Loopbreaker Book 2

By

Shawn Wilson

Intended for Patreon Reader’s Only

Please no sharing online or via any other methods.

Chapter 1

Francis bit his lip, keeping from letting out a curse as the tall, muscular woman pulled back the curtain made of pelts that was the entrance to the sparse igloo he had appeared in. A freezing wind blew in, penetrating the metal armor and his thin layer of clothing, immediately causing his skin to break out in goose bumps.

I swear I’m going to punch Stenson the next time I see him.

A chuckle came from his escort as she studied him, her blue eyes seemingly happy with his inability to hold back the shudder he had just released.

“You look angry. I like that,” she said, grinning as she pulled back a fur-covered hood from her head, revealing blond hair that was braided. “Why they sent you like that… I can only imagine either you upset them, or it’s a lesson.”

“Perhaps both,” Francis replied, fighting against his jaw that wanted to bounce up and down. “Any chance I can get something to help with my… outfit?” He motioned to his armor and the thin gambeson underneath, which was absorbing the cold by the second.

“Let me take you to the warchief first,” she replied. “If you survive the trek, then you’ll be worthy of meeting him and earning a new outfit. Even our young must prove they are able to withstand the snow.”

She turned and pushed past the curtained doorway, and Frances followed her over a well-worn path of brown snow. Most of the snow Francis had seen as a child had been white, occasionally marked with a section of yellow he had learned to avoid. Here, every bit of the snow was tinged with muted brown. Gone was the luster and clean color he had been expecting.

His nose was assaulted by the acrid stench of pine sap and wood burning as smoke from large fires rose up to the sky. Before him were more dwellings: timber frames held together by rope and padded with thick fur pelts, some with walls of ice and others that appeared to be half globes of hard-packed snow with entrances like the one he had just emerged from.

How do they not freeze in all this?

The sound of metal being hammered carried above the hum of a section of land, filled with an army he had no idea the number of. His eyes swept to where jagged peaks of ice flanked the army’s camp on both sides. There were clusters of trees, every one of them black. The few that were close had icicles frozen on their branches.

A strong wind swept against his face, and the taste of copper and something else reminded him that there was death nearby. Even though there wasn’t a cloud of birds hovering over corpses, Francis knew there had to be a place where the snow wasn’t brown, but instead red.

“Who’s the child?” someone called out as they walked along the frozen path between buildings

“Are we that desperate, that we’re requesting help from others?” another cried out.

Francis studied the men and women around him, seeing that each was wrapped in furs from head to toe. Like his escort, they were all taller than him, and a few appeared to be easily twice his weight in muscle.

It’s like… how are they all this big? Could they all have reached the Advanced rank in their Endurance?

He knew he was closing in on that rank in three of his stats and hoped to have them sooner rather than later.

[ Status ]

Francis Lancaster

Age 17

Strength: 47

Endurance: 49

Agility: 48

Wisdom: 28

Perception: 37

Magic: 10

Skills

Swordsmanship (Common) - 71 Elite

Shield Use (Common) - 58 Advanced

Tracking (Uncommon) - 11 Novice

Stealth (Uncommon) - 11 Novice

Traps (Uncommon) - 3 Basic

Rock Throwing (Common) - 7 Basic

Mental Resist (Uncommon) - 45 Advanced

Blood of the Undying (Unknown)- 100+ Sage

Fast Learner (Epic) - 1 Basic (Locked)

Mace (Common)- 11 Novice

Horseback Riding (Common)- 11 Novice

Horseback Handling (Uncommon) - 6 Basic

Pain Resistance (Uncommon) - 58 Advanced

Poison Resistance (Rare) - 45 Advanced

Power Strike (Rare) - 54 Advanced

Brawling (Common) - 38 Proficient

Strong Bones (Rare) - 56 Advanced

Magic Resistance (Rare) 53 - Advanced

Magic Feedback (Legendary) - 21 Novice

Quick Attack (Uncommon) - 44 Advanced

Guarded Stance (Uncommon) - 31 Proficient

Riposte (Rare) - 36 Proficient

Thick Skin (Rare) - 27 Proficient

Night Vision (Epic) - 38 Proficient

Iron Wall (Rare) - 26 Proficient

Dual Wield (Rare) - 42 Advanced

Flurry (Rare) - 22 Novice

Battle Sense (Epic*) - 15 Novice

Warrior’s Resolve (Legendary) - 5 Basic

Maybe I’ll figure out what makes them so much bigger without having to die a thousand times first.

Unable to help it, Francis let out a laugh, his clenched jaw betraying him and chattering a few times in the cold.

“There it is!” his escort shouted. “I wondered when you’d give in. Still, I am impressed. Many of your kind don’t make it this far without succumbing to the cold.”

“My kind?” Francis asked, having to keep a quicker pace to match her stride. “What does that mean?”

She stopped immediately, the sound of snow crunching under her fur-wrapped boots, and turned toward him. “You… think we’re the same?”

Francis could see the way her eyes narrowed, not from the cold wind but from the apparent disbelief at his statement. She was clenching her jaw, waiting for his answer.

He then noticed that the sound of whatever had been going on had stopped, as the barbarians from the north who were nearby had all stopped. Scanning the space around him, over thirty men and women were watching.

“I was going to say yes, but that suddenly doesn’t seem like the right answer,” Francis said.

She lifted a gloved finger and tapped his chest firmly, the metal armor cracking, ice having formed in the links already. “Who are you? What kind of fool did they send us if you don’t even know the answer to that question?”

Francis’s cheeks felt warm, and he held back the frustration that he felt.

Something I obviously didn’t learn at the academy or in life.

Part of him wished he had done a few more loops there, but he’d changed direction after acquiring his Magic Resist ability and Magic Feedback.

“I’m the one who’s going to help your side win,” Francis replied, matching her gaze. “Now, unless you’re having fun keeping an emissary from the king and his general waiting, I’d suggest you take me where I’m supposed to be.”

She snorted and shook her head, about to reply when a deep voice called out, “Kerhi! Do you need me to babysit that one for you?”

His escort, Kerhi, turned around, and Francis saw a mountain of muscle moving toward them. Unlike many, this one wore no fur over his muscular torso. Scars and tattoos covered most of his skin, which seemed unaffected by the cold wind. A pair of handles rose over his shoulders, and Francis could make out axe blades jutting out past his sides.

“Dravik Frostbane, you owe me honor! He did not know my name!” Kerhi shouted. “He has not earned it, and now you have gone and shared it.”

A frown appeared upon the man’s face, a pair of brown eyes no longer focused upon Francis but on the woman he was with. “Forgive me, Kerhi. I did not realize. I didn’t—”

“Think!” she snapped. “Fetch this one a cloak and some armor as payment! You shall cover the trade cost.”

A puff of white air came from the man’s nostrils as he huffed once but said nothing, simply nodding before immediately turning around.

“Look for something in the children’s tent!” Kerhi called out as Dravik walked off, prompting those still watching to laugh.

Before Francis could say anything, she turned and leveled a finger at him. “Do not think to use my name lightly. You have not earned it, and until you do, you may only call me Gifted One .”

“Gifted one?” Francis asked, using a freezing finger to wipe the cold from his eyes. “What does–”

“No time for that right now,” she said. Kerhi began walking down the path they were on, not waiting for him to follow.

Francis moved beside her, keeping quiet and studying the camp. He was certain he was in a better section of it because the structures they passed looked well-built enough to keep out the cold. Many of them had small trails of smoke exiting from the roof or side, adding to the scent of burning pine that he smelled. A few of the buildings had what had to be guards outside.

Kerhi led him down one path, a section of blacksmiths working in the open, whose buildings had walls that blocked the wind on three sides. Men and women pounded hammers against metal, and each was rippling with muscle. He could feel a little bit of heat as they moved past one. A loud hiss came as one blacksmith plunged a thick axe blade into a bucket, the steam blinding the area for a moment.

“Oy! Does that one need a dagger?” a woman called out from inside. “I might have something my baby has outgrown!”

Kerhi and those nearby laughed, each of them seemingly unconcerned by how Francis felt at the constant heckling that was aimed at him.

Farther ahead was a pair of buildings with a few barbarians sitting outside, their limbs and torsos wrapped with bandages. None of them wore much more than what would be considered underwear, only a fur-lined cloak to help keep the cold at bay.

“What’re you looking at?” one man asked. Half his face and one of his eyes were covered with bandages.

“Don’t reply,” Kerhi said, her voice the quietest it had ever been. “We don’t have time for this.”

“I’m talking to you!” the man called out, earning laughter from the others as Francis kept pace with his escort.

“Who was that, and why did you tell me not to reply?” Francis asked when they were far enough away not to be heard.

She grunted and shook her head, barely giving him a sideways glance. “A berserker, and a rabid one at that. He’s itching for a fight and has been whining like a baby off its mother’s teat for days. You did notice the mark on his shoulder, didn’t you?”

When he didn’t reply, having missed whatever Kerhi was talking about, she sighed. “You need to learn what the tattoos mean. They will tell you who is safe to talk with and who will rip your head off because you spat too close to them.”

“I understand,” Francis replied. “And thank you.”

Kerhi snorted, shaking her head. “You are too kind. I don’t have time to feed you like an infant. What kind of child are you that they send here with letters? Has the Kingdom of Reevotort become that soft?”

Even though he was new to this culture, Francis was already starting to put the pieces together.

It’s like how it was any time a new recruit joined our training group with Phillip. They’re testing me… There is some weird code between them.

He was new and unknown, and everyone was testing to see if he’d break or crumble.

Francis lengthened his stride, got out in front of her, and stopped her in her path. He kept his voice low.

“I don’t know your ways,” he said, not rushing. “But I learn fast. So learn one of mine. I carried the letters because someone must, and I’m the only one strong enough to do so. Mock me once more in front of your people, and I will name a challenge where every one of them can hear it.” He held her gaze, not blinking. “Then we both will find out which of us was the child.”

Her blue eyes twinkled, almost like a star in the sky on a clear night, and Francis felt the threads of magic starting to form inside her.

There it is.

“It’s a challenge!” a loud man’s voice called out from the left. “Someone has challenged Kerhi!”

The cry leapt from mouth to mouth, and roars came from all around him. Francis kept his face neutral as the sound grew louder.

I guess there’s no taking that back…

“You have stumbled into the badger’s den, little one,” Kerhi said, grinning. “And those who find themselves in one of those, never leave with all of their appendages still intact.”

She pulled back her head and let out a howl that sounded primal. Threads of magic went with it, causing the sound to make the air reverberate with power.

Francis cracked his neck, rolled his shoulders, and ran a gloved hand through his white hair.

I picked this fight with my mouth… I guess I’ll find out what’s so special about the north.

He wasn’t too worried, knowing if something happened that he didn’t survive, he’d wake up soon enough, able to repeat this moment. That was the strength this camp didn’t realize.

Still… I guess I should try to make Stenson proud and not die in the first ten seconds.

Chapter 2

Less than ten minutes had passed before Francis found himself in a section of the camp where a circle of frozen dirt resided. Unlike the rest of the camp, there wasn’t any snow here. Just hard, black dirt, with frozen areas of red.

“What kind of fool are you?” Dravik asked, handing Francis a cup of steaming liquid. “Challenging Kerhi? No one challenges her!”

“And why is that?” Francis asked, taking the offered drink and sniffing it. He could smell a hint of some kind of plant, something fresh and perhaps a mint of some kind. “And what is this?”

“Drink it,” the barbarian grunted. “It will help dull the pain she is about to inflict upon you. Perhaps she’ll be kind and not carve too much of your flesh off if you surrender and promise to serve her for a period of time.”

“Serve her? What—”

A hand waved off his question. “Drink. There is no time for me to teach you what you should know. Now then, I see you have two swords. Can you really use them?”

Francis dipped his finger into the liquid, finding the warmth it gave to his flesh pleasant. Shaking his head, he handed the drink back to Dravik as he tasted the flavor off his warmed finger. “I can. What I really could use is some tips on how to fight her.”

Chuckles and full-out roars of laughter came from the nearby barbarians, who had quickly formed around the thirty-yard circle of dirt.

“Yeah… don’t get hit,” the warrior replied, causing those gathered to laugh harder.

Shaking his head, Francis turned his attention to Kerhi and where she was. Her eyes were locked upon him as she stretched. Nearby was a group of barbarians who were given some space on both sides of the section. In the middle of them was an older man and woman, both with grey hair. While they were easily the oldest ones out here, Francis could tell from how they stood that they weren’t weak.

Maybe I should have taken the drink… These people are crazy.

Cheers and shouts rang out as movement off to the right prompted the gathered group to start parting. Soon, a group of barbarians, all a few inches taller than most, broke through the section of onlookers. Francis noticed one head that was a foot taller than the rest.

“Ahh, it appears you have caused Glitvall to leave his fire,” Dravik said, smiling. “Not many can do that.”

Hearing the barbarian inform him that the warchief he had come to meet was present, Francis studied the mountain of flesh that soon arrived at the edge of the circle. He was broad-shouldered, easily twice as wide as Francis, and covered in fur that almost seemed to be changing colors as he moved. His beard was braided into two sections, and he had a mohawk with a braid running down his back. The shaved sides of Glitvall’s head were covered in tattoos. From behind his back came a shaft that looked thicker than a tent pole, and Francis wondered what was connected to the other end.

I guess out here to be the warchief, you’d have to look like that.

Glitvall frowned at him, shaking his head for a moment before turning to look at Kerhi. A smile appeared before he clapped his massive hands, silencing the noise all around.

“A challenge was made?” Glitvall called out.

“Yes!” Kerhi exclaimed, bouncing slightly on her feet. “I have witnesses.”

Half a dozen hands rose, and Glitvall nodded. “Little one from Reevotort. You have made a challenge. It has been accepted. Do you wish to continue or offer yourself as a servant for a period of time?”

Every barbarian present was looking at him, and Francis could feel the ones behind him leaning forward. His Battle Presence skill was at full tilt, telling him that they all wanted him to select the first option.

Taking a few steps from where he had been, Francis planted his feet, doing his best to appear confident and perhaps taller. “I have come from my kingdom to offer aid, bearing a letter from both my king and his general. She has dishonored me every moment since I arrived, and so I told her I would defeat her and earn her respect.”

A murmur moved through those gathered, but Francis focused on the warchief.

He nodded slowly, his lips curling just a little bit. “Then a challenge has been made and accepted. The price for winning is being honored. The price for losing is what?”

Kerhi moved as Francis had, standing tall and pointing a finger at him. “Death.”

The wind suddenly sounded so much louder as everyone went silent. No one spoke, and Francis felt a chill run up his spine.

Gone was Glitvall’s slight smile. His jaw clenched a few times, cheeks and lips dancing before he sighed. “You have heard the cost if you lose. Tell me, do you accept or do you forfeit?”

Francis was keenly aware of the expressions on those gathered. Every one of them believed he was going to die, and that meant that whoever Kerhi was, she had to have earned her reputation.

He, however, didn’t care what they thought or believed he should do. Turning toward the woman he was about to fight, Francis started to laugh. He couldn’t help it. For a solid ten seconds or more, he let out the emotions that swelled inside him.

Stenson had sent him here to get stronger. The man had intentionally withheld information that would have proved useful for this trip. It was so obvious that Stenson wasn’t doing this to be a jerk, but to teach a lesson Francis needed to experience. He had gotten mad at the older man, knowing that the general was playing a game for himself and the kingdom.

Every action Stenson took was for one purpose, and that was to prepare Francis to be strong enough to stop the army that threatened Reevotort and the other kingdoms. Like every other fight he had been in, the greatest lessons had come through pain and death. Stenson knew that Francis didn’t fear death. That bastard even seemed to realize that sometimes Francis enjoyed the thrill of it.

Stenson… you’re a crazy bastard, but you know me too well.

Ignoring the strange look that even Kerhi gave him, Francis grinned. “I am fine with those terms. Only a coward fears death.”

His opponent’s face had been like a frozen block of ice while he had laughed. No emotion, and simply blank. Yet after his words, Kerhi’s lips curled into a wicked smile, and she started to laugh herself, making a fist and shaking it. “Yes! Perhaps the children of the south aren’t cowards after all!”

Cheers came, and Glitvall stood there, shaking his head slightly. Finally, he held his hand and silenced the crowd. “Then it shall be to the death or admitting defeat. One will die, or one will be humbled. The words have been spoken and thus cannot be stopped. Warriors, to your spot.”

Francis moved when he saw Kerhi turn and walk to where she had been. Dravik had a perplexed look on his face as he walked toward the barbarian.

“You surprise me. Tell me, may I ask your name so that I can carve it into wood when we send your body back?”

“I’m afraid not,” Francis replied. “You haven’t earned that honor yet.”

A chuckle came from the large man, who nodded and then pointed at the swords on Francis’s hip. “You should make sure you can still use those. I’d hate to see you lose so quickly.”

Frowning, Francis grasped the hilt of one of his swords and started to pull, realizing what Dravik had meant when it didn’t come free. Instead, the scabbard pulled upward, tugging at the belt that held it.

“What the—”

“Frozen,” Dravik said. “That’s why we use axes. One doesn’t want their blade not coming free when they need it.”

Using both hands, Francis twisted the scabbard and the sword, breaking the ice he hadn’t realized had formed on each of the weapons.

“Francis,” he said, holding out a hand.

Dravik grasped it and smiled. “Die well, young one.”

Pulling both weapons free, Francis turned and saw that Kerhi didn’t have any weapons. She had wrapped her hands with leather and had some metal spiked tips on them. On her arms were some kind of wrappings with small spikes, also. Two other barbarians were at her feet, strapping what appeared to be similar things to her knees, shins, and boots.

“Uh…”

Laughter came from behind, and Francis stood there, not feeling the cold as much as before, knowing that he was about to most likely get pummeled to death by a woman.

After the pair of barbarians had finished attaching the armor  Kerhi now wore, the warchief clapped his hands and silenced everyone.

“On the horn. May your blood, which stains the ground, prove to our gods that we will bleed to protect that which they have given us.”

His mind raced with dozens of questions, but Francis pushed them all down, lowering his stance slightly, trying to sense what his opponent was about to do. He could see the light in her eyes, yet no threads were coming at him from her.

A horn rang out, and as he cautiusly took two steps forward, Kerhi came at him, moving with a speed that seemed impossible.

Franci’s mind barely had time to register what was happening, and Iron Wall and Guarded Stance were both activated as a fist came at him. His sword got in the path of the punch, the impact sending him backward and slamming him into the barbarian wall behind.

They absorbed the impact and pushed him back into the circle.

“Yes!” Kerhi shouted as Francis shook his head. “Come to the middle to die. I don’t want to hurt my brothers or sisters.”

Time wasn’t on his side as the two abilities he had activated to handle that punch were already using up their time, so Francis charged, using combinations of attacks. Kerhi used her forearms and fists to deflect and stop his attacks. Not once did she bother to dodge. She let him push her backward, creating room between Francis and those gathered to watch.

She stopped her controlled retreat when they reached the middle and began to go on the offensive, deflecting his strikes and punching or kicking at him. She moved with a speed and grace that rivaled that of Kels. Where the man used a sword to inflict pain and suffering, her body alone was all the woman appeared to need.

One punch came at him, and Francis felt the opening, his Battle Sense telling him she was toying with him.

[ Riposte ]

[ Power Strike ]

[ Quick Attack ]

[ Flurry ]

His blade moved with speed and power, deflecting her punch and piercing her stomach. Or that’s what Francis believed was going to happen. Instead, as the tip of his weapon struck her fur, it cut through the animal skins but didn’t go any deeper.

A wicked grin appeared upon Kerhi’s lips as a fist came at him. He couldn’t dodge it as the woman’s speed of movement increased. He could sense faint threads of magic around her arm and fist as she hit his left shoulder. The impact sent him tumbling backward.

Pain came, but was ignored. Francis grinned as he saw the notifications that appeared for a moment.

[ Strong Bones Increased - 57 ]

[ Pain Resistance Increased - 59 ]

He didn’t have time to celebrate as Kerhi pressed her attack, not letting him get up. A foot with a two-inch metal spike at the tip impacted his ribs, sending him rolling and once more into the crowd of those gathered. This time, they pushed Francis back into the circle, a little kinder than they had been before.

Blinking and ignoring the pain that wanted him to acknowledge the damage Kerhi had done, Francis chuckled. There was a hole in his armor. The woman had managed to puncture the suit Stenson had given him. Warmth started to flow down his waist, and Francis couldn’t help but enjoy the sensation that was growing.

Warrior’s Resolve was filling him with power, and the injuries she had given him weren’t life-threatening yet. She would need to land quite a few more for that to happen.

Francis stood, only the sword in his right hand still with him, the other a dozen yards away, having skidded across the frozen ground.

“Impressive,” Kerhi said, moving a little bit like Cutter had in that small fighting area. She drifted to the side, light on her feet, motioning at him with a hand to come.

“Next time, I’ll have to try some of those when we fight,” Francis stated, moving like he was seriously injured.

Kerhi and those who were gathered all laughed.

“Next time, he says!” she shouted. “Oh, little one, there won’t be a next time.”

The barbarian came at him, darting to the side, placing herself between him and those gathered. Francis’s left arm worked, albeit not as well as he wanted. Warrior’s Resolve helped him to overcome some of the injury, but she had broken or shattered something.

Punches and kicks came at him, and more holes were created in his armor and flesh. Soon, wherever Francis moved or was sent rolling had spots of blood, freezing quickly against the dark soil.

His lifeforce was burning. Francis felt the power of his ability flooding him with strength beyond what he should have. Only from experience could he tell that his lifeforce had dropped to about twenty percent. From the amount of blood he was losing and the potential damage a few more attacks might do, time wasn’t on his side.

Limping and holding his sword like he might drop it at any moment, Francis spat at her. “Stop toying with me and end this like a real warrior. Unless you’re—”

Kerhi came at him; gone was the smile she had been wearing, replaced by a serious look of anger.

Her fists moved with even more power and speed, but Francis had been waiting, biding his time, wanting to see if he could do any real damage to the woman.

[ Iron Wall ]

He got the ability up before the first fist reached him, and Francis went all out.

[ Riposte ]

[ Power Strike ]

[ Quick Attack ]

[ Flurry ]

Three times, he activated those abilities in succession, drawing upon the power that Warrior’s Resolve fed him. Each time his blade moved faster than it had before.

Out of all the attacks, five of them struck, and three drew blood. One to Kerhi’s stomach, one to her left leg, and the other to her chest. Each one pierced a solid inch, somehow stopped by whatever magical threads Francis could sense that covered her body.

Kerhi seemed enthralled at his blows that landed, and then her hand came forward, a hint of something different than before.

Francis couldn’t dodge it or stop the attack and felt a claw of some kind pierce his sternum, grabbing his heart and yanking it free. At the same time, she cried out, and Francis wanted to grin when a notification came.

[ Magic Feedback Increased - 22 ]

With a wet squelch, Kerhi ripped her hand from his chest, his still-beating heart in her hand, blood flowing everywhere. The crowd roared, and she laughed, turning to show it off.

Warrior’s Resolve honored her action and her stupidity.

Francis felt the power that flowed through him and knew it was moments like this, where those who were stronger and believed they couldn’t be hurt showed off. They would come, and he needed to use those moments to make them suffer. But he was also here to find some way to overcome the injury she had done.

Everything Francis had expected this trip to be like didn’t happen.

But still he smiled as he lunged forward, his sword attacking from behind.

[ Power Strike ]

The metal tip pierced the fur covering of her back, striking the spot he had been aiming for, and slid between the bones.

As before, the blade didn’t pierce more than an inch, but where he struck, that inch was all he needed.

Kerhi’s body spasmed as she fell to the ground. His blade had pierced her spine, and her legs buckled like a newborn colt.

“You win,” Francis got out as the world began to darken. “But I earned the right to know your name.”

Chapter 3

“I’m sorry, you what? Got your ass handed to you by a girl?” Michael teased. “Seriously?”

Giving his brother the finger, Francis nodded, glad to see he had finally found a path to convince Michael that he was different. Sometimes it was hard to tell his brother the full truth, but every time he came back to life, it was impossible to hide the physical changes.

“She wasn’t a girl… this woman… Kerhi… she is a monster,” Francis said. “She uses magic of some kind to enhance her body, and the punches she sends… they hurt.”

Michael ran a hand through his blond hair as he stared at his brother in shock, eyes wide. Francis was solid muscle now, no real fat, and standing there in nothing but his worn pants, looked far stronger than any of the other white-haired pureblood siblings. He pointed at the wooden mess on the floor. “Well, I hit you with that table leg as hard as I could, and you didn’t even flinch, so to hear what she did to you must mean she’s strong. Stronger than our side?”

Francis shrugged, enjoying the last few hours he was going to have with his brother before leaving early to seek out Stenson. “Some but not all. She had a lot of respect from her people, so I’m guessing she’s probably one of the stronger ones.”

A whistle came from his brother. “And you like her, don’t you?”

“What?” Francis said, feeling his cheeks pull back. “How can you say that?”

Michael started to laugh, pointing a finger at him. “The way you talk! You’ve never been one to go after women who seemed… weak. If they don’t make a move or something, you usually ignore them.”

He wanted to argue that Michael was wrong, but the truth was his brother wasn’t. Still, he didn’t have time to consider that right now. Perhaps one loop he might see about that, but at the moment, getting stronger was all that was on his mind.

“Maybe… And thank you for this. I needed it.”

His brother nodded, then shifted on the bed and leaned back against the wall. Their room at the inn was a small thing, clean enough, with two soft beds and a single shuttered window that let in the noise of the town below. The table between them now sat crooked on three legs, the fourth lying splintered on the floorboards where Michael had swung it. Downstairs, the muffled clatter of the common room drifted up, patrons laughing over their stew, the innkeeper barking at someone. “I… I still can’t believe it all, but seeing how you look and watching what you did to that Cutter guy… How could I argue against that?”

Francis clenched his hand, touching the spot where he had knocked Cutter out. Unlike the times before, he didn’t kill the man, instead choosing to make it so he couldn’t hurt others for a while. After killing the man a dozen times, he had worked out that anger and just ended the fight, before collecting the prize money. “That reminds me, don’t go wasting those coins on stupid stuff. I’m not sure how long I’ll manage to live, but at least you’ll be able to enjoy life until I die again.”

“And those two women?” Michael asked.

Rolling his eyes, Francis shrugged. “I knew I shouldn’t have mentioned it, but every time I do you seem to accept things better.”

“What can I say?” His brother grinned. “I’m an easy man to please.”

***

“It appears that your first trip went well,” Stenson stated, the smirk on his face telling Francis that his intuition was right. “Part of me wants to laugh at how I must be handling all of these moments  we spend together, and the other part is still so surprised by the young man before me.”

Francis sipped on the wine the general had offered, enjoying something he rarely did, but knowing that whatever came next, a treat like this would most likely be a rarity. He’d spent hours telling the general everything that had happened from the first loop to this moment. “I get why you didn’t tell me more, but sending me over in that armor… That was just mean.”

A chuckle escaped from the older man as he nodded. “Yes… I wonder if the other me feared what you might say or do after freezing like that, but it also will help you see the importance of acquiring a basic skill all barbarians are born with.”

“Born with?” Francis asked, feeling his eyes widen at those words. “Wait, how can they be born with a skill? Is it true that we’re not alike?”

The general paused for a moment, his eyes landing on his bookshelf. Rising, he went over and pulled out a book. The older man brought it back with him and sat before opening the book. “I’d show you what’s written in here, but since you can’t read the language it’s in, I’ll just translate. The four kingdoms are all comprised of what some would call an… original  version of man. Legends, rumors, stories, or whatever else you want to call them, talk about how the gods each took a group of them and produced offspring, giving birth to a different race of man.”

“Wait, what? No one’s—”

“It’s not taught to anyone until the very end of the Spires,” Stenson said. “There is a reason why the little bit that is shared is kept quiet. Our kingdom doesn’t share the same view of its gods as some of the other kingdoms do. The four we worship and gain our power from are different from the ones the other kingdoms do. You won’t be surprised to learn that each kingdom considers its gods the ‘better’ ones.”

“Whose are the strongest?” Francis asked.

“No one knows,” Stenson replied, opening the book. “The last great war showed that our land can’t involve the gods without causing destruction that could easily wipe out all the kingdoms. That’s why we haven’t seen much from them in so long.”

Before Francis could speak, the general tapped some lines in the book that were written in symbols he had never seen before.

“This says that the barbarians were granted a special seed, a blessing, because of the land they hold. Most other kingdoms would struggle to survive in the area they do, and yet… somehow they have tamed it. Grains that won’t grow anywhere else grow in caves in that harsh environment, fed by light from fungus. The beasts they kill are stronger than most here, and they have also tamed snow-wolves and elk that they ride like horses. Their bodies are hardier and stronger as well.”

“This sounds like they have an advantage over the other kingdoms,” Francis stated. “I mean, an ability at birth, plus their size and strength. How does that work?”

Stenson tapped a few lines below the ones he had just read. “Their weakness is that they cannot cast magic like most of the other kingdoms. You won’t find mages sending out plumes of fire or calling down lightning from the sky. Their magic is here,” the general said, tapping his chest. “As you witnessed firsthand, their shamans have learned how to harness the magic within. They can augment their body in different ways.”

“So wait,” Francis said, holding up a hand. “Are you sending me there to learn magic or gain an ability to heal myself?”

The older man shrugged, then closed the book. “I don’t know the answer to that question. All I know is that they are the only ones who have a record of one of their people learning what you’re seeking. But you’re forgetting the most important thing about magic.”

Shaking his head, Francis frowned. “I haven’t forgotten. Men rarely can cast it. Why is that? Our gods or something else?”

“That’s a question for the Kingdom of Shenzen,” the general replied. “The practitioners of magic over there are almost equally male and female. They’re not as strong as the other three kingdoms when it comes to physical things, but their ability to harness magic is incredible.”

“And yet they cannot defeat the army they face,” Francis muttered. “Which means whatever they’re facing can withstand it.”

Stenson nodded. “I will say, I’m not sure if my other version of me in the previous loop expected you to die so soon after arriving. I’ve considered it, and would say I probably gave it a fifty percent chance of happening. Part of me had hoped you’d get a chance to see the enemy they face over there.”

“Do you know what they’re fighting against?” Francis asked.

“Not all of it, just some. Beastkins , except ones designed for that environment,” Stenson replied. “However this is all taking place, it appears that the army we each face is designed specifically for us.”

“Yeah, we discussed that before,” Francis said. “Not that I’m trying to be a jerk when I say that.”

“I’m not worried,” the general said. “So tell me, what are you going to do different this time?”

“I don’t suppose you’re going to give me any tips or education on their kingdom?” Francis asked.

“You’ve learned they are honor-driven, albeit the hard way,” Stenson said. “When you are dealing with them, know that sometimes the smallest offense here would result in great shame or a potential duel. Choose your words carefully as you might just end up challenging someone, as you learned.”

Francis grunted in agreement.

“Glitvall is a lot like King Baxter, but he’s… more involved in the day-to-day things,” the general stated. “They don’t have as many people, but I’d trade a half dozen of our warriors for any one of theirs. I’m not sure who the main jarl is right now, but that position is somewhat similar to mine, yet different. There are multiple clans, each with its own leader, and then you have Glitvall. Plus, there are shamans, and that is a whole different sect, as you kind of mentioned in your story.”

“The ones who were surrounding Kerhi?” Francis asked.

“Most likely,” Stenson replied. “If the others were giving them a wide berth as you described, and she used magic like she did, then yeah, that’s probably a sect of them.”

“What about their gods? Should I avoid anyone specifically, like I do here?”

Clearing his throat, Stenson tapped a finger on the closed book a few times. “Their gods are different from ours. You’ll find out rather quickly if you meet one that they don’t like you or whatever is inside you. The real fun is when you meet one of the stronger shamans and see what they can do.”

“I’m sorry, there are stronger ones? Stronger than Kerhi?” Francis asked, his eyes widening.

“I won’t try to judge her power or ability, but if she was one of the stronger ones, she might have held back quite a bit. Spoiling the surprise isn’t something I want to do.”

Francis groaned, pointing a finger at the older man across from him. “I swear, one day you’re going to give me knowledge without making me learn it the hard way.”

“But would you really want that?” Stenson asked, his face completely serious. “Has anything worthwhile you’ve gained been something I’ve given, or has it been something you’ve earned? What would you be like if I had hand-fed you all the knowledge you now possess, and equipped you with the few magical items we have?”

“A lot weaker,” Francis replied. “I get it… It’s just… sometimes I’m not sure if you’re intentionally being a bastard or it’s just the way you are.”

“It’s both,” the general stated, smiling. “You mentioned Kels… how much do you know about him?”

“Besides his father being Nehemiah, or him having the Physical Fast Learner skill, or that you’re teaching him the Way of the—”

A hand rose and cut Francis off.

“Obviously, you know more than I was certain of,” Stenson said, his other hand tapping his ear. “Some things I don’t casually talk about, and you should be aware of that. Even if you’re going to reset after death, I prefer to think you’d learn tact and keep it between each death.”

“You’re right. That was my bad. So what about Kels then?”

“I train him harder and in ways that make learning slower,” Stenson said. “I could help him learn the patterns and movements, but the truth is that wouldn’t help him in the long run. The Way isn’t about knowing the movements. It’s about understanding that the sword you wield is an actual part of you. The truth is…” The general paused, set the book down, and moved to his writing table. He returned with a simple pencil, assuming the stance Kels used when practicing the movements.

“There will be a time, I am certain you’ll learn how to do this, Francis Lancaster,” Stenson said, closing his eyes.

Francis could feel some kind of power build up in the pencil the older man held. The general’s wrist flicked, and a blade of something surged forward, striking the rug and ground where he had aimed. Dust filled the air, and when it settled, Francis saw that there was a gouge in the ground.

He looked back at Stenson and saw that the pencil was no longer there.

“What happened to it? How did—”

“Some items cannot survive you empowering it like I just did,” Stenson replied. “So that pencil is no more. Yet if I needed to do such a thing, I am never unarmed.”

“Because you’re just an arm ,” Francis said, emphasizing the singular.

He started to laugh, unable to hold back as the general’s face deadpanned, clearly not enjoying the joke of his singular appendage.

Chapter 4

“It appears we have a visitor,” Kerhi’s voice said as Francis appeared in the building of ice. “Tell me, what are you here for?”

Francis studied the woman, ignoring the temptation to laugh as he recalled the words Michael had spoken a day ago.

She is attractive… especially if you like them able to crush you.

Pulling the two sealed letters out, Francis smiled. “I have come to offer aid and help with the fight your people are currently caught in.” She began to speak, but he raised a hand. “No, we are not requesting aid, and I would prefer to see Warchief Glitvall sooner rather than later.”

Kerhi scoffed, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Tell me, who is it that comes to see the chieftain and is so full of himself?”

“I am afraid you have not yet earned the honor of knowing my name,” Francis said. “Perhaps if you carry out your duty in a timely manner, I will share it with you.”

Her laughter echoed off the walls as she motioned to the door made of pelts. “Well at least you know enough to respond as one should and to wear clothes fitting of our home.”

Francis nodded, thankful that Stenson had been able to produce a set of furs that stopped the cold from reaching him. It had been awfully hot as he waited for Priscilla to open the portal to here, but he would gladly endure that little bit of suffering over the alternative.

As they moved out of the building, Francis made sure to walk beside her, partially leading the way.

Kerhi slowed, not coming to a full stop, and Francis turned after getting a few strides ahead.

“Are you not going to take me to the chieftain?” Francis asked.

“I would, but you appear to be leading us instead. Is there a reason why?”

Francis reflected on what had transpired when he was here last time.

Was she taking me to Glitvall? Or was it some other path?

“Ahh, forgive me,” Francis said. “I figured someone would want to take me to where you craft weapons and heal your injured, to show me a different section of the camp.”

Her blue eyes seemed to darken, and Francis watched as she grinned just slightly. “And what kind of woman would do such a thing?” she asked, her voice sweeter than he had ever heard before.

“What kind indeed?” Francis said, returning the smile. “Surely one with ties to the shaman sect.”

Her face froze, and Francis wondered if he had pushed too hard, too fast.

Well… what’s another death?

As they stood there in silence for a few seconds, neither flinched, the cold air blowing over them both.

“You speak about things most would not know, and yet I sense a knowledge you should not have,” Kerhi said slowly. “You come with letters, wearing the right clothing, giving the right greeting, and walking a path some might be led down. I am curious to know what I must do to learn your name.”

“Take me to the warchief, and perhaps you will,” Francis replied. “This path is fine by me. The stares will come either way. A Southerner with white hair is bound to draw them.”

He had learned, across more deaths than he cared to count, when a closed mouth served him better than a clever one. So when Kerhi snorted and pressed a hand to her face, a hint of red creeping into her cheeks, he only smiled and said nothing.

“Come, let us go,” Kerhi stated, walking in the direction Francis had been heading.

Not much time had passed before the first joke at his expense came, and Francis laughed, earning a chuckle from the barbarian beside him.

“You do not get embarrassed as some would,” Kerhi said. “Have the men from your kingdom finally grown a spine?”

“Some have, while others haven’t,” Francis replied. “But…” He let the word trail off, knowing what was coming as they reached the spot and the large warrior came striding toward them.

As the shirtless barbarian opened his mouth, Francis spoke first, his voice level and certain. “Do not call out her name, and do not offer to watch over me.”

Kerhi’s eyes widened, and once again the space around them went silent.

“I-I—” Dravik stuttered.

“You were about to give away her name, not knowing whether I had earned it,” Francis said, no heat in the words, only quiet certainty. “And if the little I have heard holds true, you would be Dravik Frostbane.”

The barbarian grunted and glanced at Kerhi, who shook her head. “I have told him no stories,” she said.

“She told me nothing,” Francis said, holding the big man’s gaze without stepping closer. “Your name reached me through your deeds, not her lips. Tell me I am wrong.”

Dravik stood there, mouth open, the words seeming impossible for the large warrior to find. Finally he shook his head. “No… you are right. That is exactly what I was going to say.”

Murmurs came from those watching, the onlookers drawing closer with each passing second.

“Dravik… you… did not dishonor me but were going to,” Kerhi said, her voice carrying a hint of anger. “Seek out those whom you should and let them determine the price.”

The warrior nodded, stealing one last glance at Francis before turning and jogging away.

Francis turned and saw the way that his escort was studying him.

“Are you… some kind of mystic… a mage, I believe they call them?” Kerhi asked.

“Do I look like one?” Francis replied, twirling once.

She chuckled and shook her head. “No… the stories say they are like branches that snap in half if the wind is too strong. You are not like that.” Kerhi paused, slowly nodding. “You… have earned the right to my name. Just my first though. I am Kerhi.”

I guess I will owe Stenson for sharing this one thing.

Francis gave a slight bow, sensing the reaction of those who were still watching and listening. “Then I am honored to learn it. I wish to share that honor, and share mine. I am called Francis.”

A few barbarians near them coughed and went silent once more.

“Not a mage, yet you know the words and about honor,” Kerhi almost whispered. “Whoever has sent you must have taught you well. That means what you carry must be important.”

“I didn’t lie,” Francis stated. “I am here to help. If you’d like, we can continue walking this path and pass by the blacksmiths. Perhaps one will have a dagger their baby has outgrown.”

Laughter came from all of those still listening, but when Kerhi gave them a look, each one went back to whatever they had been doing before, soon leaving just her and Francis on the path alone.

“We will not waste time,” Kerhi said. “I will take you straight to him.”

***

Francis found himself outside a circular tent that was covered in mammoth hides. He could see the large bones that helped frame the structure. Beside the entrance, two of Glitvall Stormrend’s banners snapped in the cold wind.

What is it with people in charge wanting to have wolves as their image?

A wolf’s skull, split with an axe, was etched in red on a faded piece of tan cloth. Six barbarians stood in the snow on each side of the entrance. One barbarian on each side had a large snow-wolf, easily four feet tall, lounging on the ground beside them.

Probably elite warriors if I had to guess.

The wolves didn’t move, their silver eyes resting upon Francis for a moment before closing them.

“It is good that they didn’t protest,” Kerhi said as she led the way up the path. “Sometimes they do not like someone, and if they block your path, that is seen as a sign from the gods you shouldn’t be allowed in.”

“Perhaps I should make sure to always carry some meat with me, just in case,” Francis joked.

She frowned, and Francis filed that look away for later, certain he would find out what mistake he had just made.

None of the guards stopped them as they came; a single glance at Kerhi was all it took to get them past. One reached over and pulled away a thick mammoth hide, and warmth immediately began to come from the entrance to the low tent.

Kerhi didn’t pause, and neither did Francis, stepping over the cord that was circling the tent.

The darkness inside was heavy, but with his ability to sense and see in the dark, Francis didn’t have a problem noticing the thirteen individuals seated around a large fire in the center.

Benches surrounded the fire, and every man and woman present turned, looking in their direction.

“Sister, why have you come, and who is this child that comes with you?” a woman sitting beside Glitvall called out.

“A messenger and one who walks in our ways,” Kerhi replied. “He has earned my name and just arrived.”

Grunts came, as those who hadn’t paid much attention at first, turned to get a real look at him.

“A messenger? From where?” the woman asked again.

“Reevotort,” Kerhi replied. “He has a letter from both their king and general.”

“We will not come to help them,” one of the men around the fire blurted out.

“Aye, they can—” another man started.

“Silence!” the woman shouted, cutting off the group. “We are dishonoring ourselves before we know what the letters say. Let us read them and then make our decision.”

Francis produced them both, moving closer to where the gathered group was. “I was given instructions to give them to Warchief Glitvall Stormrend. If he decides to share them with his jarls, that is his choice.”

None of those on the benches spoke, and finally, the woman who had done all the talking rose. “You say you have been given letters for the warchief. Then give them to him.” She gestured at all those gathered around the fire on a bench.

There were thirteen total, six women and seven men. Francis assumed that the person talking was the jarl Stenson had mentioned. Anyone else speaking with the authority she did had to mean that.

Smiling, Francis took the bait, sensing the test that was before him.

Of the seven men gathered, four of them matched Glitvall in size and stature. Each one held the air of a man who could easily be considered the warchief.

Part of him wanted to play and have fun, yet not knowing the rules or etiquette, he also didn’t want to end up dead and having to repeat this process again. So he simply moved toward the woman who had been speaking and bowed.

“I thank you for letting me give the letters to the warchief. From what I know, and have been told, you most likely are the jarl.”

She said nothing, but her blue eyes widened enough to let Francis know he was right.

“But since time is important, I will just go ahead and hand these to Glitvall Stormrend,” Francis said, turning and holding out the two letters to the man he knew was the warchief.

A grunt came from the man as he looked at the two letters and the seals upon them. “You are certain that I am the one you are seeking?”

“While I am not completely aware of all the etiquette your people follow in how you live and speak, I will speak freely about General Stenson,” Francis stated. “He’s not the kind of man to tell me anything, making me learn it myself, suffering and enduring pain to do so. I didn’t choose you because he gave me a description and you match it. Others around this fire carry the air of someone who might be the warchief, but the truth is, you are Glitvall Stormrend, Warchief of Tules and I am Francis Lancaster, here to help in your fight against the army you face.”

The sound of wood popping as the fire ignited sap inside was all that came as he locked eyes with the large barbarian. Seconds passed, and finally Glitvall reached out with a scarred hand and took the two letters.

“You spoke my name before it was offered to you,” the man said, and a slow grin split his beard. “Among my people that is a bold thing, or a foolish one. But you spoke it with truth on your tongue, so I will let it stand and call it earned. I am Glitvall Stormrend, and I agree, General Stenson is an ass.”

Chapter 5

Francis felt the gazes of everyone on him as Glitvall read the letter from Stenson. To his credit the warchief didn’t react at all, simply rolling the paper up, tucking both into his clothes.

“It would appear that the general has sent us someone to assist in our war,” Glitvall said. “He will be given all respect and honor as if he were a fourth rank.”

