The first thing I registered was the dull throb behind my eyes, a familiar headache that usually signaled another Imperial crisis brewing, or perhaps just a particularly potent vintage of Kvass. The second was the blinding, relentless glare of a hundred crystalline lanthorns, reflecting off polished obsidian and the horrified, expectant faces of a thousand students. Definitely not Kvass. And definitely not my usual, impossibly comfortable sarcophagus. I blinked, my eyelids feeling like ancient, lead-weighted portcullises. My vision, still stubbornly blurry, swam over a vast, echoing chamber. This was a tribunal hall, grand and oppressive, with banners depicting a snarling griffin – the sigil of the Svardian Empire – hanging limp from the vaulted ceiling. I was slumped in a plush, velvet chair, a position so undignified it almost made me want to go back to sleep. Almost. My body, however, was in no mood for profound contemplation. A searing jolt, like a shard of frozen lightning, shot through my left arm. I tried to flinch, but my muscles responded with all the enthusiasm of a century-old goulash. Weak. Pathetically, hopelessly weak. My famed Grand Strategist physique, honed by decades of tactical maneuvers, endless paperwork, and the occasional desperate sprint from an enraged Arch-Duke, was gone. Replaced by... *this*. “—the catastrophic Arcane Core meltdown at the Aerion Spire,” a voice boomed, slicing through the collective murmuring. It was deep, resonant, and entirely devoid of anything resembling genuine sorrow. I recognized the orator’s cadence, the practiced sincerity that always preceded a particularly nasty public execution. I’d given enough of those speeches myself. My gaze drifted to the center of the hall, where a woman stood, tall and unyielding despite the accusatory glares. Anja Volkov. The ‘Witch of the Frostwood,’ they called her. Her silver hair, usually a vibrant cascade, was pulled back in a severe knot, framing a face carved from glacial ice. I knew that face. I remembered it from a hundred strategy briefings, always defiant, always sharp, even when staring down a legion of demonic incursions. She was the one they were talking about. The cause of the catastrophe. And then the first jolt truly hit me, not as a physical pain, but as an ice-cold realization. My new body, this useless, magically crippled husk, felt like a dead weight precisely because of the fallout from that very disaster at the core. The residual ambient energies, they were saying, had ravaged the lower districts and, apparently, anyone with the misfortune to be in a several-block radius, including my own descendant. My retirement. My eternal, uninterrupted sleep. It was over. And it was *her* fault. I wanted to scream. I wanted to conjure a portal to the Void and swan dive in. I wanted to do literally *anything* that didn’t involve existing in this miserable, aching shell. My afterlife retirement plan, meticulously crafted over three centuries, was a complete disaster. The very thought of having to move, to exert effort, to even *think* about fixing this mess, made me want to weep into my velvet collar. *Just go back to sleep,* I commanded my useless brain, willing the blissful darkness to return. *Feign a seizure. Play dead. Anything to escape this infernal reawakening.* My body, however, remained stubbornly conscious, trapped in this public spectacle. And then came the second jolt. Not a physical sensation, this one, but a psychic brand, searing itself into the newly formed neural pathways of my brain. It wasn't a memory, not exactly. More like an immutable, iron-clad directive, chiselled by a mind disturbingly similar to my own, yet infinitely more irritating. Three words. Three damnable, infuriating words that resonated with the force of a thousand thunderclaps in the hollow cavern of my skull: *Save the Witch.* My eyes snapped open, clarity returning with an unwelcome vengeance. *You absolute, meddling imbecile!* I raged, a silent torrent of expletives directed at my past self. *After centuries of planning, you finally pull me back from eternal bliss, into a body that can’t even lift a spoon, just to ‘save the Witch’?! My plan was to sleep! To dream! To be utterly, gloriously useless for all eternity!* My internal tirade was cut short by the orator, who had moved from general accusations to specific, damning details. “—and I personally witnessed Lady Volkov’s unbridled magical surge, moments before the core destabilized.” Pavel Orlov. Student council president, charismatic, golden boy, and the current darling of the Academy. He stood on the raised platform, bathed in the lanthorn glow, his perfect face etched with what the crowd clearly perceived as genuine regret. I’d always found Pavel’s aura sickeningly sweet, like fermented honey. He was a natural charlatan, the kind who could sell ice to a Frost Giant. “The damage to the Arcanium District is extensive,” Pavel continued, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper, “and the loss of life, regrettable. But thanks to the swift actions of our esteemed professors, and the brave Artificers who contained the immediate fallout, we prevented a city-wide catastrophe. Anja Volkov’s reckless disregard for the safety protocols, her insatiable thirst for power—these are the true culprits.” His words, perfectly crafted, landed like poisoned darts. The crowd, once merely expectant, now seethed with righteous indignation. Anja Volkov, meanwhile, remained a statue of defiance, her eyes fixed on some distant point beyond the hall, betraying no emotion. The pure theatricality of it all almost made me gag. Pavel, the true culprit behind the breach, was framing her. My past self must have known. “Therefore,” Pavel concluded, his voice ringing with false magnanimity, “I, Pavel Orlov, on behalf of the Bastion Academy and the grieving families, formally request that Anja Volkov, the ‘Witch of the Frostwood,’ be stripped of her magical aptitude and expelled from this venerable institution forever.” A roar erupted from the assembled students, a unified cry of approval. My retirement. It was truly, undeniably, irrevocably cancelled. I was stuck here, in this pathetic body, with a directive from my own past idiocy to ‘Save the Witch.’ A soft, wrinkled hand settled on my shoulder. I stiffened, my gaze darting to the side. Matron Elzbieta, the academy headmistress, stood beside me, her deceptively sweet smile crinkling the corners of her eyes. She was a woman who made gingerbread cookies taste like pure malice. She leaned in, her voice a conspiratorial whisper that only I could hear above the clamor. “Stage One is complete,” she murmured, her eyes twinkling with an unnerving glee. “Your move, Grand Strategist.”

The Worst Wake-Up Call in History