmajor, Generalleutnant, General der Infanterie, Generaloberst, Feldmarschall, Generalfeldmarschall, Großmarschall." He recited it like a mantra, the words surfacing from Johann Reth's deep memories, as if drilled into him in the barracks.
Rozemary nodded, a hint of surprise in her eyes. "You remember well. Yes. Hauptmann. That is an exceptionally high rank for someone with limited combat experience and no formal leadership training. But you are the 'One Man Army'. The legend has already begun. The Empire loves legends. They're good for morale."
"And they want me to become a Divern too."
"They will suggest it," said Rozemary carefully. "As a Hauptmann, especially if you are assigned to a special unit operating alongside Diverns, or against Diverns, having basic Divinum abilities would be a… tactical advantage. Even a necessity."
She stood again, walking to the wall opposite the bed. A large, rolled-up map hung there, tied with a leather cord. Rozemary undid the tie and rolled the map down. It was a map of the continent, drawn with fine ink and faded colors.
"This is Indropa," said Rozemary without turning. "Our continent. You probably haven't seen it whole before."
Johann stared at the map. And the world in his head—his world—cracked.
This… was Europe.
Not exactly, but almost perfectly so. A landmass like an inverted boot in the south was very similar to Italy but stockier. A jagged peninsula in the west resembled Iberia. In the north, a vast, sprawling landmass, like Scandinavia but connected. In the center, a region akin to France-Germany-Poland, cut by familiar great rivers and mountain ranges. There were no Balkans. The land in the southeast that should have been the Balkans was smooth, merging with a Russia-like landmass. But the coastlines, the inlets, the shapes… it was seventeenth-century Europe, with terrifying accuracy.
Johann's heart pounded. He forced his breathing to remain steady. It's just evolutionary geological convergence, his analytical side thought. Similar moving tectonic plates, the same erosion patterns… But that was nonsense. He knew it was nonsense. This was something else. Something he couldn't comprehend.
"The Südsea State is here," said Rozemary, pointing to a region in the southwest, on a coast like Venice. "Its capital, Selevia, is here, at the river delta. The Thares Mountains are here, the northern border." Her finger moved north to a mountain range resembling the tip of the Venetian peninsula. "You fought here."
Johann could only nod. His eyes traced the map. The names were foreign, comprised of 21 major political entities: Kievon Empire, Union of Caveinria, Republique d'Alphalus, Dorimos Empire. But the shapes, the shapes…
"If you become a Hauptmann," Rozemary continued, rolling the map back up, "you will likely be assigned to a new division. A special unit dealing with… unconventional threats. Like what happened at Thares." She turned, her face serious. "And as a level two Medicus assigned to this field hospital, I may be assigned to the same division. To provide Divinum medical support."
She approached the bed, sitting on its edge. She was closer than usual. Johann could smell the simple scent of soap and the herbal aroma that clung to her.
"That is why I'm telling you this," Rozemary whispered, her voice low so only he could hear. "Because if we are to work together, I want… good cooperation. Trust. You saved my life by getting me safely out of Thares, even if it was unintentional. I saved your life by healing you. We have already begun."
Johann looked into those gray eyes. He saw sincerity there, but also calculation. Rozemary was no fool. She was a Medicus, but also a research apprentice. She saw Johann as an interesting subject, but also as a potential colleague. It was clever.
"So you are advising me to undergo the ritual," said Johann. "To become a Divern."
"I am suggesting," Rozemary said carefully, "that if you are selected for initiation, and if you decide to accept it, there is a way to go through it with minimal mental disruption." She looked down, playing with the edge of her apron. "My level four Medicus instructor once said: the ritual is a test of philosophical understanding. But sometimes, understanding too deeply is dangerous. So, for level one, for survival… treat the ritual as merely a task. A procedure. Do not ponder its meaning. Do not let yourself be carried away by questions of 'why' or 'how'. Just follow the steps, like obeying orders in the barracks. Empty your mind of moral or psychological weight. That may… lessen the impact."
She raised her gaze. "But that is only for level one. The higher the level, the deeper the understanding required. And the higher the price. I myself am still level two. I experience mild mood disturbances, brief depressive episodes. That is the price of Caeruleus. But I can manage it with training and concoctions."
Johann pondered this. Empty the mind. Treat it as a task. It resembled how he survived at the fortress—by focusing on the next action, not on the reality that he was wielding a bayonet or pulling a trigger. Perhaps it could work.
"What class would suit me?" he asked.
Rozemary shrugged. "That is determined by the ritual." She tilted her head. "Vigiles, perhaps. You survived the greatest trial: the thin line between life and death. But that is only a guess."
She stood, picking up the tray. "Rest today. Tomorrow, if there are no complications, you will be transferred to a recovery facility in Selevia. There, the decisions regarding your rank and… initiation… will be made. I will accompany you during transport. As the assigned Medicus."
She walked to the door, then stopped. "Johann?"
"Yes?"
"No matter what happens… do not tell anyone about your doubts. About your strange dreams. About feeling out of place. In this world, steadfastness is everything. Doubt is weakness. And weakness is exploited."
She left, leaving Johann alone with the map of Europe-that-was-not-Europe in his mind, with the military hierarchy spinning in his head, and with the offer—or warning—of a power that would gnaw at his mind.
He lay back, staring at the ceiling. Hauptmann. Captain. Leading a company. He, Johann Reth, who struggled leading a five-person project team and had to attend management workshops. Now leading two hundred soldiers? In a war with cannons and living corpses?
And becoming a Divern. Touching the power that turned the moon purple, made corpses move, brought rain in the dry season. Power with a price of mental disruption: anxiety, insomnia, depression, OCD, paranoia, dissociation, psychosis. A ladder where every rung eroded his soul.
But Rozemary might be right. In this world, steadfastness is everything. And power is the only currency that matters. He had died once. He did not want to die again.
He closed his eyes, trying to empty his mind as Rozemary had suggested. But what surfaced was the map. Indropa. Europe without the Balkans. A world that should be foreign, yet was all too familiar. Like a dream where all the places are places you know, but with the wrong names.
And in the midst of it all, there was Rozemary Dornfels, level two Medicus with winter-cloud eyes, offering cooperation and warning in the same breath. She was an anchor. The only person in this world who knew a sliver of his truth—that he had survived something that should have been fatal—and had not yet reported him as a threat.
Johann took a deep breath. The scent of antiseptic, smoked meat, earth. The scent of this new world. He had to survive. And to survive, he might have to become something he was not. A Hauptmann. A Divern. A One Man Army.
But somewhere deep, a voice whispered: How much of yourself must you sacrifice before you become fully Johann Reth? And what remains when it's all gone?
He had no answer. Only the plaster ceiling, cracks like rivers, and the morning light steadily moving across the stone floor, measuring the time until a decision that would change everything.