A couple of those gathered around the fire coughed.

“Are you certain?” the jarl asked. “To give an untested—”

“I have spoken. For me to do anything less is an insult to the trust I have placed in the rare few outside of our kingdom,” Glitvall said. “Francis has earned the honor to know my name and by default all will honor him with theirs when asked.”

Doing his best to appear strong and yet not concerned about the fact they were speaking about him right in front of him, Francis saw Kerhi looking at him from the other side of the tent. Her blue eyes were bright enough that he could tell she was using magic.

“I will not go against the warchief,” the jarl said. She turned toward Francis and gave a slight nod. “I am Jarl Keara. For now I would suggest that all questions and needs you might have come to me. In time you may find the other clan leaders and seek their specific aid.”

“I am honored,” Francis replied. “Thank you for yours.”

He watched as Keara looked him up and down, her lip curling up on one side. The same blond hair and blue eyes was imprinted on almost half of the barbarians he had seen. In fact most were either brunette or blond with very few redheaded ones or black-haired.

I guess that might stand out a little too much in the snow.

The sound of bench being granted mercy came from beside him, and Francis turned to see Glitvall rising from his seat.

“I shall return to my tent, taking Francis with me. There are things that I must discuss with him.”

“Alone?” one of the men around the fire asked.

“Alone,” Glitvall replied. “One day if you hold my position, you can determine who is worthy of a visit in your tent alone. Until then tread carefully upon questioning mine, lest you dishonor us both.”

Francis saw the large man with blond hair frown but not say another word.

Without asking or telling him to come, Glitvall turned and moved toward the entrance to the tent. Francis gave a slight bow to the others and quickly fell in next to the large man, feeling so tiny.

He’s like three feet taller than me.

Glitvall stopped as they drew near Kerhi.

“Sister… this one earned your name, you said.”

“He did,” Kerhi replied.

“Then he is yours to watch after when we are done. Follow behind but say nothing.”

Francis smiled as she moved behind them and they made their way outside.

Once the tent flap was open, cold air assaulted Francis’s face.

“Just two,” Glitvall informed the guard who moved forward. “To my tent.”

No reply came as a pair of guards fell in behind, neither man saying a word as they followed.

“You are young… too young to be what Stenson wrote,” Glitvall said as they moved along a brown path of snow. “Yet I pray he is right. Something must change and soon.”

“I wish I knew what he said about me,” Francis replied, “But I am serious when I say I have come to help.”

“For a price,” Glitvall muttered. “Always a price.”

Unsure how to respond, Francis remained silent.

Everywhere they went, the barbarians who saw Glitvall and him walking together stared. None said a word, simply pausing whatever task they were doing for a moment before returning to it.

“I guess they must think I am your child,” Francis joked, trying to break the silence.

A single chuckle was all Glitvall let out, but his face softened. “They would feel sorry for me if that were the case.”

“And why is that?” Francis asked.

“Because your mother would be extremely ugly, and short,” the warchief replied.

Francis felt his temper rising, but behind him came a trio of laughter.

Obviously talking about one’s mother isn’t against the rules… or maybe it’s allowed if you’re the warchief.

Choosing to not let his temper go unchecked, Francis smiled, saying nothing at all.

***

Sitting in the small tent, much similar to Stenson’s, Francis watched as the older man began to undo the bundle of furs that he wore.

A fire was stoked and Glitvall motioned at Francis. “Take your furs off before you sweat and then freeze later. We have much to discuss, and I need to know what I have in my tent.”

Francis quickly undid the top layer of furs, setting them down near his seat and then waited until Glitvall motioned for him to take it.

“Read this,” the warchief said, holding out the letter Stenson had sent.

Glitvall,

You’re an ugly bastard with an ugly mother.

This one is a gift. He can help us find victory if you help him learn what he must.

- S

“Uh… that’s way less than I expected,” Francis said. “And this top line?”

“A way I know it’s him,” Glitvall replied, shifting on his chair. “So tell me, Francis, how can you help us find victory? I sense… power, yet I’m not sure how to measure it.”

Francis studied the large man before him. It felt like it would be such an easy thing for the warchief to grab him with both hands and snap him like a twig. There was a sense of power similar to Stenson or Baxter and yet almost a reluctance of some kind.

“Do you want the honest answer or simply what I’m here for?”

“So you do want something,” Glitvall said. “Give me the truth, and then I’ll see if you’re worth whatever it is you want.”

Francis smiled and nodded. He didn’t pull any punches. He just told the truth. “When I die, I do not stay dead. I wake in the same place, on the same morning, every single time. I’ve died thousands of times and have gained multiple skills. Stenson sent me here because I need to learn how to heal from my injuries, and he said you’re my only hope.”

He waited, watching as Glitvall stared at him with brown eyes that gave no hint of what the man was thinking. The popping of sap and the scent it gave off filled the silent tent. Minutes passed, and Francis wondered if he needed to say more or do something.

“You swear by that? On your life?” Glitvall finally asked.

“I do.”

The warchief nodded. “Remember Grok.”

“Grok?” Francis asked. “What—”

Those were the only two words Francis got out before the world went black.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang, and Francis lay there in shock.

“It’s earlier than usual,” Michael grunted as he sat up. “What gives?”

“Uh…” It took a moment for Francis’s brain to work, still trying to remember what had happened.

Did he kill me? I mean he did, but how?

“You okay?” Michael asked. “You sound… stupider?”

“Fuck you,” Francis said, climbing out of bed.

“What the hell happened to you?!” Michael exclaimed.

Sighing, Francis shook his head. “It’s a long story. But don’t worry, we’ve got all the time in the world.”

***

Days later, Francis found himself in Glitvall’s tent, sitting in the same chair he had before.

“You don’t want to read the letter?” the warchief asked, waving it once more before Francis.

“No,” Francis replied. “I can tell you what it says, and I can also say something I believe you want me to tell you, which will make what I say next make you believe I’m telling you the truth.”

“And what is that?” Glitvall asked.

“When I die, I wake up at the same place and day. I’ve died thousands of times and have gained multiple skills. Stenson sent me here because I need to learn how to heal from my injuries, and he said you’re my only hope. Then you’re going to sit there and try to make sure I’m telling the truth and will finally tell me to remember Grok  before you kill me.”

Glitvall’s eyes widened, and the man leaned back in his chair. “Is your memory good?”

“What?” Francis asked. “That’s the question you ask me?”

Nodding, the warchief leaned forward. “Remember Grok, Rok, Mua.”

Sighing, Francis glared, feeling the rage inside him rise. “Grok, Rok, Mua.”

***

The sound of the morning bell rang, and Francis lay there in shock.

“It’s earlier than usual,” Michael grunted as he sat up. “What gives?”

Resisting the urge to punch the wall, Francis sat up. “I know, I’m bigger, no, you can’t have any, I don’t want to talk about it.”

“What the—”

“Later,” Francis said. “I need to talk to Phillip.”

***

Once again, Francis found himself inside Glitvall’s tent, unable to hold back the scowl that appeared the moment they were alone.

“You do realize that you are being dishonorable,” the warchief said. “I have invited you into my tent, and you—”

“Listen,” Francis growled, moving close enough he could lift an arm and poke Glitvall’s stomach. “I don’t want to read Stenson’s letter, I know what it says, and I swear to my gods, your gods, and any other fucking gods that if you kill me again I will make your life miserable.”

Glitvall looked down at Francis’s finger that was poking him and shook his head. “You’re crazy, boy. I haven’t—”

“Grok, Rok, Mua,” Francis said, freezing the older man mid-sentence.

“What… you… how…”

“I’ve told you twice, and each time you’ve killed me to prove that I’m being honest,” Francis growled. “When I die, I always  come back on the same day and place. I remember everything, and keep my skills and grow stronger. You’ve killed me twice! The first time, I said just ‘Grok,’ and the second time, I said ‘Grok, Rok, Mua.’ Now sit down, and help me with what I came for!”

Francis was a little surprised when the warchief reached for the chair behind him and plopped down into it. Huffing, Francis moved to his and mimicked the older man.

“What have you come for?” Glitvall asked.

“Wait, that’s it?” Francis replied, feeling angrier than he had before. “You’ve killed me twice, making me remember three stupid words and you just—”

Before Francis knew what happened, he was in the air, a single hand holding him by the collar. Glitvall’s eyes glowed in a way that seemed impossible, red fire of sorts in the middle of his iris.

“Two people, both dead, now with the spirits, know those three words in that order,” the warchief said slowly, his voice somehow calm. “I will kill you a third time and wait for you to come again if you ever call those words stupid or foolish. Do you understand?”

Grabbing the massive wrist that was connected to the hand that had a hold of him, Francis pulled himself up, nodding after he got some air. “Forgive me, I didn’t—”

Glitvall let go of him, and Francis twisted midair, barely managing to land in a crouch position.

“You have spirit and coordination,” Glitvall said, studying him. “Now you know how to get my attention when you come here. Say those words, with respect, and I will believe what you just said.”

Francis took a deep breath and slowly let it out. He moved to the chair that had been overturned and put it back into position, and then sat.

He wanted to ask why the warchief had done what he did, but Francis knew the answer. The only real way to prove his ability was to say what he had been told. It worked with Stenson and Captain Vella.

Maybe I avoided a few dozen deaths by figuring that out on my own last time.

“I mean no dishonor to those you loved,” Francis said.

Glitvall chuckled and shook his head. “There is no love for those two. Those were words that confirmed they were traitors. No one would be foolish enough to ever speak them to me if they weren’t told to.”

“You just… I mean…” Francis wanted to groan but instead he joined the warchief in laughing. “Fine… I need you to help me learn whatever legendary skill there is that will let me heal my injuries.”

Glitvall’s face went blank, and the warchief sighed. “Well fuck us both then…”

Chapter 6

Francis stared at the warchief, who looked disheartened after having cursed. “I’m sorry, why is my request such a bad thing?”

Glitvall crossed his two arms and leaned back in his oversized wooden chair. “The skill you are desiring isn’t one that most talk about or even know. It has three different names or variations, and each one is almost impossible to acquire. The one you’re seeking is often referred to by names such as regeneration or a lesser version. Life Well is the legendary skill you’re seeking, and acquiring it has been… impossible.”

“What… why…” Francis was lost for words, confused by what the large man was telling him and the general’s belief that this was where it could be learned. “Then why did Stenson say that if I came here, you could help me acquire it?”

A large finger scratched the warchief’s nose as he frowned. “How many times have you died?”

“I don’t have an exact number, but thousands,” Francis replied. “I’ve come from nothing, fighting against people and beasts that were far stronger than me, putting in the time and effort to get every skill that I now have as well as the gains I’ve acquired for my body and mind.”

He could see the look of shock on the barbarian leader’s face. Those brown eyes blinked a few times at the number given.

“You say thousands,” Glitvall said, leaning forward. “What would drive a man to endure such things? Power? Wealth? Women?”

“My brother,” Francis replied immediately.

“Your brother?”

Nodding, Francis massaged his eyes for a moment with his fingers. “I have a brother… a half brother, but one I consider the only real family I have. You know how the nobles work in our kingdom as well as the birth order?”

Glitvall snorted as he nodded. “A foolish thing, but yes, we are all aware of it.”

“I’m the ninth son,” Francis replied.

“The ninth son?” Glitvall repeated. A few seconds later, he burst into laughter, rising from his chair and started pacing in the small area of the tent. “A ninth son! With this kind of power?! How, when, I need to know everything!”

“Because you want to be entertained or because you’re going to help me acquire what I came for?”

The warchief paused his movement, approached Francis and kneeled. Their eyes were at the same level, almost as Francis sat in the chair, leaning backward.

“I asked why you do what you do because I need to know the fire that warms the heart of a man who claims he can do what you do,” Glitvall said. “To have a chance to grasp what you seek will not be easy. Many men and women have tried, spending their whole lives suffering and never tasting the sweetness of success. Yet their reasons were all… selfish. You, Francis, have a spark inside you that I can see and  feel. Even though you are young, you carry yourself with confidence that most wouldn’t have unless they had lived. It is obvious you have died as many times as you say to have to have gained that.”

The warchief took a deep breath and let it out slowly, reaching out with his massive hand and setting it upon Francis’s shoulder. “I have trained many warriors and tamed beasts. I rule a nation that is dying, fighting a foe like nothing we have ever seen. Every clan leader is here, working together, a feat that hasn’t happened since the great war, because we all know the cost if we don’t. Even worse, our hope to hold out lessens by the rising of the sun each day.”

Francis felt the large hand squeeze, not one meant to crush, but to announce its presence and confer something simply.

“You, boy, may be what Stenson says you are,” Glitvall stated. “We have prayed to Korvald, the Winter Father, that we might endure as he does. The Hearth Mother, Verla, has not given us the warmth that we seek, yet we will not let our fires go cold. Like Skarn, the Iron Gale, we will be the storm that our foes face and not end until the life of every one of my people is gone. And when that moment comes, our prayer to Nyrla is that she will carry our souls and reward us for the honor we have earned.”

The large man pulled at a leather cord around his neck, revealing a piece of broken tusk wrapped in leather.

“This is the symbol for Korvald,” Glitvall stated. “Most outside of our kingdom do not know what this means or how special it is. You will learn what it means to bleed and not fall. Like Korvald, you will be forged of ice, bleeding from every step you take, cracking from that which strikes, yet not shattering or dying. You, Francis Lancaster, will face a test far worse than any you have ever known before, and you must decide right now if that brother you say is the reason you do this is worth that which is about to come.”

Laughing, Francis rolled his eyes. “I’m sorry, but that… speech… was funny.”

Glitvall leaned back, frowning. “You mock the truth that I speak?”

Francis slid his chair back, moving away from the warchief and stood. He then undid the rest of his clothes, pulling off his shirt and pants until he stood there almost naked before Glitvall. “Look at me. There are no scars on my body, yet I have been burnt to death, my skin flayed off with lightning, and frozen so that chunks of muscle shatter at a single touch. I have been poisoned, beaten to death, had my head ripped off, as well as bitten off. The ways in which I have died would make most warriors run away in fear. My own father has killed me, my other brothers have tried to beat me, and yet I stand here untouched on the outside.”

A few tears fell as Francis spoke. He tapped his chest where his heart was. “Inside… I carry those scars, but the love I have for my stupid brother, Michael, is what drives me. He saved me, helped me learn what love was, and is the only family I really have. I will die for him ten thousand, or a hundred thousand times or more if that is what it takes to ensure that he lives.”

Francis was getting worked up, his voice growing louder, and he moved closer to the kneeling warchief. “So don’t tell me I’m going to suffer in ways I can’t imagine. I’ve already faced Kerhi and had her rip my heart from my chest.”

A smile formed on Francis’s lips when Glitvall’s eyes widened. “But don’t worry. When she turned, showing off her prize to all those gathered around the circle of frozen dirt, I slid my sword into her spine, paralyzing her from the waist down before I died.”

Francis shook his head, chuckling twice before leaning his face so close to the older man that he could butt heads if he wanted to. “Don’t think I’m some coward or believe I won’t give everything I have. What you should do is fear who I am because there’s one thing you and Stenson have to realize and wonder when I’m not nearby.”

Glitvall’s hand came forward, slowly and pushed Francis back, allowing the older man to stand. A frown formed as the warchief stood, and he shook his head a few times.

“You don’t tell us everything when you return,” the warchief stated.

Francis nodded. “I’ve been fair, honest, and tried to do right by Stenson,” he replied. “I know the man is playing a game, trying to use me as a weapon or some tool. I was bothered by it… angry at first when I realized that, but then I also figured out why he was doing it. Stenson cares about the kingdom. I care about my brother. For both of us to see each of those things survive, he needs me to defeat the army he faces as well as your opponent. After that, I have no doubt I’ll have to go help with the other kingdoms as well.”

“That is no small task,” Glitvall said. “And you feel up to that task? One that would crush any other man?”

“I have no choice,” Francis replied. “If I don’t, then my brother will be gone and that is not something I can live with. Especially if I have the power within me to keep him alive.”

A full set of teeth appeared as Glitvall smiled before clapping his hands a few times. “You, Francis, are a man like no other… Stenson is right. And you are right. I am… in awe of one so young who has conviction like you. Very well. I will do everything I can to help you try to acquire this skill. Just know the warning I gave earlier wasn’t me trying to scare you. I was being truthful. Our land is harsh. Children, adults, and elders die every day without war because it does not coddle the weak. No one cares who is born first or in your case, ninth. All they care about is strength.”

“So what do we do now?” Francis asked. “When can we start?”

A sigh came from Glitvall as he pointed at the stack of clothing behind Francis. “Get dressed. There are still a few things I need to learn, and I need you to promise me you’ll try to be honest each time you return.”

“I’ll do my best,” Francis said, still not moving toward his clothes. “But I cannot promise that I won’t leave things out or attempt other paths by changing what I say or do between them.”

The warchief’s head bobbed a few times. “I can accept that from you. Now get dressed. You need to tell me everything you’ve faced so far and where you are right now, skill and stat-wise.”

“That could take a while,” Francis stated. “Surely you’re not going to want to do this same song and dance every time we meet?”

Shaking his head, Glitvall moved to where his chair was and sat. “No. I’ll tell you what to say, and then show me. That will prevent me from needing to earn your trust. Knowing those three words means more than you can imagine. But for me to understand what you can become, I need to know where you have been.”

Francis nodded and then retrieved his clothes, happy to put them back on, as the small fire in the tent didn’t completely stop the cold. “Where do you want me to start?” he asked.

A large hand waved in the air, a sign that the warchief didn’t have a particular spot in mind. “You have obviously had this talk with Stenson multiple times. I’ll trust you to know where to start.”

Chuckling, Francis nodded, quickly getting dressed and retrieving his seat.

“Well then, I guess I’ll start at the beginning. Back when I was a baby…”

A deep grunt came from the warchief, and Francis laughed, knowing that regardless of how many times he died, Glitvall was going to be a bit more entertaining than Stenson ever was.

Chapter 7

Glitvall played with the brown braid of hair that he had pulled from behind his back. “I… had not expected so much. And those creatures you describe, which are that strong… we’ve faced one, but to know there are more… that is disheartening.”

“And I still don’t know what killed Baxter and me the one time we basically defeated the army,” Francis said. “I wanted to try to do it again, but Stenson was adamant that I forget that for now. The knowledge that we could make it that far was enough, and acquiring the skills to survive that battle was more important.”

A grunt came from the warchief as he shrugged. “That is his call. I might choose a different path, but I see the wisdom in it. Stenson is looking at the larger picture. You are very lucky that he has taken a liking to you and mapped out your growth so well.”

“So well? In what way?” Francis asked.

“You like it when you get a new skill, don’t you?” Glitvall asked, grinning.

“Yah,” Francis replied. “Who doesn’t?”

“But how many deaths did you need to gain some of them? Two hundred? Four hundred? A thousand?” the warchief replied. “Yet even with that kind of obstacle before you, Stenson kept you motivated, using your own natural desire to get stronger and save your brother to keep enduring it. He also had you switch up methods, giving you a break, acquiring growth and knowledge before returning you to the grind  as you called it.”

Francis knew Glitvall was right, and hearing the way the warchief described Stenson’s plans made him appreciate the general even more. There were moments he had wanted to quit or try something different, and yet, Stenson had done just that, directing him in new ways and down other paths, always focused on something else before giving out another goal.

“So what, you’re going to do the same?”

“In some ways,” Glitvall replied. “In other ways, no. I’m a bit disappointed you haven’t learned any crafting skills yet.”

“What’s the point?” Francis huffed. “I mean, it’s not like I have the time to make and use something.”

“That’s because you are focused on the short term and not the long term,” Glitvall stated. “You mentioned Stenson said you should try and learn something, or even find the comfort of another. Tell me, did you ever do that?”

Francis smiled, the memory of the waitress he had gotten to know. “Once.”

“I can see from how your face has lit up that it was worth it,” Glitvall said. “Perhaps you can find one, two, or ten here who will provide you warmth on a cold night. Trust me, many will offer themselves to you when they learn of your strength.”

“Yeah, I’m not a huge fan of those,” Francis replied.

The warchief winked at him. “A wise man finds a woman worthy of a chase and earns her honor. To hear you are that kind of man is another mark of the quality you possess that few do. Now, let me discuss a few final things before I send you to a tent for the evening. Tomorrow I will show you the battlefield and let you cross it.”

“Uh… by myself?”

“Is that a problem?” Glitvall asked. “You told me that you spent many lives fighting an army by yourself. Why would this one be different?”

“Oh… I… it just caught me off guard,” Francis replied. “I guess you and Stenson are more alike than I had thought.”

“Some might take that as an insult, but I see it as a compliment,” Glitvall stated. “You need to see what we face firsthand. You also need to try to fight them on your own. The way my people fight isn’t like your kind, and the foes we face are a lot… tougher and more resilient than the weak beastkins you slew.”

“Even the rhinokins?” Francis asked.

Glitvall shrugged. “Those sound similar but different. Fighting in snow and ice isn’t like the battlefield you are used to. Besides, you’ll get to see if those swords are worth keeping. Something tells me you’re going to be spending a lot of time learning how to use an axe sooner than you realize.”

Choosing not to groan, Francis nodded.

I guess it’s better than having a Mace skill that’s so low.

“What about the armor and weapons Kerhi uses?” Francis asked. “Can I get something like that as well?”

The warchief clicked his tongue. “That is a question for the shamans. I am certain you could convince them to train you after a few of those loops, as you call them.”

“So then what?” Francis asked. “Tomorrow I’ll see the battlefield, try to learn what I can and then return to you?”

“Correct,” Glitvall replied, rising to his feet. “Going forward, you will find that I may ask you to do things differently than you have before. I’m also certain that you will, at times, not tell me everything and simply bash your head against our enemies. I need you to remember that at some point, I will want you to meet our High Shaman Greythorn. I promise you that our gods might not be like the other one you experienced in Reevotort.”

“So he won’t have me stabbed from behind?” Francis asked.

“No, he would rip your head off while you watched,” Glitvall stated. “Similar to what I did but a little bit slower.”

Yeah… because I still can’t recall seeing how fast that happened.

Stretching, Francis began putting on the furs that he had taken off, and once finished, was led by the warchief to the covering over the opening.

“Be safe, Francis,” Glitvall said, holding out his massive hand. “I look forward to our next meeting.”

Stepping out of the tent, Francis felt the cold even through his layer of furs. Two guards stood outside, neither of whom seemed affected by the temperature.

“Take him to a guest house in my pavilion,” Glitvall ordered. “Secure a little extra wood for him.”

Both warriors nodded, and one motioned with their hand for Francis. “Come, I shall take you to your den.”

Francis followed the barbarian, feeling the size difference immediately, as both warriors were at least a foot taller. Fires illuminated the camp, with a few large bonfires farther down casting a substantial amount of light. Around them were shapes of barbarians, some dancing, others standing still like statues.

The cold wind blew, and the scent of burning pine was stronger than it had been upon his arrival.

Francis was thankful the trip didn’t take long. He could feel the cold seeping into his body. They brought him to a small square structure, covered in furs like the tent the warchief and the clan leaders had been in. Inside a fire was already going in a fireplace built from stone.

The temperature difference between the harsh reality outside those walls and where Francis stood was going to be one of his first tests he knew would need overcoming.

How long will it take to learn some kind of resistance… or whatever it is where the cold doesn’t affect me?

He scanned the small space, maybe twelve feet squared, and saw he had a bed, a simple desk, and a bowl near the fireplace. Fur rugs lined the floor, and Francis wondered what kind of luxury  this might be considered compared to the rest of the barbarians in this land.

His nose detected a sweet scent, and Francis followed it, finding out that the bowl was actually filled with a thick stew of some kind. Grains and a few chunks of meat that looked ready to be consumed made his stomach growl. Nearby was a towel, and in it was a single spoon.

“I guess Glitvall is giving me my last meal,” Francis joked to himself, scooping up a spoonful and putting the entire bite in his mouth. It was warm, and felt hearty. It had some spice, adding heat that gradually grew as he chewed the grains. They had a weird texture, almost like dough that had been cooked.

Holding the bowl in one hand, Francis began devouring the remainder of the offered meal as he walked to where the bed was and sat on it. Once finished eating, he touched the fur blankets, surprised at how soft they felt.

Knowing that he would soon be facing something he never imagined, Francis considered going outside and testing himself in the darkness. He knew that most likely his ability to evade guards would fail, the snow would give him away, plus his size would stand out.

Setting the empty bowl on the floor, Francis started to undress, about to take his shirt off when a loud cough came from outside his tent.

“Francis Lancaster. May I enter?” a female voice called out.

Sitting there on the bed, with only a single chair in the room, half undressed, Francis tried to consider what was about to happen. He smiled knowing what Michael would be hoping for, but instead, put his shirt back on.

“One moment please,” he called out, trying to hurry up and get his outfit back in order. When he had on enough covering, Francis said, “You can enter.”

That sounded stupid.

The hanging set of furs pulled aside, and Kerhi appeared in the doorway, stomping her feet once before entering.

“Forgive me for coming so late,” she said, standing at the entrance to his new accommodations. “I waited until word reached me that you and the warchief were finished. It appears I barely reached you first.”

“Reached me first?” Francis asked.

“Yes,” Kerhi replied, grinning. “Outside is Jarl Keara. No doubt she has many questions for you. She did not look pleased that my people reached me first.”

Francis felt weird, knowing that suddenly he had two women waiting to meet him and not sure of the intentions of either.

“So what can I do for you, Kerhi?” Francis asked.

She stood there, and after saying nothing, he motioned to the chair. “Sorry, please sit.”

“Thank you. I am honored to share your tent.”

His cheeks felt a little warmer as the tall woman took the chair he had offered. With nowhere else to sit, he moved back to his bed and plopped down.

They sat there for a few moments, staring at each other, until she spoke up. “You… are an interesting man, Francis,” Kerhi said, her words very slow and deliberate. “Unlike so many of your kingdom, you act like one who has seen battle and death, yet the shadow that often shrouds their minds isn’t there. Even when facing all of the clan leaders and our warchief, you did not flinch.”

She paused, her lips dancing as she clenched her teeth together. “And then you somehow knew not only Dravik’s name, but that he was going to dishonor himself. Tell me, are you a shaman of some kind or an oracle? Your actions seem impossible to explain any other way.”

“Is it that hard to believe that I’m just well prepared and trained in your ways?” Francis asked, keeping his face neutral.

“It is. I spoke with some of the others… Those who know what Glitvall looks like in your kingdom would only tell you if the need was great. Very few outside of your king and general would know the test that is given to all who enter that tent. For you to know who he is… either means you are here because the need is that great and the king broke a promise, or that you have some other way… a divination of some kind.”

Kerhi stood, took her chair, and moved closer to him, sitting just a foot away.

“Has Nyrla spoken to you? Or perhaps Verla?” she asked.

Shaking his head, Francis wondered what kind of religious beliefs the barbarians had. He knew they were a bit more fanatical or devoted, depending upon how one looked at it. Unlike many of his people back home, where the gods were more of a being you prayed to only in times of desperation or when hoping for some kind of luck. Their lack of involvement and the price it cost to be granted an audience with anyone of importance made that connection impossible for all but the top of the kingdom.

“None of your gods or goddesses spoke with me,” Francis replied. “I would tell you if they did.”

A frown appeared on Kerhi’s face. “Then tell me… why do you look at me like you know me?”

Francis coughed and shook his head. “What do you mean?”

“Your eyes… your speech. How you look but don’t stare,” Kerhi replied. “There is no fear, no mocking, nothing that most have when they see me. Even my own people often look at me differently. Some might consider me… a threat. Others might consider me an opportunity. You just… look at me in a way I haven’t experienced before.”

Fuck… how do I handle this?

His mind raced. Part of him was intrigued, and the other wondered how obvious his signs must have been for Kerhi to notice. Francis was sure he didn’t look at her any differently than he did Captain Vella.

Which means she’s accustomed to being treated in a certain way.

“You’re alone, aren’t you?” Francis said.

She frowned, shifting a little bit on her chair. “That is not an honorable question to ask. We do not know each other well enough for such a question.”

Holding up his hand, Francis kept his palm out. “I don’t mean it as an offensive thing. Simply that the way I look at you is different because everyone keeps you at bay. Even your own group of shamans.”

Kerhi’s eyes widened, then she leaned forward. “How do you know that?!”

Sighing, Francis sat back a little. “Because other than my brother, I’m also alone.”

Chapter 8

“But you carry the seal of your king and his general,” Kerhi stated. “Our warchief granted you a rank not given to those outside of someone of your king’s or general’s position. How can a man, your age or any age, be alone?”

Her question bothered Francis more than he had expected. She had somehow, in mere moments, pricked at a wound that was always raw.

He sighed, unsure if he wanted to spend the night sharing his feelings and position with a woman that he would most likely have to redo all of this with multiple times, or if he wanted to put it off until another loop, after he knew more.

I guess my only options are to shut her down and then deal with the jarl outside or at least start this process now.

Knowing tonight was going to be a long night either way, Francis opted for the one that involved the barbarian across from him.

“I’m a ninth son,” Francis replied. “You know what that means, don’t you?”

Kerhi winced, slowly nodding her head. “I do… which makes me even more curious. Don’t your people kill someone of your birth order and eat them?”

Francis felt his jaw open, trying to find the words to respond with when Kerhi’s face changed from the pained one to her roaring with laughter.

“Oh… your kind!” she exclaimed between laughs. “Believe… everything…”

“I’m not sure if that was honorable or not, but you got me,” Francis said, shaking his head and smiling. “No… they don’t usually eat their children. But it does mean I’m worthless in so many ways.”

“Yet you have the king’s and general’s seal,” Kerhi replied, tempering her laughter. “That is not something a worthless one has.”

“Special circumstances,” Francis replied. “The only family I have is my brother, who is back with the army, and everything I do is to keep him safe and alive.”

“A brother? Younger?”

“No, he’s older and technically my half brother,” Francis said. “I’m sure you noticed my white hair.”

“We have a few who are close to that color. It is not uncommon, but I did notice it. White like a snow rabbit’s pelt.”

“Yeah…” Francis said, unsure if she was teasing or simply pointing out a fact. “My brother Michael’s hair isn’t white. Yet, every other child born of my father’s blood is white. I’m sure you can figure out the reason as to why that is.”

“So how does this matter?” Kerhi asked, leaning forward again.

Taking a deep breath, Francis prepared himself to talk about things he often didn’t like discussing. Yet for some reason, he felt he could with her.

***

“I understand now,” Kerhi said softly. “To live like that and to have endured so much. While my father is not known, the clan raised me, and the shamans took me in when I showed promise. For a while I had a family, but now… I am a lone wolf.”

“And why is that?” Francis asked, guessing at the answer. “Because of how strong you are?”

Kerhi winced and shook her head. “No… they like the power I possess. It is my hunger for battle and blood that scares them. When it overcomes me, I cannot stop until I have defeated whatever is before me. Sometimes I have pushed deeper into the enemy than I should, and it has cost many of my brothers and sisters their lives.”

Francis could see the shame in her eyes as she sat there, staring up at the roof.

“I… I long to hold the heart of my foe in my hands, and many times will eat part of it to absorb their power.”

“Wait… you do that often?” Francis asked, unsure if he should feel special that she had done that to him or it was a normal thing she did which meant nothing.

“I know… many fear me because of that. The whole camp knows to not dishonor me or challenge me. Even Warchief Glitvall would not do so. Not because I would win, but because he would have to kill or seriously injure me before I would leave the state it puts me in.”

So… simply knocking her out wasn’t going to be an option…

Francis chuckled and nodded. “I get it. Trust me I do.”

“Because you enter a state of rage and scare those closest to you?”

“No,” Francis replied, shaking his head. “Because I have a power that scares many, and they know it’s useful. They try to shape how I use it to reach their goals, while I try to find a way to grow stronger and keep those that I love safe.”

A tear formed in Kerhi’s left eye, the small droplet of liquid rolling down her cheek when she blinked.

“That is why you look at me differently,” she replied. “You know what it is like.”

Ready to kick himself for what he was about to do, Francis used a hand to rub his face, groaning softly. “No… it’s not just that. There’s more.”

“More?” Kerhi asked, a blonde eyebrow lifting as she cocked her head.

“I’m… going to tell you something and share a secret. All I ask is that you swear to tell no one until I say you can. Only a few know this secret—”

“I swear by my life, my power, and my honor,” Kerhi said, placing a hand over her heart. “If I break it, my life is yours to do with as you wish, and may our gods slay me if I break this oath.”

Francis felt a shift around Kerhi, as threads of some kind moved and somehow shaped themselves.

“Did something… magical just happen?” Francis asked.

“I swore an oath, and I invoked the three words,” Kerhi replied. “Our gods have heard, and the oath will be held fast. If you call it magic, so be it. We call it the binding of our souls.”

Some weird stuff… I can’t even imagine what that would be like… sensing a god in my body.

“I guess that promise works then,” Francis stated. “So let me tell you what makes me special.”

He leaned forward, smiling as he spoke. “I can’t stay dead.”

***

Francis wasn’t certain how many hours had passed, but finally, the never-ending barrage of questions Kerhi unleashed ended. Her last one was still there, and he needed to answer it.

“So… I wouldn’t say that I cheated by how I used your name or the previous loops against you,” Francis replied. “I earned it. Even if you ripped out my heart before I stabbed you in the back.”

“A fair exchange and a mistake on my part,” Kerhi replied. “One, I will do my best to remember if we fight again.”

“But you won’t,” Francis replied, frowning. He felt the pain of knowing that for a few hours, he had connected with someone in a way that he hadn’t for so long. All those deaths had been harder than he would admit. Seeing his brother every morning, hearing the same words, and having to endure the constant explaining of what was going on was harder than just dying.

It was a reminder that, in some ways, he was alone in a way none would ever know.

“I realize that,” Kerhi stated, rolling her eyes. “I was just teasing you. Don’t people from your kingdom do that?”

Groaning, Francis couldn’t help but smile and nod. “We do… I guess I just wasn’t expecting so much joking  from you.”

Kerhi shrugged and then stood. “It is later than I had intended to stay. I should leave before word spreads around the camp that I stayed all night in your tent.”

“And that would be a bad thing?” Francis asked, standing also and suddenly closer than he had expected.

She smiled and lifted a hand, patting his cheek. “You are an interesting man, Francis, but it will take more than a few hours to pull that feat off. Even though I won’t remember it, I hope that you do seek me out. I can confirm this conversation was good. For both of us.”

Grabbing his chest, Francis winced as if he was in pain.

“Does something hurt?” Kerhi asked.

“Sorry,” Francis said, pretending to be hurt and holding up a hand. “It’s just… being put into the friend category so fast… it hurts.”

She shoved him, and his position had left him unprepared for the force that she used, finding himself flung onto the bed. Looking up at her, Francis saw her bite her lip for a moment before shaking her head and moving toward the tent flap.

“You best not tell stories of what took place in here,” Kerhi said. “Or I might just have to rip your heart out again.”

“Wait,” Francis said, holding up his hand as she was going to move the hides aside so she could leave. “Would you…” He stopped himself and shook his head. “Never mind.”

Kerhi’s eyebrows scrunched into almost one as she frowned. “What were you going to say? Did you get cold feet?”

Shaking his head, Francis regained his composure and stood.

“I… I was going to ask you if there was something you could tell me. A pet name, a special word, some kind of phrase, so that we meet in another loop and talk, you’d know that what I say is true and that I have done this before. But then I decided I don’t want that from you. Not yet at least.”

The left side of her lips curled slighted upward. “And why is that?” Kerhi asked.

“I think I’d rather have more moments like this. Even if I have to endure you whining about no one liking you.”

Kheri turned around completely and moved to where Francis was, reached out, grabbed his shirt near the collar, and pulled him forward.

Francis didn’t fight it; unsure of what was going to happen, he found himself pulled on his tiptoes. For a brief moment, her lips were pressed against his, and then he was flung backward again onto the bed.

“Do not believe that will happen often,” Kerhi said, a smile that almost looked devilish present as she spoke. “I do hope one day you prove yourself worthy of another.”

With that she turned and was out the tent flap before he could call out.

What the…

Francis started to laugh, finding himself looking forward to dying and trying this again, and not for a skill.

After about ten minutes, when he was considering lying down, a loud call came from outside his doorway.

“Sir Francis! Are you still awake?” a male voice asked.

“It depends,” Francis shouted back.

A muted chuckle could be heard, followed by a grunt a moment later.

“Jarl Keara was wondering if you had time for another guest.”

Francis knew that his choices were getting a little bit of sleep or continuing to gain knowledge that he would need for the next loop.

Part of him really wanted to get some rest, the other part was content with how things had gone with Kerhi.

“I can spare a few moments,” Francis replied. “Send her in.”

The hides were moved aside, and Jarl Keara entered, her face looking like she wasn’t happy at having been forced to wait.

“Jarl Keara,” Francis said, giving a small bow. “Forgive me for making you wait. I was ensuring I was presentable for you. Please come inside and take a seat.”

The older woman’s lips were pressed firmly together, but she gave him a nod. With what had to be a well-practiced flick of her head, the blond braid that had been resting on the front of her left shoulder was sent flying and landed on her back. “Thank you for allowing me the honor of visiting you,” she replied. “I had hoped to see you earlier in the evening, but it appears you had a visitor for a while. I take it things went well?”

“I learned much about your people and am grateful that my guest was willing to enlighten me. May I inquire what I can do for you?” Francis asked.

Moving to the chair he had offered, Keara sat and gave him an intense look, her blue eyes looking him up and down. “Our warchief has said nothing of the things you two discussed beyond that you will be visiting the battlefield tomorrow. You both spoke for quite some time, and then you spent a considerable amount of the evening with a barbarian who has a history of… not doing such a thing. I find myself wondering what it is about you that has captured the attention of my people so easily.”

Francis stayed on his feet, not wanting to sit and assume a position that might make it seem like he was giving in. “All I can say is that I have sworn to help your people overcome the enemy you face. Glitvall had a long list of questions about how things fare in my kingdom and the battle there. Tomorrow I shall get a firsthand view of what you all face.”

“And Shaman Kerhi?” Keara asked, one of her eyebrows rising.

“That is between her and me,” Francis said. “Now, I would prefer not to seem rude, but can I ask why you have really come? I don’t pretend to play the games many leaders do, I prefer to attack head-on.”

She snorted and shook her head. “Either a good trait or a foolish one,” Keara replied. “I came for many reasons. The main reason is to ask if more of your people are coming?”

“Am I not enough?” Francis asked, grinning.

Keara frowned at his response. “I mean no disrespect… but you are young and have no scars that I can see. To believe that those responsible for your lands would consider you a… gift… or help in a fight they cannot win feels almost like a slight. Yet, Glitvall believes you will be. That combination of things has left me considering how a single person—be it a boy or a man —can make a difference.”

Sighing, Francis felt a portion of the joy he had been feeling from his time with Kerhi vanish, knowing that his time in this camp would be filled with others like Keara. Many would challenge him, and it appeared they had no problem doing so to his face.

“Jarl Keara, do not take this wrong, but I guess you’ll have to wait a few hours and see what kind of help I’ll be. Now then, forgive me if I seem to be rude, but I would like to rest.”

She snorted, standing immediately. “You will need more than a few hours of rest if you hope to prove your worth.” With those words spoken, she turned and left.

It seems I still haven’t lost my touch…

Francis plopped down onto the bed, choosing not to bother undressing. Soon enough, he’d get to see what the Kingdom of Tules was facing.

Chapter 9

The sky had one color, and it was a dull grey. The breakfast Francis had been offered was sweetened grains, similar in texture to last night’s meal, but with something he couldn’t figure out that made it thicker. Less than an hour after the sun had appeared, Glitvall had arrived with four guards and three other barbarians that Francis recognized from inside the warchief’s tent.

With barely any words, they had set out, and the differences between the sections of the camp were just like the ones in his kingdom.

The pavilion section had better paths, neat and straight. Upon leaving the section where the clan leaders and other important individuals were, the group soon found itself in the area where forges and healing tents were set up. The sound of metal being hammered was a steady rhythm, almost as if they were playing a song on instruments.

As they moved, Francis studied the various barbarians, noting the tattoos some of them had. Many bore animals, weapons, or runes. A few were distinct. One barbarian passed Francis’s group, barely moving to the side of the wider path, shirtless, his entire chest covered in blue, green, red, and black ink. Scars had ruined some of the tattoos, but the image that Francis believed had to be the god, Korvald, holding two swords and calling down an ice storm.

The scent of metal, ore, and smoke gave way to the reek of sweat and crowded bodies as the group moved into the commons. The sound of thousands of barbarians living in cramped quarters quieted slightly as Francis’s group moved down a muddy and nasty path. Word had spread, and men and women lined both sides, eyes all fixed upon the small man with white hair.

None joked about Francis’s size as they had the first time he had come. It appeared that the presence of the warchief muted those kinds of words, or at least for now.

Eventually, the tents faded, and a section of ice, snow, and death announced itself. Spiked logs, half-buried in snow, created a wall of defense around the camp. Frozen chunks of various beastkins were impaled upon them. Spread out between the different rows of spiked logs were fires that smoked, sending up the scent of burning pine and adding a black cloud to the already grey sky.

Past them, hedged between the two ice walls, was a section of land that was covered in red.

It’s like someone went out there and used red paint on the ground.

A mile away through the mist and smoke, on the other side of the walls of ice was the camp for the beastkin.

“It’s rather hard to see,” Francis said, lifting a hand to shade his eyes. “It almost blends in with the snow.”

“You have no idea,” Glitvall replied, before holding up a fist and stopping the group. “Out there is an army that is nothing like I ever imagined. Before they came, I’ve faced creatures that would crush most men with a single strike, yet those beasts were nothing compared to some of the ones on that side. I—”

Glitvall’s head turned, his words stopping, and Francis tried to see around the large man what had made him stop.

“Kerhi… You should not do that,” the warchief said. “Someone might mistake you for them.”

Francis finally saw the barbarian shaman. She almost seemed to rise from the ground near the warchief’s side.

She was there? I didn’t sense her at all.

His Battle Sense had picked up many things, but her presence hadn’t been one of them.

Kerhi chuckled and shrugged. It was then that Francis noticed the hides she wore started to shift colors, no longer matching the dirty snow and ice.

“What kind of pelts are those?” Francis asked.

“A trophy from some of our foes,” Glitvall said, still frowning at the shaman who had appeared. “I had not planned on sharing that information, waiting to see if you were able to notice them.”

“Do you mind if I join him on this hunt?” Kerhi asked.

Glitvall’s frown grew, and the large barbarian turned to face Francis. “That decision is up to you.”

“She knows,” Francis said, waiting to see how the warchief would react.

“Then I see no point in holding her back,” Glitvall replied, not seeming surprised at all. “She will be a good partner to help you learn about what is out there and desires to feast upon your flesh.”

The warchief clapped and those gathered moved back, leaving Francis and Kerhi standing at the line of logs, which served as a small barrier before a desolate, cold battlefield before them.

“So… when can I get some weapons like yours?” Francis asked, pointing at the gloves and boots he had personally experienced.

“Prove yourself worthy, and you can earn a pair, though they are custom-made,” Kerhi replied, checking the straps once. “You will need to find a way to acquire pelts like mine if you hope to survive what we are about to do.”

“And that is?”

“Sneak as close as possible,” Kerhi said, as she bent her head to the side, a popping noise coming from her neck. “I would ruin the fun, but since you told me what you did, I believe you’ll do better by learning things the hard way.”

Francis pulled his swords free, watching as the dull light from the sky reflected off them. “I don’t suppose you have anything I could put on these to help stop the way the sun shows them?”

She chuckled and nodded, pointing at a pile of ash he had passed a little bit ago on his way here. “You could, but there’s no point now. They have already seen it and will be on alert.”

Francis was about to ask her how that was possible, and then stopped.

Everything about this place is going to be different than what I’ve faced before. I need to remember that… focus on learning and growing.

“Well then, when do we set out?” he asked.

“I’m ready when you are,” Kerhi replied. “Just know that when I vanish from your sight, I am still there. Unless I need to, I won’t speak or help out. I’m only here to help if I must.”

“And on the off chance I survive?”

She chuckled and stepped closer to the snow that was off the path. “We shall cross that frozen stream if we get there. Good luck, Francis.”

He watched as her body seemed to shimmer, and she pulled a thin piece of cloth he hadn’t noticed up over her face. Kerhi vanished as she bent down.

Battle Sense was desperately trying to find her, and Francis knew he would be able to do so if he spent time and she didn’t move much, but it was as if she had truly vanished. His nose couldn’t detect anything over the scent of the burning pine, and he realized suddenly why so much was always being burnt.

“The smoke hides your scent,” Francis whispered.

A chuckle came from off to his left, helping him to get a better fix on where Kerhi was most likely at, but she was gone from his detection almost immediately.

This is going to suck…

Taking a deep breath, Francis closed his eyes, shutting out everything for a moment.

Michael… We need another moment by the stream. You’re going to laugh so hard when I tell you about all this.

With his mind cleared and focused, Francis moved along the path that weaved between the barrier of spiked logs. No scent but the burning wood came; the pieces of flesh that had been impaled were frozen solid.

He tried to watch the ground ahead of him, looking for patterns of anything that seemed out of place. Like the practice he had done at night, there was a sense that something had to be out here, even if he couldn’t immediately see it.

Far across the bloody ice and snow was a camp with no smoke that shimmered as if it were a mirage. He could see large shapes moving but was unable to determine what exactly they were. This enemy seemed to be less than a third of the size of the one his kingdom faced if what Francis thought he could make out was true.

I guess there might be fewer beasts who can handle the cold like this, but still… how hard must it be to—

Movement in the air cut off his thoughts, and Francis saw two shapes he recognized gliding across the sky between the two mountains of ice.

Black birds… casters!

He remembered the tent with the birds and those feathers that almost killed them on the first day. Stenson had said they hadn’t seen those beasts in a while, yet two were up above.

A half mile or so of open space ended along the walls of ice, and he considered the path he was on.

It would be better to limit the sides I can be attacked from.

Now about a hundred yards from the last set of spiked logs, Francis made his way slowly toward the towering wall of ice. He was careful with each step, making sure his padded hide boots had a firm grip as he moved across the snow and ice.

His steps let out a crunch almost every time, causing him to frown.

Slower… I need to focus on being quieter.

His Stealth skill hadn’t risen in what felt like ages, and Francis knew he hadn’t felt the need to train it. Why worry about that when he could just rush headfirst into the enemy before him. Now he felt a twinge of remorse at overlooking what was obviously an important ability, finding himself on terrain that was far less forgiving than a forest floor.

Francis began to walk more slowly, transferring his weight at what felt like a snail’s pace, grimacing each time the snow crunched.

Minutes passed ,and what should have taken him no time at all to reach the ice wall instead took almost twenty minutes as Francis crept along.

[ Stealth Increased - 12 ]

After almost thirty steps without making a sound, he got the notification that he had been hoping for. The smile he allowed himself messed up his next step, causing a crunch to echo off the wall of ice.

He frowned, his eyes glancing everywhere, trying to pick up something that might announce the presence of a beastkin. Chunks of frozen flesh were packed against the deep blue wall of ice, and yet there wasn’t as much as he had thought. Different colors of fur, most of them a variation of white or some kind of grey, could still be seen on a few of the pieces.

But why aren’t there bones? Or more flesh? I’ll need to ask if the barbarians are bringing them back or if the beastkins are hauling them off.

It was then that Francis froze mid-step.

He couldn’t smell anything but the faint hint of the smoke that drifted through the pass with the wind. He wasn’t sweating, the cold keeping him that way, and to his knowledge, there wasn’t a scent he was giving off.

Yet something tickled his nose. It was there.

Francis was certain that if Kerhi was close, she had to be behind him, most likely not leading. Yet his Battle Sense was telling him that about eight steps before him, something was off to his right.

The ground looked misshapen as it did everywhere. Streaks of blood that had been frozen, small holes in the ice where something had struck it with enough force to create a pocket. Still, his mind screamed that he wasn’t alone.

With both swords ready, Francis did his best to try to look like he didn’t have a clue that an ambush was most likely about to be sprung.

He kept his head turning, his eyes always scanning as he moved. Two steps later, Francis barely saw the shape that appeared from nowhere materialize before him like Kerhi had.

He brought his sword up, preparing to parry whatever it was that came, only to realize it wasn’t alone. There were three others, all coming at him from his front, right, and back sides.

Grinning, Francis met the ambush head-on, ready to learn what kind of beasts had come to claim his life.

Four catlike creatures with fur that soon looked like the shimmering white ones that Kerhi and Glitvall had worn sliced at him with curved claws. A pair attacked from the front, while the other two came at him from the back and side.

Each one was slightly smaller than him, but the speed at which they moved was remarkable. Their attack hadn’t made a sound, unlike his steps.

[ Iron Wall ]

[ Guarded Stance ]

Cuts came across his left side as Francis turned, deflecting the strike that had been aimed at his hamstring. He felt pain from the gash that the one on his right side landed on his quad. His left sword parried the attack aimed at his face, but Francis couldn’t do anything about the claws that tore through his hides, shredding them as if they were paper. His Thick Skin helped to minimize how deep they had sliced him, but their claws still did damage.

Blood flowed as all four retreated, reangling themselves to have a better position as Francis backed himself up to the ice wall.

Warrior’s Resolve had ignited with the first cut. Francis felt the thrill of battle overtaking him as four new foes all seemed to vanish again.

He could sense two of them, the scent of his own blood giving away their position. Part of him wanted to attack, but the other part knew that doing so would mean exposing his back and making it harder for him to defend himself.

Knowing they could potentially wait him out, knowing he might bleed to death, Francis made his choice.

Lowering his sword into a less defensive position, he began moving toward the barbarian camp. His ploy worked as two steps into his change of direction, the four shapes appeared, all attacking in unison. Dashing toward the one between him and the camp, Francis attacked.

[ Riposte ]

[ Quick Attack ]

[ Flurry ]

His right blade, the one Stenson had given him, sliced down the beast’s arm and sheared off a foot of it before the creature could wrench the limb back.

Francis’s left blade caught the beast that had raked him, punching into its chest. The blow pierced deeper than he expected, and the cat let out a scream. With his blade buried in the creature, the two nearest the camp swiped with both claws, carving flesh from his side and legs.

He ignored the pain, his skill muting it to a dull throb, turning his focus upon them as they continued their onslaught.

[ Riposte ]

[ Quick Attack ]

[ Flurry ]

[ Power Strike ]

Warrior’s Resolve roared inside him with every gash they had made, and Francis’s sword cut itself free from the beastkin he had run through. Before the closest one could react, its head had been removed. The fourth and only uninjured one tried to disengage, jumping backward as Francis’s sword came at it, but they had all underestimated his true strength and potential.

With a single step, Francis was on the beast as it tried to vanish into the battlefield. His Battle Sense knew where it was, specks of its headless allies’ blood having marked it. The gifts from Stenson and Baxter made short work of the beast, ending its life with two attacks.

Spinning, Francis turned to see the third one racing off across the field , holding its stump as blood dripped to the ice and snow.

He started to turn and chase it, until a voice called out.

“Don’t!” Kerhi said.

Stopping his pursuit, Francis carefully retraced his steps to where he had killed the three beastkin. A shape appeared from the wall of ice, and Kerhi lowered the veil she had been wearing.

“It’s a trap, isn’t it?” Francis asked.

She nodded, a small smile growing larger. “You would have found yourself surrounded before you realized it by more of these Frostfang Lynxkins . And as impressive as you just were, I don’t think you’d have lasted that long.”

“And these are what those furs are made from?” Francis asked, pointing a bloody sword at one.

“They are. Now tell me. Are you going to continue searching for what else is out here, or are you planning on taking these back?”

Francis was torn. Part of him wanted to keep pushing forward. His injuries were not life-threatening at the moment, and the cold was helping his blood to clot. His other option was to return to camp with three carcasses and see how long he might last this loop.

After a moment, he smiled, having made up his mind.

Chapter 10

Francis had been expecting a little bit of a cheer or some kind of celebration at him bringing back three Frostfang Lynxkins carcasses back, yet all he received were a few grunts and nods.

“You look… disappointed,” Kerhi said as they handed the bodies off to a pair of barbarians. “Like you were expecting something.”

“Was it that obvious?” Francis asked. “The last time I waded into the enemy territory and returned bloody and naked, I got a lot of cheers.”

“Well you didn’t return naked, and that probably would only bring laughter,” Kerhi said.

Francis wanted to reply, seeing how her face gave no hint of teasing or joking. Instead, he pulled at one of the torn pieces of hides and tapped a gash he had made to start bleeding again. “I don’t suppose I could trouble you for some healing.”

This time, Kerhi laughed and shook her head. “We don’t waste that kind of power on cuts like that. Come, I’ll take you to the healing section, and you can get someone to take care of you. After that I’m sure Glitvall will want to see you at some point.”

“Yeah… I was kind of expecting him to be here when we returned,” Francis said, following the shaman as she started to walk away. “I guess I’m not that special.”

She stopped, turned and drew close to him. He could see the look in her blue eyes as they narrowed.

“Killing three of these and returning isn’t that great a feat,” Kerhi stated. “I have witnessed many barbarians slay dozens and return home. Some come with no cuts, and others return missing an arm or two. I believed you were… different, but perhaps you are not if you expect some kind of honor for killing the smallest of the beasts we face.”

“I… It’s not…” Francis found himself in a hard spot, having to look up at the towering woman, sensing the others who were nearby watching and listening to his chastising. With a slightly bloodied hand, Francis rubbed his face and sighed. “Forgive me. I am being foolish and acting in a way that doesn’t honor your people or mine.”

Kerhi stood there for a few seconds, not saying a word, and then nodded once. She spun on her heels and began walking in the direction of the camp, where the healing tents were located.

I’m going to have to get used to not being that important if I want to survive here… I wonder what someone must do to get at least a halfhearted cheer.

As he caught up with Kerhi, he remembered exactly what had been required. All he needed to do was let her rip his heart out.

***

“At least you don’t squirm or complain like some of them do,” the older healer, Hilde, said as she finished up stitching him together. “Those should leave nice scars. All you’ll need now is a few tattoos to speak about your character, and a woman might consider you worth a night or two.”

“Only a night?” Francis asked, having endured the older woman’s constant teasing for almost an hour. Her fingers were well-worn, but her skill with a needle and thread was impressive.

“Bah, do you hear that?” Hilde said as she reached for more of the awful-smelling poultice and put some on the spot she had just stitched. “He thinks he can last longer than a single night!”

All throughout the tent, both men and women laughed with her. Some winced in pain as they did, but the fifty or so who were recovering all seemed to enjoy his constant teasing.

Frowning, Francis just stared at the blond and gray-haired woman. Her blue eyes sparkled with a hint of mischief as she grinned at him.

“Oh, don’t be a sourwort,” Hilde teased. “You wouldn’t be the only one. Many of the men can’t last that long either.”

This time, it was only the dozen or so women in the tent who laughed.

“You’ll need to take a few days and let them heal,” the healer said. “Probably in three days, you should be fine to return to fighting. Just remember to come every morning, and I’ll replace the old bandages.”

Three days? Stitches don’t usually heal that fast.

“So I’m good to go then?” Francis asked, sitting up as Hilde finished wrapping his waist.

“You are… though you might need to find some new furs. These are going to go into the cleaning tubs and need to be repaired or converted into something else.”

Francis nodded, not concerned that he was only wearing a thin pair of leather pants. “Well then, I guess I’ll be off. Thank you again for the gentle touch. Maybe next time you could kiss each of the spots before you wrap them up.”

He was surprised to see a slight hint of red shade the older woman’s cheeks, and laughter came from all the others who had been in earshot.

“You best not tempt me,” Hilde replied, pointing a finger at him. “I might just pull out a few stitches when you come tomorrow, and we’ll see how you handle it then.”

More laughter came, and Francis shook his head, ready to escape the scent of blood, sweat, and some kind of mixture of herbs that smelled horrible.

Leaving the tent reminded him that he was not accustomed to the cold. Inside the healing tent, it was warm, with a small fire, lots of bodies, and no cold breeze. Now his skin immediately had goosebumps as the wind struck his naked skin.

A few barbarians chuckled when he shivered, but Francis didn’t see Kerhi or anyone else who seemed to be waiting for him. Unsure what to do with himself, Francis quickly made his way to the tent he had been given.

Upon arriving, he found no one standing outside and was thankful for the warmth of the small fire and the small bowl of food that was waiting for him. It was colder than warm, but he was hungry and a bit frustrated as he sat there on his bed, eating.

What is it about these people? Sometimes I get right what should be said, but then I am totally wrong about how to impress them. Confidence is important, but looking for honor or praise is bad. And the whole man and woman thing is intense. It’s like the women hold all the power and the guy just has to accept it. Michael would probably still thrive here. He always understood women better.

His bowl was empty faster than his thoughts, and Francis looked at the pile sitting on the small table. Someone had dropped off a few new furs, but the truth was they didn’t look near as nice as the first set.

If I’m not careful, I might end up relegated to the quarters with all the other barbarians.

That thought made Francis shudder. Imagining himself being in a tent with fifty or more barbarians seemed worse than the training area he woke up in every time he died.

His spoon kept tapping the rim of the wooden bowl, his eyes focusing upon the furs sitting on the table.

Grunting, Francis knew what he needed to do. Sitting here stewing wasn’t going to change a thing.

***

Francis’s left leg wasn’t working as he tried to change positions. Even with Warrior’s Resolve roaring like a furnace that could melt metal, his hamstring being sliced made it almost impossible to stay upright.

Half a dozen of the lynxkins surrounded him, many of them nursing wounds and injuries. Over twenty were dead as he carved a path toward the enemy camp.

Frustration was getting the better of him, but Francis needed time to think. Sitting in a tent wasn’t going to help, and waiting around to see if Glitvall or Kerhi might swing by seemed like a stupid idea.

He had considered going and watching them work metal, but the truth was, right now, Francis just needed to do what he was good at. Killing beastkins.

Less than a quarter of a mile toward the enemy lines, Francis had encountered pack upon pack of these lynxkins that always seemed to be in groups of three or four. Until recently, they seemed to stay back if he encountered another group while fighting a pack. After having killed at least five sets, the beastkins appeared unconcerned about whatever rules they operated under.

Two came from each side. A half-second behind them were more beastkins approaching at the angles. They were content, clawing and slicing at him. Their white fur was stained red by their blood and his. Yellow eyes seemed hungry to feast upon his flesh, and Francis knew it wasn’t going to be that much longer before he fell.

Still, he fought back.

Every skill he had was used. He was at his limits, calling upon Warrior’s Resolve to not give up. Claws ripped off more flesh, his new leather outfit torn to shreds. He didn’t feel the cold anymore. Even though his body was basically naked, loose shreds of leather stuck to the blood that froze on his skin, Francis hacked at the ones that drew close.

Two more lynxkins died to his blades as multiple claws ripped flesh and tendons from his legs.

This is how an animal feels when attacked by a pack.

His legs gave out, both of them injured beyond the ability of Warrior’s Resolve to keep him upright. Even then, Francis swung and thrust, scoring more wounds and managing a strike that pierced a heart.

As he crashed into the icy ground, the lynxkins pounced upon him, teeth and claws going after any flesh they could find. Francis unleashed one last attack with a Power Strike–charged fist, the sound of bone breaking under the impact silencing for a moment the cry of victory that came from the beasts.

***

“So you’re asking me for advice instead of doing what you always do,” Stenson said. “You’re that worked up about all this?”

Groaning, Francis nodded. He could see the way the general was looking at him. There wasn’t shock, or even displeasure. It was something else. “It feels worse than trying to figure out the Spires. At least there, I knew how our kingdom worked. Over there… It’s as if everything I do is either absolutely right or absolutely wrong. There’s no middle ground.”

“That’s the way things are here,” Stenson replied. “You’ll find that there is only right or wrong in life, and the ability to stand in the middle is difficult.”

“But you can… at least for a while,” Francis said. “I mean… you’re doing it. I’m doing it.”

Stenson’s eyebrow rose. “I’m doing what? Standing in the middle?”

The tone of the older man had changed, and Francis threw up both hands. “See! Right there. I just said something that you consider offensive.”

“Because it is,” the general stated. “I have never played the middle ground. I’ve told you what I care about, and based on the story you just told me, we have agreed to get what we both want. You desire your brother to be alive and safe. I desire our kingdom to survive, which means all the kingdoms must win. For that to happen, you must get stronger, and I will help guide your path to get there. How is that the middle ground?”

“I… you… argh.” Francis shook his head in frustration. “I’m just… how did you learn to talk and make friends with those in other kingdoms?”

Stenson shook his head and chuckled. “You use that word friend  way too easily, son. I think we define it differently. I respect them. They respect me. We occasionally have goals that align and operate in those moments on the same path. Sometimes we are at odds, and so we go in the direction we feel we must. There is respect in how we do it.”

“But what do I do?” Francis asked. “I can’t make friends like that. Whatever I do is limited to my time between deaths. How long can I go before I die?”

“Forgive me, but surely I must have told you that at some point you might need to find that out?” Stenson asked. “Have you or have you simply omitted telling me of a time like that?”

Shaking his head, Francis frowned. “But the war! My brother.”

“Will all still be there unless something drastically changes,” Stenson replied. “You say you’ve died thousands of times and nothing has changed. I don’t see why you can’t try to live a week, two weeks, or longer. I’m fairly certain I’ve also mentioned it would be easier to do it on your own because if you and Michael ran, he would be your limiting factor.”

The stupid binding… and the only way to break it is to find the mage who cast it and get them to remove it or ask someone like Priscilla to attempt to break it.

Francis knew that wasn’t the best option either, as Stenson had informed him once of how difficult a task it was.

Feeling trapped, Francis stood. “What if I just want to go and throw myself back at our enemy? Or Glitvall’s enemy?”

“And do you have some kind of time frame in mind that you would be doing such a thing?” the general asked.

“Until I work the rage out of me, grow strong enough, or reach a point where I need help to figure out the next step.”

Stenson chuckled, that slight smile of his appearing. “Well… I guess I would normally say ‘have at it.’”

***

Francis panted, his breath unleashing a cloud of white as he stared at the army before him.

Almost two hundred deaths to get this far…

Behind him lay a trail of frozen blood and carcasses. Francis had slain well over a hundred of the lynxkins to get here. Now came a new foe. About twenty of the largest polar bears he had ever seen. A few deaths prior, he had seen them, waiting, almost as if they were challenging Francis to get to them. The barbarians called them Ursaloth Brutes and had warned him that they were exceptionally difficult to bring down.

Each was easily ten feet tall and carried a weapon that was the same size. Some were hammers with massive stone heads, while others had giant stone axes.

Taking a deep breath, Francis smiled. “Well, who wants to die first?”

Chapter 11

Francis saw the larger one in the middle point at him with a stone axe. It growled, and one on the end came toward him.

Unlike the rhinokin, who seemed more comfortable charging on all four legs, these bears walked like a man.

His opponent carried a large stone hammer and gave a few practice swings before smashing it into the icy ground, sending up a spray of white.

Okay… so I don’t want to get hit by that.

Francis prepared himself, mostly uninjured as he had chain armor on. It had taken a few deaths to get it right, but he was getting to the point where the cold wasn’t bothering him much at all anymore while fighting.

Every time he started a new loop, Francis immediately headed out to the battlefield, ignoring the taunts that came from all the barbarians; it also didn’t matter what he wore upon arriving to Tules.

He had gotten stronger and faster. He didn’t want to bother with the gains in skills, happy to have reached the Advanced Perception threshold. Awakening it a hundred or so deaths ago had made it a lot easier to detect the lynxkins.

[ Status ]

Francis Lancaster

Age 17

Strength: 49

Endurance: 51

Agility: 50

Wisdom: 31

Perception: 40

Magic: 10

Francis waited for his opponent to get closer, and when the ursaloth was about twenty yards away, he ran toward it.

The bear lifted its hammer, poised to strike but didn’t swing. Francis dodged sideways, using his speed to see if he could draw out its attack, but nothing came. All the ursaloth did was turn, keeping Francis before him, weapon held ready.

It’s being patient. Like it knows the reach its weapon has and won’t leave itself open.

Surprised at how smart the beast seemed, Francis knew that eventually, he’d have to make the first move.

[ Iron Wall ]

[ Guarded Stance ]

He needed to get some other offensive skills, something to close the distance, but so far none had been kind enough to be learned. This left him relying upon his natural speed. Darting in, Francis held both swords at the ready, expecting the attack that would come.

As he got close enough that dodging backward shouldn’t be possible, the ursaloth swung. The two-handed hammer moved faster than Francis had anticipated. He used both swords to parry the attack; the power of the blow sent vibrations up his arms and sent him backward a few steps.

With the weapon now out of position, Francis darted in, both swords slicing into the thick white fur. He managed to get in five slashes before he had to retreat, avoiding the two-handed hammer that was coming for him.

Grunts and low roars came from the line of ursaloths, and Francis saw why they were making what sounded like a chuckle. Each of his cuts had barely caused the beast to bleed. His opponent didn’t seem fazed at all by the strikes to its hip and leg.

Well… that’s new.

Facing a thick-skinned opponent was something he was used to, but these bears resisted the cuts from the swords gifted to him by the king and general.

Francis shifted his stance, the snow grinding under his boots. The bear’s eyes, two small yellow dots beneath its thick brow, never blinked. It rolled a shoulder, as if it were some warrior getting ready to fight.

It’s acting like a person. That’s crazy. Fine. Let’s see how patient you stay when I take off one of your legs.

Francis circled low, his swords ready. Each breath he took sent out a puff of white. The ursaloth gave a low, rumbling growl that vibrated through the ice. Francis dashed in. Once more, the hammer swept wide, just a little too high. He ducked under the arc, both blades flashing across the same patch of muscle just above the left knee.

The blades bit into the fur, red blood appearing against the white.

He backed off a few yards as the ursaloth got its weapon back into position. It stomped twice on the leg Francis had cut, seemingly to test its weight. It had a noticeable effect on the beastkin’s movement.

Good. I guess this is another lesson in wearing something down.

Francis went in again. The hammer smashed into the snow next to him. He used both of his swords to parry the massive stone head. As a cloud of white was sent upward, Francis unleashed another set of attacks on the same spot. This time, the ursaloth let out a roar that echoed across the valley. It was loud enough that it vibrated through his ribs.

Francis kept moving, always using quick, slashing movements. It was the same pattern. Attack then retreat. An unending number of strikes were placed upon the same wound. It tried to keep up, but failed: The left leg was covered in red from the knee down. The ursaloth gave up using the patience tactic; instead, it now charged at him. Something unexpected happened when the beastkin charged. The blood that had been flowing freely stopped. It lunged, bringing the hammer down with a crack that split the ground.

Francis moved to the right, but as he did, the hammer followed him, moving with a speed and force that hadn’t been there before. It struck his side, the impact sending him flying a dozen yards.

“Shit,” Francis cursed as he immediately got to his feet, facing the now-charging beastkin.

Does it have something like Death’s Dance?

With no time to waste, Francis got serious, using skills he had held back to try to get a measure of the new foe.

[ Riposte ]

[ Quick Attack ]

[ Flurry ]

His blade cut and sliced as the weight of the beast moved past him. It stumbled, dropping its large hammer, dragging its injured leg. It was down on all three. Francis sidestepped a swipe from the ursaloth’s claws, his boots sliding on the blood-slick ice, and chopped with both blades into the same damaged area of flesh. He felt his weapon connect with the bone.

The ursaloth cried out once again, swiping with its free claw. It was becoming faster, making Francis consider the truth that he might be facing an enemy with an ability like his. The attack slashed him across the ribs, a pair of claws piercing his armor. Warrior’s Resolve ignited as the damage it had done was exactly what Francis thought a strike from this thing would cause.

He reset his feet, feeling the warmth of his blood flowing down his side. The cold wind picked up, racing across the battlefield, highlighting the stark contrast between the warmth of life and the coldness of death.

Power flooded his limbs, burning away the ache. Francis moved before the bear could raise its claw again.

[ Power Strike ]

Francis pivoted hard, setting his feet and channeling everything into one strike. The right sword cut deep, severing through tendon and joint; the left sword followed, ensuring that there was no flesh left to hold the limb together. Its leg came free in a red burst of steam and blood.

The beastkin fell sideways, bellowing, pawing at the frozen ground. Francis moved in, using its injured state to his advantage. He planted a boot on its snout and drove his swords down through both eye sockets.

He was panting. Everything was silent when the last breath of a dead ursaloth was given. Looking up as he yanked the swords free, Francis saw the other ursaloths watching from their line. A low, angry rumble came from them all.

Then, from the largest one of the ranks, most likely the alpha lifted its head and growled. It was short but carried the weight of a command. One of the bears at the far end turned and began to lumber forward. The stone axe it held was dragged through the snow, leaving a furrow as if planting a field for harvest.

Francis wiped the blood from his face and squared himself toward his new opponent..

“Round two,” he muttered, lifting his weapons.

The second ursaloth didn’t do what Francis had expected. Unlike the first, it charged.

Francis barely had time to set his feet before the axe came at him in a vicious overhead chop. He crossed both swords above his head, stopping the stone blade between them.

The impact drove him to one knee, snow exploding outward from where his body struck the frozen ground. His arms protested, Francis’s muscles having to work harder than he had expected to keep the axe from splitting his skull.

This one’s way stronger!

The ursaloth didn’t pull back for another swing. Instead, it adjusted one hand on the haft and used its weight and momentum to press the advantage. Francis felt his knee sinking deeper into the snow, his arms beginning to shake.

He threw himself sideways, abandoning the block and letting the axe crash down where he’d been kneeling. Francis rolled through the snow, came up in a crouch, and immediately had to throw himself backward as the beastkin swung its axe horizontally. Time felt slow as the tip of the weapon head almost grazed his chest.

Shit! It’s faster too!

Francis backpedaled, trying to create some distance, but the ursaloth kept coming. It swung again and again, each attack flowing into the next with practiced ease. The beastkin was far more skilled than most of the ones he had faced in his kingdom. This thing knew how to fight.

A diagonal slash forced Francis to parry with his right sword. The impact jarred his arm so badly he nearly dropped the blade. Before he could recover, the ursaloth reversed the axe, bringing it back in a rising cut that Francis felt the cold breeze the attack created as he avoided most of it by bending backward.

The stone edge caught the front of his chain armor, tearing through several links and slicing through the skin and muscle of his chest. Blood gushed out of the wound immediately, hot against his cold skin.

Francis tried to counter, lunging forward with both swords aimed at the bear’s midsection. The ursaloth simply batted the attacks aside with the haft of its axe, then drove a furry knee into Francis’s gut.

Air exploded from his lungs. He stumbled backward, gasping, trying to force his lungs to work again. The beast’s massive fist came out of nowhere striking him across his head and sending Francis to the ground.

Stars burst across his vision. The metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.

Get up! Get up or you’re dead.

Francis hadn’t felt this overwhelmed in a while. Even fighting his way through all the lynxkins hadn’t pushed him to this degree. He forced himself to his hands and knees, his swords somewhere in the snow nearby. The world felt off, and he could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears. Warrior’s Resolve was filling his body with power that he couldn’t seem to control.

The ursaloth’s shadow fell over him.

Francis dove for his right sword, fingers closing around the grip just as the axe came down. He rolled, bringing the blade up in a desperate slash that caught the bear across its forearm.

[ Power Strike ]

Blood splashed against the white snow, but the wound was shallow.

The ursaloth growled and kicked Francis in the ribs, seemingly unaffected by the cut.

Something cracked in his chest. A notification flew by, but the pain he felt overwhelmed him, making it through Pain Resistance. Francis found himself airborne for a brief, terrible moment before crashing down hard enough to knock what little air he’d regained from his lungs.

Each attempt to breathe sent agony through his chest. Francis looked up through blurred vision and saw the ursaloth approaching, its axe held casually in one hand. It wasn’t even hurried, knowing that Francis was finished.

Francis’s fingers searched in the snow, trying to find his sword but couldn’t. His left arm wasn’t working at all. The punch must have done something to his neck or shoulder. Everything on that side felt wrong, disconnected.

The ursaloth raised its axe.

Using the power that surged through Francis’s broken body, he moved as his fingers found the hilt he had been trying to find.

Francis lunged at the beast, swaying, driving the blade at the ursaloth’s stomach.

[ Riposte ]

Francis parried the beastkin’s attack, his blade sliding along the axe’s edge, allowing him to get close and land a strike of his own.

[ Power Strike ]

[ Quick Attack ]

[ Flurry ]

Multiple cuts appeared on the bear’s stomach, yet the ursaloth barely seemed to notice.

Francis unleashed everything he had, his sword moving in a blur of steel. But it wasn’t enough.

The ursaloth absorbed the damage, and its own version of Death’s Dance, Warrior’s Resolve, or something similar, kept it fighting despite the minor wounds accumulating across its body. With a roar that vibrated Francis’s body, the ursaloth dropped the axe and grabbed Francis by the throat with both massive hands.

Francis’s sword fell from numb fingers as those hands squeezed.

A memory of King Baxter doing the same thing to him bubbled up.

Francis’s vision immediately started to darken around the edges. He clawed at the thick fur, but they might as well have been iron bars. The ursaloth easily lifted him off the ground, bringing Francis’s face close to its own.

Francis could see his reflection in those small yellow eyes. Even with blurred vision, he could see himself dying again.

The ursaloth squeezed harder.

Francis’s neck popped, and the last of Warrior’s Resolve faded.

The last thing he heard was the low, victorious growl rumbling from the beast’s chest.

Then darkness took him.

***

The sound of a bell rang out.

His eyes popped open, and Francis was staring at the familiar ceiling of the room he shared with his brother. Every muscle in his body tensed as his hands moved to his throat, still able to feel the furry fingers that had gripped it.

“It’s earlier than usual,” Michael grunted as he sat up. “What gives?”

Francis sat up slowly. “Just another day,” he muttered, swinging his legs off the bed. “Back to the grind.”

Michael frowned at him, clearly not understanding, but Francis barely noticed. His mind was already turning over the fight, analyzing where he’d gone wrong.

The second one was stronger and faster. It was aggressive, whereas the first was defensive. It knew how to fight, possessed techniques, and did not rely just on instinct. And that ability it used when I damaged its leg… some kind of berserker skill that stopped the bleeding and increased its speed?

He needed more information. The ursaloths weren’t just strong; they were trained warriors with their own skills and abilities. Francis felt the frustration he had felt hundreds of deaths ago vanish.

I’m going to have to talk with Glitvall and figure out his thoughts on this thing. Maybe he knows what abilities these bears have, what I’m actually up against. Because going in blind against warriors this skilled is just asking to get my ass handed to me over and over. Or maybe I’ll let him tell me what I should do next.

Chapter 12

[ Swordsmanship Increased - 73 ]

[ Tracking Increased - 15 ]

[ Stealth Increased - 14 ]

[ Pain Resistance Increased - 60 ]

[ Power Strike Increased - 56 ]

[ Strong Bones Increased - 58 ]

[ Quick Attack Increased - 46 ]

[ Guarded Stance Increased - 34 ]

[ Riposte Increased - 38 ]

[ Thick Skin Increased - 30 ]

[ Iron Wall Increased - 28 ]

[ Dual Wield Increased - 45 ]

[ Flurry Increased - 25 ]

[ Battle Sense Increased - 17 ]

[ Warrior’s Resolve Increased - 7 ]

Francis wondered how many more deaths it might take before Swordsmanship reached the Master rank. He could feel that it was improving with each death, but it wasn’t as fast as he had hoped. Francis had shared everything that had taken place, and Glitvall was silent, his eyes closed.

I guess Stenson was right… the thought that it takes those who reach that rank over thirty years is insane. Knowing that Kels has reached it without having to die, like me, and having the Fast Learner skill shows it’s possible.

A snap brought Francis back to the tent he was in. His mind had been wandering while he waited for the warchief to speak. Glitvall’s massive fingers were still in the air, and the warchief was frowning.

“Sorry, did you finish thinking about whatever it was you were?” Francis asked.

The older barbarian lowered his hand and leaned forward, his chair creaking under the shift in weight. “Two hundred deaths just to reach those bears… Two hundred times you fought through the lynxkins alone.”

“Give or take,” Francis said. “I stopped counting precisely after the first hundred or so.”

Glitvall’s expression was unreadable for a moment. Then he grunted and frowned. “The lynxkins are dangerous enough for my people to face in pairs. Fighting them alone, over and over…” He shook his head. “Most of my warriors would think I disliked them if I asked one to fight a pack of four alone.”

Most people only get to die for someone once.

“The ursaloths,” Glitvall continued, “are one of our main problems. They hold the center of their battle line, right where the pass narrows between the ice cliffs. Strong, disciplined, and smart enough to use actual tactics. Unlike some of the other beasts we face.”

Francis straightened slightly. This was the information he needed. “What else are you dealing with out there?”

The warchief stood and moved to a crude map spread across a wooden table. It showed the valley, the cliffs, and rough positions marked with stones and carved figures.

“The bears hold here,” Glitvall said, tapping the center. “But the enemy is not just one type of beast. They have variety, and that makes them deadly. On the flanks, we face Frost Serpentkins. Scaled bastards with blue hides that form shield walls tighter than anything I’ve seen. Their venom slows your blood until wounds freeze shut. Men die slow from that poison, trapped in their own frozen flesh.”

That sounds like a nightmare.

“They breathe a mist too,” Glitvall added. “Blind you with it, then close in with spears. We’ve learned to maintain distance and use fire when possible. But fire is scarce this far north. Wood is getting harder to come by, and we have cut down many of the pines that once sealed off so much of this land.”

Francis studied the map. “What about the cliffs? Can’t you flank them from above?”

“We tried.” The warchief’s jaw tightened. “Lost two full parties to the Ramhorn Vessers and the Frost Reavers. The rams—goat-like things with black horns—they jump like nothing I’ve ever seen. Full armor, weighted chains, and they leap across gaps that few men or women I know could hope to jump over. They use those chains to pull you off balance, then cave your skull in with spiked maces.”

“And the Reavers?” Francis asked.

“Ravenkin. Crowkin. Whatever you want to call them.” Glitvall’s voice carried a hint of disgust. “Black feathers, smart as any man, and they fight in threes. They’ll circle you, harass you with arrows, and if somehow you manage to make one land, they also carry curved daggers. Some of them cast spells—fire, ice, it doesn’t matter. They’ll burn you or freeze you depending on their mood.” He paused, then added, “You want to know the worst part? They mimic voices. Human voices. We’ve lost men who followed calls for help, only to find Reavers waiting in ambush. One of the packs that returned had a set of twins. Rare things in our kingdom. His brother had died, ignoring the sense that their mother couldn’t be calling out to him. The fool ran right over a trap, dying before the rest of his pack.”

Gods, these things are organized. This isn’t just some random horde. They’re coordinated, using tactics.

“There’s more,” Glitvall said. “The walruskins hold the edges near the frozen shores when the battle line extends that far. Big tusked brutes with blubber so thick arrows bounce off. They use tridents and barbed nets to drag men down. Once you’re on the ground with them, you don’t get back up.”

Francis absorbed it all, his mind already working through the implications. “So the ursaloths are the backbone, the serpentkins hold formation, the Ramhorns and Reavers control high ground, and the walruskins are the anchors on the flanks.”

“You learn fast,” Glitvall said, a note of approval in his voice. “That’s why we don’t push anymore. We send out small parties, hit them fast, kill what we can, then retreat before they can coordinate a response. It’s not winning the war, but it keeps us alive.”

“Like my kingdom,” Francis muttered. “The beasts only appear when we go out there. Otherwise, they stay back, waiting.”

Glitvall nodded. “Same here. They don’t attack the camp. It’s like they’re testing us, measuring how much we can take.” He returned to his chair and sat heavily. “Which brings me to my recommendation.”

Francis waited.

“You should go with one of our raiding parties,” Glitvall said. “See how we fight, learn the patterns. Your loop lets you die and try again, but dying blind won’t teach you anything you can’t already figure out on your own. Watch experienced warriors work together. Learn what works and what doesn’t. Even better… You might learn to use a real weapon. Like an axe.”

That… actually makes sense. Except the axe part.

“How long will it take to arrange that?” Francis asked. “The party, not hunting with an axe.”

“A few days,” Glitvall said, frowning. “I need to convince the jarl and the clan leaders. Outside of calling for a full assault—which we won’t—any decision about who fights and when goes through the council. It’s not fast, but it’s how we survive up here. Everyone gets a say. Sometimes… some like to talk more than they should, but they are allowed that chance as the leader of their clan.”

Francis frowned. “So what am I supposed to do while you’re convincing them? Just wait around?”

“No.” Glitvall’s expression shifted to something that might have been amusement. “You’re going to the forges. Learn to work metal.”

“What?” Francis blinked. “I need to train, not pretend to be a blacksmith. Every hour I’m not fighting is an hour wasted—”

Glitvall raised a hand, cutting him off. The gesture was gentle but firm. “You asked for my advice, Francis. Here it is: You cannot temper metal all the time.”

Francis opened his mouth to argue, but the warchief continued.

“I’m afraid your heart will eventually lose the fire you possess if you burn too hot for too long. Even my people, who are known for our temper and hot flashes, know the importance of cooling off. Perhaps that is why our gods have given us this land—to teach us to control the fire inside. You say your brother is the thing that drives you to get stronger, yet you told me you just died two hundred times because you were upset  at how we treated you. A warrior doesn’t have time for their feelings to be hurt.”

Those words stung in a way he hadn’t expected.

He’s right. I can feel it. The frustration, the anger, the constant cycle of dying and starting over. It’s wearing on me more than I want to admit.

Francis let out a slow breath. “Fine. I’ll go to the forges, but I’m not promising I’ll be good at it.”

Glitvall’s laugh was deep and genuine. “Good. A man who thinks he’ll be good at everything is a fool. A man who’s willing to try anyway? That’s someone worth teaching.”

He stood and clapped Francis on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble slightly. “Ask for Tormund when you get there. Tell him I sent you. He’ll know what to do.”

“Tormund,” Francis repeated. “Got it.”

As Francis turned to leave, Glitvall called after him.

“Francis.”

He paused at the tent flap.

“Two hundred deaths to reach the bears,” the warchief said quietly. “The fact that you did, and you’re still standing here asking how to do better… Stenson was right about you. I won’t promise to coddle you like your general did. I’ll keep my promise, though, to help shape you into what you need to become.”

Francis didn’t know what to say in response to that statement. He had never felt like he was coddled, but rather than arguing, Francis just nodded and stepped out into the cold.

***

The forges were easy to find. Francis just followed the sound of hammers on metal and the orange glow that seemed to defy the perpetual gray of the northern sky. He had originally considered following the smoke, but there was tons of that coming from every part of the camp.

Heat hit him the moment he stepped inside the open-sided building. After so many deaths fighting in the cold, the warmth was almost overwhelming. Sweat broke out across his forehead immediately.

A dozen barbarians worked at various stations, some hammering, others tending fires or quenching metal in barrels of water that steamed and hissed. The air smelled like coal, hot iron, and sweat. It was a reminder of a childhood he tried to forget. Being a Lancaster meant knowing about ore and metal. He hadn’t spent much time in the smelting area or forge of his family’s property, but he had more than enough to remember the smell.

This is going to be miserable, isn’t it? It’s like having to relive some of my worst memories.

“You lost?” a voice called out.

Francis turned to see a shorter barbarian, though still taller than him, approaching. The man had a thick black beard braided with small metal rings, and his bare arms were covered in old burn scars.

“I’m looking for Tormund,” Francis said. “Glitvall sent me.”

The man’s eyebrows rose. “Did he now?” He looked Francis up and down, taking in the southern armor and the dual swords. “You’re the short one from the south, then. The one who sits alone with our warchief.”

Word travels fast up here.

“That’s me,” Francis said.

“I’m Tormund.” The blacksmith gestured to an empty station near the back. “Come on. Let’s see if those hands of yours can do more than swing a worthless sword.”

Francis followed, already feeling the heat from the nearby forge. Tormund grabbed a leather apron from a hook and tossed it at him.

“Put that on. You’ll burn yourself otherwise.”

Francis did as instructed, tying the apron around his waist. It was too big, made for someone with a barbarian’s build, but it would work. Donning the piece of leather tugged at a memory he couldn’t see. There had been something… a hole was there now, of a time with Michael.

I’ll need to ask him next time we have one of those moments. Just how many memories did they steal from me?

Tormund picked up a pair of tongs and a hammer, setting them on the anvil. “First lesson: metalwork is about patience. You heat it, you shape it, you cool it. Rush any step, and the metal breaks. Understand?”

“I understand,” Francis said.

Even if I don’t like it.

“Good.” Tormund pulled a piece of raw iron from a pile and thrust it into the forge. “Now watch, and try not to burn yourself. Glitvall would have my head if I sent you back looking like a roasted pig.”

Francis watched as the metal began to glow, the heat radiating off it in waves. Around them, the other smiths continued their work, the rhythmic sound of hammers creating an almost hypnotic pattern.

Maybe Glitvall’s right. Maybe I do need this. Something to clear my head before I go back out there and die another hundred times.

The iron turned orange, then yellow, then white-hot.

“Now,” Tormund said, pulling it from the forge with the tongs. “Let’s see if you can make something that doesn’t look like shit.”

Francis picked up the hammer.

Here goes nothing.

Chapter 13

Francis brought the hammer down.

The strike landed on the glowing metal with a dull clang that felt wrong the moment it happened. The iron bent awkwardly under the blow, folding in on itself instead of spreading flat like he’d intended.

“Shit,” Francis muttered, pulling back to examine his work.

The piece looked terrible. It was misshapen, too thin in some spots, lumpy in others. Nothing like the smooth, even metal Tormund had demonstrated moments before.

Tormund leaned over, arms crossed, and studied the mangled iron. After a few seconds, he grunted.

“Well?” Francis asked.

“It’s nothing,” Tormund said flatly.

“Nothing?”

“You crafted nothing ,” the blacksmith repeated. “That’s worthless. We can’t use it, can’t fix it. Best thing to do is melt it down and start over.” He picked up the tongs and thrust the ruined piece back into the forge. “Watch again.”

Francis watched as Tormund pulled a fresh piece of iron from the pile. The blacksmith’s movements were deliberate, unhurried. He placed the metal in the forge and waited, not bothering to explain what he was doing.

The iron began to glow. First a dull red, then brighter, shifting through shades of orange and yellow as the heat built.

“See that?” Tormund said, pointing with the tongs. “That yellow? That’s when it’s ready. Not before. You hit it when it’s red, and the metal doesn’t want to move. You hit it when it’s white, you’ve burned it. Ruined. Can’t fix burned metal. You’ll have to start all over.”

Tormund pulled the glowing iron from the forge and set it on the anvil. The first strike rang out clean and sharp. The metal spread evenly under the hammer, exactly where the barbarian wanted it to go.

“You hit it too hard,” Tormund continued, never pausing his work. “Like many who are first starting, you think more force would make it bend faster. All you did was damage it. Can’t burn too hot, boy. Not with metal, not with anything.”

Is he talking about the metal, or me?

Francis didn’t ask. He just watched as Tormund shaped the iron, each strike measured and controlled. Within minutes, the piece looked perfect—flat, even, ready for whatever came next.

“Now you try again,” Tormund said, handing him the tongs. “And this time, wait for the yellow.”

***

By the end of the first day, Francis had ruined six pieces of iron.

His arms ached in a good way from the repetitive motion of hammering, and his hands were starting to blister, despite the thick gloves Tormund had given him. Sweat soaked through his shirt, and the heat from the forge made breathing feel like work. Even with his stats, this new moment had pushed him in ways he hadn’t expected.

How do people do this for years?

“You’re thinking too much,” Tormund said, appearing beside him with a waterskin. “Here. Drink.”

Francis took the offered water and drank deeply. It was cold, probably pulled from snow melt, and it felt like life returning to his body. It had a slight aftertaste, but Francis chose not to comment on it.

Hopefully, none of the snow was yellow.

“Thinking is good,” Francis said between gulps. “How else do you figure out what you’re doing wrong?”

“Thinking comes after,” Tormund replied. He took the waterskin back and gestured at the forge. “Right now, you’re standing there trying to plan every strike before you make it. Wondering if the angle’s right, if the force is right, if the metal is right. All that thinking makes you hesitate. Hesitation means the metal cools. Cooled metal doesn’t move.”

“So what, I just hit it and hope?”

Tormund laughed. “No. You feel it. The metal tells you what it needs. You listen, you adjust. Can’t plan a conversation before it happens, can you? Same with this.”

Actually, I can plan conversations. I’ve had some of them hundreds of times.

But Francis didn’t say that. He just nodded and picked up the hammer again.

***

The second day started before dawn.

[ Blacksmithing - 2 ]

[ Metal Working - 2 ]

Francis wasn’t sure if those gains were good or not. Having spent half a day feeling like he wasn’t accomplishing anything, the first notification had come. Tormund had asked what had been wrong because Francis’s next swing was off due to focusing on the words that had appeared.

Still… I doubt I’d be this far if it weren’t for his constant supervision. No one else is getting this kind of help.

Francis arrived at the forge to find Tormund already working, the orange glow of the fire the only light in the pre-dawn darkness.

“You’re early,” Tormund said without looking up.

“Couldn’t sleep,” Francis admitted.

Tormund grunted and gestured to the station Francis had been using. “Good. More time to practice. Today you’re going to learn about flaws.”

“Flaws?”

The blacksmith pulled a piece of iron from the scrap pile and held it up. In the firelight, Francis could see a dark line running through the metal.

“This came from a batch of ore we smelted last month,” Tormund explained. “Looked good at first. But when we started working it, we found this. A crack, running deep through the whole piece.”

The barbarian set it on the anvil and pointed at the flaw. “Now, some smiths would throw this out. Say it’s worthless, can’t be used. But that’s wasteful. Metal’s too valuable up here to throw away just because it’s not perfect.”

Tormund picked up his hammer. “Finding the flaws is important. You can either learn to work around them or start all over. Sometimes starting over is the right choice. But sometimes, if you know what you’re doing, you can work with what you have.”

He thrust the flawed iron into the forge and waited for it to heat. When it glowed yellow, he pulled it out and began hammering, but his strikes were different this time. Gentler, more precise, working around the crack instead of through it.

“See that?” he said. “I’m not trying to fix the flaw. Can’t fix it. It’s always going to be there. But I can shape the metal so the flaw doesn’t matter. Make something useful despite it.”

Francis watched, fascinated. The crack was still visible, but Tormund was slowly transforming the piece into something that resembled a bracket or mounting.

“What if the flaw is too big?” Francis asked. “What if it’s in the wrong place, and you can’t work around it?”

“Then you start over,” Tormund said simply. “Melt it down, try again. No shame in that. Better to start fresh than force something that won’t work.”

How many times have I started over? How many deaths did it take before I figured out the right path?

“Your turn,” Tormund said, handing him a flawed piece. “Let’s see what you can do with this.”

Francis took the iron and studied it. The flaw was obvious once he knew to look for it—a thin line running diagonally through the center.

Work around it. Don’t try to fix it. Just make something useful.

Francis felt himself learning lessons he already knew but in a different way. Not sure if Glitvall had expected or known this would happen, he heated the metal and began to work.

***

The piece Francis made was ugly, but it held together.

Tormund examined it, turning it over in his hands, then nodded once. “Not bad. I wouldn’t use it for anything important, but it’ll do. That’s progress. You never know when someone needs a hook for a towel.”

Francis didn’t laugh, but neither did the blacksmith.

Progress. Guess that’s something.

The rest of the second day passed in a blur of heat and repetition. Francis kept learning that not every problem could be solved by hitting it harder—sometimes a lighter touch was what the metal needed. He was beginning to read the color of the iron, to judge when it was ready and when it needed more time in the forge.

He also learned that Tormund rarely gave direct answers.

“Why do we quench some pieces in water and others in oil?” Francis asked at one point.

“Why do you think?” Tormund replied.

“I don’t know,” Francis said. “That’s why I’m asking.”

“You’ve watched me do both. What did you notice?” the blacksmith asked, still not giving the answers he sought.

Francis frowned, thinking back. “The water cools it faster. Makes a lot of steam. The oil… It’s slower. Less dramatic.”

“And?”

“And… the pieces you quenched in water seemed harder? But the ones in oil were… I don’t know, tougher?”

Tormund smiled. “There you go. That’s about as simple as you can say it. Water makes it hard, brittle. Good for blades that need a sharp edge. Oil makes it tough, flexible. Ideal for tools that require bending without breaking. Different purposes, different methods. Now, some metal is different, but you’re not ready for that kind of lesson yet.”

Like people. Some situations need you to be hard, unbreakable… Others need you to bend.

By the time the sun set, Francis’s entire body was sore again. His hands were covered in blisters that had burst and formed new ones beneath. His shoulders felt like they’d been beaten with his own hammer.

But he’d made three pieces that Tormund deemed “usable.” Not good. Not impressive. But usable.

It was more than he’d expected.

***

[ Blacksmithing - 4 ]

[ Metal Working - 4 ]

The third day was different. Armed with a slightly better understanding of blacksmithing and a few extra points in his skills, Francis felt somewhat prepared.

Tormund handed Francis a longer piece of iron and pointed to a pile of firewood stacked against the forge wall.

“You’re going to make a poker,” the blacksmith said. “For moving logs in the fire. Simplest tool there is, which is why it makes a fine place to start. Anyone can beat iron into a shape. Making one that won’t bend or snap where the hook meets the shaft, even after it’s been worked hard, that’s the real test. Make me one that holds, and I’ll call this time well spent.”

Francis looked at the iron, then at the poker hanging near the forge. It seemed simple enough—a long shaft with a hook at one end and a handle at the other.

How hard can it be?

“Before you start,” Tormund said, “let me tell you about the first poker I made.”

Francis paused, surprised. Tormund rarely talked about himself.

“I was about half your age,” the blacksmith continued. “Thought I was clever. Wanted to make the best poker anyone had ever seen. Strong handle, perfect hook, the whole thing balanced just right.”

“What happened?”

“I spent three days on it,” Tormund said. “Got the hook perfect. Spent hours on the handle, made sure it was comfortable to grip. Was so proud when I finished.” He paused. “Used it once. The hook snapped off the first time I tried to move a heavy log.”

Francis blinked in surprise. “Why?”

“Because I forgot the most important part,” Tormund replied. “The join where the hook meets the shaft. I was so focused on making each piece perfect, I didn’t strengthen the connection between them. Looked beautiful. Worked like shit.”

Tormund chuckled, giving a rare smile. He tapped the poker hanging on the wall. “This one? Not as pretty. Handle’s a bit rough. Hook’s not perfectly curved. But the join is solid. That’s what matters. It’s been hanging here for five years.”

I swear this man’s part blacksmith and part philosopher. The connection is what matters… Not the individual pieces.

Francis turned the iron over in his hands. “So don’t try to make it perfect. Just make it work.”

“Now you’re learning,” Tormund said. “Show me that you actually have.”

***

Francis started with the shaft.

He heated the iron until it glowed yellow, then began to hammer, keeping his strikes even and measured. The metal spread under each blow, lengthening, thinning slightly but maintaining its strength.

He worked through the lessons in his mind, remembering what Tormund had taught him.

Don’t overthink it. Feel the metal. Listen to what it needs.

When the shaft was the right length, he moved to the hook. This was trickier—he needed to heat just the end, bend it without weakening the connection to the shaft.

The first attempt bent too far. He straightened it, reheated, and tried again.

The second attempt cracked slightly at the bend. He cursed, heated it longer, let the metal flow together, then bent it carefully.

The third attempt looked right.

He worked the join where the hook met the shaft, reinforcing it with careful, precise strikes. Not too hard like so many of the ones Francis had delivered on his first day of smithing. He didn’t want to weaken it, but he used just enough force to ensure it would hold.

The handle came last. He flattened the end slightly, gave it a gentle curve that would fit a hand comfortably. Nothing fancy. Just functional.

When he quenched it in oil, he knew why he did so. He needed toughness over hardness. The poker hissed and steamed. He pulled it out and examined his work.

It wasn’t beautiful. The hook had a slight wobble to it. The handle was rougher than he’d wanted. But the join looked solid, and the whole thing felt balanced in his hand.

[ Blacksmithing Increased - 6 ]

[ Metalworking Increased - 6 ]

Tormund took it from him and tested it, prodding at the logs in the forge. He moved a heavy piece, then another, applying real force.

The poker held.

“Well,” Tormund said, examining the tool one more time. “It’s not pretty. But it’ll do the job.” He hung it on a hook near the forge, right next to his own. “That’s what matters.”

Francis stared at the poker hanging there, side by side with the one Tormund had made years ago. Something about seeing them together, one worn and proven, one fresh and untested, filled his chest with pride.

I made something. Something that’ll last. That’s… that’s different.

“Good work,” Tormund said, clapping him on the shoulder. “You’re not a smith yet, and probably won’t ever be. But you learned what you needed to learn.”

“What’s that?” Francis asked.

“That some things take time. That you can’t force results by hitting harder. That flaws don’t make something worthless—they just mean you have to work differently.” Tormund paused. “And that the connections between things matter more than the things themselves.”

Francis looked at the older smith, wondering how much Tormund actually understood about why Glitvall had sent him here.

He knows something. Maybe not everything. But something.

“Thank you,” Francis said. “For teaching me.”

Tormund waved a hand dismissively. “Glitvall sent you. I taught you. That’s how things work up here.” But there was a hint of warmth in his voice. “Besides, you weren’t terrible. For a Southerner with worthless swords.”

Francis couldn’t help but smile at that.

As he removed the leather apron and prepared to leave, Tormund called after him.

“Boy.”

Francis turned.

“Whatever you’re trying to forge out there,” Tormund said, gesturing vaguely toward the battlefield beyond the camp, “remember what you learned here. Can’t burn too hot. Can’t force it. Sometimes the flaws are what make it strong.”

Francis nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

He stepped out of the forge into the cold evening air, the heat from the past three days still radiating from his skin. His hands ached. His shoulders burned. His body felt like it had been beaten and reshaped.

But something inside him felt different. Steadier. Like metal that had been properly tempered.

Three days. Three days of not dying. Not fighting. Just… making something.

It was strange how much that mattered.

Francis headed back toward his tent. Tomorrow, Glitvall would probably have news about the raiding party.

But tonight, he’d made something that would last for a little while.

Chapter 14

The summons came just after dawn. A bowl of food was delivered with the message that Francis’s presence was requested… or expected at the clan leader’s tent. As he got ready, Francis couldn’t help but wonder what was in the poultice the healer Hilde had given him. The skin on his hands was in better condition than he had expected.

Tormund hadn’t let him use the poultice until last night, mentioning that one of the lessons every blacksmith needed to learn was pain. Each strike of the hammer cost something. At first it was their skin. Then it would be a matter of mental fortitude to push through the pain.

Francis had been surprised that his skin had even blistered, but he had lost count of the thousands of swings he had taken.

A young barbarian, barely older than Francis, waited outside his tent to take him to the jarl and clan leaders.

Here we go.

Francis followed the messenger through the camp, noting how the other barbarians watched him pass. Some with curiosity, others with suspicion. A few nodded in what might have been respect.

Word really does travel fast up here.

The tent was exactly as he remembered. The clan leaders all sat in the same positions they had been, the first time he had come. Glitvall was standing off to the side. Jarl Keara occupied the seat of honor, her weathered face unreadable as Francis entered.

“Francis Lancaster,” the jarl said. “Glitvall has spoken on your behalf. He tells us you wish to join one of our raiding parties.”

“That’s correct,” Francis replied.

“Why?” one of the clan leaders asked. An older man with a scar running from his temple to his jaw. “What purpose does a Southerner have risking our warriors?”

Francis met his gaze. “Because in order to help your people and mine find victory, I need to learn how to fight beside you. I’ve fought alone. I’ve survived. But that’s not enough. If we’re going to win this war, I need to understand how your warriors work together.”

“Pretty words,” a woman with iron-gray braids said. “But words don’t keep our warriors alive.”

“No,” Francis agreed. “They don’t. Which is why I’ll make you a promise.”

Jarl Keara leaned forward slightly. “What promise?”

“That no matter what happens out there, every warrior who goes with me will return alive.” Francis let the words hang in the air. “The next time I stand before all of you, each one of them will be here. Or you can kill me.”

Silence filled the tent.

“You can’t promise that,” the scarred man said. “No one can promise that.”

“I just did,” Francis said.

And if I have to die on the battlefield to make sure that promise holds, so be it.

Glitvall’s expression didn’t change, but his eyes twitched slightly. The warchief understood, even if the others didn’t.

The clan leaders murmured among themselves. Some looked skeptical, others intrigued. Jarl Keara studied Francis for a long moment before nodding once.

“Very well. You may join the raiding party Glitvall has selected. But know this, Southerner—if you break your promise, if even one of our warriors falls because of you, your life is forfeit. No second chances.”

If only you knew.

“Understood,” Francis said, fighting back a smile.

Glitvall moved toward the tent entrance. “Come. The pack is waiting.”

As they turned to leave, Jarl Keara’s voice stopped them.

“Glitvall.”

The warchief paused.

“Your sudden interest in this Southerner is… unusual,” the jarl said. “You’ve trained many warriors, but I’ve never seen you take such personal interest in an outsider. Why him?”

Glitvall turned to face her, his expression calm. “If you wish to know my mind, Jarl Keara, you have two choices. You can wait for the results and judge me by them. Or you can trust me.”

He paused, then added, “If neither of those works for you, then you’re welcome to pick up the axes and bring them to the center of the tent. Challenge me as warchief. See if you can take my place.”

The tent went silent.

Francis saw Jarl Keara’s jaw tighten, her hands gripping the arms of her chair. For a moment, he thought she might actually accept the challenge. But then she took a slow breath and steadied herself.

“I will trust your judgment,” she said slowly. “For now.”

Glitvall nodded once and walked out of the tent. Francis followed quickly, very aware of the eyes boring into his back.

***

They walked in silence for a few moments before Glitvall spoke.

“That was bold. Making a promise like that.”

“I meant it,” Francis said.

“I know you did,” Glitvall replied, glancing at him. “How did things go with Tormund?”

Francis considered the question. “Better than expected. I gained six points in both Blacksmithing and Metalworking.”

The warchief’s eyebrows rose. “Six points in three days? That’s… significant.”

“Tormund’s a good teacher,” Francis said. “Though I have a question about him.”

“Ask it.”

“He has this way of talking… about smithing that makes it sound like he’s talking about life. Is that intentional, or am I reading too much into it?”

Glitvall chuckled, the sound deep and genuine. “Tormund is one of the wisest men in this camp. He could have pursued power. In fact, he could have challenged for leadership in his clan. But he stays at the forge, knowing his ability to equip and provide for all these people is worth more than any title.”

“So it was intentional,” Francis said.

“Everything Tormund does is intentional,” Glitvall replied. “The fact that you picked up on it means you were listening. That’s good. You’ll need that skill where we’re going.”

They approached the Commons, a large open area where warriors trained, slept, and gathered. Francis could see a group of six barbarians waiting near the edge, their breath misting in the cold air.

Here we go.

As they drew closer, Francis could make out more details. Four men, two women. All of them looked like they’d been fighting since they could walk.

“Warriors,” Glitvall called out. “This is Francis Lancaster. He’ll be joining your pack for the next raid.”

One of the men stepped forward. He was tall, even for a barbarian, with a thick black beard braided with small bones. A massive axe hung across his back. His eyes were sharp, assessing Francis with the same intensity Francis had seen in Stenson when they first met.

“I’m Hroden,” he said. “I lead this pack. You follow my orders out there, no questions. Understood?”

“Understood,” Francis replied.

Hroden nodded, then gestured to the others. “That’s Vornak.” A stocky man with a war hammer and a face that looked like it had stopped a few too many fists. “Eirik.” Lean and wiry, with twin hand axes and scars running down both arms. “Harald.” The youngest of the group, maybe only a few years older than Francis, was carrying a spear and shield.

“The women are Selka and Helga,” Hroden continued. Selka was built like she could snap Francis in half—broad shoulders, arms thick with muscle, and a two-handed axe strapped to her back. Helga was smaller, quicker-looking, with a bow and a quiver of arrows.

“A Southerner,” Selka said, her voice flat. “With swords.”

The way she said it made it clear what she thought of both him and his weapons.

“Is that a problem?” Francis asked.

“Swords are for dancing,” Selka replied. “Axes are for killing. You want to fight beside us, you should learn to use a real weapon.”

“I’ll stick with what I know,” Francis said evenly.

“Then you’ll die with what you know,” Selka shot back.

“Enough,” Hroden said, his voice cutting through the tension. “He’s part of the pack now. We test him, we train him, and if he can’t keep up, he stays behind. That’s how it works.”

Selka glared at Francis but said nothing.

Eirik, the lean one with the twin axes, spoke up. “What’s your story, Southerner? Why are you really here? Most of your people aren’t willing to endure the cold.”

“I’ve come here to learn about the army that you face,” Francis said. “And to help.”

“Help,” Vornak rumbled, his voice like grinding stones. “Right. Because we need a Southerner to save us.”

“I didn’t say that,” Francis replied. “I said I want to help. There’s a difference.”

Harald, the young one with the spear, looked curious rather than hostile. “There’s a rumor that you’ve been learning to smith? That’s what people are saying.”

“I did,” Francis admitted.

“Why?” Harald asked. “How does smithing help us? Especially when rumors are you wasted more metal than most can count.”

Francis smiled and motioned to Glitvall standing next to him. “Your warchief told me I should learn from Tormund. So I did. If I’ve learned anything in the short time I’ve been here, it’s that I should obey him.”

Helga, the archer, hadn’t said anything yet. She just watched Francis with dark, calculating eyes. When she finally spoke, her voice was quiet but sharp. “Can you follow orders?”

“Yes,” Francis said.

“Even when they don’t make sense?”

He chuckled and nodded. “Oh, I’ve thought many of the orders I’ve been given don’t make sense, but I’ve followed them.”

Helga nodded slowly. “Good. Because out there, hesitation kills. You don’t have time to question, only to act. If Hroden says to strip naked and run through the commons, just do it.”

Grins appeared on everyone’s face except Selka’s at those words.

Glitvall cleared his throat. “You have two days before the raid. Use them to learn how each other fights. Test him, see what he can do. If he’s not ready, tell me. I’ll keep him back.”

“He’ll be ready,” Hroden said, though his tone suggested he wasn’t convinced. “Two days is plenty to see whether a man bends or holds. I’ll have my answer.”

Glitvall nodded and turned to leave, then paused and looked at Francis. “Remember what Tormund taught you. The connections matter more than the individual pieces.”

Francis nodded, understanding the message.

This pack. I need to earn their trust. I have to work with them, not just alongside them.

As Glitvall walked away, Hroden crossed his arms and studied Francis. “Alright, Southerner. Let’s see what you’ve got. We’re going to run through some basics. How you move, how you fight, how you react.”

“Now?” Francis asked.

“Right now,” Hroden confirmed. “Eirik, Vornak, you’re with me. We’ll test his defense. Harald, you watch and learn. Selka, Helga, you two set up on the flanks. We’re going to see if this Southerner can handle being surrounded.”

Selka grinned, and it wasn’t friendly. “This should be fun.”

“Are we going to use weapons?” Francis asked.

Hroden frowned, his eyes darting between him and the others. “Not real ones.”

He whistled, and a teenager ran up, all gangly limbs and windburned cheeks, a shock of pale hair tied back with a leather cord. The boy couldn’t have seen more than fourteen winters, yet he already wore a hand axe on his belt as though he’d earned it.

“Yes, sir?”

“I need practice weapons and shields,” Hroden replied, pausing. “And… find me two sticks that might work for swords.”

A disgusted look appeared on the teen’s face, but he nodded, running off.

Soon the boy returned with his arms full of practice weapons, their edges hammered to a flat point and two sticks that were different lengths.

“These will do,” Hroden said as the boy dropped the collection.

Francis picked up the two sticks, seeing that at least they appeared like they wouldn’t break.

Alright. Let’s see what these warriors can do.

Hroden gestured to a clear area of the Commons. “Take position. We start in thirty seconds.”

Francis moved to the center, watching as the barbarians spread out around him. Three in front, two on the sides. A classic encirclement test.

I’ve died to worse. Let’s see what they’ve got.

Hroden raised his hand.

“Begin.”

Chapter 15

The sticks felt wrong in Francis’s hands. They were too light, poorly balanced, and one was five inches longer than the other.

They’ll have to do for now. It’s all just another challenge. Something tells me I’m going to get a few repetitions on this moment.

Francis watched the barbarians spread out around him. Hroden, Vornak, and Eirik formed a loose arc in front. Selka moved to his left, Helga to his right. Harald hung back, spear and shield ready but clearly meant to observe.

A crowd was already forming. Warriors paused their training to watch, apparently drawn by the promise of a Southerner getting beaten. Francis could hear their voices, some curious, others already placing bets.

“Twenty copper, he doesn’t last a minute!”

“I’ll take that bet. The boy’s still standing, isn’t he?”

Great. An audience. Just what I needed.

Hroden’s hand dropped.

Vornak charged first.

The stocky barbarian came in fast, his practice hammer swinging in a wide arc aimed at Francis’s ribs. No finesse, just raw power meant to test if he would fold under pressure.

Francis sidestepped, letting the hammer pass inches from his body. He tapped Vornak’s shoulder with one stick as the man’s momentum carried him past.

“First hit,” Francis said, keeping his face neutral

The crowd murmured while a few laughed. Vornak spun around, his face reddening.

Eirik came next, both practice axes moving in a scissor pattern. Francis ducked under the first, parried the second with his longer stick, and drove his shoulder into Eirik’s chest. The lean barbarian stumbled backward, and Francis’s shorter stick caught him across the thigh.

“Second.”

Battle Sense told him that there was movement from his left. Francis turned just as Selka’s practice axe came at his head. No warning, no buildup. She was going for a real hit, the kind that would leave most unconscious if it connected.

[ Iron Wall ]

Francis crossed both sticks above his head, catching the axe between them. Selka’s eyes widened slightly.

She put real force behind that swing.

Before she could pull back, Francis shoved forward, breaking her stance. His foot swept her legs, and she went down hard on her back.

The crowd erupted in shouts. Some cheering, others jeering.

Selka rolled to her feet, fury written across her face.

She’s not playing anymore. If she was ever playing to begin with.

Hroden attacked while his attention was focused on Selka.

The pack leader moved differently than the others. His attacks were controlled and precise, each strike flowing seamlessly into the next. His practice axe came at Francis in a series of attacks that forced him backward, defensive, working to keep the weapon from landing.

He’s good. Really good.

Francis parried twice, blocked once, then had to dodge as Hroden reversed his grip and came back with a strike aimed at his knee. The axe grazed his leg, enough to count as a hit.

“Point to me,” Hroden said calmly.

Then Vornak and Eirik came at him together.

Francis moved without thinking, his body reacting to patterns he’d learned through hundreds of deaths. Vornak’s hammer came high, Eirik’s axes came low. Francis dropped to one knee, letting the hammer pass over his head, and swept both sticks across Eirik’s ankles.

The wiry barbarian went down cursing.

Francis rolled forward, came up behind Vornak, and tapped him twice on the back.

The crowd’s noise grew louder. Francis caught fragments of conversation.

“Did you see that?”

“He’s faster than he looks!”

“Selka’s going to kill him!”

That last comment proved accurate.

Selka came at him as if he owed her something. Her practice axe moved in a blur, each strike aimed to hurt rather than test. Francis gave ground, using both sticks to deflect and redirect rather than block directly. The impacts sent vibrations up his arms with each contact.

She’s not holding back at all.

[ Guarded Stance ]

Francis’s body hardened, his defensive abilities kicking in. Selka’s next strike caught his shoulder, but instead of what she had obviously expected to happen, her weapon stopped. Almost as if she had struck stone. Her eyes widened in apparent surprise.

Francis used that moment. He stepped inside her guard, too close for the axe to be effective, and drove his elbow into her stomach. Not hard enough to truly injure, but enough to drive the air from her lungs.

She gasped for air, stumbling a few steps back as she did.

“Enough,” Hroden called out.

But Selka wasn’t done, ignoring the barbarian’s words. She straightened, face red with anger or possibly a bit of humiliation, and swung wildly at Francis’s head.

[ Riposte ]

Francis’s stick caught the axe mid-swing, deflecting it past his ear. In the same motion, he brought his other stick around and tapped her temple. Gently. Just enough to make the point.

“You’re dead,” he said quietly. “If this were real.”

Selka froze as her axe struck the frozen dirt, the reality of what had just happened sinking in. The crowd had gone silent.

“I said enough!” Hroden’s voice cut through the tension. He moved between them, glaring at Selka. “Stand down. Now. Do not dishonor yourself or us again.”

Selka backed away, breathing hard, her eyes never leaving Francis. The way she glared at him felt like a promise that this wasn’t over.

Hroden turned to Francis. “Not bad. But you’re not done yet.”

Before Francis could respond, all five of them came at him at once.

Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me.

Hroden from the front, Vornak and Eirik from the sides, Selka from behind, and even Helga charged, having drawn a practice knife. They moved in coordination, not giving him space to breathe.

Francis activated everything he had.

[ Quick Attack ]

[ Flurry ]

His sticks became a blur. He tapped Eirik’s wrist, Vornak’s knee, deflected Hroden’s axe, spun to catch Selka’s weapon with a cross-block, and kicked backward, catching Helga in the shin.

The crowd roared.

Francis kept moving, never staying in one spot long enough for them to pin him down. He wove between attacks, his enhanced perception letting him track all five opponents at once. Every opening, he took. Every mistake, he exploited.

A tap to Vornak’s ribs.

A strike across Eirik’s shoulder.

A jab to Helga’s arm.

Hroden came at him hard, forcing Francis to focus. The pack leader’s attacks were relentless, each one setting up the next. Francis parried, dodged, and gave ground when he had to.

Then Selka rushed in from his blind spot.

Francis sensed rather than saw her coming. He dropped low, sweeping his leg out in a wide arc. Selka’s feet went out from under her for the second time, and she crashed into Vornak as the warrior tried to rejoin the fight, sending them both to the ground in a tangle of limbs and cursing.

The crowd was loving it. Cheers, jeers, and laughter mixed together in a cacophony of noise.

Eirik tried to tackle him. Francis sidestepped, used the barbarian’s momentum against him, and sent him stumbling into Harald, who’d been trying to flank from the other side.

That left Hroden and Helga.

Hroden’s axe came at his head. Francis blocked with both sticks crossed, but the force of the blow sent him skidding backward. His feet slipped on the packed snow, and he barely kept his balance.

He’s strong. Stronger than the others.

Helga darted in with her practice knife, going for his ribs. Francis twisted, caught her wrist with one stick, and pulled her off balance. She stumbled forward, and he tapped her back with his other stick.

“Out,” Francis said.

Helga stepped back immediately, nodding in acknowledgment. She didn’t seem to hold any anger.

Now it was just him and Hroden.

The pack leader smiled. “Impressive. But let’s see how you handle this.”

Hroden attacked with everything he had. His practice axe moved in patterns that Francis recognized. They were professional, efficient, and designed to overwhelm. Each strike flowed into the next without pause, giving Francis no chance to counter.

Francis gave ground, his sticks working overtime to keep the axe from landing.

He’s testing me. Pushing to see where I break.

Francis waited for his opening. It came when Hroden overextended slightly on a downward strike. Francis stepped inside the attack’s arc, too close for the axe to reach him, and drove both sticks toward Hroden’s chest.

But Hroden was ready. He released the axe with one hand and caught Francis’s wrist, using his superior weight to shove Francis backward.

Francis rolled with it, letting the momentum carry him into a backward somersault. He came up on his feet, sticks still in hand.

The crowd was screaming now, completely invested in the fight.

Hroden charged.

[ Quick Attack ]

Francis moved faster than he had the entire fight. He slipped past Hroden’s guard, tapped his ribs once, twice, then spun and brought his stick down on the pack leader’s shoulder.

Hroden stopped, lowering his weapon.

“Three hits,” the pack leader said, slightly breathless. “I’m dead. Or at least out of the fight.”

Silence fell over the Commons.

Francis stood there, breathing harder than he had expected to be, his sticks still raised in case someone attacked. The other pack members were scattered around him. Some were on the ground, while others stood, but they were clearly defeated.

He’d beaten all of them.

The crowd erupted. Some cheering, some cursing, many exchanging coins as bets were settled.

Hroden extended his hand. “You’re faster than you look, Southerner. And stronger. Where’d you learn to fight like that?”

“I’ve had a lot of practice,” Francis said, accepting the handshake.

More than you could ever imagine.

Vornak picked himself up, rubbing his ribs. “That hurt. Even with practice weapons.”

“You held back,” Eirik observed, dusting snow off his furs. “You could’ve hit harder. Faster, even.”

“No point in hurting people who are supposed to fight beside me,” Francis replied.

Harald laughed, clapping Francis on the shoulder. “I like this one. He doesn’t show off!”

Helga nodded in agreement. “You move well. Better than most Southerners I’ve seen. You’ll do.”

Selka said nothing. She stood apart from the group, practice axe gripped tight in her hand, staring at Francis with barely contained rage. The humiliation of being dropped twice in front of everyone was written across her face.

She’s going to be a problem.

Hroden noticed the tension. “Selka. Stand down.”

She spat into the snow and walked away without a word.

“Don’t take it personally,” Vornak said. “She’s got… history with Southerners.”

“I gathered as much,” Francis said. “Hopefully she can get over it.”

Hroden clapped his hands together. “Alright. Rest period’s over. Francis, you’ve proven you can handle yourself in a fight. Now we need to see if you can work with us. Tomorrow, we run formations. Learn how we move as a pack.”

“Understood,” Francis said.

As the crowd began to disperse, still talking about what they’d just witnessed, Francis dropped the practice sticks and flexed his hands. He felt good. Better than he had in a while.

I proved myself. Now I just need to make it stick. Perhaps one day I’ll figure out this group of people.

Helga appeared beside him, offering a waterskin. “Here. You earned it.”

“Thanks,” Francis said, taking a long drink.

“You fight like someone who’s fought many battles… like someone who’s almost died,” she said quietly.

Francis nearly choked on the water. “What?”

“You move like you already know what’s coming,” Helga continued, her dark eyes studying him. “Like you’ve… seen the patterns before. Most fighters learn from watching or training. You fight like you’ve already… lived through the mistakes.”

She’s too perceptive for her own good.

“I’ve had good teachers,” Francis said carefully.

Helga smiled slightly. “I’m sure you have.” She turned to walk away, then paused. “Just don’t get any of us killed out there.”

“That’s the plan,” Francis said.

As she walked away, Francis let out a slow breath.

One day down. One day to train with them before the raid. Better make it count.

He looked across the Commons to where Selka stood in the distance, still watching him with that same burning hatred.

And somehow, I need to figure out how to work with her. Or this whole thing falls apart.

Francis picked up his practice sticks and headed toward where the pack was gathering.

One day, he’d find a way to be accepted, but if it wasn’t today, Francis knew there would be many more to come.

Chapter 16

Francis woke before dawn with a headache that reminded him why he usually avoided whatever passed for alcohol among the barbarians.

That stuff tasted like burning leather mixed with piss.

But the night had been worth it. He’d sat with the pack around a fire, passing a skin of something that burned going down and kept burning after. They’d shared stories that helped Francis learn a little bit more about his pack. Harald talking about his first hunt, Eirik describing a fight with a frost bear, Vornak demonstrating how he’d once knocked out three men in a brawl.

Francis had contributed too. He told them about being the ninth son, about the catkins and rhinokins his kingdom faced, about training with instructors who seemed to enjoy making him suffer. He’d kept the loop secret, obviously, but there was enough truth in his stories to satisfy their curiosity.

Helga had asked good questions, always digging deeper into why Southerners acted that way, or who cared what birth order you were born in. Vornak had even laughed at some of Francis’s jokes. Selka had been there, though she’d sat apart from the group and said nothing.

Now, as Francis splashed cold water on his face and gathered his gear, he felt the weight of what was coming. Today was about learning to fight as a unit. Tomorrow, they’d face the real thing.

It felt weird to train with a group again. These barbarians were far more skilled than the teens he had learned to fight with. Even though it was technically almost two weeks since the last training session with Phillip, it felt like a lifetime ago.

It’s also been a while since I’ve seen Michael.

That thought sent a pang of longing through him. Shaking his head and splashing water once more on his face, Francis knew what today would bring.

No pressure. I just have to look good enough to impress, yet not so great that I make them look bad.

He arrived at the Commons just as the sun was starting to rise over the horizon. His exposed skin could feel the cold, but it was less than on his first loop. Still, it was cold enough that his breath formed clouds in the air each time he spoke or breathed.

The pack was already together and ready when Francis arrived. Hroden stood with his arms crossed, watching as Vornak and Eirik went through some warm-up exercises. Harald was stretching, and Helga was checking her bow and arrows.

Selka was nowhere to be seen.

“Morning,” Francis said as he approached.

“Southerner,” Hroden acknowledged with a nod. “Sleep well?”

“As well as anyone can after drinking whatever that was last night,” Francis replied.

Vornak laughed. “That’s fermented goat’s milk with pine needles and a few other things. It builds character and can kill rats.”

“I think it builds regret far more than character,” Francis muttered.

Hroden glanced toward the camp, his jaw tightening. “Selka should be here by now.”

“Want me to go find her?” Harald offered.

“No.” Hroden’s voice was flat. “We don’t have time to wait. Another pack is coming to help us drill formations. We start without her.”

That’s not going to go well for her.

As if on cue, six more barbarians appeared from across the Commons. They looked just as tough as Hroden’s pack, armed with axes, spears, and shields.

“Hroden,” the leader called out. A woman with silver-streaked hair and a scar across her cheek. “Ready to get beaten again?”

“We’ll see about that, Nessa,” Hroden replied with a slight grin. “My pack’s been training hard.”

Nessa’s eyes fell on Francis. “This is the Southerner everyone’s talking about?”

“That’s him,” Hroden confirmed.

“He looks small,” one of Nessa’s warriors commented.

“He fights well enough,” Eirik said. “Dropped all of us yesterday.”

That earned Francis some appraising looks from the other pack.

“Alright,” Hroden said, clapping his hands together. “Formations. We’ll start by moving through defensive positions first. Helga is in the center. She’s our archer, so she needs protection to do her job.”

He pointed to different positions. “Vornak, you’re front center. Your job is to hold the line. Eirik, Harald, you take the flanks. Francis, you’re with me on flexible positioning. We move where we’re needed most.”

Francis nodded, committing the arrangement to memory.

“Nessa’s pack will act as the enemy,” Hroden continued. “They’ll try to break through to Helga. Our job is to stop them. No real weapons, practice gear only. But don’t hold back. We need to feel what it’s like when things get rough.”

Everyone grabbed practice weapons and moved into position.

***

The first run was a little chaotic.

Nessa’s pack hit them hard and fast, three warriors converging on Vornak while the others tried to slip past the flanks. Francis moved to help Harald on the left, but by the time he got there, two of the enemy warriors had already pushed through.

Even with his speed, Francis had to choose between showing off or waiting till asked for help. He wasn’t sure which was the right path as Hroden hadn’t given any instructions.

Helga managed to “shoot” one with a blunt arrow before the other reached her. In a real fight, she’d be dead.

“Stop,” Hroden called out. “Reset.”

They regrouped, standing in a circle, waiting to hear their leader’s words.

“What went wrong?” Hroden asked.

“We didn’t communicate,” Harald said. “I didn’t know Francis was coming to help me… I’m used to Selka just showing up.”

“And I moved too slow,” Francis admitted. “By the time I got there, they were already past.”

Hroden nodded. “Communication is everything. Call out when you need help. Call out when you’re moving. And, Francis, don’t wait to see if someone else will handle it. If you see a gap, fill it immediately. The beasts out there won’t hesitate.”

“Understood,” Francis replied.

They ran it again.

This time, Francis reacted faster. When Nessa’s warriors tried the same flanking move, he was already there, his practice swords intercepting their axes. Harald backed him up, and together they held the line long enough for Helga to take down three of the enemy with her blunt arrows.

However, Vornak became overwhelmed at the center, and without him maintaining his position, the formation collapsed.

“Better,” Hroden said. “But we lost our anchor. Vornak, you can’t try to fight all of them alone. Fall back if you need to. Let them come to you.”

“I can hold,” Vornak protested.

“Not against a full group,” Hroden replied. “Pride doesn’t win fights. Tactics do.”

Vornak grumbled but nodded.

They were setting up for the third run when Selka finally appeared.

She walked across the Commons like she had all the time in the world, her practice axe slung over her shoulder. No hurry, no apology in her expression.

Hroden’s face went dark.

“Selka,” he said, his voice dangerously quiet. “A word. Now.”

They walked off to the side, far enough that Francis couldn’t hear what was being said. But he could see Hroden’s gestures, sharp and angry. Selka stood there, arms crossed, her expression defiant.

This is going to be a problem tomorrow if they can’t work it out.

“She’s always late,” Eirik said quietly, coming to stand beside Francis. “Ever since… well. Ever since her family lost their standing.”

“What happened?” Francis asked.

Eirik shook his head. “Not our story to share. Honor means we don’t tell others’ secrets or pain.”

“But honor also means we shouldn’t let our pain affect the others we’re bound to,” Harald added, joining them. “She’s putting the pack at risk.”

Francis thought about that. About the connections Tormund had talked about. How the join between pieces mattered more than the pieces themselves.

A pack is only as strong as its weakest link. And right now, Selka’s the weak link. Not because she can’t fight, but because she won’t work with the rest of us.

“Has anyone tried talking to her?” Francis asked. “ Really talking, I mean.”

“Hroden has,” Vornak said, walking over. “Multiple times. She won’t listen. She has too much anger.”

“Anger at Southerners,” Francis said.

“Aye, but it’s more than that,” Vornak confirmed. “Something that happened years ago. It cost her family their honor and their standing in the clan. She blames your people for it.”

“All of my people?” Francis asked. “Or specific ones?”

“Does it matter to her?” Helga said, appearing from behind. “Pain doesn’t care about logic. It just burns. That’s like asking ‘Does a rabbit taste good.’ All rabbits taste the same.”

“Not true,” Vornak replied. “Depending on the cook, the rabbit can taste like crap.”

Francis watched as Hroden continued his dressing down of Selka. The pack leader’s frustration was obvious, but there was something else present in how he spoke. Concern, maybe.

He cares about her. About all of them. That’s why this is so hard for him.

Finally, Hroden and Selka returned. She looked chastened, if still angry. Hroden’s expression was neutral, but Francis could see the tension in his jaw.

“We continue,” Hroden announced. “Selka, you’re on the right flank. Don’t be late again.”

“Understood,” Selka said, her voice sounding lifeless.

***

They ran three more formations with Selka present.

The first one went poorly. Selka was out of position twice, forcing Francis to cover gaps she should have filled. Nessa’s pack exploited the weakness, and Helga got “killed” again.

The second run was better. Selka stayed where she was supposed to be, and when the enemy tried to break through on her side, she held her ground. Francis moved to support Vornak at the center, and together they managed to keep the formation intact long enough for Helga to do her job.

The third run was nearly perfect.

They moved as a unit, each person covering their assigned position while adapting to the enemy’s tactics. When Nessa’s pack tried to overwhelm Vornak, Harald and Francis collapsed inward to lend a hand. When they switched to flanking, Selka and Eirik held firm.

Helga picked off four enemies before the last two reached the defensive line, and Hroden finished them both with quick, efficient strikes.

“Stop,” Hroden called out, and this time there was satisfaction in his voice. “That’s what I’m talking about. That’s how we fight.”

Nessa walked over, grinning despite the mock defeat. “Not bad, Hroden. Your pack’s learning. Though I’d like to see how they do when the enemy doesn’t play fair.”

“Tomorrow, you’ll get to watch,” Hroden replied. He had a half smile as he spoke, and Francis was trying to figure out what was going on between the two leaders.

The two packs separated. Nessa’s headed back to their section of the Commons while Hroden gathered everyone in a circle.

“Alright,” he said. “Let’s talk about what worked and what didn’t.”

He pointed at Vornak. “You held the center well in that last run. Didn’t try to do everything yourself. That’s improvement.”

Vornak nodded, looking pleased.

“Harald, Eirik,” Hroden continued. “Your flanking work was solid. You adapted when Francis came to help at the center and didn’t leave your positions exposed. Good instincts.”

Both warriors smiled.

“Helga, your timing was perfect on that last run. You waited for clear shots instead of wasting arrows. That’s discipline.”

Helga inclined her head in acknowledgment.

Hroden turned to Francis. “You’re learning fast. Faster than I expected. You filled gaps, communicated, and didn’t try to do everything yourself. That’s what makes a good pack member.”

“Thank you,” Francis said.

Finally, Hroden looked at Selka. His expression was harder now. “You held your position in the last two runs. That’s what I need from you. But being late? That can’t happen again. Tomorrow, we’re facing real enemies with real weapons. If you’re not there, people die. Understand?”

Selka’s jaw tightened, but she nodded. “I understand.”

“Good.” Hroden looked around at all of them. “Tomorrow, we meet here an hour after sunrise. Edge of the Commons, near the outer palisade. Bring your weapons and armor. We’re going hunting.”

A murmur of acknowledgment went through the group.

“Get some rest,” Hroden said. “Check your gear. Make sure everything’s ready. And for the love of the gods, don’t drink anything Vornak offers you tonight.”

That got a few laughs, even from Vornak himself.

As the pack began to disperse, Francis found himself walking alongside Helga.

“You did well today,” she said.

“Thanks. I’m still learning how you all work together.”

“You’ll get it,” Helga replied. “You already understand the most important part.”

“What’s that?” Francis asked.

“That it’s not about being the best fighter,” she said. “It’s about making everyone else better. That’s what a pack is.”

The connections matter more than the individual pieces.

“I’m starting to see that,” Francis said.

Helga smiled. “Good. Because tomorrow, you’ll need to remember it. Out there, things get messy fast. The only way we survive is if we trust each other completely.”

Francis looked back at where Selka stood alone, still gripping her practice axe, staring at nothing.

Trust. That’s what we’re missing. And I don’t know if one day is enough to build it.

But he’d have to try, because tomorrow, lives would depend on it, his included.

Chapter 17

The cold intensified the moment they passed beyond the outer palisade.

It wasn’t like the cold in the camp, where fires and bodies created some warmth. Out here, the wind cut through everything, carrying with it the scent of smoke. The brown-tinged snow stretched before them, marked with frozen pools of red and the occasional jutting spike of ice that rose from the ground like teeth. Gusts of wind would sweep through, blowing hard for a moment and then vanishing, an eerie silence left in its place.

Francis wore his chain armor with a layer of fur over the top. He didn’t have as much as the barbarians wore, but enough to keep the worst of the cold at bay. The rest of the pack wore only pelts and leather, their bodies having adapted to the brutal temperature, and the cost of a full suit of chain mail was well beyond their wealth.

They look comfortable.

Hroden raised his hand, signaling the pack to halt. About fifty yards to their left, Nessa’s pack was doing the same.

“We split here,” Hroden said quietly. “Our packs will stay within a hundred yards of each other. Lynxkins like to hit multiple groups at once, keeping us from helping each other.”

“They’re smart,” Francis muttered.

“They are,” Helga replied. “Never forget that. These aren’t mindless beasts like the ones you described in your kingdom.”

I’m not sure I ever said they were mindless. More of a horde mentality.

Hroden looked at Francis. “Standard formation. I’ll take point, you and Vornak—”

“Let me take point,” Francis interrupted.

The pack leader frowned. “Why?”

“Because my life depends on all of yours staying alive,” Francis said. “I promised the jarl that everyone would return. That means I need to be in front, where I can react first.”

Hroden studied him for a long moment. “You believe you’ll be able to detect them before me? I’ve been doing this for a long time, and most of the time the entire pack returns.”

“I do,” Francis admitted. “My ability to do such a thing is why my general and my king sent me here. At some point, I’m going to have to prove to you and every other barbarian that I’m worthy to help.”

Selka scoffed, her voice carrying a challenge. “What, like you think you’re special? We know you’re stronger and faster, but one needs to have good eyes and see everything. One’s Perception is sometimes more important than the other two.”

“Mine’s Advanced,” Francis replied, sharing his stat even though most would never do so.

“Korvald’s blood,” Helga cursed. “His is higher than mine!”

That drew surprised looks from everyone except Hroden, who simply nodded slowly.

“Fine,” the pack leader said. “But you call out anything you sense. Don’t try to handle it alone. Understand?”

“Understood,” Francis said.

They moved forward in formation. Francis took point, with Hroden slightly behind and to his right. Vornak held the center, his hammer ready. Eirik and Harald flanked the sides, while Selka covered the rear. Helga stayed in the middle, bow at the ready, her eyes scanning constantly.

The crunch of snow under their boots was the only sound they could hear. Francis tried to move quietly, placing his feet carefully, but the frozen crust made it nearly impossible to stay silent.

The lynxkins already know we’re here. The real question is when they’ll show themselves.

They moved deeper into the battlefield, passing frozen corpses half-buried in snow. Some were beastkin, others were barbarians.

Francis’s eyes swept constantly, looking for movement, for anything that didn’t fit the patterns of snow and ice. The wind died for a moment, and in that brief stillness, Francis caught something.

A shimmer. Barely visible against the white landscape.

“Ahead, right, about twenty yards,” Francis said quietly, not slowing down his gait. “I’ll shift us toward it.”

The pack immediately moved with him, their weapons coming up, and the formation tightening.

“I see it,” Helga whispered.

As she spoke, Francis’s Battle Sense sensed movement..

“Four of them!” he shouted. “All sides!”

Four catlike creatures with white fur materialized from nowhere. They moved quickly, their claws extended, their yellow eyes fixed on their prey. One came at Francis from the front, another from his right. The third went for Vornak, and the fourth he could sense was trying to circle toward Helga.

Francis crossed his swords as the front lynxkin slashed at him. Claws scraped against steel, and Francis shoved forward, breaking the beast’s stance. His right sword came around in a quick slash that opened the creature’s shoulder.

The second lynxkin tried to hit him from the side. Francis’s enhanced perception tracked both attackers at once. He parried the claws with his left sword and drove his right toward the wounded one’s throat.

[ Quick Attack ]

The blade pierced the white fur with ease, finding flesh. The lynxkin gurgled and dropped, blood steaming in the cold air.

One down.

Behind him, Francis could hear the sounds of fighting. Vornak’s hammer crashed against something solid. Harald shouted a warning. Helga’s bowstring twanged.

The remaining lynxkin facing Francis tried to disengage, backing up to create distance. But Francis had fought these things too many times to let it escape.

[ Flurry ]

His swords became a blur. Three strikes in rapid succession—chest, arm, neck. The lynxkin tried to block, but Francis was too fast. It collapsed into the snow, red spreading around its body.

Francis spun to check on the others.

Vornak had killed his attacker, the hammer buried in its skull. Eirik and Harald had cornered the fourth one, both of them bleeding from shallow cuts but working together to keep it pinned. Helga’s arrow finished it, the blunt practice tip replaced with a real one that punched through the creature’s eye.

“Everyone alright?” Hroden asked, breathing hard.

“Few scratches,” Eirik said. “Nothing serious.”

“Good,” Hroden said. Then his head snapped toward Nessa’s position. “Damn.”

Francis followed his gaze. About eighty yards away, Nessa’s pack was engaged with their own group of Lynxkin. But something was wrong. One of the barbarians was down, not moving. Another was limping badly.

“We need to help them,” Harald said, already moving.

“Wait,” Hroden commanded. “That’s what they want. Classic lynxkin tactic—hit both groups at once, then hit whoever tries to help with a second wave.”

He’s right. If we rush over there, we’ll get ambushed.

“So what do we do?” Selka demanded. “Let them die?”

“No,” Hroden said. “We move carefully. Formation tight. Francis, you stay at point and call out like you just did. We had more time than usual thanks to you.”

“Understood,” Francis replied, immediately getting into position.

They began moving toward Nessa’s pack, slower this time, weapons ready. Francis’s eyes swept the landscape, his perception straining to catch any hint of movement.

If Stenson were here with a mage, one area spell would clear this entire section. But I doubt he will be able to convince the mages to give us that luxury.

They’d covered maybe thirty yards when Francis’s Battle Sense told him things were about to get exceptionally worse.

“Eight!” he shouted. “Two packs! All around us!”

The lynxkins materialized like ghosts.

Eight white-furred predators, moving in perfect coordination. Four came at them from the front, two from each flank, and two more circled to cut off retreat.

Shit!

“Defensive circle!” Hroden roared. “Protect Helga!”

The pack immediately formed up, backs toward the center, Helga in the middle. Francis found himself between Hroden and Selka, three lynxkins advancing on their section.

The first one lunged at Francis.

[ Guarded Stance ]

His body hardened as claws raked across his chest. The chain mail absorbed most of it, but he still felt the impact. Francis countered with a thrust that caught the lynxkin in the shoulder, forcing it back.

Two more came at him simultaneously. Francis’s perception tracked both, his body reacting on instinct honed through hundreds of deaths.

[ Riposte ]

He deflected the left one’s claws and redirected the attack into the right one. The two lynxkins collided, snarling at each other. Francis took the opening.

[ Power Strike ]

His right sword came down with everything he had. The blade carved through the first lynxkin’s spine, dropping it instantly.

The second one tried to retreat, but Francis was already moving.

[ Flurry ]

Three quick strikes. Throat, chest, belly. The lynxkin collapsed, gurgling its last breath.

Francis spun to engage the third, but it was already dead, one of Helga’s arrows protruding from its eye socket.

“Left flank!” Harald shouted.

Francis turned to see Harald and Eirik struggling against two lynxkins. Both barbarians were bleeding, their movements slowing.

“Francis!” Hroden called out. “Help them!”

Francis charged.

He hit the first lynxkin from behind, both swords driving into its back. The creature shrieked and collapsed. The second one turned to face him, giving Harald the opening he needed. The young barbarian’s spear punched through the beast’s ribs.

“Thanks,” Harald gasped.

“Behind you!” someone screamed.

Francis spun.

Selka was on the ground, a lynxkin standing over her. Her axe lay a few feet away, knocked from her grip. The beast’s claws were raised, ready to deliver the killing blow.

Francis didn’t think. He just ran.

The lynxkin’s claws came down.

Francis’s sword intercepted them, the clash of steel on claw ringing out. The force was nothing compared to the ursaloth or his own strength.

The lynxkin snarled, trying to push through his guard. Francis shoved it back with ease and stepped between it and Selka.

[ Power Strike ]

His left sword came around in a brutal arc that took the lynxkin’s head clean off. The body collapsed, blood spraying across the white snow.

Francis turned to Selka. “You alright?”

She stared at him, blood running down her face from a gash on her forehead. Her expression was unreadable.

“I… yes,” she said quietly.

“Get your axe,” Francis said, placing one sword in the snow and offering her his hand.

Selka took it. He pulled her to her feet.

“Clear!” Hroden called out. “All down!”

Francis looked around. Eight dead lynxkins lay scattered in the snow. The pack was battered, bleeding, but alive.

Vornak had a nasty gash on his arm. Eirik was favoring his left leg. Harald’s face was covered in shallow cuts. Even Hroden was breathing hard, blood seeping through his furs.

But they were all standing.

“Everyone accounted for?” Hroden asked.

“Here,” Vornak grunted.

“Good,” Eirik said through gritted teeth.

“Still alive,” Harald added.

“Same,” Helga confirmed.

Selka said nothing, but she nodded.

“Francis?” Hroden asked.

“I’m good,” Francis replied. His chain mail had taken most of the damage, though he could feel a little bit of warmth where some claws had gotten through.

I can’t play weak much longer… having to protect them makes it way harder to fight. It’s like the first few times back in the army with Michael and the others.

Hroden looked toward where Nessa’s pack had been fighting. They were finishing off their last lynxkin, but Francis could see at least two barbarians down.

“We need to get back,” Hroden said. “Now. Before another wave hits us.”

“What about Nessa?” Harald asked.

“They’re already moving back,” Helga observed. “See? They know the drill.”

“Then we do the same,” Hroden commanded. “Formation. We move fast but careful. Francis, keep sensing. If anything else is out here, I want to know.”

They began the retreat, moving as quickly as their injuries allowed. Francis stayed on point, his perception stretched to its limits, searching for any hint of more lynxkin.

We managed to kill twelve of them, and everyone lived. That’s… that’s actually good.

But as they passed back through the outer palisade and into the relative safety of the camp, Francis couldn’t shake one thought.

Selka is going to die.

He glanced back at her. She was walking near the rear, her hand pressed against the gash on her forehead, her expression distant.

Maybe that changes things…. At least everyone came back alive, just like I promised.

Chapter 18

They passed through the outer palisade, and Francis immediately started checking on the pack.

“Vornak, let me see that arm,” he said.

The stocky barbarian pulled back his furs, revealing a deep gash that ran from elbow to wrist. Blood still seeped from it, though slower now that they were out of the cold.

“Healers,” Francis said, pointing toward the medical tents. “You too, Eirik. That leg needs looking at.”

“I’m fine,” Eirik protested.

“No, you’re limping,” Francis replied. “Go. All of you. Get patched up.”

Harald touched the cuts on his face gingerly. “What about you?”

“I’m good. My chain mail did its job.” He turned to Hroden. “Can I talk to you for a moment?”

The pack leader frowned but nodded, gesturing for the others to head toward the healers. Selka lingered for a moment, her eyes on Francis, before following the rest.

Once they were alone, Francis spoke. “I’ll be back. I need you to stay here.”

Hroden’s eyebrows rose. “What?”

“The bodies. We need pelts, and the only way we’re getting them is if we drag the carcasses back.”

“That wasn’t our goal or job,” Hroden said, his voice not hiding the way he felt about Francis’s idea. “We went out to test you, to see how you’d do. That mission’s done. I cannot let you go out there alone. Glitvall would be upset with me if something happened to you.”

“So you don’t want your share of any of the pelts that I bring back?” Francis asked. “Besides you and I both know that Glitvall wouldn’t blame you for me taking this course of action. You’re a good leader. I can see it, but I also know that a prize like those pelts would do much for you and the rest.”

Hroden opened his mouth, then closed it. Francis could see the conflict on his face. Pelts were valuable, especially lynxkin ones. The fur was thick, warm, and could be traded for other supplies. Plus, their ability to help camouflage someone only added to their worth.

“It’s your life,” Hroden said finally. “You’ll so casually toss it away?”

“If I die, then I did,” Francis replied. “If I don’t, then you’ll understand, as will everyone else.”

Hroden stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head. “You’re insane. Perhaps you are like some of my people.”

“Probably,” Francis admitted, chuckling. “But I made a promise. Everyone came back alive. Now I’m going to make sure it was worth it.”

He turned and headed back toward the palisade gate.

“Francis,” Hroden called out.

He paused.

“Try not to die,” the pack leader said.

Francis smiled slightly. “I’ll do my best.”

***

The first trip went without any problems.

Francis retraced their path, found the nearest lynxkin carcass, and grabbed it by the legs. The body was already starting to freeze, the blood on its fur turning to ice crystals. He dragged it back across the snow, one sword in his free hand, his eyes constantly scanning his surroundings.

It’s just me out here now. It sounds bad if I had to admit it, but with no one to protect, I can actually fight without having to hold back.

When he passed through the outermost palisade, he saw Hroden and Nessa standing near the entrance. Both pack leaders watched as Francis deposited the carcass and immediately turned back.

“He’s actually doing it,” Nessa muttered.

“Told you,” Hroden replied.

Francis didn’t stop to chat. He headed back out.

The second trip drew more attention.

A few warriors had gathered near the palisade, watching as Francis dragged another body through the entrance. Whispers followed him, but no one approached. No one tried to claim the remains or question what he was doing.

By the third trip, a small crowd had formed.

“That’s the Southerner,” someone said.

“Look at him go. Doesn’t even look tired.”

“How many is he bringing back?”

Francis ignored them all. He dropped the third body, pretended to wipe sweat from his forehead despite the cold, and headed back out.

Fourth trip. Fifth. Sixth.

Each time, the crowd grew larger. Warriors, smiths, even a few clan leaders appeared, drawn by the spectacle of a Southerner dragging lynxkin carcasses back alone.

Francis’s onlookers commented about how he was able to keep going. He wasn’t sure if they would be tired or worn out, but he felt great. The cold was there, yet the constant movement held it at bay. All he could do was smile as he headed back out, knowing his actions were doing more than just gathering pelts.

Six down. At least six more from our fight, plus whatever Nessa’s pack killed. I can do this.

On the seventh trip, Francis had ventured farther out to retrieve one of the remains from Nessa’s fight. He grabbed the lynxkin by its hind legs and started dragging it back.

That’s when his Battle Sense warned him of what he had wondered might come.

Four of them.

Francis didn’t hesitate the moment he sensed them approaching. He hurled the carcass forward, directly at the shape he had seen emerging. The body crashed into the materializing lynxkin, knocking it to one side.

Three more appeared, surrounding him.

Francis grinned.

Finally! A real fight.

The first lynxkin lunged at him from the left. Francis sidestepped, his body moving with the ease of someone who’d done this hundreds of times. His right sword came around in a lazy arc that caught the beast across its throat.

Blood sprayed as the lynxkin collapsed, gurgling.

The second one tried to attack from behind. Francis spun, both swords now in his hands, crossing to catch its claws. He twisted his wrists, redirecting the force, and kicked the beast in the chest. It flew backward, crashing into the snow.

Before it could recover, Francis was on it.

[ Power Strike ]

His sword came down with enough force to cleave through the lynxkin’s neck. The head separated cleanly, rolling a few feet away.

Two down.

The third and fourth attacked together, trying to overwhelm him with coordinated strikes. Francis’s perception tracked both easily. He ducked under the third one’s swipe, drove his left sword into its belly, and used the dying beast as a shield against the fourth’s attack.

Claws scraped against the beastkin Francis held between them. He shoved it forward, forcing the fourth lynxkin back, then finished the third with a quick slash across its throat.

With the third one defeated, the last Lynxkin tried to flee.

Not this time.

[ Quick Attack ]

Francis closed the distance in seconds. His right sword came around in a slash that took the lynxkin’s head off mid-stride. The body ran a few more steps before collapsing.

Four dead beastkins, two of them headless, lay on the ice, the wind suddenly gone, as were their lives..

Francis stood there, breathing easily, not a scratch on him. He looked down at the carcasses scattered around him and picked the best one—one of the headless bodies, still mostly intact.

This one’s mine.

He grabbed it by the legs and started dragging it back.

***

The crowd at the palisade had grown significantly.

Francis could see at least fifty warriors gathered, maybe more. Among them stood Glitvall, his massive frame impossible to miss. Several clan leaders flanked him, their expressions ranging from curious to impressed.

Francis dragged the headless lynxkin through the entrance and tossed it to the side, separate from the other carcasses he’d retrieved. He turned to face Hroden.

He pointed a sword at the fresh carcass. “That one’s mine.”

Silence.

Then someone in the crowd started laughing. Others joined in, not with mocking laughter, but with the kind that came from a mix of respect and disbelief.

Glitvall stepped forward, his expression neutral but his eyes sharp. “You killed four more out there. Alone.”

“They ambushed me,” Francis replied. “Seemed rude not to fight back.”

More laughter from the crowd.

“How many more are you bringing back?” Glitvall asked.

Francis looked toward the battlefield. “At least thirteen more. Maybe twenty total if I can find all of Nessa’s kills.”

“Twenty,” one of the clan leaders muttered. “Twenty lynxkin pelts.”

“The Southerner works fast,” another commented.

Glitvall studied Francis for a moment longer, then nodded once. “Finish your work. No one will touch your spoils or dishonor what you’ve claimed.”

Francis inclined his head in thanks and turned back toward the gate.

Hroden appeared beside him. “You’re really going to drag all of them back?”

“I’m already committed,” Francis said. “Might as well finish.”

“You’re insane,” Hroden repeated.

“So you’ve said,” Francis replied with a slight smile.

***

The remaining trips were uneventful.

Francis moved methodically across the battlefield, finding each carcass, dragging it back.

As he returned with the tenth carcass, the crowd remained, watching in silence now. Some had brought stools or crates to sit on. Others stood, arms crossed, expressions thoughtful.

Francis found three of Nessa’s kills farther out, partially buried in snow. He dug them out and brought them back, one by one.

Sixteenth. Seventeenth. Eighteenth.

Almost done. Just a few more.

Nineteenth. Twentieth.

Francis dragged the final carcass through the palisade and let it drop with the others. He stood there, staring at what he had just done.

Twenty dead lynxkins lay in three piles. The crowd stared at them, at him, processing what they’d just witnessed.

Glitvall stepped forward again. “Twenty carcasses. Twelve from your packs’ fights, four from your solo encounter, and four more you went back for.”

“Twenty,” Francis confirmed, wiping his face with a hand.

“The pelts are yours to claim or distribute as you see fit,” Glitvall said. “But I’m curious—why did you do this? The fight was over. You’d proven yourself. Why risk going back out alone?”

Francis looked at the remains, then at Hroden’s pack, who had returned from the healers and were now standing at the edge of the crowd.

“Because promises mean something,” Francis said. “I told the jarl everyone would come back alive. They did. But I also told Hroden his pack would get their share of pelts. That means bringing them back.”

He pointed at the pile. “Twelve of those belong to the pack. Four are mine. The rest go to Nessa’s warriors, since they killed them.”

Nessa pushed through the crowd, her expression a mix of surprise and something else. “You brought back our kills?”

“Your warriors earned them,” Francis replied. “Seemed wrong to leave them out there.”

Silence was his reply for a few seconds.

Then Glitvall started laughing. A deep, genuine laughter that echoed across the gathered crowd. “Stenson was right about you. You’re either the bravest fool I’ve ever met or the wisest warrior. Perhaps both.”

The warchief clapped Francis on the shoulder hard enough to make him stumble slightly. “Rest. You’ve earned it. Tomorrow, we’ll discuss what comes next.”

Francis nodded, suddenly feeling like he was starting to figure out this nation.

As he walked toward his tent, passing through the crowd that parted for him, Francis caught sight of Selka.

She stood near the back, her forehead bandaged from the healer’s work. Their eyes met for just a moment.

She nodded once. Just once.

Francis returned the gesture and kept walking.

Maybe that changes things. Either way, today was a good day.

He made it to his tent, acknowledging those who called out, not bothering to stop. Every step felt like a small victory. One of many he would have to do countless times. Even if it didn’t last long, it felt almost like making the poker. It felt like it had been forever since he started fostering relationships that might actually last a while.

Chapter 19

The summons came for Francis after he had finished eating breakfast.

The same young warrior who had brought him to the tent to meet with the clan elders stood outside his tent with the message that Glitvall wanted to see him. Francis grabbed his weapons, threw on his furs, and followed the messenger through the camp.

The warchief’s tent was warm, with a fire burning in the center and the smell of pine smoke heavy in the air. Glitvall sat in his chair, a cup of something steaming in his hand.

“Francis,” the warchief said, gesturing to the seat across from him. “Sit. We have things to discuss.”

Francis sat, noting the serious expression on Glitvall’s face.

This feels different than before. More formal.

“The council of clan leaders is impressed,” Glitvall began. “Twenty lynxkin pelts were brought back in a single afternoon. Not just that, but four were killed by you alone while you worked. More importantly, every member of both packs returned alive, just as you promised.” He paused, taking a sip from his cup. “They’re trying to figure out just who you are.”

“And what have they concluded?” Francis asked, unable to hold back his grin.

“That you’re either skilled, lucky, or exceptionally foolish,” Glitvall replied with a slight smile. “Some think all three. But the important thing is that they’re open to seeing what more you can accomplish.”

“That’s good, right?”

“It can be,” Glitvall said. “But it also means you’ve caught attention. Not all of it is friendly.”

Francis frowned. “What do you mean?”

The warchief set his cup down. “Jarl Keara is vying for my position as warchief. She has been for some time. Now that you’ve proven yourself valuable, she may seek ways to earn your favor. To bring you to her side.”

“Why would she need me on her side?” Francis asked. “Isn’t the fact I’m here to help all of you good enough?”

“Because if you continue to prove yourself, you’ll have influence,” Glitvall explained. “The warriors respect strength and results. You’ve shown both. If she can claim you as her supporter, it strengthens her position against me.”

Politics. Even up here in the frozen north, there’s always politics.

“How would she try to earn my favor?” Francis asked.

Glitvall smiled, though it didn’t reach his eyes. “She’s known for using the cabbage or a hammer.”

Francis blinked. “The… what?”

“The cabbage or a hammer,” Glitvall repeated. “Rewards or threats. Gifts or violence. She’ll offer you things—better equipment, training, even her daughter’s hand in marriage if it serves her purpose. And if you refuse, she’ll find ways to make your life difficult.”

“You mean the carrot or the stick?” Francis asked.

“Sure, but here it’s a hammer and cabbage,” Glitvall said. “She will continue to try to get you on her side the more fame you gain. As you endure more loops, you might experience both sides of her methods. For my people, it’s not so much of problem as it involves clans. You are loyal to your clan first, and that is where the leaders play the game of who to back.”

Francis leaned back in his chair, processing another problem to overcome. “So what do I do?”

“Stay focused on your goals,” Glitvall advised. “You came here to learn how to fight these beastkins, to help both our kingdoms. Don’t get pulled into clan politics unless you have to. And if Keara approaches you, be polite but noncommittal.”

“Understood,” Francis said. “And if she doesn’t want to accept that? I did mention that she visited me at night on one of my previous loops. She was very upset that Kerhi had taken up most of the evening.”

“You did… and I can only imagine the things she might have offered you that evening,” the warchief said. “Her tact is sometimes… lacking. She is a strong warrior, but there is more to leading a nation in times of war than just being a good fighter.”

Francis studied the way the warchief was sitting. He could see that this problem bothered him by how his shoulders pulled tighter than usual. “I’ll do what I can.”

“Good.” Glitvall picked up his cup again. “Now, as for your next steps. This afternoon, return to Tormund at the forges. Continue your training there.”

“More smithing?” Francis asked, surprised.

“More smithing,” Glitvall confirmed. “In a few days, we’ll do another excursion to the battlefield. I’m sure I can convince the leaders to let you try to bring back more pelts. Perhaps we’ll eventually draw out some of the stronger beastkin.”

“The ursaloths?”

“Or worse,” Glitvall said. “If we can provoke them into showing themselves, I’ll need to put you with a different pack. One that can help face them. Hroden’s warriors are skilled, but they’re not equipped for that level of threat.”

A different pack…

“What about my current pack?” Francis asked.

“They’ll continue their regular patrols,” Glitvall replied. “But you’ll need warriors who specialize in fighting the larger threats. Ones who’ve faced Ursaloths before and lived.”

Francis nodded slowly. “That makes sense. I just thought… that this was a group… I might get to know over some of my loops.”

The warchief nodded, a slight frown forming. “I can see how you might think that. If you desire, ask it of me in another loop. But you didn’t come here to make friends, did you?”

“Not really,” Francis replied. “But after my time with Tormund and the pack, I’ve kind of realized how alone I’ve been.”

“Then tell me so in your next life. For now, focus on your smithing,” Glitvall said. “Tormund has more to teach you than just metalwork. Pay attention to what he says. The man’s wisdom goes deeper than most realize.”

“I’ve noticed,” Francis admitted.

Glitvall smiled. “Good. Then go. Learn what you can. We’ll talk again in a few days. I must return to the tent and deal with my responsibilities. One of them, which is preparing you for why you have come.”

“So you’re doing all this to help me acquire the Legendary skill I’m seeking?” Francis asked.

“I am… part of what is required is more than just enduring pain or even dying. You must learn who we are, how we live and what drives us. In those moments, you will learn about yourself as well. When that time comes, we will be ready to pursue the next path that leads to what you seek.”

Francis stood, nodded respectfully, and left the tent.

***

The forges were busy when Francis arrived.

Hammers rang out against anvils, fires roared, and the heat hit him like a wall the moment he stepped inside. Tormund stood at his usual station, working on what looked like a spearhead. He glanced up as Francis approached and nodded in greeting.

“Back already,” Tormund said. “I heard about yesterday. Twenty pelts. Impressive work.”

“Word travels fast,” Francis replied.

“It always does.” Tormund set down his hammer and studied Francis. “It appears you’ve learned the importance of the join. Bringing back pelts for your pack, and for Nessa’s warriors. That’s what holds people together.”

“Seemed like the right thing to do,” Francis said, shrugging.

“It was.” Tormund gestured to the forge. “Today, you’re going to make as many pokers as you can before sunset.”

Francis blinked. “How many?”

“As many as you can,” Tormund repeated. “It takes practice to do the same thing over and over. I’m certain that if you continue the same path you’re on, you’re going to have to learn how to do that.”

The way he talks about everything makes me wonder if he was told by Glitvall about my loops… It feels like he has.

“You’re a wise man, Tormund,” Francis said carefully.

“I’ve lived long enough to see patterns,” the blacksmith replied with a slight smile. “Now get to work. Iron doesn’t shape itself.”

Francis tied on his leather apron and got started.

***

The first poker took him about forty minutes.

He heated the iron until it glowed yellow, hammered it into the proper length, bent the hook carefully, reinforced the join, and shaped the handle. When he quenched it in oil, the poker hissed and steamed before cooling into a functional tool.

Once again, what he had created wasn’t perfect, but it was usable.

As he worked on the second one, Francis’s mind wandered to yesterday. To the crowd that had gathered at the palisade. All those warriors watching him drag the lynxkins back, one by one. The whispers, the respect in their eyes.

I proved something to them. But what exactly? That I’m strong? That I’m dedicated? Or just that I’m willing to do what others won’t?

His hammer rang out against the iron, shaping it with steady, measured strikes.

He thought about the pack. Hroden’s leadership, Harald’s enthusiasm, Eirik’s and Vornak’s solid reliability. Helga’s sharp observations.

And Selka.

That single nod she’d given him. It was brief, almost reluctant, but it had been given. A possible acknowledgment that something might have changed between them.

I saved her life. Does that matter to someone who hates Southerners? Or does it just make her angrier that she might feel she owes me a debt?

Francis finished the second poker and started on the third. This one went faster, maybe thirty-five minutes. His hands were learning the rhythm, the patterns. Heat, hammer, shape, quench.

He remembered Tormund’s words from before. About bending the hook carefully, about not rushing it or the metal would crack.

That’s how I need to approach Selka. Like bending the hook. Carefully and slowly. If I push too hard and try to force it, I may end up ruining everything. But if I’m patient, if I give her time and space, maybe she’ll come around. Then again… if every loop starts me at the same spot, is that something I need to worry about?

The third poker took shape under his hammer. The hook curved properly, the join was solid, and the handle felt right in his grip.

“Better,” Tormund commented, appearing beside him to inspect the work. “You’re learning. Each one’s a little faster, a little cleaner.”

“How many more life lessons do you have to teach me?” Francis asked.

Tormund chuckled. “The only way to find that out is to learn to craft better. I can’t teach you everything in a day. It takes a lifetime to learn how to forge as well as to understand the barbarian clans.”

“A lifetime,” Francis repeated. “I’m not sure I’ll have one to give.”

Tormund smiled. “Depending on how long you’re willing to keep learning, you might just find out.”

Francis nodded and went back to work.

***

By the time the sun started setting, Francis had made seven pokers.

Each one was better than the last. The seventh took him only twenty-five minutes, and when he held it up to examine, he could barely see any flaws.

“Good work,” Tormund said, inspecting the row of completed pokers. “You’re getting faster without sacrificing quality. That’s the mark of someone who’s actually learning, not just repeating motions.”

“It helps having a good teacher,” Francis replied.

“It helps being a good student,” Tormund countered. “Some people I could teach for years and they’d never understand what you’ve grasped in days.”

[ Blacksmithing Increased - 7 ]

[ Metalworking Increased - 7 ]

It feels weird… those skills improve so fast, and the others that I use to stay alive are slowing down. Even the stat gains aren’t as fast as before.

Francis removed his leather apron and hung it on the hook. His arms ached in that good way, the kind that came from honest work. His hands had new blisters forming, though not as bad as the first time.

“Tomorrow?” Francis asked.

“Tomorrow you rest,” Tormund said. “Let your body recover. The day after, come back. We’ll work on something different.”

“What?”

“You’ll see.” Tormund smiled. “Now go. Get some food, get some sleep. You’ve earned it.”

Francis nodded and headed out of the forge into the cold evening air. The temperature drop was immediate, almost nipping at his exposed skin after hours near the heat.

As he walked back toward his tent, he passed groups of warriors. Some nodded to him in greeting. Others whispered as he went by. Francis caught fragments of conversation.

“That’s him.”

“The Southerner who brought back twenty pelts.”

“Heard he killed four more while he worked.”

Fame… Glitvall was right about that. I’ve caught their attention now. For better or worse.

He reached his tent and ducked inside, grateful for the relative warmth. A small fire burned in the center, and someone had left a covered plate of food near his cot.

Francis sat down and uncovered the plate. Roasted meat, some kind of root vegetable, and a chunk of dark bread. Simple but filling.

As he ate, his mind kept turning over everything that had happened. The fight with the lynxkins and saving Selka.

Francis also spent some time trying to understand Glitvall’s warning about Jarl Keara. He had known she was predatory in some ways that first night. Part of him also knew he was listening to one side of the story.

Politics, combat, smithing, and pack dynamics. It’s like… juggling knives while walking on ice. One wrong move and everything falls apart.

Francis let out a sigh. So far, he’d managed not to drop the knives. Everyone had come back alive, just like he’d promised. The pack was starting to accept him, even Selka in her own grudging way. Even better, he was learning things that would help not just in this loop, but in the ones to come.

Tormund’s right. It takes a lifetime to understand all this. Good thing I have plenty of lifetimes.

Francis finished eating, added a log to the fire, and lay down on his cot. Tomorrow, he’d rest, maybe spend time with the pack. Then the day after, head back to the forge.

Eventually he’d make his way back to the battlefield.

Francis smiled, staring up at the ceiling of his tent. Tonight, he could sleep knowing he’d done well.

The connections were forming and the joins were holding.

Chapter 20

Fuck, this stuff is cold.

Francis’s breath misted in the frigid air as ice crystals formed along his armor. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest, the magical cold seeping through even his Magic Resistance. Five days of constant skirmishes had pushed him harder than he’d anticipated, and now he faced something new.

A piercing shriek split the air again. The Frost Serpentkin’s cry of pain as Magic Feedback reflected a portion of its spell back at the caster. The sound was almost musical, as air moved through its gill-like vents, sending out the freezing mist. It cried out in agony, echoing across the frozen battlefield.

[ Magic Feedback Increased - 23 ]

Francis allowed himself a brief glance at the three packs scattered across the icy field they were on. Each struggled against a single ursaloth, the massive polar bear-like beasts swinging weapons that could crush bone with a single strike. One pack fought as one, each warrior’s curved blade slipping into the gaps the others pried open in the beast’s guard. The second pack was taking a beating. Two of their members were already bleeding heavily into the snow. The third pack was holding their own, if barely.

But he couldn’t help them.

The Frost Serpentkin he was facing demanded his full attention.

The creature was unlike any of the serpentkins he’d faced in the south. Where those had been brown and tan, this one gleamed with scales of ice-blue and silver, each one catching the light like frozen diamonds. It moved across the snow with grace, its lower body undulating in a serpentine glide that left barely a trail. Ten feet of coiled muscle and magic. Its torso rose into a humanoid upper body, complete with four arms that wove patterns that glowed blue in the air.

Francis had faced fast opponents before. The elite catkins, the jaguarkin champion, and even some of the Frostfang Lynxkins that had tested him during his time in the north. This serpent combined speed with the advantage of terrain that Francis distinctly lacked.

The ice beneath his feet was treacherous. Every step had to be measured, every movement calculated. Meanwhile, the serpent glided across the frozen ground as if it were made for it.

Something has to be choosing these beasts for each kingdom, because this one is too much at home here!

The creature’s yellow eyes fixed on him, slit pupils narrowing. Its forked tongue tasted the air. So far, his attempts to get it to speak like the others had back home had not worked. He knew this was a thinking opponent, one that had likely killed many warriors before him.

“Come on then,” Francis muttered, adjusting his grip on both swords.

The serpent struck.

Ice erupted from its outstretched hands, shards like crystalline daggers hurtling toward Francis with deadly precision. He dove left, his feet sliding on the frozen ground, nearly sending him sprawling. The ice shards tore through the spot where he’d been standing, and Francis felt the cold intensify even as his Magic Resistance pushed back against the spell’s effects.

[ Magic Resistance Increased - 54 ]

The cold wasn’t just uncomfortable; it was slowing him down. Not enough to cripple him, but enough to matter. His muscles took a fraction of a second longer to respond. Each of his movements seemed to lose the razor’s edge of speed that often meant the difference between life and death.

Warrior’s Resolve burned within him, compensating where it could, but Francis knew this was going to be a problem. The serpent seemed to know it too. Those yellow eyes gleamed with what could only be described as satisfaction.

The creature launched forward, closing the distance with frightening speed. Two of its arms wielded curved daggers made of what looked like solid ice, while the other two continued weaving spells. Francis brought his swords up to meet the physical attack, steel ringing against the frozen blades.

[ Riposte ]

His skill provided an opening as he parried one dagger and redirected its force. His left blade came around in a counterattack, aiming for the serpent’s exposed side.

The creature twisted impossibly, its serpentine lower body coiling beneath it to change angles mid-strike. Francis’s blade cut through air, and suddenly he was overextended, off-balance on the ice.

A hand blazing with frost magic pressed against his chest.

Cold exploded through his body. It wasn’t the discomfort of winter air, but the bone-deep, tissue-destroying cold of pure magical ice. His sister had shown him what pain could feel like when flesh was frozen. This beast’s spell was far more powerful. Francis felt his armor freeze instantly; the metal was so cold that it burned his skin even through his padded underlayer. Worse, he could feel the spell trying to freeze his blood, to turn his organs into brittle, crystalline structures.

[ Magic Resistance Increased - 55 ]

[ Pain Resistance Increased - 60 ]

[ Magic Feedback Increased - 24 ]

Power surged through Francis’s body as his legendary skill recognized the threat to his life. His opponent let out another cry as a portion of the magic struck back. The world became sharper. The colors of those blue scales seemed more vivid, and the sound of everything nearby was more distinct. The serpent’s movements, fast as they were, seemed to slow just enough for Francis to track them.

He slammed his pommel into the creature’s hand, breaking the spell’s connection, and kicked backward, sliding across the ice to put distance between them. The serpent hissed at him and pressed its advantage.

More ice magic came, this time in waves. Frost spread across the ground, trying to trap Francis’s feet. Icicles formed in the air and launched themselves at him as if someone was shooting crossbow bolts. A wall of frozen wind tried to push him backward.

Francis wove through it all, his Battle Sense telling him where to move and how to react before each attack arrived. He dodged left, rolled to the right, and brought his swords up to shatter icicles that almost struck him. But he couldn’t get near the serpent. Every time he tried to close the distance, the creature glided backward across the ice, maintaining perfect spacing while continuing its magical assault or until it chose to get close.

[ Quick Attack ]

[ Flurry ]

Francis burst forward with everything he had, his enhanced speed from Warrior’s Resolve and his high Agility pushing him faster than the serpent expected. His blades became a whirlwind of steel, each strike aimed at vital points.

The serpent’s ice daggers came up to meet him, blocking, deflecting. Francis’s Dual Wield skill, combined with the power surging through him, was overwhelming its defense. Francis finally managed a small cut along one of the serpent’s four arms. Then another, this one deeper across its chest.

The creature shrieked again, and Francis felt the air temperature drop even further. His exposed skin burned from the cold, and he realized that his fingers were starting to go numb. If he couldn’t grip his swords properly, he was going to die and have to restart this loop.

The serpent’s tail whipped around with devastating force. Battle Sense gave him a fraction of a second warning, just enough to bring up both swords in a cross-guard.

[ Iron Wall ]

The impact still sent him flying. Francis crashed into a snowbank and had to roll immediately as ice magic exploded where he’d landed. He came up in a crouch, both swords ready, and assessed the situation.

This wasn’t working. The serpent was too mobile on this terrain, and every second that passed, the cold sapped more of his effectiveness. Warrior’s Resolve was keeping him in the fight, but Francis could feel the clock ticking down. He had maybe two minutes before the cold became a critical problem.

He needed to change tactics.

Francis’s eyes scanned the battlefield, taking in details he’d ignored while fighting. The ice wasn’t uniform; there were patches of snow, exposed stone, and areas where the ground was rougher. The serpent avoided those areas, staying where the ice was smoothest.

It needs the ice to move like that.

A plan began to form in his mind.

Francis charged again, but this time, he wasn’t aiming for the serpent. He was aiming for the ground. His first sword came down in a massive overhead strike enhanced with Power Strike, shattering the ice. His second sword followed, and then he was moving, sprinting in a circle around the serpent, shattering ice with every attack.

The serpent quickly realized what he was doing and launched a desperate volley of ice magic. Shards tore into Francis’s shoulder, his thigh, his side. He felt his ribs crack from the impact and warm blood begin to freeze almost immediately before shattering and bleeding again.

[ Warrior’s Resolve Increased - 8 ]

But he didn’t stop. The more ice he destroyed, the more the serpent’s advantage decreased. With each wound he took, Warrior’s Resolve grew stronger, pushing him into a new category of a fighter.

The serpent tried to retreat to a different section of ice, but Francis was ready. He threw one of his swords, not at the creature, but ahead of it, shattering the ice where it was heading. The serpent had to swerve, and in that moment, Francis attacked.

[ Power Strike ]

His remaining sword took the serpent in the side, the blade punching through scales that had resisted lesser blows. The creature’s cry this time was pure agony, and it lashed out with all four arms and its tail simultaneously.

[ Guarded Stance ]

Francis took the hits. There was no dodging, or blocking. He was committed, his sword buried in the serpent’s body. Claws raked his face, his chest. Ice daggers pierced his shoulder and leg. The tail wrapped around his waist and squeezed, and Francis heard something in his torso crack.

But his left hand was free, and he still had one more weapon.

[ Power Strike ]

[ Power Strike ]

[ Power Strike ]

Francis’s fist, enhanced by Warrior’s Resolve and every ounce of strength his Brawling skill could muster, slammed into the serpent’s face. Once. Twice. Three times. Each one was empowered by his skill. The creature’s head snapped back with each impact, its scales cracking, and its yellow eyes losing focus.

On the fourth punch, something gave. The serpent’s movements became sluggish, its tail loosening around Francis’s waist. He wrenched his sword free and struck again, this time at the throat.

The Frost Serpentkin collapsed backward, its body convulsing. Magical threads formed around it, frost spreading across its own scales, freezing it from the inside out.

Francis stood over it, breathing hard, watching to make sure it was truly dead. When the light finally faded from those yellow eyes, he allowed himself to stagger back a step.

[ Swordsmanship Increased - 74 ]

[ Dual Wield Increased - 46 ]

[ Brawling Increased - 39 ]

The notifications could wait. Francis turned to check on the packs.

What he saw made his stomach sink.

One pack was scattered across the blood-stained ice. Francis counted quickly—all five of them down, maybe dead, maybe just wounded. Too far away to tell.

Two ursaloths lay dead, their massive forms still upon the snow where they’d fallen. The remaining two packs had combined forces, working together to bring down the third ursaloth even as Francis watched. Their coordination was impressive, blades finding gaps between the creature’s fur armor, but Francis could see they were exhausted and wounded.

He didn’t waste time. Francis retrieved both of his swords, and then he sprinted across the broken ice, his body protesting with every step. Honor wasn’t important at this moment, so he attacked the last ursaloth from behind.

[ Power Strike ]

[ Power Strike ]

Both swords plunged into the creature’s spine, punching through thick hide and muscle to sever the spinal column. The ursaloth let out a roar that cut off mid-cry, its massive body going rigid before toppling forward.

The barbarians from the two surviving packs stumbled back, chests heaving, covered in blood and frost. One raised a hand in acknowledgment, clearly too tired for words.

“The others,” Francis panted, pointing. “We need to check on them.”

Francis’s injuries called out, his Warrior’s Resolve giving him a seemingly endless amount of energy. Every breath he took sent pain through his chest.

Definitely a few broken ribs.

His left arm protested at being used, his shoulder torn up by the serpent’s ice daggers. Blood had frozen along his face, making it hard to see out of his left eye.

But he’d survived.

The fallen pack hadn’t been as fortunate.

Three of them were definitely dead. The remaining two were barely breathing, their injuries severe. One had taken a hammer strike to the chest. Francis could see the caved-in armor, how each shallow breath brought pink bubbles to the warrior’s lips. Punctured lung, maybe worse.

The other survivor had lost most of his left side to a crushing blow. His arm was gone above the elbow, and his hip was shattered. He was conscious, though, his eyes meeting Francis’s with a mixture of pain and grim acceptance.

“We’ll get you back,” Francis said, kneeling beside him.

“Not far,” the warrior rasped.

Francis knew it wasn’t denial. It was a fact. The barbarian knew he wouldn’t survive the journey back.

The surviving pack members from the other groups had gathered around. Francis did a quick count. They had started with fifteen warriors across three packs. Now they were nine, and that was only if the two injured ones survived the trip back. The two surviving pack leaders, who were both older and massive warriors, were silent, their eyes upon him.

“We carry them,” Francis said, his voice brooking no argument. “All of them who still breathe. The dead…” He looked around at the battlefield, at the four ursaloth remains and the serpent’s frozen body. “We can’t take them all.”

It was a bitter truth. The corpses of their fallen comrades, warriors who had fought bravely, wouldn’t be left by him. Ursaloth pelts were valuable, their meat even more so in these lean times. The serpent’s body alone would be a prize, its scales potentially useful for armor, its organs for medicine or magic.

But Francis could see movement in the distance. The beastkin camp was responding to their fight. Three lines were forming up. If they didn’t move now, they’d be caught in the open, exhausted and wounded, facing fresh enemies.

“Take what weapons and personal effects you can carry,” Francis ordered. “We leave in two minutes.”

He moved to the serpent’s carcass, wrapping his hand with leather strips cut from one of the fallen barbarians’ outfits. He’d seen what happened when poorly handled serpent remains were touched bare-handed in the south—a cloud of poisonous gas that could drop a man in seconds. Better safe than sorry.

The scales were freezing cold even through the leather, but they didn’t react with poison or gas. Francis grabbed the carcass by what passed for its shoulders and began dragging it toward the group. It was heavy, especially the tail section, but Warrior’s Resolve gave him the strength to manage it.

“You’re taking that?” one of the surviving barbarians asked, incredulous.

“It’s valuable,” Francis said. “We’re going to need more medicine, so we can’t leave it.”

The warrior nodded, understanding. They hastily fashioned a litter from spears and furs for the two injured, and each took what they could carry from their fallen comrades—weapons, personal totems, anything that could be returned to families or honored in funeral rites.

Francis took one last look at the battlefield. He knew there would be countless more in the coming days and loops when others would die, but for some reason, this one felt harder.

“Move out,” he said quietly.

The journey back to the barbarian camp was a slow, painful affair. The beastkin lines in the distance were definitely moving now, but they seemed content to reclaim the battlefield rather than pursue.

Francis kept the serpent with him, dragging it through the snow. His arms burned with effort, his breathing came in ragged gasps, and several times he thought he might pass out from the pain of his own injuries.

But he didn’t stop.

Francis was surprised to see Kerhi and a group of warriors meet them at the entrance. Her eyes glanced over the group, counting quickly, and Francis saw her jaw tighten as she registered the losses.

“Three,” Francis said, before she could ask. “Three dead on the field, two badly injured.”

Kerhi nodded slowly, her eyes shifting to the serpent Francis was still dragging. “That’s what killed them?”

“No. The packs faced three ursaloths. We got them all.” Francis let go of the carcass, his hand cramping from the cold. “But it wasn’t cheap.”

“Victory rarely is,” Kerhi replied. She raised her voice, calling out orders. “Get these warriors to the healing tents! Now! Move!”

The injured were whisked away on their litters, healers already running to meet them. The surviving warriors shuffled past, exhausted, their faces hollow as they trudged toward food and rest.

Francis stood at the entrance of their defenses, glancing back out at the frozen battlefield. In the distance, he could see the beastkin moving among the battlefield, reclaiming their own dead.

It felt like defeat, even though they’d won the fight.

“You can’t save them all, Southerner,” Kerhi said quietly, standing beside him. “Some days, the ice takes what it wants.”

Francis didn’t reply. He couldn’t. The words wouldn’t come past the tightness in his throat.

After a long moment, Kerhi placed a hand on his uninjured shoulder. “Come. You need healing. And the warchief will want to hear what happened out there.”

Francis allowed himself to be led into the camp, leaving the serpent’s carcass for others to process.

Chapter 21

The healing tent smelled of herbs and smoke, a combination that Francis was growing used to sooner than he expected. Hilda, the healer who had been assigned to him, worked with practiced efficiency as she cleaned another wound along his ribs. One of the shamans had come through earlier, her hands glowing with power as she reset the rib that had punctured his lung. That sensation had been unlike anything Francis had experienced from the healers back home.

Different, but not bad. Just… more raw, more direct.

The shamans here didn’t have the gentle touch of Claudius or the clinical precision of the other healers from his kingdom. Their magic felt wilder, like it came from the land itself rather than from careful study and practice. It worked, though. His lung no longer gurgled with each breath, and the pain that had accompanied every movement was gone.

“I’m surprised you made it back alive,” Hilda said, her voice sounding like an upset mother. “The amount of injuries you have, and the lack of complaining from you, proves you’re strong.”

She paused in her work, her eyes studying him with the kind of knowing look that made Francis wonder what she saw. “But strength alone doesn’t explain it. Some of the berserker warriors possess a skill that helps alleviate pain. One that negates it or at least makes it bearable. The cost to acquire it, though, is one many don’t pursue. Tell me, do you have such a skill?”

Francis nodded slowly, not seeing any reason to hide it. Pain Resistance wasn’t exactly a secret, and if she’d already guessed, denying it would only make him seem like he had something to hide.

Hilda grunted and went back to her work, threading a needle with practiced ease. “Thought so. Not many your age would have it, though. Most who acquire it do so after years of battle. You must have started young, or you’ve been through more fights than your face suggests.”

She began sewing up a particularly deep gash along his shoulder, the one where the serpent’s ice dagger had pierced through his armor. Francis watched her work, letting the silence stretch between them.

After a moment, Hilda reached for a clay jar and began applying a thick, greenish salve to the newly stitched wound. The smell was pungent, like pine and something else Francis couldn’t identify, but the cooling sensation was immediate and welcome.

“I also heard,” she said, her tone shifting to something more conversational, “that you returned with a Frost Serpentkin. And that you defeated it all on your own.”

That caused a stir in the healing tent. Francis hadn’t noticed how many others were present, scattered across various cots and bedrolls, but now he could feel their attention shift toward him. A few of the wounded warriors propped themselves up on their elbows, their eyes fixed on him. Even the other healers paused in their work, glancing his way.

Francis sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. “Are you wanting to hear a story or confirmation?”

Hilda laughed, a sound that was surprisingly warm and genuine. She gestured at his wounds with the hand holding the salve jar. “Look at you. The whole camp knows what you did. I didn’t bring it up to hear you say that you had done it. These wounds tell their own tale well enough.”

She settled back on her stool, her eyes sparkling with what seemed like eagerness. “But it’s been a while since I’ve heard a good story, and you aren’t going anywhere until I finish. So why don’t you humor an old woman and tell us how it happened?”

Francis opened his eyes and looked around the tent. Every face was turned toward him now, waiting. Some were young warriors, probably on their first campaign, their eyes bright with curiosity. Others were older, scarred veterans who had likely seen their share of impossible fights. All of them clearly wanted to hear what he had to say.

Well, at least they’re honest about wanting entertainment.

“Fine,” Francis said, shifting slightly on the cot to find a more comfortable position. Every movement sent small jolts of pain through his body, but his Pain Resistance skill kept it manageable. “We were out on the ice field, three packs and myself. We’d been hunting for smaller groups, trying to thin their numbers without taking unnecessary risks.”

He paused, gathering his thoughts, trying to decide how much detail to include and how much to leave out. “The ursaloths, we expected. Three of them, each one a challenge for a full pack. But the serpentkin was different. It appeared from the mist like it had been waiting for us, and the moment I saw it, I knew things were going to get complicated.”

Hilda made an approving sound and went back to applying salve to his other wounds, but Francis could tell she was listening. Everyone was.

“It had four arms,” Francis continued, “and scales that looked like ice itself. When it moved, it didn’t walk or run. It glided across the frozen ground as if the ice were made for it. And the cold it could summon wasn’t like anything I’d faced before. It tried to freeze me from the inside out.”

One of the younger warriors spoke up. “And you killed it? By yourself?”

Francis glanced at the young man. “I did, but not because I was stronger or faster. The serpent had the advantage in that terrain. Every step I took was calculated. Every movement had to be precise or I’d slip and fall. Meanwhile, it moved like the ice was part of it.”

He let that sink in for a moment before continuing. “So I changed the terrain. Started breaking the ice beneath it, shattering the smooth surface until it couldn’t glide anymore. Once I took away its advantage, the fight became more even. But even then, it nearly killed me. Cost me a few ribs, this shoulder, and more blood than I’d like to admit.”

Hilda chuckled and patted his good shoulder. “And yet here you are, alive and whole enough to heal. That’s more than most can say after facing such a creature.”

Francis grunted, letting his head rest back against the rolled-up furs that served as a pillow. “The fight with the serpent was one thing. But by the time I finished with it, one of the packs had already fallen. Three good warriors are dead, and two more are wounded so badly they might not survive. That’s the part of the story that matters more than how I killed the beast.”

The tent fell quiet at that, the earlier excitement dimming. Everyone in this tent had most likely lost someone, Francis knew. That’s how war worked. You celebrated the victories, but the cost was always there, waiting in the shadows.

“Rest now,” Hilda said, her voice softer than before. “I’ll finish these bandages, and then you need sleep. The body heals faster when you give it the chance.”

Francis didn’t argue.

***

Francis was in his tent, resting on the pile of furs that served as his bed, when a knock came at the entrance. His eyes had been closed, but he wasn’t sleeping. Sleep had been hard to come by lately, his mind too active with thoughts of the fight, the losses, and what would come next.

“Enter,” he called out, pushing himself up to a sitting position.

The tent flap opened, and Jarl Keara stepped inside. She was dressed in her usual combination of leather and furs, but her hair was braided in an intricate pattern that must have taken considerable time to create. Francis also noticed, as he had during her previous visits, that she smelled better than most in the camp. It wasn’t overpowering, but there was definitely a scent of something floral, likely a perfume or oil she had used. He couldn’t identify what kind of flower it was, but it was pleasant enough.

“Jarl Keara,” Francis said, gesturing to the small stool near his bed. “Please, sit.”

She accepted the offer without hesitation, settling onto the stool with the kind of grace that spoke of confidence and practice. Her eyes studied him for a moment, taking in the fresh bandages that covered most of his upper body.

“I heard about the fight,” she said, getting straight to the point. “Three ursaloths and a Frost Serpentkin. That’s no small feat, Francis Lancaster.”

Francis shrugged, then immediately regretted it as his shoulder felt like it wanted to pop. “It was necessary. The packs needed support, and someone had to deal with the serpent.”

“Three dead, though,” Keara said, her tone thoughtful rather than accusatory. “That’s a heavy price. Tell me, how do you feel about that? About the cost of the victory?”

Francis met her eyes, seeing genuine curiosity there. She wasn’t trying to trap him or judge him. She wanted to know what kind of person he was, how he thought about these things.

“I think it cost more lives than it might have been worth,” Francis said honestly. “We killed three ursaloths and a serpent, gained some valuable materials, but three warriors died, and two more might not survive their injuries. If I had to make that trade again, knowing what I know now, I’m not sure I would.”

Keara nodded slowly, something like approval flickering across her face. “That’s a more thoughtful answer than most would give. Many warriors here would count it a great victory, especially bringing back the serpent’s body. But you see the weight of it, the real cost. That’s good.”

She shifted on the stool, her posture relaxing slightly. “So tell me, how long are you planning on staying with us? Surely your kingdom will want you back at some point, and this war of ours could drag on for quite some time.”

“Until we defeat the enemy,” Francis said simply.

Keara laughed at that, a genuine sound of amusement. “That could be years, you know. These beastkins aren’t going to just roll over and die. We’ve been fighting them for months now, and they show no signs of weakening.”

“Then that’s how long it takes,” Francis replied. “My kingdom is fighting the same enemy on a different front. If I can help here, by learning how you fight and sharing what I know, then that’s time well spent. When I go back, I’ll be stronger and more knowledgeable than when I left.”

The jarl studied him for a few seconds, her weathered face unreadable. She was well past her prime fighting years, silver threading the blond at her temples, but her blue eyes held the sharp, measuring weight of someone who had outlived plenty of younger, stronger warriors. Then she leaned forward slightly, her elbows resting on her knees. “Glitvall mentioned you’ve been spending time with Tormund. Learning to work metal, getting put into packs to fight alongside our warriors. What do you think of our ways so far?”

Francis considered the question carefully. “Most of what I’m doing now is proving myself and learning your culture. The blacksmithing teaches me patience and precision. The packs teach me how you fight as a unit, how you trust each other in battle. It’s a little different from my kingdom, but not so much.”

Keara smiled at that, and there was something playful in the expression. “And if you wanted to learn more about our ways? Perhaps something less focused on warfare and smithing? There are other aspects of our culture that might interest you.”

The implication was clear enough, and Francis felt heat rise to his face despite his best efforts to remain neutral. He gestured at the bandages covering his torso, at his shoulder, and at the careful way he had to breathe to avoid aggravating his ribs.

“At the moment,” Francis said, keeping his voice even, “I’m not sure I would be able to handle any kind of fun. These wounds need time to heal properly, and I don’t think I could do justice to whatever you might have in mind.”

Keara didn’t seem offended by the deflection. If anything, her smile widened slightly. “Fair enough. The offer stands for when you’re feeling better, though. We northerners know how to celebrate life, especially after brushing so close to death.”

She settled back on the stool and shifted to other topics, asking about his kingdom, the war there, and how their armies were organized, as well as the strategies they employed. Francis answered as best he could, giving her information that wasn’t exactly secret but wasn’t common knowledge either. He talked about the different types of beastkins they faced, about the way the battles were structured, and about the challenges of fighting an enemy that seemed endless.

This is going to get old fast if she’s like this every time.

The questions kept coming, one after another, and while Francis understood that she was trying to gather information about a potential ally, part of him wondered if this was how every conversation with her would go. Probing, testing, always looking for angles and advantages.

***

Two days later, Francis found himself standing in the forge, watching as Tormund worked with several of the younger blacksmiths.

Tormund was demonstrating how to fold metal properly, his hammer striking the glowing metal with rhythmic precision. Each blow was measured, controlled, shaping the metal into something stronger than it had been before. The younger smiths watched with the kind of focus that Francis recognized from his own training sessions with various instructors. This was knowledge being passed down, the continuation of a craft that had been in existence for generations.

After finishing the demonstration, Tormund handed the work to one of his apprentices and made his way over to where Francis stood. The older man’s face was streaked with soot, and sweat dripped from his brow despite the cold air that seeped in through the forge’s entrance.

“You earned more honor by bringing back the bodies of the three who died,” Tormund said without preamble. “Most would consider it a waste to leave the ursaloth carcasses rather than to focus on carrying back the fallen. They’d say the pelts and meat were more valuable, especially with how lean our supplies are.”

Francis shrugged, the movement easier now after having gotten some rest. “We couldn’t have carried an ursaloth back in that condition. The survivors were exhausted, wounded, and we had two more who needed to be carried on litters. Taking the time to butcher one of those beasts would have left us exposed to the beastkins who were already moving to reclaim the battlefield.”

Tormund shook his head, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He reached out and tapped Francis’s chest with one thick finger, the gesture surprisingly gentle despite the man’s obvious strength.

“That’s the reason you tell others,” Tormund said. “But I know the real reason why you did it. I can see something in your eyes, Francis Lancaster. There’s a longing there, and it’s not the battle lust that many show. You don’t just want to kill well. You want to live well, and you want others to live well too.”

Francis opened his mouth to respond, but Tormund held up a hand to stop him.

“It’s like a blacksmith who only makes weapons,” the older man continued. “Eventually, the knowledge that all he does is create instruments of death will be too heavy for him to continue. That’s why we also make tools, pots, hinges, nails, and other things. We need balance, or the weight of what we do will crush us.”

Francis felt the weight of those words. Tormund had put into words something Francis had been feeling but hadn’t quite been able to articulate. The weight of all the deaths, all the loops, all the killing. It accumulated, and if he wasn’t careful, it would become too much to bear.

He sees it… Somehow, he sees what I’ve been carrying.

“But,” Francis said slowly, working through the thought even as he spoke it, “don’t some times, like right now, require a lot of weapons to be made? So that there might be another time when you can make tools again? When the war is over, you can go back to making pots and hinges. But right now, the warriors need axes and armor. Isn’t that balance too? Knowing when to focus on one thing so that you can eventually return to the other?”

Tormund’s smile widened. He clapped Francis on the shoulder.

“Glitvall said you were wise,” Tormund said. “Each day you prove that more true. Yes, you’re right. There’s a balance in knowing when to focus on one thing and when to return to another. The key is not losing sight of what comes after. Not letting the weapons become all you know.”

He gestured toward the forge, where the apprentices were now working on their own pieces, their hammers creating a symphony of metallic strikes. “These young ones, they’re learning to make weapons now because that’s what we need. But I also teach them to make horseshoes, to forge hinges, to create beauty when they can. So that when the war ends, they remember how to do more than kill.”

Francis nodded, watching the apprentices work. One of them was struggling with the angle of his hammer strikes, and Tormund moved to correct him, showing the proper technique with patient hands. It was a small thing, teaching someone how to strike metal properly, but Francis understood its importance. Every skill learned, every piece of knowledge passed down, was a thread connecting the past to the future.

“When I get some free time,” Francis said, “I’d like to continue learning from you. Not just about weapons, but about the other things too. The balance you mentioned.”

Tormund turned back to him, his expression serious but pleased. “Good. You’ll be welcome here whenever you wish. Just don’t push yourself too hard, too fast. Hilda would have my head if I let you injure yourself further, and that woman is terrifying when she’s angry.”

Francis laughed at that. It felt good after the weight of the conversation. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

He stayed in the forge for another hour, watching the work, asking questions when something caught his interest, and slowly beginning to understand the deeper meaning behind what Tormund had said. It wasn’t just about smithing. It was about finding purpose beyond immediate needs, about maintaining one’s humanity even when surrounded by war and death.

As Francis finally made his way back to his tent, he found himself thinking about loops to come. About the deaths he would experience, the battles he would fight, the knowledge he would gain. But also about the moments like this, where someone saw him as more than just a weapon, more than just a means to an end.

Tormund was right. Balance was key, and Francis was beginning to understand what that truly meant.

Chapter 22

Francis couldn’t believe he had been in the north for almost a month now. It was the longest he’d ever been alive since his first loop, and he was beginning to remember what it was like to truly live. He found himself smiling as he worked the metal in Tormund’s forge, the rhythmic strike of his hammer against heated steel creating a melody that felt almost meditative. The blade he was shaping wasn’t perfect, far from it, but it was his work, and there was satisfaction in that.

His eyes were focused upon the glowing piece of metal he held in one hand against the anvil. Francis could see where he needed to strike next. As his hammer came down, the world went dark.

The sound of the morning bell rang.

Francis bolted upright in surprise, his heart hammering in his chest as the forge vanished and he found himself staring at the familiar wooden ceiling of the barracks.

“What the fuck!” he exclaimed, glancing around the room in disbelief.

“Yeah, it’s earlier than usual,” Michael grunted as he sat up in the bed next to him. “Not sure that it deserves—”

Francis was on his feet before his brother could finish, spinning around and then lunging forward to grab Michael by the shoulders.

“Hey!” Michael exclaimed, his eyes widening. “What are you… How are you—”

“You’re real… It’s not a dream,” Francis muttered, his hands tightening on his brother’s shoulders as if he might disappear at any moment.

“No… or maybe,” his brother replied, confusion clear in his voice. “When the fuck did you get so big? How can I—”

Francis let go of Michael, his mind swimming with questions that had no immediate answers. A month. He’d been alive for a month, learning, growing, finding something that resembled peace. And now he was back here, at the beginning, with no warning, no death, no explanation.

“Hey,” Michael called out, waving a hand before Francis’s face. “You there? What is—”

“I don’t have time for this,” Francis said, his voice more gruff than he had intended. “I need… I need to go. I promise I’ll make it up to you, but for now…”

The confused look on Michael’s face tugged at all the emotions Francis had been feeling during his time in Tules. The peace, the sense of belonging, the friendships he’d been building with warriors like Glitvall and Kerhi, the wisdom Tormund had shared. All of it was gone now, ripped away without warning. Unable to help it, he wrapped his arms around his brother and hugged him tight.

“I love you,” Francis whispered.

“I… can’t… breathe,” Michael gasped.

Letting go of his brother, Francis gave him a gentle tap on the arm, making sure not to hurt him. His strength was far beyond what Michael would remember, far beyond what anyone here would expect. “I need to go. I’ll see you soon.”

He was halfway to the door when the thought struck him like a blade between the ribs.

I didn’t die… The description said upon death I’d reset to this point… But if I didn’t die… Then…

Francis froze, his hand on the doorframe. A month of peace, ripped away in an instant, but not because he’d made a mistake or because some enemy had finally caught him. The reset had come from somewhere else, triggered by something he hadn’t done.

Something else did this. Something I don’t understand.

In a thousand deaths, the reset had only ever come from one place. His own dying. It was the single rule he had been sure of, the one thread of control he held in all of this, and now even that was a lie. Something could reach into his loop and pull the world out from under him, and he had no idea what, or how, or why.

He had no answer and wasn’t certain he wanted one, but the question had teeth, and he knew it would not let go

With that, Francis ran, ignoring the shouts of the other teens he had trained with before he had first died.

The familiar faces, voices, all of it felt wrong now after experiencing something different for so long.

Phillip was in the courtyard, his usual frown upon his lips as he prepared for the morning training session.

When Francis burst onto the grounds, the man started to speak and then froze, his eyes widening at Francis’s sudden appearance.

“I don’t have time,” Francis shouted. “I need to see the general! The gods have sent me!”

Phillip called out something, but Francis didn’t care. He just ran, his bare feet carrying him down a dirt road and toward the command tent he needed to reach. Each step did nothing to lessen a desperation he’d never felt before.

***

Stenson sat in his chair, a worried look upon his face as Francis waited for the words the man would say. The general had listened to everything Francis had told him, from the month spent in Tules to the sudden return without dying. There had been no warning and no explanation for why the loop had reset.

“You’re certain you didn’t die?” Stenson asked, his voice careful and measured.

“Not unless someone like Glitvall came up from behind and destroyed my head before I could register it,” Francis said. He knew how absurd it sounded, but it was the only explanation that made any sense. “I was working metal in the forge one moment, and the next I was waking up here. No pain, no warning, nothing.”

Stenson leaned back in his chair, his hand coming up to stroke his chin. “A month. You say we discussed the possibility that there might be a time limit, but we never thought it would be measured in weeks rather than days or hours.”

“I didn’t either,” Francis admitted. “I was starting to think… I was starting to hope that maybe the loop had stopped. That I could just live and not worry about dying and resetting.”

The general nodded slowly, his expression sympathetic but troubled. “We need to consider what this means. If there’s a time limit to how long you can stay alive, then—”

He stopped mid-sentence, and the older man’s face went white. The color drained from his features so quickly that Francis felt a spike of alarm shoot through his chest.

“What?” Francis asked. “What is it?”

“What if they have another—” Stenson stopped, unable or unwilling to finish.

Francis felt the floor tilt. The dread he’d carried since the doorway finally found its shape, and he wished it hadn’t. “Another me,” he said quietly. “On their side.”

The words sat between them, too large for the small tent.

“I did not want to be the one to say it,” Stenson admitted. “But it fits. You did not die, yet you reset. Something pulled the trigger. Someone.”

“Someone with the same ability.” The cold of it settled into Francis’s gut even as he spoke. “Somewhere else. When they reset, so did I.” He made himself sit, though every muscle wanted to pace.

Francis could see the fear of that idea settling on the man like someone had dropped a rhinokin on him. The general’s hand trembled as he reached for the cup of water on his table. It was the first sign Francis had ever seen of the man looking truly scared.

“Think about it,” Francis said slowly, the pieces locking into place even as he spoke. “The ambushes that always catch us at the worst moment. The way their forces sit exactly where they need to be. Every time you found a weakness in their formation, they’d already adjusted for it by the next battle.”

“It’s not superior tactics,” Stenson said, his voice barely above a whisper. “It’s foreknowledge. They’ve been fighting this war the same way you have. Dying, resetting, learning.” He set his cup down with a sharp crack. “We’ve been fighting an impossible battle from the start.”

Francis stood abruptly, pacing the small space of the tent. “But if they have a looper, why haven’t they won yet? Why haven’t they just kept resetting until they found the perfect strategy to destroy us completely?”

“Perhaps they’re limited in the same ways you are,” Stenson suggested. “Or perhaps they’re working toward a different goal. We don’t know enough about how these parasites function.”

Francis stopped pacing. For dozens of loops, he and Stenson had kept his ability secret from nearly everyone. A handful of people knew. They were his trusted allies who had proven themselves across multiple timelines. The king and queen had been kept in the dark for most of this, told only what they needed to know, never the whole truth of what Francis was or what he could do.

This has to change.

“We need to tell them,” Francis said. “Baxter and Auri. Everything. Not the half-truths we’ve given them before, but the complete picture. If we’re facing an enemy who can reset like I can, we can’t afford to have our own leadership operating blind.”

Stenson studied him for a long moment. “You’re certain? Once they know, there’s no taking it back. Every loop, you’ll have to decide whether to tell them again or let them forget.”

“I know.” Francis met the general’s gaze. “But right now, I need people who can think about this problem with me. People with resources and knowledge I don’t have. We’ve been playing this close to the chest, and maybe that was the right call when I was just trying to survive. This is bigger than survival now. If there’s an enemy looper out there, we’re in a war that neither side can win unless one of us stops resetting permanently.”

Stenson nodded slowly, then called for a runner. Within minutes, the orders were sent, and Francis found himself waiting once again, his mind churning through possibilities and implications that grew more disturbing the longer he considered them.

***

King Baxter and Queen Auri arrived together, their expressions guarded as they took seats across from Francis and Stenson. The king’s presence filled the tent the way it always did, commanding without effort, while the queen’s sharp eyes moved between Francis and the general, already sensing something significant.

“Stenson’s message said this was urgent,” Baxter said. “That you had information that couldn’t wait.”

Francis glanced at Stenson, who gave him a slight nod. This was his story to tell.

“What I’m about to say will sound impossible,” Francis began. “But I need you to hear all of it before you decide whether to believe me.”

He told them everything. The parasite he’d absorbed in the south. The ability to reset time upon death. The thousands of loops he’d lived through, dying and coming back, learning and growing stronger with each death. He told them about the month he’d just spent in Tules, living and training with the northern warriors, only to wake up this morning back in the barracks with no death to explain it.

When he finished, silence hung in the tent like smoke after a fire.

Baxter’s face was unreadable, the expression of a king who had learned long ago not to show his thoughts. But Auri leaned forward, her eyes sharp with skepticism.

“You’re claiming you can die and return to a fixed point in time,” she said slowly. “With all your memories intact… All your skills preserved.”

“Yes.”

“And you expect us to believe this?”

Francis had expected this. He turned to meet Baxter’s gaze directly. “In one of my early loops, you and I had a private conversation. You told me that, unlike my family, the royal line doesn’t allow more than three sons. Sometimes only two, if the test to become king was difficult enough. You said it was because each son creates stress and potential problems as the desire for the throne grows.”

Baxter’s eyes narrowed, but Francis continued.

“You told me the rumors about royal brothers killing each other aren’t rumors at all. That you killed your brother when he tried to take what was yours by birth. You said you never had conversations with him like I have with Michael, that you learned early he would be a rival, and when the day came, you didn’t hesitate.”

The king’s face had gone pale. Beside him, Auri’s hand had found his arm.

“You also told me,” Francis said quietly, “that your wife is like a shield in battle or a blanket on a cold night. That she protects you and keeps you warm. That she’s what keeps you grounded and going forward every day.”

Baxter’s throat moved as he swallowed. When he spoke, his voice was rough. “I have never spoken those words to anyone but her.”

“You spoke them to me,” Francis said. “In a timeline that no longer exists. We sat together after a war council, and you let your guard down because I asked for nothing but honest conversation. I’ve carried those words through hundreds of deaths since.”

The king and queen exchanged a long look, the kind that spoke of years of partnership and unspoken communication. When Baxter turned back to Francis, something had shifted in his expression. Not quite belief, but the willingness to consider the impossible.

“A month,” Auri said finally, her voice unsteady but her analytical mind already working through the implications. “That’s a significant amount of time. Far longer than any previous loop you’ve described.”

“Which suggests there may be a limit to how long the loop can sustain itself,” Baxter added. “Or perhaps the parasite has restrictions we don’t understand.”

“The more pressing question,” Stenson said, “is whether the enemy has their own looper. If they do, it changes everything we thought we knew about this war.”

Auri nodded slowly, her fingers tapping against the arm of her chair. “The gods can see all potential outcomes, all possible futures branching from every decision, or that was my belief. That’s what the old texts say. If these parasites are fragments of divine power, or if they’re connected to different gods in some way, then having multiple loopers would create a kind of… chess match. Each side resetting, adjusting, trying to outmaneuver the other.”

“But how do we win?” Francis asked, the frustration clear in his voice. “If they can reset just like I can, then how do we defeat them? What happens if we kill their entire army and the looper they possess dies? They just start over, armed with the knowledge of how we beat them.”

The silence that followed was heavy with implications none of them wanted to voice.

“You would need to find the parasite,” Auri said finally. “Identify their looper and kill them in a way that prevents the reset. However, I’m not sure if that’s even possible. We don’t fully understand how your ability works, let alone how to stop it permanently.”

Francis thought back to the forest, to the moment when the parasite had tried to infect him. “Last time it tried to take me as a host, we mingled blood. It entered through a wound. What if… what if killing the host isn’t enough? Maybe I’ll have to locate their looper and find a way to kill the parasite itself, not just the person it’s inhabiting.”

“Does killing a host not cause them to reset?” Baxter asked, his brow furrowed.

“I don’t know,” Francis admitted. “When I die, I reset. But what triggers it? Is it my death, or is it the parasite recognizing that its host is dying? If it’s the latter, then maybe there’s a way to kill both the host and the parasite simultaneously, before it can trigger the reset.”

“But if you fail,” Stenson said, his voice grim, “they’ll know who you are. They’ll know that we have a looper as well. That knowledge alone could be catastrophic.”

“Or they might already know,” Auri said quietly. All eyes turned to her, and she met their gazes with a troubled expression. “Think about it. Francis has been gone for a month in his timeline, living in the north. If the enemy has a looper and is resetting their timeline as well, surely they’ve sent messengers asking where the one Francis killed is. Or perhaps they know a loop is happening and they remember the reset also.”

Fear gripped Francis’s heart at all the potential problems this idea was creating. If the enemy knew about him, if they understood what he could do, then every advantage he’d gained through his deaths and resets might be worthless. They could be planning around him, preparing countermeasures, setting traps specifically designed to neutralize his ability.

“We’re operating blind,” Baxter said, his fist clenching on the arm of his chair. “We don’t know if they have a looper. We don’t know if they know about Francis. We don’t know what their goals are or what they’re working toward. Every assumption we make could be wrong.”

“Then we need to test it,” Francis said. “We need to find out if they’re resetting. Look for patterns in their behavior across multiple loops. Things that change when they shouldn’t, or things that stay the same despite different circumstances.”

“And if we confirm they have a looper?” Stenson asked.

“Then we adapt,” Francis said, though he wasn’t sure he believed it himself. “We find their looper. We learn how to kill them permanently… And we end this war before it can reset again.”

Auri stood, her expression unreadable. “There’s another possibility we haven’t discussed. What if it chose to reset? What if your month in the north didn’t end because you died or because of a time limit, but because their looper died and triggered a reset deliberately?”

The room fell silent as they all considered that possibility. If the loops were connected, if one person’s death could trigger a reset for everyone with a parasite, then the implications were staggering. It would mean that Francis wasn’t just fighting to save his kingdom. He was locked in a cosmic struggle with an enemy he’d never met, both of them trapped in an endless cycle that neither could escape.

“We need more information, but I have to believe there is a way to change the point one starts at,” Baxter said finally. “They have had to change for us to be where we are; otherwise, we’d be back to the first battle we fought. Francis, I want you to continue as you have been. Train, fight, learn everything you can about the enemy. But also watch for patterns. Anything that might indicate they’re resetting their timeline as well.”

“And if I find their looper?” Francis asked.

The king’s expression was grave. “Then you do whatever it takes to end them. Because if they’re resetting like you are, then this war will never end. Not unless one of you stops looping permanently.”

Francis nodded, though the weight of what was being asked of him felt heavier than anything he’d carried before. It was one thing to die repeatedly, to learn, adapt, and try to save his kingdom. It was something entirely different to hunt down someone like himself.

But if that’s what it took to break the cycle, to finally win this war and save everyone he cared about, then he would do it.

He had to.

Chapter 23

When Glitvall and Francis were finally alone, Francis told him everything. The month in Tules that had been ripped away without warning. The discussions with Stenson, Baxter, and Auri about the possibility of an enemy looper. The implications of fighting a war where both sides could reset, learn, and adapt indefinitely.

Glitvall listened without interruption, his massive arms crossed over his chest, his expression unreadable. When Francis finished, the warchief was quiet for a long time before he finally spoke.

He shrugged. “You still have the gains you made since the last time you died, right?”

“Yes,” Francis replied, somewhat taken aback by the casual response.

“Then we continue what we’re doing. Everything is the same.” Glitvall’s voice was matter-of-fact, as if the cosmic implications Francis had just described were no more concerning than a change in the weather. “Knowledge is power, but we don’t know what knowledge they have. We can worry about what they know, or we can prepare you for what you need to become. So tell me, Francis, are you ready to start that process?”

Francis grimaced, seeing the fire that burned within the warchief’s eyes. There was something predatory in that gaze, something that spoke of pain and hardship to come. “I want to say yes, but the way you’re looking at me is almost scary.”

Glitvall snorted as he stood, his massive frame seeming to fill the tent. “That’s because you are in for a lot of pain and a lot more deaths.”

***

The line of ursaloths was exactly where Francis remembered them being. As it had the first time, the alpha one grunted and his opponent stepped forward.

The massive bear-like creature moved toward him on the frozen battlefield. Its white fur ignored the wind, and its stone hammer rested on one massive shoulder. When it saw Francis approaching, it let out a roar that echoed across the ice field.

Francis knew this fight. He knew how it moved, how it fought, where its attacks would come from.

The ursaloth didn’t charge, playing the defensive game once more. Its massive form looked intimidating, but he knew how to bring it down. Francis rushed toward the bear, knowing the speed at which that hammer would come. As the ursaloth attacked, he dove forward and to the left, rolling beneath the creature’s swing and coming up behind it.

[ Quick Attack ]

[ Power Strike ]

Both swords bit into the back of the creature’s leg, cutting through fur and hide to find the muscle beneath. The ursaloth howled and spun, its hammer sweeping in a wide arc that forced Francis to throw himself backward.

Francis knew this pattern. He knew the creature would overextend on that swing, leaving its right side exposed for just a moment. He was already moving before the hammer finished its arc, his blades finding the gap in the ursaloth’s defenses.

[ Flurry ]

[ Power Strike ]

Three strikes, each one precise, each one aimed at vital points. The ursaloth’s roar turned to a pained grunt as Francis’s swords opened wounds along its ribs. The creature tried to bring its hammer down on Francis’s head, but he was already gone, dancing away across the ice.

The fight continued, a brutal exchange of steel and stone. Francis took hits, his armor absorbing blows that would have crushed a normal man, but Warrior’s Resolve kept him moving, kept him fighting. Every wound the creature inflicted made him stronger, faster, more dangerous.

Finally, after what felt like hours, but was surely only minutes, Francis saw his opening. The ursaloth raised its hammer for an overhead strike, and Francis didn’t retreat. He charged forward, inside the creature’s reach, his swords driving up into its exposed throat.

The ursaloth collapsed, its hammer falling from nerveless fingers to crash into the ice beside its body. Francis stood over it, breathing hard, his body aching from a dozen different injuries.

One down.

The second ursaloth was waiting nearby. As it had the previous time, the alpha roared, sending Francis’s next opponent toward him. This one was larger than the first, its stone axe chipped and stained with old blood. Once again, when it saw Francis, it didn’t roar or posture. It simply attacked.

Francis met the charge head-on, his swords already moving in patterns he’d practiced thousands of times. He knew this fight, too, or thought he did. The creature swung its axe in a horizontal arc, and Francis ducked beneath it, his blades seeking the exposed stomach.

But something was different. The ursaloth’s follow-up came faster than Francis remembered, its axe reversing direction mid-swing to catch him across the chest. Francis felt his ribs crack, felt the impact drive the air from his lungs, and then the world was spinning as he flew backward.

He hit the ice hard, rolled, and came up ready to fight. The ursaloth was already there, its axe descending. Francis brought his swords up to block, and the force of the impact drove him to his knees.

[ Iron Wall ]

The skill activated, hardening his defenses, but it wasn’t enough. The ursaloth’s next strike came from the side, the axe blade catching Francis at the waist. He felt the stone cut through armor, through flesh, through bone.

The world split in two, top and bottom, and Francis had just enough time to think—

Fuck.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang, and Francis lay there for a moment.

“It’s earlier than usual,” Michael grunted as he sat up. “What gives?”

Francis grunted in response and threw off his blanket. No time for explanations. No time for anything but getting back to that fight.

***

The second ursaloth’s axe struck Francis in the chest, slicing through his sternum and through his heart. He died before he hit the ground, cut in half.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

“It’s earlier than usual,” Michael grunted as he sat up. “What gives?”

Touching the spot the axe had cleaved him in half, Francis took a second, ignoring his brother’s comment about how they were going to get in trouble because of him.

***

The ursaloth caught Francis’s sword with one massive paw and yanked him forward. Its teeth closed on his throat, and the world went dark in a spray of blood.

***

Twenty-six deaths later, Francis stood over the second ursaloth, ripping his swords from the back of the beast’s neck. Blood sprayed across the ice, mixing with his own that dripped from a dozen wounds. His left arm hung at an awkward angle, probably broken. His ribs felt like someone had taken a hammer to them, and he could taste copper with every breath.

But the second ursaloth was dead, and Francis was still standing. That was what mattered.

A growl echoed across the ice field.

Francis looked up to see the alpha ursaloth gesture at him. Two more ursaloths stepped forward, their weapons ready.

“Fuck me,” Francis muttered.

The two ursaloths charged together, their movements coordinated in a way he had never faced before. Francis barely had time to raise his swords before they were on him.

***

It’s earlier than usual,” Michael grunted as he sat up. “What gives?”

Francis closed his eyes. He had lost count of how many times he’d woken to those exact words, in that exact sleep-rough voice, his brother’s hair stuck up on one side the way it always was. Michael would never know he’d said it a thousand times. To him, it was always the first.

That’s the cruelty of it. He wakes up new every loop. I’m the only one who has to carry all the rest.

“Nothing gives,” Francis said, the irritation draining out of him before it could land. He leaned over, grabbed his worn boot and tossed it at his brother. “Get up. I’ll race you outside.”

Michael blinked, thrown by the warmth. “Who are you and what did you do with my brother?”

Francis laughed despite how he felt.

***

Fifty-three deaths. That’s what it took to kill the first of the pair that the alpha had offered to him. Francis’s body was a mass of flesh. He ignored every notification that came. He’d learned to fight one ursaloth while defending against another. Learned when to dodge, when to block, and when to accept the damage he had to, letting Warrior’s Resolve turn it into strength.

The second guard fell thirty-eight deaths after that, Francis’s swords buried in its chest, falling on top of his defeated foe.

***

Seventy-three more deaths taught Francis how to fight both guards without dying. Learning their patterns, their combinations, and the way they worked together was harder than he had expected. Each death brought new understanding and gave him a few new strategies to try out. Even better was that he was learning new ways to exploit their coordination against them.

It had taken a total of one hundred and sixty-four deaths before Francis finally stood over the carcasses of both guards, his chest heaving, blood streaming from wounds that covered nearly every inch of his body. His left eye was swollen shut, three fingers on his right hand were broken, and he was fairly certain he had ruptured some organ inside his midsection.

But he was alive, and they were dead.

The alpha ursaloth’s growl rumbled across the ice again. Francis looked up through his one good eye to see three more ursaloths stepping forward, their weapons gleaming in the pale northern light.

Francis pointed his bloody sword at the alpha, his voice hoarse but filled with determination.

“I swear… I’m going to take your head off one day.”

The alpha’s eyes gleamed with what might have been amusement or respect. Then the three new ursaloths charged, and Francis raised his swords to meet them.

Again.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang, and Francis lay there smiling.

“It’s earlier than usual,” Michael grunted as he sat up. “What gives?”

“Oh, you know Phillip,” Francis replied, sitting up. “Now then, why don’t you and I go take a trip?”

Michael started to chuckle, but then choked, his eyes bulging as he saw Francis.

“You—”

“Yeah, I’m bigger, no, you can’t have any, and we’re going to go have some fun. It’s been a while, and I need to spend some time with you.”

His brother continued to cough. Francis moved to the doorway and swung it open. A dozen seconds later, a face Francis hadn’t thought about in thousands of deaths popped in.

“You two girls giving—” Malcomb’s voice stopped as his eyes fell upon Francis. The bully filled the doorway the way he always had, a thick slab of a teen with a wrestler’s neck and a nose that had been broken at least once, his fists already half-curled out of habit.

Smiling, he obliged the bully of the training area by standing and swaggering over to where the teen was. “You want to finish those words?” Francis asked, flashing his teeth. “I’d be happy to repay some of the beatings you gave me in return.”

Malcomb’s face went white, and only due to his improved stats was Francis able to catch the bully as he passed out.

“Huh… who would have thought,” Francis said, hoisting Malcomb over his shoulder. “Come on, Michael. I need to go talk with Phillip before you and I take a much-needed vacation.”

Chapter 24

The road to town felt different this time. Francis walked beside Michael, listening to his brother chatter about nothing in particular, and found himself actually enjoying the moment instead of treating it as another step in an endless cycle. The sun was warm on his face, the breeze carried the scent of grass and wildflowers, and for once, Francis wasn’t thinking about death or strategy or the weight of saving everyone.

Phillip had pulled Francis aside before they left, his usual frown replaced by a look of awe. The trainer had circled Francis slowly, studying him as if he were looking at a completely different person.

“I don’t understand,” Phillip had said finally, his voice quiet. “You were… you were skinny. Frail. And now…” He gestured at Francis’s frame, at the obvious muscle and bulk that hadn’t been there before. “How is this possible?”

Francis had met the man’s eyes steadily. “I’m not running from the war. The gods have gifted me with size and more. They’ve shown me what I need to become, and they’ve promised me something.”

“What?” Phillip asked, his expression wary.

“Valehart,” Francis said simply. “The gods have promised me revenge.”

Phillip’s face went rigid, his jaw clenching so tight Francis could hear his teeth grinding. The man opened his mouth, questions clearly forming, but Francis held up a hand to stop him.

“Do you want revenge?” Francis asked. “If so, I cannot say more. Just know I will bring him to you on his knees, and you’ll get the chance to slit his throat.”

His trainer choked on whatever words he’d been about to say. A few tears fell, tracking down the weathered face before the man cleared his throat roughly and nodded. “May the gods be with you, Francis, and I look forward to that day.”

From there, Phillip had provided them with a pouch of coins, enough to stay in the city at an inn for a month. They’d have food and shelter. Anything else would have to come from what they earned themselves.

***

The inn was nothing fancy, but it was clean, and the beds were soft. Francis and Michael spent the first day doing absolutely nothing, sleeping in until the sun was high in the sky, eating a leisurely meal, and then wandering the town with no particular destination in mind.

It was strange, this feeling of freedom. Francis had grown so used to the urgency of training, of dying, of resetting, that simply existing without a goal felt almost foreign. But Michael seemed to sense what Francis needed, pulling him into conversations with local girls, sharing stories at the tavern, making sure his brother laughed at least once every day.

A few days into their stay, Francis found himself drawn to Zachary’s smithy. The old blacksmith looked up from his work as Francis entered, his eyes widening slightly at the sight of a man the entire town knew about due to his size.

“Well, well,” Zachary said, setting down his hammer. “Looks like someone’s been eating their meals. You’re the one who is staying with his brother, aren’t you?”

“I am,” Francis replied. “I was wondering if you might teach me a few things. I’ve been learning some smithing, but I’d like to improve.”

Zachary studied him for a long moment, then shrugged. “Why not? Let’s see what you know.”

Francis spent the next three days in the forge, working alongside Zachary and learning techniques the old smith had perfected over decades. The man was surprised at how quickly Francis picked things up, at how his hammer strikes were already practiced and controlled despite his relative inexperience.

“You’ve got a natural talent for this,” Zachary said on the third day, watching as Francis shaped a small blade. “Most apprentices take months to get their strikes that clean. Who taught you?”

“A smith in the north,” Francis said, which was true enough. “A man named Tormund. He’s a master of his craft.”

Zachary grunted and let Francis continue practicing, creating several small items over the next few days. Nothing fancy, just simple knives and hinges, but each one was a testament to the skills Francis was accumulating across his many lives.

***

The last week of their month away, Francis and Michael packed simple supplies and headed to the stream where they’d fished during previous loops. They set up a small camp, caught more fish than they could eat, and spent the evenings talking around the fire.

It was on the third night that Michael’s expression grew serious. He stared into the flames, watching them dance and flicker, before finally speaking.

“How many times have you done this with me?”

Francis looked up from the fish he was cleaning. “Talk or spend time like this together?”

“Time like this,” Michael clarified. “How many times have we had moments like this? Moments where you don’t fight and we get away.”

Francis was quiet for a moment, then shrugged. “Not enough. I… I realized I need more of these. Part of me wants to punch you in the mouth every time I wake up to that bell and you say the exact same damn thing.”

Michael’s hand went to his jaw reflexively. “And you haven’t?”

“Almost,” Francis replied, grinning despite the weight of the conversation. “But I love you… and so far that’s been enough to keep me from doing so.”

Michael studied him for a long moment, his expression more serious than usual. “Why now? Why did you want this right now?”

Francis stared at the fire, stirring the flames with a stick and watching the sparks rise into the night sky. “Honestly… I’m about to face some horrible deaths for a long time. Based on how things are looking, it may take me five hundred or more before I can win.”

Michael’s eyes widened, and he nodded slowly, processing that number. “Five hundred… and each one?”

“Painful,” Francis said quietly. “Hacked to pieces, smashed, head ripped off—”

“I get it,” Michael interrupted, his face pale. “And all this… for me?”

Francis nodded slowly. “Mostly… Now I see I don’t have a choice. Part of me wants to become stronger. I see what I can become and perhaps the life I could have one day if I ever figure this all out. You were my main focus at first… but now… I also realize that I can’t be alone forever. That… requires me to endure what I must.”

Michael’s frown faded, and he started to slowly nod. “And here you are, always giving me grief about trying to get to know more people.”

“Women,” Francis corrected, unable to keep the smile off his face. “You try to get to know more women. You’re a lech.”

His brother laughed, the sound echoing across the stream. “I can’t help it if that’s my gift.”

They sat in silence for a while after that, watching the fire burn down to embers. A weight of longing had been lifted off Francis’s shoulders. This month away had been necessary, a reminder that life was more than just death, combat, and endless loops.

***

A few days after returning to town, Francis found himself standing outside the establishment where Dexter ran his fighting ring. He’d been thinking about the large brawler ever since that first loop when he’d fought the man. Cutter had skills, real combat experience, and the kind of raw strength that could make a difference on a battlefield.

Francis pushed through the door and found Cutter and Dexter inside, the previous sweeping while the latter checked something in a journal.

Cutter stepped forward, a few crow’s feet forming around the man’s eyes as he frowned. “Can I help you?”

“Maybe,” Francis said, walking closer. “I wanted to ask you something. Have you ever thought about fighting to defend the kingdom?”

Cutter snorted and shook his head. “Why? What’s the kingdom ever done for me? Besides, I don’t see you or your brother heading there. Everyone in town knows you two were supposed to join the fight, and yet here you stand, not there.”

“What would it take for you to go join the army?” Francis pressed, ignoring the man’s words.

Cutter’s expression hardened, his jaw setting in a stubborn line. “There isn’t enough gold in the kingdom to make me do that. They didn’t help me when I needed it. I’m not going to help them when they need it.”

The large man went silent after that, his attention returning to the floor and the woodchips on it as if Francis had ceased to exist. Francis tried a few more questions, but Cutter ignored every one of them, his body language making it clear the conversation was over.

Francis didn’t feel like fighting or killing the man just to make a point. Whatever had happened between Cutter and the kingdom, whatever wound had been left there, it was deep enough that no amount of persuasion would change his mind. At least not now, not like this.

“Alright,” Francis said finally. “I understand.”

He turned and left the building, stepping back out into the sunlight. The month was almost over, and soon he’d have to return to the training camp, return to Phillip and the other recruits, return to the path that would eventually lead him back to those ursaloths and the grinding deaths that awaited him.

Right now, he still had a few more days with Michael. A few more days of being just Francis. He didn’t have to be the looper, or the warrior who died over and over again. Just a young man spending time with his brother.

And that was enough.

***

“You’re sure that something is going to happen and you’ll just relive all this?” Michael asked. “And what if it doesn’t?”

“Then I’ll know that the pattern isn’t the same,” Francis replied. “I really don’t know if I’m right. Part of me hopes that I’m wrong.”

His brother poked at the stew in the bowl they had been eating for dinner. “Well I hope you’re right because we’ve only got enough coin for two more nights. After that I’m afraid we’re going to have to work or something else.”

Francis shook his head and glanced around the room of the inn. “No… I can feel the promise we made to fight. I swore to Phillip I would only stay away for a month. If we don’t go then the promise I made will be broken, and we both know what happens then.”

“You really think they’d hunt us?” Michael asked, his eyes widening. “Look at these people. They all know the kind of power you must have for you and I to be here, doing this. I mean, you could pretty much do whatever you want in this town and no one could stop you.”

“But they could easily stop you,” Francis replied. “And at some point, I have to sleep. Then what?”

His brother grunted, going silent at the truth of those words.

“No matter what happens, you’re my focus,” Francis stated. “I’m going to face whatever I must to make sure that you don’t just stay alive but that you get to really live.”

Michael chuckled and then pinched off a piece of bread from his small loaf and tossed it at Francis. “You know… part of me is sad to know you didn’t take me back to the army… Those two women… Bella and—”

“Maybe next time,” Francis said, tossing some pieces of bread back.

“Hey! You two make a mess in here, and I’ll kick you out!” the innkeeper shouted.

Chuckles came from the other patrons in the inn.

“I think you can take him,” Francis whispered, motioning toward the pudgy older man.

“Maybe…” his brother replied. “But he probably bites.”

Chapter 25

The sound of the morning bell rang, and Francis opened his eyes.

“It’s earlier than usual,” Michael grunted as he sat up. “What gives?”

“It is,” Francis replied, sitting up and stretching. “But it’s also time to get to work.”

***

The first three ursaloths lay dead behind Francis, their carcasses cooling on the frozen ground. He’d defeated them with only minor wounds this time around, a testament to the one hundred and sixty-four deaths he’d spent learning their patterns. His breathing was steady and controlled, and his swords were slick with blood that was already starting to freeze in the northern cold.

The alpha’s growl echoed across the ice field again.

Francis looked up to see three more ursaloths stepping forward, and immediately he knew something was different. These three were bigger than the previous set, their muscles more defined beneath their thick white fur. Each one stood at least a foot taller than the others he’d faced, and the weapons they carried looked heavier, more worn from use.

But it wasn’t just their size that set them apart. It was the way they moved.

Veterans. Not just crazed beastkins, but experienced killers.  

He had never pushed far enough to face these three before. Every run before this, the first trio had been his grave. So was this simply deeper water, tougher defenders he’d only now earned the right to reach? Or was it the very thing Baxter had warned him to watch for, an enemy that learned the way he did, adjusting each time he got further? He filed the question away. He couldn’t answer it mid-swing, and the hammer was already coming.

The hammer wielder charged first, its weapon swinging in a wide horizontal arc that forced Francis to make a choice. If he dove beneath it, he’d roll right into the range of the axe wielder on his right. If he jumped back, the war axe wielder would be waiting. They’d positioned themselves perfectly to eliminate his options.

Francis chose a third option. He charged forward, directly at the hammer wielder, and slid beneath the swing at the last possible moment. The hammer passed over him, and for a heartbeat, Francis was inside the creature’s guard.

[ Quick Attack ]

His swords lashed out, both blades finding the back of the ursaloth’s legs. Blood sprayed across the ice, and the creature roared in pain. But before Francis could press his advantage, the double-axe wielder was on him, both blades coming at him in a scissoring motion.

[ Riposte ]

Francis caught one axe blade with his right sword, redirecting it, but the second blade was too fast. It caught him across the side, cutting through his armor and into the flesh beneath. Pain flared, sharp and immediate, but Francis used the momentum to spin away, putting distance between himself and his attackers.

I’m already bleeding… This is going to be way harder than the others.

The triangle re-formed instantly, the three ursaloths adjusting their positions immediately. The hammer wielder limped slightly from Francis’s attack, but it didn’t seem to slow the creature down much. If anything, the injury had just made it more aggressive.

They came at him together this time, all three attacking in perfect coordination. The hammer high, the double-axe low, the war axe from the side. Francis tried to dodge, but there was nowhere to go. He blocked the hammer with both swords, the impact driving him to one knee.

[ Iron Wall ]

The skill activated just as the double-axe caught him in the back. His body hardened, absorbing some of the impact, but the force still drove the air from his lungs. Francis rolled forward, using the momentum and trying to escape, but the war axe wielder seemed to anticipate his move. Its massive weapon descended like judgment itself.

Francis brought his swords up to block, crossing them above his head. The axe struck with enough force to drive him flat against the ice, his arms screaming in protest. For a moment, he was pinned, the ursaloth pressing down with its full weight.

Move or die!

[ Power Strike ]

Francis surged upward with everything he had, his enhanced strength throwing the war axe wielder off balance. He rolled to his feet and immediately had to parry a strike from the hammer wielder. The impact sent shockwaves up his arms, and Francis realized with growing dread that these three were stronger than him, even with his improved stats.

[ Flurry ]

Francis unleashed a rapid series of strikes at the double-axe wielder, his swords moving so fast they blurred. Three hits landed, opening wounds along the creature’s chest and arms, but the ursaloth didn’t retreat. Instead, it pressed forward, accepting the damage to land a devastating counterstrike.

Both axe blades caught Francis simultaneously, one across his shoulder, the other across his thigh. His left arm went numb instantly, his sword falling from useless fingers. His leg buckled, and Francis crashed to one knee.

Warrior’s Resolve roared to life, flooding him with strength, but it wasn’t enough. The hammer wielder’s weapon was already descending, and Francis had no way to block it with only one functional arm.

[ Guarded Stance ]

His body hardened further, the defensive skill stacking with Iron Wall, but the hammer still caught him full in the chest. Francis heard ribs crack, felt his sternum give way, and tasted blood as it filled his mouth. He fell backward, his vision swimming, and saw the war axe wielder step forward to finish him.

The massive blade descended, and Francis tried to raise his remaining sword to block, but his body wouldn’t respond. The axe took him in the neck, and the world went red, then black.

Well, it’s only been less than two hundred deaths, so this feels about right.

***

The three ursaloths formed their triangle again, their movements precise and coordinated. But this time, Francis was ready. This time, he knew their patterns, understood how they worked together, and had spent enough deaths learning how to break them apart.

The hammer wielder is going to charge…

The hammer wielder charged, just as it always did, its weapon swinging in that same wide horizontal arc. But instead of diving beneath the blow or charging forward, Francis sidestepped at the last moment and pivoted, using the creature’s momentum to position it between himself and the double-axe wielder. For just a heartbeat, their perfect formation was broken.

[ Quick Attack ]

[ Power Strike ]

Francis’s swords sliced through the air, both blades enhanced by his skills. The first caught the hammer wielder across the back of its knee, severing tendons and dropping the creature to the ice. The second strike came immediately after, his right blade driving into the base of the ursaloth’s skull.

The hammer wielder collapsed, its weapon clattering across the frozen ground, and Francis was already moving. The double-axe wielder tried to circle around its fallen companion, but Francis stayed close to the carcass, using it as a barrier.

One down. Don’t get cocky.

The war axe wielder came at him from the left, its massive weapon sweeping in a deadly arc that would take Francis’s head off if it connected. But Francis had died to this exact attack dozens of times, and he knew exactly how to counter it.

Instead of dodging away, Francis stepped into the attack, inside the weapon’s effective range where its size became a liability. The axe passed harmlessly over his head, and Francis was face-to-face with the ursaloth.

[ Riposte ]

His right sword caught the axe’s haft and redirected what little momentum remained, while his left blade drove upward into the ursaloth’s exposed armpit. The blade sank deep, finding the cluster of arteries and nerves that Francis had learned were there through painful experience.

The creature howled and tried to grapple Francis with its free arm, massive claws reaching for his throat. Francis twisted away, but he had to leave his left blade buried in the wound to do so. He drew the spare knife from his belt in one smooth motion as the double-axe wielder finally cleared the fallen body and came at him.

Two on one, and I’m down a sword. Perfect.

The double-axe wielder pressed in, both axe heads coming at him in a scissoring motion designed to catch him, whether he dodged left or right. Francis chose neither. He dropped flat to the ice, feeling the wind of the weapons as they passed over him, and swept his remaining sword across the creature’s ankles.

The blade sliced deep, cutting through fur and hide to scrape against bone. The ursaloth’s balance failed, and it stumbled forward, trying to catch itself. Francis was already moving, his knife finding the creature’s throat even as it tried to catch itself.

The blade punched through fur and flesh, severing the windpipe and opening the carotid artery. Blood sprayed across the ice in a wide arc, steaming in the cold air. The ursaloth fell, clutching at its neck, its movements growing weaker with each passing second.

Two down. One to go.

Francis turned to face the war axe wielder and saw that the creature had pulled his sword from its armpit. Blood poured from the wound, staining its white fur red, but the ursaloth was still standing, still fighting. It held Francis’s sword in one massive paw, studying the blade as if considering whether to use it or discard it.

Then it threw the sword on the ground before Francis and gripped its war axe with both hands.

Francis understood the message. This would be decided with their chosen weapons, warrior to warrior. He retrieved his sword from the snow and faced the wounded ursaloth.

They circled each other, both bleeding, both exhausted, both refusing to give ground. The war axe wielder attacked first, a series of overhead strikes that forced Francis back with each block. The creature was weakening from blood loss, he could tell, but it was also desperate, which made it all the more dangerous.

[ Iron Wall ]

[ Guarded Stance ]

Francis activated both defensive skills as the ursaloth launched a final, desperate assault. The war axe came down again and again, each strike powerful enough to shatter stone. Francis blocked what he could and absorbed what he couldn’t, feeling bones crack and muscles tear despite his enhanced defenses.

But the creature was dying, its movements growing sluggish as more blood pumped from the wound in its armpit. Francis saw his opening and took it.

[ Power Strike ]

[ Flurry ]

His swords became blurs, each strike enhanced by his skills and driven by every ounce of strength he possessed. The first blade opened the ursaloth’s stomach. The second took it across the throat. The third and fourth drove into its chest, finding vital organs.

The war axe wielder fell to its knees, its weapon slipping from its grasp. It looked at Francis with eyes that held no hatred, only a warrior’s acceptance of death. Francis drove his right blade through the creature’s heart, ending it quickly.

The ursaloth collapsed forward, and Francis stepped back, his chest heaving, his body screaming in protest from a dozen different injuries. Blood dripped from wounds on his shoulder, his side, his thigh, his back. His left arm throbbed where the double-axe had caught him, and he was fairly certain he’d cracked at least three ribs. Maybe more.

But he was alive, and they were dead.

Francis walked to the war axe wielder’s carcass and retrieved his sword, pulling it free from the creature’s body with a wet, sucking sound. As he did, something inside him shifted. It wasn’t painful, but it was profound, like a lock finally clicking into place after years of trying.

[ Swordsmanship Increased - 76 Master ]

Francis’s eyes widened as his body began to vibrate. It started in his hands, spreading up his arms and into his chest, a sensation that was both strange and exhilarating. The sword in his grip felt different somehow, lighter and yet more substantial, as if it had become an extension of his arm rather than a separate tool.

What is this?

A notification appeared before his eyes, the text glowing with a faint golden light that Francis had never seen before. His breath caught as he started to read, understanding immediately that something significant had just occurred. Whatever reaching Master rank meant, it was clearly more than just a simple increase in skill level.

The alpha Ursaloth’s growl rumbled across the ice field, drawing Francis’s attention away from the notification. The massive creature stood among its remaining warriors, and for the first time since Francis had begun this grinding battle, he thought he saw something like respect in its eyes. Maybe even acknowledgment.

Four more ursaloths stepped forward, their weapons at the ready. These ones looked even larger than the trio Francis had just defeated, their scars more numerous, their bearing more confident.

Of course, there are more. Why would it be easy? I’m going to have to ask Glitvall if he’s got a reason for why he wants me to do this. And how the creatures attack… it’s so weird about the honor and stuff.

Francis looked down at the notification still hovering in his vision, then back at the approaching enemies. Whatever this new rank meant, whatever abilities it had unlocked, he was about to find out. The vibration in his body was beginning to fade, but the feeling of rightness remained. His swords felt perfect in his hands, balanced in a way they hadn’t been before.

He raised his swords and smiled.

Let’s see what a Master Swordsman can do.

Chapter 26

The sound of the morning bell rang, and Francis opened his eyes, smiling.

“It’s earlier than usual,” Michael grunted as he sat up. “What gives?”

“Just another day in our lives,” Francis said, anxious to read all the notifications that were waiting for him. Death had come quickly to those four, and at no point did he seem to mind, more interested in focusing on what he couldn’t read before he died.

[ Master Rank Swordsmanship Achieved - Bonuses Acquired ]

[ Bonus to all sword damage +15% ]

[ Bonus to parrying with swords ]

[ Bonus to riposte with swords ]

[ Bonus to defending against swords ]

[ Training Mastery unlocked ]

Training Mastery… does this mean Stenson could teach me that path he knows?

“Hey, you going to get up?” his brother called out. “I don’t want to get in trouble because you’re being lazy.”

“I’m fine,” Francis replied. “I’ll be out in a minute. I need a second.”

“You’re not sick, are you?”

Shaking his head, Francis used the thin blanket he owned to help cover his muscular body. “No, just go on. I’ll be out there in just a moment. I need a second.”

“Seriously? We’re—”

“Go!” Francis belted out, louder than he had expected.

“Fine,” Michael grunted. “You don’t have to be a prick. That’s Phillip’s job.”

[ Status ]

Francis Lancaster

Age 17

Strength: 54

Endurance: 56

Agility: 55

Wisdom: 33

Perception: 43

Magic: 10

His stats had improved, and every part of him felt better. Francis had stopped growing physically. His muscles and body had hit a peak at fifty. Stenson had told him that there would be no further bodily gains to be seen from his progression. The worst was that he needed to reach a seventy in a stat before the elite tier of physical evolution could be acquired.

That’s going to be a while… still… I’m well beyond anything I ever imagined I would be.

Then there were the skills that had improved as well over all these deaths.

Skills

Swordsmanship (Common) - 76 Master

Tracking (Uncommon) - 18 Novice

Stealth (Uncommon) - 17 Novice

Pain Resistance (Uncommon) - 66 Elite

Power Strike (Rare) - 62 Elite

Brawling (Uncommon) - 41 Advanced

Strong Bones (Rare) - 63 Elite

Quick Attack (Uncommon) - 54 Advanced

Guarded Stance (Uncommon) - 43 Advanced

Riposte (Rare) - 46 Advanced

Thick Skin (Rare) - 37 Proficient

Iron Wall (Rare) - 35 Proficient

Dual Wield (Rare) - 53 Advanced

Flurry (Rare) - 31 Proficient

Battle Sense (Epic*) - 21 Novice

Warrior’s Resolve (Legendary) - 11 Novice

Blacksmithing (Common) - 16 Novice

Metal Working (Common) - 16 Novice

I’ve made a ton of gains… I think I need a moment with Stenson to talk all this over.

***

Stenson stared at Francis for a long moment, his weathered face unreadable. Then he leaned back in his chair and let out a slow breath.

“Master rank,” the general said quietly. “At seventeen years old.”

Francis nodded, unsure how to respond.

“I…” Stenson paused, rubbing his face. “Part of me shouldn’t be surprised, but still… you’re so young and have done the impossible. Of course, dying and coming back again and again is included in that statement.”

“What now?” Francis asked.

Stenson took some time, mulling over his thoughts. His fingers drummed against the arm of his chair, and Francis could see the calculations running behind the man’s eyes. Finally, the general spoke.

“Return to Tules. Talk with Glitvall, and make sure he knows the message comes from me. I think it’s time he stopped testing you and started helping you go after the skill I sent you north to learn.”

“You mean he hasn’t been?” Francis asked, shocked.

“Not completely. Glitvall is unique. His methods are his own. I’m sure he has a plan, and part of that is seeing what you can become and what you’ll be able to do. Just make sure he knows I think you’re ready for whatever path you need to pursue next.”

Before Francis could leave, Stenson held out his hand, smiling. “Congratulations again, Francis.”

“For what?”

“Becoming one of the few master swordsmen we have in the kingdom.”

***

Francis stood in Glitvall’s tent as the warchief chuckled, a deep rumbling sound that seemed to fill the space.

“It appears Stenson does know me,” Glitvall said. “You are ready then for what comes next.”

“Wait, so you have been holding back?” Francis asked, frustration creeping into his voice.

“Not holding back, testing.” The warchief leaned forward, his massive frame casting a shadow. “To go down this next path is going to require a level of commitment most can never imagine. While I’m certain part of me has thought you would be ready, learning you now possess a master ranked skill is the proof that you’ll endure what comes next.”

“You keep saying that, but I’ve shared with you all the deaths and things I’ve done before,” Francis said. “How can this be different?”

Glitvall leaned forward and grinned. “Because we’re going to try and teach you how to draw upon the magic our gods have given us.”

***

Francis walked silently next to Glitvall as they moved through the barbarian camp. The warchief led him away from the familiar training grounds and living quarters, deeper into sections Francis had never ventured to before. The tents here were different, decorated with symbols that seemed to shift in the corner of his vision, painted in colors that looked like dried blood and crushed bone.

They headed toward what Francis realized was the shaman side of the camp.

The first thing Francis noticed was the smell. Incense mixed with something earthier, like wet fur and old leather. Wind chimes made from bones clinked together in the breeze, creating an eerie melody that set his teeth on edge. Animal skulls mounted on poles marked the boundary of this section, their empty eye sockets seeming to follow his every movement.

The tents themselves were larger here, their hides painted with intricate patterns that Francis didn’t recognize. Totems carved from ice and stone stood between them, some depicting bears and wolves, others showing creatures Francis had no names for. Steam rose from several fire pits, though Francis couldn’t see any flames, just glowing coals that pulsed with an unnatural rhythm.

Barbarians moved through this section with a different energy than the warriors Francis had trained with. They wore pelts and furs adorned with feathers, bones, and what looked like frozen flowers. Their faces were painted with symbols in white and black, and many carried staves wrapped in leather and decorated with charms that rattled as they walked.

Eyes turned toward Francis and Glitvall as they walked, and Francis felt the weight of their stares. Some looked curious, others suspicious, but all of them seemed to radiate power.

At the center of this section stood the largest tent Francis had seen in the camp. Its entrance was flanked by two massive tusks, each one taller than Francis himself, carved with runes that seemed to glow faintly in the dim light. The tent’s exterior was covered in pelts of white and gray, and hanging from the support poles were dozens of wind chimes made from finger bones, teeth, and what appeared to be frozen tears of ice.

Scattered around the tent’s base were offerings, Francis realized. Bowls of what might be blood, frozen solid. Small carved figurines. Bundles of herbs tied with sinew. And skulls, dozens of them, arranged in patterns that Francis couldn’t decipher but that seemed important somehow.

The flap of the large tent opened, and several figures emerged. Kerhi was among them, her face painted with fresh symbols. But it was the woman leading them that drew Francis’s attention.

She was shorter than most barbarians, standing only about seven feet tall, but her presence seemed to fill the space around her. Dark paint covered most of her face in intricate patterns that looked like frost spreading across glass. She wore layers of pelts, each one from a different animal, and atop her head sat a cap adorned with curving horns that might have come from some massive beast.

Her eyes were pale, almost white, and they fixed on Glitvall with an intensity that made Francis want to step back.

“Warchief Glitvall,” she said, her voice carrying despite not being loud. “Why have you come to this place?” Her gaze shifted to Francis, and he felt like she was looking through him rather than at him. “And why does a Southerner stand in a place he should not be?”

“I’ve come to ask for that which was promised,” Glitvall said, his voice steady.

Gasps and grunts came from those gathered. Francis saw several shamans exchange glances, and Kerhi’s expression shifted to something between shock and concern.

The woman frowned and squinted, then poked a wrinkled finger at the warchief. “You say what was promised and that you’ve come for it, yet no horn has sounded and the clans are not preparing for battle. Tell me, Warchief Glitvall, has your mind gone soft, or do you so casually toss away the promise I gave?”

Glitvall ignored the taunt. “You and I need to talk. Alone.”

She snorted. “Alone… I’m too old for that kind of fun.”

Laughter and chuckles came from those watching the exchange.

“None have earned that from me since my wife passed, and you’ll need to make me another promise if you’d hope I’d so freely give of myself like that,” Glitvall replied.

She rolled her eyes and then sighed. “Then come, let us talk. He must stay outside.” She pointed at Francis.

Glitvall nodded, motioning toward a bench off to the side, carved from a single piece of wood and worn smooth by countless bodies.

“Sit, I’ll try to make this quick,” Glitvall whispered. “Just know… this next part… is going to be difficult.”

Francis sat, seeing the looks and some of the scowls he received from those in the section of the camp. The shamans didn’t hide their displeasure at his presence, and several of them made gestures he didn’t understand but that felt distinctly unwelcoming.

Kerhi approached, her expression hard. “You do not belong here.”

“And yet here I am,” Francis replied. “But why don’t you sit and let’s see what happens next.”

Kerhi shook her head. “No… I have things to do, and sitting beside you would dishonor me.”

Francis shrugged, then a thought entered his mind. “Can I use that free space over there?” He pointed to a cleared area of dirt between two totems.

“To do what?”

“Practice,” Francis replied.

Kerhi grunted and then walked away.

Smiling, Francis moved to the cleared section of dirt and pulled out a sword. He closed his eyes and started to mimic the patterns he remembered Kels doing, the flowing movements that had seemed more like a dance than combat practice.

I might as well practice something versus sitting on my ass in the cold.

Chapter 27

Glitvall followed High Shaman Greythorn into the tent, the heavy flap falling closed behind him with a weight that felt more significant than just hide and leather. Inside, the air was thick with smoke from burning herbs he couldn’t name, their scent sharp and earthy all at once.

The tent’s interior was larger than it appeared from outside, or perhaps that was just the way the shadows played against the walls. Pelts covered the ground in layers, some white as fresh snow, others dark as a moonless night. Bones hung from the support poles on leather cords, arranged in patterns that Glitvall had learned long ago not to question. Some were from animals, others from enemies, all of them serving purposes that only the shamans understood.

In the center of the tent sat a fire pit, its flames burning blue and green instead of the normal orange and red. The light it cast made everything look otherworldly, like they’d stepped into a place between the mortal world and whatever lay beyond. Carved idols ringed the pit, each one representing a different aspect of their gods, their stone faces seeming to watch with more awareness than simple carvings should possess.

Against the far wall stood what might have been an altar, though Glitvall had never been comfortable calling it that. It was more a collection of offerings and relics, arranged with a care that spoke of decades of ritual. Skulls served as holders for candles made from animal fat. Weapons too damaged to be used in battle were arranged in specific patterns. And in the center of it all sat a bowl carved from ice that never melted, filled with something dark that Glitvall chose not to examine too closely.

High Shaman Greythorn settled onto a low seat made from what looked like a single piece of carved stone, worn smooth by countless years of use. She gestured to another seat across from her, this one made of wood and leather, and Glitvall sat.

Silence stretched between them, comfortable in the way it could only be between two people who’d known each other for decades. Glitvall let his eyes wander the space, noting the small changes since the last time he’d been here. New charms hung from the poles. Different herbs lay bundled near the altar. The arrangement of bones had shifted.

“I like the changes you’ve made,” Glitvall said finally. “The new totems near the entrance. They’re good.”

Greythorn scoffed. “Flattery you bring, when promises is what you ask for. Speak then, Warchief. Why come you here? Why does the Southerner with his strange aura sit in my space?”

Glitvall leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “You won’t believe what I’m about to tell you.”

“Try me,” she said, her pale eyes fixed on his face.

So Glitvall told her. He told her about Francis Lancaster, the skinny southern boy who should have died in the first battle. He told her about the deaths and the resets, about how Francis returned each time with his memories intact, learning from each failure. He explained Stenson’s theory about the parasite, the Blood of the Undying, and the possibility that their enemies might have one as well.

Glitvall told her about the training, about the boy’s determination and the way he refused to quit no matter how many times he was torn apart. He told her about the master rank, which Francis had achieved at seventeen years old through nothing but dying, learning, and dying again.

And Glitvall finally told her why he was here, why he needed to ask for what was promised, and why Francis needed to learn their ways despite being an outsider.

Through it all, Greythorn’s milky white eyes remained fixed on him, unmoving, unblinking, showing no reaction to even the most impossible parts of his story. When Glitvall finally finished, she was quiet for a long time.

Then her eyes closed.

Glitvall felt it before he saw it. A pressure in the air, like the moment before lightning strikes. Greythorn began to shake, her body trembling as if caught in a violent wind that only she could feel. A slight aura appeared around her, barely visible at first but growing stronger with each passing second. It was the color of ice and starlight, cold and ancient and vast.

When she spoke, it wasn’t her voice that came out.

“Glitvall, you have come with something that shouldn’t be here and knowledge you shouldn’t possess.” The voice was powerful, resonant, filling the entire tent with a presence that made Glitvall want to prostrate himself on the ground.

He bent his neck instead, lowering his gaze slightly in respect. “I am honored you have come, my god. I know not why or how, but this one has come to help us defeat the army we have not been able to.”

“What you speak of is… beyond mortal ears and minds. That kind of magic is powerful and not one that should be possessed by any. It appears our foes have unleashed something we thought none would dare to… What you face is… dangerous. Both to you and to us.”

Glitvall’s chest tightened. If the gods themselves were concerned, then this was worse than he’d imagined. “And what should I do? Turn away the weapon they have given us? Help him become something that might defeat them? I cannot kill him, for he would only return.”

Silence echoed through the tent, heavy and suffocating. Then the aura around Greythorn shifted, the color changing subtly, and when she spoke again, it was a different voice. Gentler, warmer, but no less powerful. It was the voice of their goddess.

“No… you must help this one grow to be what we need to root out the enemy we face. We will inform the others of what you speak of… but we cannot promise that our actions will be remembered.”

Glitvall’s eyes widened. “It’s that strong?”

“That is not for you to know, but yes. Strong enough to limit our influence. Strong enough that you must find a way to do what you have told our Chosen one.”

Glitvall swallowed hard. If the gods themselves could be affected by this power, by these parasites, then what chance did mortals have? “Can he learn your ways? He’s… not one of us.”

“Then make him one,” the voice commanded, firm and absolute.

“The old ritual?” Glitvall asked, his mind already racing through what that would require. “It hasn’t been done in—”

“Then they will know that the time has come, and he will bear a mark that will last.” The power radiating from Greythorn intensified, and Glitvall had to fight the urge to look away. “We will tell our Chosen that this is our command. You must prepare those here and the one you have outside for what he must endure.”

“He will be able to,” Glitvall replied without hesitation. “I have no doubt he can.”

“Then make it so. This battle… this war… is for more than just your lives and what they mean to us.”

A few seconds of silence stretched between them, heavy with meaning Glitvall couldn’t fully grasp. Then he felt a hand on his shoulder. The touch was warm, almost familiar, and it drew his gaze upward.

Greythorn’s white eyes were open now, radiating with power that made them glow like small moons in the dim tent. But there was something else there too, something gentle and personal that made Glitvall’s breath catch.

“You have done well,” the voice said, softer now. “Know your wife is proud of the man she married, and the day you join her, you two will have a special place set aside for you if you can help this one defeat our enemy.”

Tears flowed from Glitvall’s eyes before he could stop them. He nodded, his throat almost too tight for words. “I will… make sure… that Francis Lancaster becomes what he must.”

The hand pulled back, and a low groan came from Greythorn. The aura around her flickered and faded, the light in her eyes dimming until they were once again just milky white orbs in a painted face.

She gasped for air, her body swaying before she caught herself and fell back into her seat.

“You… they… that boy…” she muttered, her voice hoarse and weak compared to what had come before. “He must become one of us.”

“I know,” Glitvall replied, wiping the tear that was still on his cheek and lifting his finger so he could look at it. The moisture caught the strange light of the fire, glowing faintly. “I will prepare him. When will you be ready?”

“Tomorrow night, when the moon reaches its peak. Do not be late.”

“We won’t be,” Glitvall said, and then he kissed the tear gently on his finger, a private goodbye to a memory and a promise for what was to come. “We won’t be.”

Chapter 28

Francis and Glitvall walked back through the shaman section in silence. The warchief’s usual confidence seemed diminished somehow, his shoulders carrying a weight that hadn’t been there before. Francis could sense the change in the man’s mood, and he could feel it in the way Glitvall’s steps had become heavier, more deliberate.

They passed through the bone chimes and skull totems without comment, leaving behind the shamans who watched them with knowing eyes. The familiar sounds of the warrior camp grew louder as they walked, but neither man spoke until they reached Glitvall’s tent.

Upon entering the small space, Glitvall made Francis sit on one of the fur-covered benches. The warchief moved to a small chest in the corner, kneeling before it and opening it slowly, reverently. He dug through its contents until he found what he was looking for, a leather flask that looked old and well-worn.

Glitvall stared at the flask for a few seconds, his massive hands gentle as they cradled it. A small tear rolled down his cheek, catching the light from the tent’s fire pit. Then he uncorked it, bringing it to his nose and inhaling deeply before taking a long drink.

He held it out to Francis. “Finish it. Know that if I ever try to share this with you again, tell me you have already partaken.”

Francis nodded, unsure what to make of the change in the man before him. He took the flask and brought it to his nose.

The scent hit him like a memory he’d never had. It smelled of honey and smoke, of winter nights and summer warmth, of something ancient and powerful that he couldn’t name. The smell touched a part of him deep inside, a place he didn’t know existed, and Francis felt his chest tighten with an emotion he couldn’t identify.

He drank.

The liquid was warm going down, spreading heat through his chest and into his limbs. But it was more than just warmth. Power flooded through him, not like his skills or stats, but something different. Something that felt like it was connecting him to the land itself, to the ice and snow and wind of the north.

Francis finished the flask and handed it back, his hands steady despite the strange sensations coursing through his body. “What is that?”

“A gift,” Glitvall said quietly, his voice rough with emotion. “From someone I will one day see again. But for now, you must be told of what is about to come.”

The warchief sat across from Francis and told him everything. He didn’t hold back, didn’t soften the details or try to make it easier to hear. Glitvall told Francis about the gods speaking through Greythorn, about how even they were concerned about the power Francis carried. He explained that the parasites could limit divine influence, that this war was about more than just mortal lives.

He told Francis about the old ritual, about becoming one of them, about the mark that would last forever. And he told Francis what the gods had said about his wife, about the special place waiting for them if they could help Francis defeat their enemy.

When Glitvall finished, he looked at Francis with eyes that held both determination and grief. “Know that the love you have for your brother is like what I feel for my wife, and to be with her… in a special place that my gods give us… I would carry you myself through each trial if I could. Remind me of this when I balk at what you need to become.”

“I will,” Francis said softly.

The words settled between them, and Francis understood something about Glitvall that he hadn’t before. The warchief’s intensity, his demanding training methods, the way he pushed Francis beyond what seemed reasonable, it all made sense now. Glitvall was a man driven by love, by the promise of reunion with someone he’d lost, willing to do whatever it took to make that happen.

Just like I’d do anything for Michael. We’re not so different.

“So what comes next?” Francis asked. “How do I become one of you, and what is this ritual?”

Glitvall took a deep breath and stared at the empty flask in his hands, turning it over slowly. “You, Francis, must be drained dry of what you are and filled with what we are. So come. I will walk this journey with you. But first… the hardest part of all this.”

***

They stood before the clan leaders in the large tent that Francis had entered the first time he had appeared before them. The space was filled with warriors and chieftains, each one representing their clan, and the shouting that filled the air made it almost impossible to hear individual words.

“Madness!”

“A Southerner cannot learn our ways!”

“He dishonors us by even suggesting it!”

“Glitvall has lost his mind!”

The voices overlapped, creating a cacophony of anger and disbelief. Francis stood beside Glitvall, watching as clan leaders gestured wildly and shouted over each other. Some looked outraged, others skeptical, but none of them seemed willing to accept what the warchief had told them.

Finally, Jarl Keara raised a horn to her lips and blew. The sound cut through the noise like a blade, silencing everyone instantly.

She glared at the gathered clan leaders, her expression hard. “Sit. There is only one way to handle this, and us bickering like children will not be good if what Glitvall speaks is the truth.”

“I am not lying,” Glitvall growled, his voice low and dangerous.

“And you shall prove it,” Keara replied, meeting his glare without flinching. “Make the oath. Cut your hand. Swear upon their magic and let them show us that you speak the truth.”

Glitvall spat on the ground but moved to stand next to the roaring fire in the center of the tent. He pulled out a long dagger, its blade gleaming in the firelight.

“You elected me because you trust my judgment and my mind,” Glitvall said, his voice carrying to every corner of the tent. “You chose me because you know my commitment and my heart. Yet now… I am forced to take an oath that we would make someone new and untrusted do. Know that I feel dishonored, and those who have done so will need to make great amends to earn back what they have lost.”

He didn’t hesitate. The blade cut across his palm, opening a deep gash that immediately began to bleed. Glitvall made a fist, holding it over the fire as blood dripped down into the flames.

“I swear by our people, by our gods, by my blood, and by my life, that every word I have spoken about Francis becoming one of us is true. If it is not, may they strike me now, erase my soul, and my wife’s too.”

Gasps came from some of those gathered at those last few words. Francis did not know the custom, but the reaction left no doubt. To swear on another’s soul, the soul of someone already passed into the afterlife, was not a thing these people did lightly.

For a moment, nothing happened. The fire continued to burn, the blood continued to drip, and Glitvall stood tall and unmoving.

Then the wind came.

It blew through the tent from nowhere, a gust that made the walls billow and the support poles creak. The fire stirred and roared, flames rising up into a cyclone that spun faster and faster. The heat intensified, and everyone in the tent took a few steps back, shielding their faces.

Everyone except Glitvall.

The warchief stood in place, his fist still extended over the flames, blood still dripping. The fire cyclone rose higher, touching the tent’s peak, and then it collapsed inward all at once.

The flames returned to normal. The wind died. And Glitvall stood there, unharmed.

Francis stared as Glitvall opened his fist. The deep gash that had been there moments before was gone, the skin smooth and unmarked as if he’d never cut it at all.

Silence filled the tent, heavy and absolute.

Jarl Keara was the first to speak, her voice loud and clear. “Prepare for the ceremony. Our gods have spoken.”

No one argued or protested. They simply began to move, filing out of the tent, their earlier anger and skepticism replaced by something else. Awe perhaps, or fear. Maybe both.

Francis looked at Glitvall, who stood still by the fire, staring at his healed hand. The warchief’s expression was unreadable, but Francis thought he saw something there. Relief, maybe.

“Tomorrow night,” Glitvall said quietly, not looking at Francis. “When the moon reaches its peak. Be ready.”

“I will be,” Francis replied.

Whatever it takes.

***

Francis stood in a tent surrounded by men and women. Some were warriors, their bodies marked with scars and muscle. Others were shamans, their faces painted with symbols that seemed to shift in the flickering firelight. All of them watched him with eyes that held curiosity.

He’d been stripped down to just his underclothes, and the cold air of the north bit at his exposed skin. Francis stood still as they took turns approaching him, speaking in a language he didn’t understand. Their words rose and fell in rhythms that felt almost like chanting, and occasionally one of them would splash him with a scented liquid.

The first liquid was cold and had a pine scent. The second was warm and thick, leaving an oily residue on his skin. The third one burned slightly, causing the muscles beneath his skin to twitch involuntarily. Francis endured it all without complaint, keeping his breathing steady and his expression neutral.

Some of them held razors, worn blades that gleamed in the firelight. They approached one at a time, kneeling to shave every bit of hair off his legs. Then his arms. Then his chest and back. The process was meticulous, careful, and Francis felt the cold metal scrape against his skin again and again.

One woman stood apart from the others, watching. Her eyes almost seemed to glow in the dim light, pale and intense. Francis could sense the power flowing through her, could feel it like a pressure in the air around her body. The paint on her skin was different from the others, more intricate, more deliberate. Symbols covered her arms and face, and Francis thought he recognized some of them from the tent where he’d waited for Glitvall.

When the others finished removing all the hair from his exposed skin, Francis was guided to a stool in the center of the tent. He sat, and two large men approached from behind.

They shaved the sides of his head, their movements quick and practiced. Francis felt the razors scrape against his scalp, felt the cool air touch skin that had never been exposed before. They left a strip of hair down the middle, from his forehead to the base of his skull, and Francis realized they’d given him a style similar to what many of the warriors wore.

The woman he’d been watching came forward then, her steps deliberate. She stopped directly in front of him and locked eyes with Francis.

“You will bear our mark,” she said, her voice carrying an accent but speaking his language clearly enough. “Glitvall has sworn that you will not wince. For your sake, and for his honor, I hope that he is right.”

She pulled out a needle, thin and sharp, attached to a small wooden handle. Francis watched as she dipped it in a bowl of dark ink, then pressed it against his chest.

The needle didn’t penetrate.

She frowned and tried again, pressing harder. The needle bent slightly against his skin, but still wouldn’t break through. Francis felt the pressure, but there was no pain, or puncture.

The woman’s eyes widened slightly. “You… have an ability? That toughens your skin?”

The tent went silent. Everyone stopped what they were doing, all eyes turning to Francis.

“I do,” Francis replied.

The woman smiled, and it transformed her face from stern to almost joyful. She said something in her language that made a barbarian near the tent flap take off running.

“Then that means we get to do this with more honor,” she said, turning back to Francis. “Very few get this chance because most do not possess what you do upon receiving this mark. Perhaps Glitvall was right.”

Francis didn’t understand what she meant, but he waited. A few minutes later, the barbarian returned, and several other shamans entered behind him. Kerhi was among them, her expression unreadable as she took in the scene.

“You need it?” one of the new shamans asked.

“I do. His skin is thick, and the ink will not take hold.”

A few whispers that Francis couldn’t understand passed between them. Then one of the shamans pulled something from a leather tube, handling it with a reverence that drew Francis’s attention.

It was a bone needle, thick and yellowed with age. Runes covered its surface, carved in patterns that seemed to glow faintly in the firelight. Francis had never seen markings like these before, and looking at them too long made his eyes hurt.

The woman took the bone needle carefully, holding it up to examine it. “Tonight, we shall make a mark that has not been given in ages. It appears the gods are right. You will be different.”

Confused by her words, Francis said nothing. He watched as she dipped the bone needle in the ink, then positioned it against his chest.

She began tapping the thick bone needle into his skin.

It hurt. The bone penetrated where the metal had failed, and Francis felt each tap as a sharp point of pain. It was nothing compared to the teeth and claws that had torn into him. It couldn’t compare to axes splitting him in half or hammers crushing his bones. This was just… discomfort.

Smiling, Francis looked up at those gathered. “Perhaps I should sing a song.”

And he did.

Francis sang one of the old songs Michael used to sing when they were younger, back before their grandparents died. The words came easily, and his voice filled the tent. It wasn’t a song the barbarians would know, but they listened anyway, and some of them nodded along to the rhythm.

The woman worked as Francis sang, her hands steady and sure. The bone needle tapped against his skin again and again, creating a pattern Francis couldn’t see but could feel. Each mark seemed to burn for a moment after the needle withdrew, as if the ink itself carried heat.

When Francis’s song ended, the tent was quiet except for the sound of the needle and the crackling of the fire. The woman didn’t speak, and neither did anyone else. They simply watched as the mark took shape on Francis’s chest, a symbol that would make him one of them.

Whatever it takes.

Chapter 29

The tattoo was a rune Francis didn’t recognize. He’d tried to look at it after the woman finished, but the angle was wrong and the markings too intricate to make out in the dim firelight. All he knew was that it covered most of his chest, and that it still burned hours after the bone needle had finished its work.

They’d led him to another tent shortly after, this one barely larger than his body. There were no furs to keep him warm, no fire to ward off the cold. Just a small wooden bowl with liquid that tasted bitter and wrong.

“Drink,” the shaman had said. “All of it.”

Francis had obeyed, forcing the liquid down despite the taste. Then the tent flap closed, and he was alone with nothing but his body and the space between the cold.

A time of purification.

A time to consider who he really was.

At first, Francis just sat there, his arms wrapped around his knees, trying to conserve what warmth he could. The cold bit at his freshly shaved skin, and the tattoo on his chest throbbed with each heartbeat. But as time passed, as the night stretched on and the liquid worked its way through his system, something changed.

The darkness of the tent began to shift.

Francis saw his father’s face first, twisted in anger as it had been so many times before. The man’s fist was raised, and Francis could feel the phantom pain of blows that had landed years ago. His father had been an evil man, according to Francis’s accounts. He had shunned him and his half brother, never giving him any kind of acceptance or love.

I hated you.

The rage came flooding back, raw and fresh as if no time had passed at all. Francis had hated his father for many reasons, but the one that cut deeper than the words was when he had been killed by him at the Spires. He’d hated his older brothers too, for following their father’s example, for making Francis’s life a daily exercise in survival.

His mother’s face appeared next, and Francis felt his chest tighten. She’d been kind when she could afford to be, but fear had ruled her more than love. Fear of her husband, fear for her children, fear of what each day might bring. Francis remembered the way she’d looked away because his father was watching.

The guilt of not standing up for himself was a familiar weight, one Francis had carried for so long he’d almost forgotten it was there. But now, in this tent, with the liquid burning through his veins and the cold biting at his skin, he felt it all over again.

The images shifted faster now. His other siblings, the ones he hadn’t seen in years. Scattered by circumstance and choice, lost to him in ways that felt permanent. Francis wondered if they were still alive, if they thought of him, if they’d even recognize the person he’d become.

Then he saw Michael, the skinny and weak person compared to him now, standing beside Francis at the training camp. And Francis remembered the moment he’d realized they were both going to die. That there was nothing he could do about it. That all his rage and all his fear wouldn’t be enough to save his brother.

The pain of that realization hit him again. Francis had watched Michael die multiple times. He had felt the helplessness of knowing he was about to follow. In every loop since, that fear had driven him forward, pushed him to become stronger, faster, better.

I can’t lose him. I won’t.

The dark forest appeared in his mind, and Francis relived the moment the parasite had tried to take him. He felt its presence again, alien and vast, pressing against his consciousness with an intelligence that was both terrifying and incomprehensible. They’d mingled blood, and Francis had gained power beyond anything he’d ever imagined.

But there were gaps in his memory. Missing pieces that he knew should be there but weren’t. The parasite had taken something from him, or perhaps hidden it, and Francis still didn’t understand why.

Why me? How was I chosen? Was I chosen at all, or was it just random chance?

The questions had no answers, but Francis asked them anyway. He thought about the power he’d gained, about the loops and the deaths and the slow accumulation of skills that were turning him into something more than human. There had to be a reason. There had to be a purpose beyond just survival.

Phillip’s face appeared, scowling as always. Francis felt rage rise up at first, remembering the harsh words and the brutal training, the way the man had seemed to take pleasure in making everything harder than it needed to be.

But then Francis understood. Phillip was a man who’d known nothing but pain and loneliness for so long that he’d forgotten how to be anything else. The harshness was armor, protection against a world that had taken everything from him. And when Francis had promised to bring Valehart to his knees, he had seen the tears in Phillip’s eyes, he had come to understand that sometimes revenge was all that kept a man going.

I’ll give you that satisfaction. I promise.

Francis thought about Glitvall, about the warchief’s love for his dead wife and the way that love drove him to push Francis harder than anyone else. He thought about Stenson, about the general’s careful calculations and the weight of responsibility he carried. He thought about all the people who’d died in the loops, all the faces he’d seen cut down again and again, and how each death had shaped him into someone who could maybe, possibly, save them all.

The deaths had changed him. Each one had stripped away another piece of who he’d been, replacing it with something harder, sharper, more capable. Francis wasn’t sure if he was better for it, but he knew he was different. The skinny, terrified boy who’d first arrived at the training camp was gone, replaced by someone who could kill without hesitation, who could endure pain that would break most men, who could die and come back and keep fighting.

Is this who I am now? Is this who I want to be?

The answer wasn’t simple. Francis didn’t enjoy killing. He didn’t take pleasure in the violence. But he was good at it, and that skill was keeping Michael alive. It was the only thing that could keep everyone alive. And if that meant becoming someone his younger self wouldn’t recognize, then so be it.

Michael’s face returned, clearer now. Not the weak boy from before, but Michael as he was in the present. Still skinny, still joking, still alive because Francis had died over and over to keep him that way. The love Francis felt for his brother was a physical thing, warm and painful and all-consuming.

But there was fear there too. Fear of watching Michael die again. Fear that no matter how strong Francis became, it wouldn’t be enough. And underneath that fear was something else, something Francis had been avoiding for a long time.

This can’t just be for him. If it’s only for Michael, then what happens when he’s safe? What happens when this is over?

Francis had told Glitvall as much, had admitted that he couldn’t be alone forever. But saying it and truly understanding it were different things. This path he was on, these changes he was making, they had to be for himself too. Not just to save his brother, but to become someone who deserved to be saved in turn.

Someone who could build a life worth living once the fighting was done.

In that moment, an image appeared before Francis. It was himself, but not as he’d been. This was Francis as he looked now, muscular, his head shaved on the sides, a fresh tattoo marking his chest. The image stood tall and confident, and its eyes held a challenge.

“Why do you want this so badly?” the image asked, its voice Francis’s own.

Francis met its gaze without flinching. “Because I’m tired of being powerless. Because people I care about keep dying, and I can’t stop it. Because I need to be strong enough to protect what matters.”

“What will you do to acquire the things you seek?”

“Whatever it takes,” Francis said without hesitation. “I’ll die a thousand times if I have to. I’ll learn every skill, master every weapon, and endure every pain. I’ll become what I need to become, even if it means leaving behind who I was.”

“And how far are you willing to go?”

Francis thought about everything he’d experienced, everything he’d lost and gained. He thought about the enemy looper who might be out there, resetting just like him, learning just like him. He thought about the war that seemed impossible to win and the people who were counting on him, whether they knew it or not.

“I’ll never quit until the enemy is gone from our kingdoms,” Francis said, and the words felt like an oath. “Not until every last one of them is dead or driven back. Not until Michael can live without fear. Not until I can look at myself and know I did everything possible.”

The image smiled, and Francis felt something inside change. A certainty he hadn’t felt before. A commitment that went deeper than just survival or revenge.

This was who he was now. This was who he chose to be.

The image faded, and Francis felt the cold rush back in. His body was shaking, covered in sweat despite the freezing temperature. The tent walls came back into focus, and Francis realized he was lying on his side, his muscles cramped from however long he’d been in that state.

He gasped for air, his lungs burning, his heart racing. Everything hurt, and for a moment Francis wasn’t sure if he’d been asleep or awake, if what he’d experienced had been real or just the liquid working through his system.

A voice called out from outside the tent, clear and strong.

Kerhi’s voice.

“He has overcome himself. It is time.”

***

They came for Francis when the moon rose high above the camp. Kerhi led him from the small tent, and Francis blinked against the sudden brightness of dozens of fires burning across the open ground. The entire camp had gathered, hundreds of barbarians forming a massive circle around a central space where the largest fire roared.

Most of them had painted their bodies or smeared mud across their skin in patterns Francis didn’t understand. Warriors stood shoulder to shoulder with shamans, clan leaders beside common fighters, all of them watching as Kerhi guided Francis toward the fire.

Glitvall waited there, standing beside High Shaman Greythorn. The warchief held something wrapped in dark leather, and his expression was solemn.

“Remove your clothing,” Kerhi said quietly. “You must face this as you entered the world. Bare and without pretense.”

Francis hesitated for only a moment before stripping everything off. The cold bit at his skin immediately, and he stood naked before the assembled crowd. No one laughed or jeered. They simply watched with eyes that held judgment and expectation.

Kerhi brought him furs then, but not the kind Francis had worn before. These were traditional barbarian garments, heavy pelts sewn together with sinew, decorated with bones and teeth. She helped him dress, wrapping the furs around his waist and securing them with a thick leather belt. A cloak of white fur went over his shoulders, and Francis felt the weight of it settle on him like responsibility.

When she finished, Glitvall stepped forward and unwrapped the leather bundle. Inside was an axe, its handle carved with runes similar to those on Francis’s chest, its blade polished to a mirror shine despite being made of stone.

“This was my father’s,” Glitvall said, his voice carrying across the silent crowd. “And his father’s before him. It has tasted the blood of our enemies for three generations. Now I give it to you, Francis Lancaster, so that it may taste the blood of our enemies for a fourth. After it has done so, return it to me.”

Francis took the axe with both hands, feeling its balance, its weight. The weapon felt right in his grip, as if it had been made for him.

“Kneel,” High Shaman Greythorn commanded, her voice cutting through the night.

Francis knelt, the axe resting across his thighs, and Greythorn approached. She carried a bowl carved from bone, filled with something dark that steamed in the cold air.

“Before you stands the path to becoming one with our people,” Greythorn said, her unique speech pattern making the words sound like an ancient ritual. “Blood must be given. Pain must be endured. Spirit must be tested. Will you accept?”

“I accept,” Francis said.

Greythorn dipped her hand into the bowl and pulled out something that looked like a coal but burned with an inner light. She pressed it against Francis’s left shoulder, and pain exploded through him.

The coal seared his flesh, burning deep, and Francis felt his skin blister and char. But he didn’t cry out. He’d endured worse. Ursaloths had torn him apart, splitting him in half with axes and crushing him with hammers. His flesh and bones had been burnt and frozen off. This was nothing compared to that.

Greythorn held the coal there for a count of ten before removing it. Then she moved to his right shoulder and repeated the process. Francis gritted his teeth, but he remained still.

“Pain teaches,” Greythorn said, leaning close so that only Francis could hear. “Suffering builds. You have known death many times, yes? Now know burning without dying. Know the mark of our gods upon your flesh.”

She pressed the coal against his chest, directly over where the tattoo lay hidden beneath his skin. The pain was worse this time, sharper, as if the coal was burning through to his very bones. Francis felt his vision start to blur, felt his body trying to activate Warrior’s Resolve, but he pushed the skill down. This wasn’t a fight. This was a test, and he would pass it on his own strength.

The smell of burning flesh filled the air, and Francis heard someone in the crowd murmur, but he couldn’t make out the words. All his focus was on remaining still, on not flinching, on proving he could endure.

Greythorn finally removed the coal and stepped back. Francis swayed slightly but didn’t fall. His shoulders and chest throbbed with pain, the burns already blistering, and he could feel blood and fluid starting to seep from the wounds.

“Three marks given,” Greythorn announced. “Three trials endured. Now blood must flow.”

She produced a knife, its blade looked to be made from the same bone as the needle that had tattooed Francis’s chest. Without ceremony, she cut across his left palm, opening a deep gash. Francis felt the blood well up, hot and thick, dripping down to splash against the frozen ground.

“Your blood feeds earth,” Greythorn said. “Earth feeds our people. Now you are part of our circle. Now you belong.”

She cut his right palm as well, and Francis held both hands out, letting the blood drip freely. Around him, the barbarians began to chant, a low rumbling sound that seemed to come from deep in their chests. The rhythm was hypnotic, primal, and Francis felt something in his own chest respond to it.

Glitvall stepped forward and placed his own hands beneath Francis’s, catching some of the blood as it fell. Then he raised his bloodied hands to the sky.

“We claim this one!” Glitvall shouted. “We claim Francis Lancaster as brother! As warrior! As kin!”

The crowd’s chanting grew louder, faster, building to a crescendo that shook the air. Francis felt dizzy for some reason, but he remained kneeling, his hands still extended, his blood still flowing.

Then Greythorn raised her hands, and instantly it was silent.

“Now comes healing,” she said. “What was taken returns. What was burned becomes strength. What was broken makes whole.”

She placed her hands on Francis’s burned shoulders, and warmth flooded through him. Not the burning heat of the coal, but something gentler, more profound. Francis felt his flesh knitting back together, felt the pain receding like a tide going out. The burns on his chest healed, and the cuts on his palms closed, leaving only faint white lines as proof they’d ever existed.

The healing spread through his entire body, touching muscles and bones, easing aches Francis hadn’t even realized he’d been carrying. When Greythorn stepped back, Francis felt better than he had in months.

“Stand,” Greythorn commanded.

Francis rose to his feet, the axe still in his hands, and faced the high shaman.

Greythorn stepped close and placed her hand directly on the tattoo that marked Francis’s chest. Her palm was warm, and Francis felt a surge of power through the contact, different from the healing but no less profound.

“You are now one of us,” Greythorn said, her voice carrying to every corner of the gathering.

The tattoo began to glow beneath her hand, the runes shining with an ice-blue light. The light grew brighter, brighter, until Francis had to resist the urge to look away. Then it faded, sinking into his skin, and when Greythorn removed her hand, the tattoo was gone.

Not erased, but absorbed. Francis could still feel it there, could sense the power it held, but his chest was unmarked once more.

A notification appeared before his eyes.

[ Skill Acquired ]

[ Racial Skill - Cold Resistance - Uncommon ]

As the heat from the tattoo faded, so did the touch of the cold. Francis had been enduring the freezing temperature since he’d removed his clothes, since he’d first stepped out onto these lands so many lives ago, but now it simply… didn’t bother him. The air was still frigid, the wind still blew, but his body no longer registered it as uncomfortable. It was just there, neutral, like breathing.

The crowd erupted. Warriors beat their weapons against their shields, shamans raised their staffs and chanted, and the fires seemed to burn brighter in response to their celebration. Glitvall stepped forward and clasped Francis’s forearm in the warrior’s grip.

“Welcome, brother,” the warchief said, and there was pride in his voice. “Welcome home.”

Chapter 31

Francis woke to find himself in a proper tent with furs beneath him and a small fire burning nearby. His body felt better than it had in weeks, the divine healing from the ceremony having erased every ache and pain. He sat up, stretching, and noticed the barbarian clothing folded neatly beside him, along with Glitvall’s ancestral axe.

He dressed slowly, running his hand over his chest where the tattoo had been. The skin was smooth and unmarked, but he could feel something there beneath the surface. It was some kind of power, waiting to be called upon.

When Francis stepped outside, the difference was immediate. Warriors who’d previously looked at him with skepticism or outright hostility now nodded in greeting. Some even raised their weapons in acknowledgment. Francis was no longer the Southerner who didn’t belong. He was one of them now, marked by their gods and claimed by their people.

A young barbarian approached, barely taller than Francis but still massive by southern standards. “High Shaman Greythorn requests your presence. I am to take you to her.”

Francis followed the warrior through the camp, noting how people watched him pass. Not with the hostile stares from before, but with curiosity and something that might have been respect. They reached the shaman section, and Francis felt the familiar weight of power in the air.

The young warrior stopped at the entrance to Greythorn’s tent. “She waits within.”

Francis ducked through the flap and entered for what would probably be the first time in a lot of loops.

Glitvall had told him that the inside of this tent was considered holy  according to a word Francis’s people used. The barbarians called it sacred. None would talk about what was inside because to do so meant sharing something not to be shared.

The blue-green flames in the central fire pit caught his eye. The carved idols ringed the pit, their stone faces appeared to be watching Francis with what felt like genuine awareness. Against the far wall stood the altar, a collection of offerings and relics.

Greythorn sat on a carved stone seat, her pale eyes fixed on Francis as he entered.

“Sit,” she said, gesturing to the wooden and leather seat across from her.

Francis sat, feeling the weight of her gaze.

“You are one of us now,” Greythorn said. “Mark given, blood spilled, pain endured. But ceremony is not teaching. Power you have within, yet use it you cannot. Not yet. Mark stays forever, deep inside, never gone, not even in death.”

Francis nodded, waiting for her to continue.

“You must unlock the ability to call upon magic as we do. Core within, power flows through veins. But first…” She leaned forward, her eyes seeming to glow faintly. “Have you touched magic before? Not fighting against it, but using it yourself?”

Francis considered his answer carefully. “I have skills that interact with magic. I don’t have a Magic Sense ability, yet I’ve learned to feel the magical threads around me. Magic Resistance helps protect me from hostile spells, but it doesn’t affect those that are meant to aid. And…” He paused, unsure how she’d react. “Magic Feedback… When magic is used against me, I can cause damage back to the one who cast the spell.”

Greythorn’s eyes narrowed. “Magic Feedback… That one is… feared. Dangerous for those who cast, revealing for those who possess. But useful, yes. Very useful for learning.”

She stood and moved to the altar, retrieving a small leather pouch. “For now, you must learn to locate your core. Center of power, source of strength. Without finding it, you cannot draw from it. Without drawing, you cannot use it.”

Greythorn opened the pouch and pulled out what appeared to be dried herbs mixed with small crystals. She sprinkled them into the fire, and the flames shifted from blue-green to a deep purple. The smoke that rose smelled sharp and clean, and Francis felt his head clear as he breathed it in.

“Others will teach you the methods we use. Learn what you can, adapt what you must. Your path may be different, but your destination is the same.” She looked toward the tent flap and called out something in her language.

Three shamans entered, each one painted and adorned in a distinct manner. The first was an older man with white hair and scars covering his arms. The second was a woman younger than Greythorn, but no less intimidating; her face was painted with symbols that looked like frozen lightning. The third was massive, even by barbarian standards; his body was covered in tattoos that seemed to move in the firelight.

“This is Vorgrim,” Greythorn said, gesturing to the scarred man. “He will teach you breath. This is Lyska.” She gestured to the woman with lightning symbols. “She will teach you stillness. This is Haldor.” She indicated the massive tattooed man. “He will teach you violence. Three paths to core, three ways to find. Learn from all, or learn from one. Choice is yours.”

Francis looked at each of them, feeling their power radiating in different ways. There was a sameness to them that went beyond the paint and the scars. Greythorn’s words had come clipped and strangely ordered. He had taken it for her own quirk. Now, studying these three, he understood it was something more. It marked the deep shamans, the ones who spent more hours speaking with their gods than with men. Kerhi and the warriors never spoke that way. He suspected these three would.

“I’ll learn from all three,” Francis said.

***

Vorgrim took Francis outside to a quiet area away from the main camp. The older shaman sat cross-legged on the frozen ground and gestured for Francis to do the same.

“Breath is life,” Vorgrim said, his voice rough like gravel. “Breath is power. Before you find core, you must learn to breathe correctly.”

“I know how to breathe,” Francis said, then immediately regretted it when Vorgrim’s eyes narrowed.

“You know how to survive. Not same thing. Watch.”

Vorgrim closed his eyes and took a deep breath. It wasn’t a normal breath. Francis could see the man’s chest expand, but more than that, he could feel something change in the air around them. The old shaman held the breath, and Francis’s Magic Sense tingled as power gathered.

When Vorgrim exhaled, steam rose from his mouth despite the cold, and Francis felt a wave of warmth wash over him.

“Breath draws power from core,” Vorgrim explained. “Power flows through veins, fills body, returns to core. Cycle continues. You must learn cycle.”

For the next hour, Vorgrim taught Francis a breathing pattern. In through the nose for a count of four, hold for seven, out through the mouth for eight. Over and over, maintaining the rhythm until Francis’s lungs burned and his head felt light.

“Focus on chest,” Vorgrim instructed. “Where heart beats, where breath centers. Core lives there. Feel for it.”

Francis tried, maintaining the breathing pattern while turning his attention inward. He felt his heart beating, his lungs expanding and contracting, but couldn’t sense anything beyond normal physiological functions.

“Nothing yet,” Vorgrim said. “Expected. Takes time. Continue practice. Lyska will show you next path.”

***

Lyska brought Francis to a different location, this one near a frozen stream. She stood at the edge of the ice and looked at Francis with eyes that seemed to crackle with energy.

“Vorgrim teaches breath, teaches movement,” Lyska said. “I teach opposite. I teach stillness so complete that body forgets to exist. When body quiets, core reveals itself.”

She sat on the ice, her legs crossed, her hands resting on her knees. “Sit. Do not move. Not finger, not eye, not breath more than needed. Become ice. Become stone. Become nothing.”

Francis sat on the frozen stream and tried to comply. At first, it seemed simple enough. He’d spent time sitting still before. But as minutes stretched into what felt like hours, his body began to rebel. His muscles yearned to move and stretch. His nose itched, begging for a little relief. His back ached from the posture he had chosen.

“Do not move,” Lyska said without opening her eyes. “Pain is distraction. Ignore it.”

Francis gritted his teeth and held himself motionless. His Pain Resistance helped, dulling the ache in his, but it did not erase them.

He kept his eyes closed and his body still, and slowly the world narrowed to what he could not silence. The sun’s warmth crept across one cheek, lingered, then thinned and went cold as the day wore on. The distant hammering and voices of the camp rose, then settled toward evening. He lost all sense of how long they had sat. He knew only that the cold had deepened, and that neither of them had moved.

Finally, when Francis thought he might scream from the need to move, Lyska spoke.

“Now. While body is quiet. Look inward. Find the warmth that remains when all else is cold.”

Francis turned his attention inward again, and this time, something was different. His body was so still, so quiet, that he could sense things he normally couldn’t. He felt his blood coursing through his veins, the electric pulses of his nerves, and the steady rhythm of his heart.

And, deeper still, beneath all of that, he felt something warm. Not hot like the burning coal, but a gentle heat that radiated from somewhere in his chest.

Is that it?

“Good,” Lyska said, opening her eyes. “You touched edge of it. Not enough to use, but enough to know it exists. Haldor will teach you the rest.”

***

Haldor took Francis to a training ground where several warriors were sparring. The massive shaman watched them for a moment before turning to Francis.

“Vorgrim teaches you to find core through breath. Lyska teaches through stillness. I teach through violence.”

He picked up a training axe and tossed it to Francis, who caught it reflexively.

“Fight me,” Haldor said simply.

Francis barely had time to register the command before Haldor was on him. The shaman moved with shocking speed for someone so large, his training axe whistling through the air. Francis blocked on instinct, his own weapon coming up to deflect the strike.

They fought, and Francis quickly realized Haldor was good. He wasn’t just strong, but skilled, his movements economical and precise. Francis used everything he’d learned from the Ursaloths, Glitvall, and from dying hundreds of times. Even though he wasn’t trained in using an axe, the movements were similar in some ways. Mainly, don’t get hit.

“Good,” Haldor said between strikes. “Now, while fighting, find your core. Violence strips away pretense. Pain focuses mind. In battle, core burns brightest.”

Haldor’s next strike was harder, faster, and Francis felt it jar his arms. The impact triggered Warrior’s Resolve, and power flooded through him. For a moment, Francis felt stronger, faster, more capable.

And in that moment, he felt something else. The warmth Lyska had helped him sense flared brighter, hotter, responding to the skill activation.

“There!” Haldor shouted. “You felt it! Again!”

He struck Francis again, and again, each blow triggering Warrior’s Resolve without causing serious injury. And each time, Francis felt that warmth respond, growing stronger, more defined.

Finally, Haldor stepped back, lowering his weapon. “Enough. You have felt it three times now. Breathing taught you rhythm. Stillness taught you awareness. Violence taught you recognition. Now you must combine all three.”

***

Francis sat alone in his tent that night, his body sore from the day’s training. He closed his eyes and began Vorgrim’s breathing pattern. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. The rhythm steadied him, centered him.

Then he applied Lyska’s stillness, letting his body quiet until the only things he could sense were his heartbeat and that faint warmth in his chest.

Finally, he remembered Haldor’s violence, the way Warrior’s Resolve had made that warmth flare. He didn’t activate the skill, but he remembered the sensation, remembered how the warmth had responded.

And then Francis did something the shamans hadn’t suggested. He called upon all the experiences he had ever had with magic, searching for the threads that he had learned to sense.

Turning that knowledge within, Francis reached out to the core that he had barely touched today, seeking what he hoped to find. Time passed, and then he saw them.

Threads.

Not the thick veins the shamans had described, but thin, delicate threads of power that spread throughout his body like a spider’s web. They were almost invisible, even to Francis, even after learning to sense them, but they were there. Dozens of them, hundreds maybe, all connected to a central point in his chest where that warmth resided.

His core.

Francis’s eyes snapped open, and he gasped. The vision faded, but the knowledge remained. He’d found it. Not veins like the barbarians described, but a lattice of threads spreading from his core like a web of power waiting to be used.

It’s different, but the same. For some reason I have threads instead of veins… I guess this will be my own unique path instead of theirs.

Francis smiled in the darkness of his tent. He’d found his core, and now the real training could begin.

Chapter 32

Francis stood before High Shaman Greythorn once more, the otherworldly light of the blue-green flames casting shadows across her painted face.

“You have found it,” Greythorn said, not making it a question. “Faster than expected. Much faster.”

Francis nodded. “I found my core. But it’s different from what your people describe. It’s not veins, but like threads. Thin ones, like spider silk, spreading out from the center.”

Greythorn’s pale eyes studied him for a few seconds. “Threads instead of veins. This is… unusual. Our people, we have thick channels. Power flows easy, like rivers. Your threads…” She paused, considering. “Harder to push through. Less power at once, perhaps. But also, more control, yes?”

“I don’t know yet,” Francis admitted. “I can sense them, but I can’t use them.”

“Then learn you must.” Greythorn stood and moved to the fire, gesturing for Francis to join her. “Our magic, it draws from core. Lifeforce within. Not mana from world around like southern mages do. We pull from self, from strength inside. Core is well, threads are paths, and body is vessel.”

She held out her hand over the flames, and Francis watched as power visibly gathered around her fingers. Not like the mages at the Spires who pulled threads from the air, but something that seemed to come from within her, flowing up through her arm and gathering in her palm.

“What we do, it makes body stronger, faster, tougher. Can enhance blows, increase speed, harden skin. Some shamans heal, some strengthen warriors in battle, some speak with spirits. All comes from core. All limited by how much lifeforce we have.”

“And the core can grow?” Francis asked.

Greythorn’s expression turned grim. “Yes, but slowly. Very slowly. Core grows with body, with strength, with age. But mostly? It is what it is. Big warriors have big cores. Small ones have small cores. You…” She looked him over. “Your core, I cannot tell. But threads worry me. Thin channels may limit how much power you push through body at once.”

Francis had expected as much. His magic stat was only ten, far below what it should be if he wanted to be a true magic user. But he hadn’t come here to become a shaman. He’d come to learn a skill that would allow him to heal. What he hadn’t expected was needing to learn how to use magic first.

“I still want to learn,” Francis said.

“Good. Then next step is not just touching core, but grabbing it. Holding it. Making it yours to command.” Greythorn’s eyes seemed to glow faintly. “Are you ready?”

“I am.”

***

Vorgrim looked at Francis with something approaching respect when they met again. “You found core already. Surprising. Most take week, maybe two.”

“I had good teachers,” Francis said.

The old shaman grunted. “Good teachers only work if student has ability to learn. You have threads, not veins. That will make this harder.”

They sat in the same spot as before, but this time Vorgrim had Francis face him directly, their knees almost touching.

“Touching core is like brushing fingertips against water,” Vorgrim explained. “Grabbing core is like plunging hands into river and holding current. Different. Much harder. You must reach into yourself and grip power. Not gently. Firmly.”

Francis closed his eyes and began the breathing pattern. In for four, hold for seven, out for eight. He found the warmth in his chest, felt the threads spreading out from it, and reached toward it with his mind.

But when he tried to grasp it, really grip it, the warmth slipped away like smoke.

“Again,” Vorgrim said.

Francis tried again, reaching for the core, trying to wrap his mental hands around it. Nothing. It was like trying to grip air.

“Again.”

Hours passed. Francis’s head pounded from the concentration, and sweat beaded on his forehead despite the cold. Each time he reached for the core, it slipped away. Each time he thought he had it, his mental grip failed.

“Breathing is wrong,” Vorgrim said finally. “You breathe like touching. Need to breathe like grabbing. Faster. Sharper. Like warrior before battle.”

He demonstrated, taking quick, sharp breaths that made his chest heave. Francis copied him, and immediately felt different. More aggressive. More primed.

“Now reach. Not gentle. Grab it like enemy’s throat.”

Francis reached out again, this time with more force and aggression. For just a moment, he felt something solid. The core resisted his grip, pushing back, but it was there. Real. Tangible.

Then it slipped away again.

“Better,” Vorgrim said, and there was approval in his voice. “You touched it truly. Now you must learn to hold. That takes more time.”

***

Lyska’s eyes held a spark of surprise when Francis told her he’d already found his core. “One day only. Impressive. Your threads make you different, but clearly not weaker.”

She brought him back to the frozen stream, but this time she didn’t have him sit on the ice. Instead, she pointed to the water flowing beneath the transparent surface.

“Core is like this water. Always moving, never still. To grab it, you must become faster than movement. Must catch flow between moments.”

Francis stared at the water, watching it slide past beneath the ice.

“Sit. Be still. But inside, be ready to move faster than thought.”

They sat, and Francis forced his body into that same painful stillness from before. But this time, Lyska had him do something different. She had him tense and release different muscles in a pattern. Right hand, left foot, left hand, right foot. Over and over, creating a rhythm of tension and release that kept his mind sharp while his body remained motionless.

“Now reach for core. But do not reach slow. Reach like striking snake. Fast. Sudden. Before it can slip away.”

Francis found the warmth, found the threads, and instead of reaching carefully, he struck at the core with his mind. For an instant, he held it. Really held it. Power surged through the threads, and Francis felt his body respond, his muscles tightening and his heart racing.

Then the sensation vanished, leaving him gasping for breath.

“Good!” Lyska said, her voice excited. “You held for heartbeat. Next time, hold for two heartbeats. Then three. Then more.”

They practiced for hours. Each time Francis managed to hold the core for a little longer before his mental grip failed and the power slipped away. His head throbbed with pain that had nothing to do with physical injury, and his body trembled from the strain of remaining still while his mind worked furiously.

But he didn’t quit. He’d endured worse. The Spires had taught him what real pain felt like, what it meant to push past every limit and keep going anyway. This was just another form of suffering, and Francis had learned long ago how to turn suffering into strength.

***

Haldor greeted Francis with a nod of respect. “Heard you found core in one day. Did not think Southerner could do that.”

“I’m one of you now,” Francis replied.

Haldor’s smile was fierce. “Yes. And now you train like one of us. Come.”

They went to the training grounds again, but this time Haldor handed Francis real weapons instead of training axes. The blade was sharp, the edge gleaming, and Francis looked at the massive shaman questioningly.

“To grab core in violence, you need real violence. Training weapons do not make fear. Fear makes core burn bright. Fear makes it easier to grab.”

Francis understood immediately. This wasn’t going to be a sparring session. This was going to be a real fight, and if Francis made a mistake, he’d die.

Good. I know how to fight when death is on the line.

Haldor attacked without warning, his axe coming at Francis’s head in a strike that would split his skull if it connected. Francis blocked, the impact once again jarring his arms as the behemoth of a man struck. He then countered with a slash that Haldor barely dodged.

They fought, really fought, and Francis felt the familiar rush of combat settle over him. Every movement was calculated, every strike potentially lethal. His Battle Sense tingled, warning him of attacks before they came, and his body moved with the fluid efficiency of someone who’d died hundreds of times learning these exact motions.

“Now!” Haldor shouted. “While fighting! Grab core! Use fear! Use anger! Use whatever makes it burn!”

Francis reached for his core while blocking a strike that would have taken his arm off. The warmth was there, burning bright just like Haldor said, and Francis grabbed it with both mental hands.

Power exploded through him. Not his Warrior’s Resolve, but something different, something that came from deep inside rather than being triggered by injury. It flooded through the threads, filling his body, and for a moment Francis felt unstoppable.

Then Haldor’s axe caught him across the chest, cutting deep, and Francis’s concentration shattered. The power vanished, and pain took its place.

“Stop!” Haldor called, immediately lowering his weapon. “Healer!”

A shaman rushed forward, and cool healing washed over Francis’s wound. The gash closed, leaving him shaking but alive.

“You held it,” Haldor said, his voice filled with approval. “Not long, but you held it. Felt power flow through you, yes?”

Francis nodded, still catching his breath. “Yes. It was… incredible.”

“Good. Now we do again. And again. Until you hold it while fighting without losing grip.”

Days blurred together. Francis trained with all three shamans, learning their different approaches to grabbing and holding the core. Vorgrim taught him to use breathing to maintain his grip. Lyska taught him to strike fast and hold firm. Haldor taught him to harness the intensity of combat to make the core burn brighter.

Each method was grueling in its own way. With Vorgrim, Francis’s lungs burned until he thought they’d burst. With Lyska, his muscles cramped from hours of stillness while his mind worked furiously. With Haldor, he died three more times. Not because the shaman could best him with a blade, but because holding the core while trading blows split his focus in a way nothing else had. The instant his attention slipped to the warmth in his chest, Haldor’s strike found the gap. Each death taught him a little more about keeping his grip even while fighting for his life.

But Francis never quit. He’d learned at the Spires what it meant to push past pain, to endure when enduring seemed impossible. Trina had assaulted him with spell after spell, burning and freezing his flesh, teaching him through agony how to sense magic. This was no different. Just another form of suffering, another trial to overcome.

And slowly, gradually, he improved. His grip on the core grew stronger. He could hold it for longer periods. The power that flowed through his threads became easier to maintain, though it still slipped away if he lost concentration.

After more deaths and more journeys north than he cared to admit, Francis sat with Vorgrim and held the core for a full minute without losing his grip. A full minute. Far longer than he had ever managed to hold it before.

A notification came that surprised him, causing Francis to lose his grip.

[ Magic Increased - 11 ]

The old shaman nodded approvingly, somehow sensing a change in him.

“Good. You are ready for next step. But first, you must combine what all three of us have taught. Must be able to grab core and hold it no matter what you are doing. Breathing, stillness, violence, all same. Core must answer when you call.”

Francis understood. He’d learned three different techniques, but now he needed to master them all, make them work together instead of separately. It would take time, take more practice, more pain.

But Francis had time. He had all the time in the world, even if he had to die a hundred more times to get there.

Whatever it takes.

Chapter 33

The sound of the morning bell rang.

“It’s earlier than usual,” Michael grunted as he sat up. “What gives?”

Francis smiled, already throwing off his blanket. Every day, and every death he’d spent becoming one of the barbarians, learning their magic, made dying worth it. He’d made Haldor not hold back, and that had cost him his life. All of it was knowledge he carried with him now, just like the small flame inside his chest that never went out. “Just another chance to get things right, brother.”

***

“It appears we have a visitor,” Kerhi’s voice said as Francis appeared in the ice building. “Tell me, what are you here for?”

Francis pulled out the two sealed letters, studying the woman before him. She looked at him with curiosity, but something was different this time. Her eyes lingered on him longer, as if sensing something she couldn’t quite identify. Francis had seen that look every time he came through after dying. Every barbarian had it, and sometimes it was almost comical.

“I have come to offer aid and help with the fight your people are currently caught in,” Francis said. “I would prefer to see Warchief Glitvall sooner rather than later.”

Kerhi scoffed, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Tell me, who is it that comes to see the chieftain and is so full of himself?”

“I am afraid you have not earned the honor of knowing my name yet,” Francis replied. “Perhaps if you carry out your duty in a timely manner, I will share it with you.”

Her eyes widened slightly, and Francis saw confusion flicker across her face. She studied him more closely now, her gaze moving over his features, his stance, the way he held himself.

“You…” She paused. “There is something about you. Something familiar.”

Francis said nothing, simply waiting.

“Come,” Kerhi finally said, leading him through the camp. As they walked, Francis noticed other barbarians stopping to watch him pass. Their expressions held the same confusion Kerhi’s had shown. They could somehow recognize him without being able to understand why. As if they knew him or had met him before, but couldn’t place how.

They reached the tent where the clan leaders gathered, and Francis went through the familiar ritual of presenting the letters to Glitvall. The warchief took them, his massive hands gentle with the sealed parchment, and Francis saw the same flicker of recognition in the man’s eyes.

When they were alone in Glitvall’s tent, Francis told him everything. Not the full story of the loops, but enough. About the training, the ceremony, the magic he’d learned. Glitvall listened without interruption, his expression unreadable.

“I cannot deny the knowledge you possess,” Glitvall said finally. “Nor can I deny that you bear the mark of our people. The gods have claimed you, and I can sense it.”

“Then you believe me?”

“I believe you carry secrets that should not be possible,” Glitvall said. “But to prove what you claim, you must show the others. Come.”

***

The training ground where Francis had first fought Kerhi was now filled with onlookers. Word had spread quickly that something unusual was happening, and barbarians gathered in a loose circle around the cleared space.

Haldor stood in the center, his painted face showing surprise when he saw Francis approaching.

“You want me to fight…him?” Haldor asked Glitvall, gesturing at Francis.

“I do,” the warchief replied. “He claims to possess the magic we call upon. Prove him wrong or right.”

Haldor looked at Francis more carefully now, and Francis saw the moment recognition flickered in the shaman’s eyes. “There is something… but I cannot place it.”

“Then let’s find out,” Francis said, drawing his swords.

Haldor pulled his training axe, but Glitvall shook his head. “Real weapons. He says he will not fall so easily.”

The shaman’s expression grew serious, and he drew his actual axe, its stone blade gleaming. Francis had fought Haldor forty-one times over the course of his training. He knew how the man moved, how the barbarian enhanced his speed with bursts of power from his core. Francis had learned the hard way how he used his reach advantage to control the fight.

Haldor attacked first, his axe coming in fast. But Francis was already moving, his swords coming up to deflect the strike. He stepped inside the shaman’s guard and cut toward his midsection, forcing Haldor to leap backward.

The crowd murmured.

Haldor’s eyes widened, and power gathered around the shaman. He drew from his core, and suddenly he was faster, stronger, his strikes coming like lightning, each one calculated to overwhelm Francis’s defenses.

But Francis had learned this exact pattern with three deaths, and he knew its shape. He gave ground, blocking and deflecting, waiting for the falter he knew would come. It arrived on the eighth strike, a slight hesitation as the shaman’s power flickered.

Francis struck, both swords moving in concert. One blade caught Haldor’s axe and redirected it, while the other sliced across his arm, drawing blood.

The crowd went silent.

Then Francis felt it, his own core responding. The threads that spread through his body suddenly felt more alive, more present. A notification appeared in his vision.

[ Life Core Channeling Increased - 11 Novice ]

[ Rank Increased - Novice ]

Power flooded through Francis, and immediately, he could feel his core more clearly than ever before. The threads weren’t just something he sensed anymore. They were responsive, eager, waiting for his command.

Francis grabbed his core with both mental hands and pulled.

The effect was immediate. His muscles flooded with strength; his movements became sharper and faster. It wasn’t as dramatic as what Haldor could do with his thick veins, but it was there. It was real and tangible.

Haldor attacked again, this time with more caution. The shaman recognized a threat now, and Francis could see the calculations happening behind those painted eyes. He drew more power, his body practically glowing with enhanced strength.

They met in the center of those gathered, axe against sword, two warriors who seemed to understand the power flowing through their bodies. Francis blocked a strike that would have taken his head off, countered with a slash that opened a cut on Haldor’s leg. The shaman responded with a spinning attack that forced Francis to activate Iron Wall, his body hardening to absorb the impact.

The fight intensified. Both of them were bleeding now, both drawing on reserves of power that pushed their bodies beyond normal limits. Francis maintained his grip on his core, pulling power through his threads with increasing confidence. It was harder than what the barbarians did, requiring more concentration, but his Novice rank now made it possible to sustain it longer.

Haldor’s axe came down in a massive overhead strike, and Francis didn’t try to block it. Instead, he stepped inside the attack’s arc, too close for the weapon to be effective. His swords moved like serpents, one catching Haldor’s wrist, the other pressing against his throat.

At the same moment, Francis swept Haldor’s legs out from under him. The shaman fell, and Francis followed him down, his blade never leaving Haldor’s throat. They hit the ground together, Francis on top, his sword pressed firmly against the shaman’s neck.

The training ground was absolutely silent.

Francis held the position for a moment, then removed his blade and stood, offering Haldor his hand. The shaman took it, allowing Francis to pull him to his feet.

Haldor bowed, his head lowered in respect. “You have defeated me. I owe you for sparing my life, for the honor you have shown. I will find a way to repay this debt.”

“No,” Francis said, his voice carrying across the silent crowd. “You owe me nothing. Though you do not realize it, you have made me the man that I am and the warrior who stands before you. So let us be even on all accounts.”

Haldor’s eyes widened, and then he bent his head slightly. Francis saw the moment the barbarian recognized him as one of them. It didn’t matter that Francis looked like a Southerner or fought with weapons that many considered dishonorable. Haldor could see the power that flowed through Francis and the core that was burning. There was no mistake that Francis was one of them.

Francis looked around the circle and saw High Shaman Greythorn standing among the gathered shamans. Beside her were several clan leaders, Glitvall, and Kerhi. All of them stared at him with expressions ranging from shock to awe.

One of their strongest warriors had just been defeated by a Southerner who shouldn’t have been able to do what he’d done.

***

They gathered in Greythorn’s tent, just the three of them. Francis sat across from the high shaman and Glitvall, the blue-green flames casting familiar shadows.

Francis told them everything. The loops, the month he’d spent training, the ceremony that had made him one of them. He explained how he’d died forty-one times to reach this point, how each death had taught him something new.

When he finished, Glitvall smiled. It was a fierce expression, full of pride and anticipation.

Greythorn cackled, the sound echoing off the tent walls.

“What?” Francis asked, confused by their reactions.

Glitvall leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. “Now… what I must have hinted at all those times you have come to see me. Now is when you will see that I was not kidding about what comes next. You, Francis, are about to experience pain, suffering, and hopefully growth like you cannot imagine.”

Greythorn nodded, her pale eyes fixed on Francis. “You think forty-one deaths to defeat Haldor hard? You think learning to grab core difficult?” She leaned forward. “What comes next makes those like children’s games. Are you ready, Francis Lancaster?”

Francis met their gazes, saw the challenge in them, and remembered everything he’d endured to get here. The ursaloths, the Spires, Michael’s deaths, all of it.

Whatever it takes.

“I’m ready,” Francis said.

***

I was wrong.

Francis didn’t cry out though every bit of him wanted to. Even with the fire that burned inside him, it wasn’t enough to hold back the cold he felt as another bucket of ice and water was dumped on his naked body.

Cuts came as soon as the water was gone, his blood flowing as the four shamans cut his skin in different places.

“Hold the core!”

“Heal yourself!”

“Do not let yourself bleed to death!”

Francis had heard those words more times than he could count, yet the shamans never relented.

The cold wind blew, and it didn’t matter that they were hours past midnight. He had accepted a task from Glitvall that sounded simple. Both the high shaman and the warchief had spent a good minute laughing at his bravado.

Now, approaching the second day of training, Francis realized why he couldn’t do this until now.

He had to supply the magic from his core to keep himself alive. Each second drained it, threatening to extinguish the flame that had once shone brightly. Sometimes his skin was completely healed. Other times it tore back open from the shivering of his body.

“Hold off,” Kerhi called, moving closer to where he stood. “His flame is almost gone.

“I can… go longer…” Francis got out between clattering teeth. “I… can…”

“No, you are done,” Kerhi said, waving away those who had been ready to cut him again. “If we push further, you will not find growth. Eat, rest. We’ll begin again in the morning.”

Francis wanted to argue, but the truth was his body felt empty on the inside. Even Warrior’s Resolve was struggling to keep him going, the never-ending drain of his body finally showing him there was a limit to how long and how far he could go.

Still… the gains… they were good.

[ Life Core Channeling (Rare) Increased - 19 ]

[ Magic Increased - 16 ]

Chapter 34

The hammer came down with a ring that echoed across the forge, sparks flying as Francis shaped the heated metal. His muscles remembered the motion even though he’d died three times since the last time he’d worked at this particular anvil. There was a time when he’d barely known which end of the hammer to hold. Now his hands moved with confidence, drawing the steel into the shape he wanted.

“Better,” Tormund grunted from where he stood near the fire. The massive barbarian watched Francis work with arms crossed, his scarred hands occasionally gesturing to correct a technique. “Angle is good. But you are rushing the cooling. Patience.”

Francis nodded and plunged the blade into the quenching barrel. Steam hissed up around his hands, and he held the metal steady, counting in his head the way Tormund had taught him. Except Tormund hadn’t taught him. Not in this loop. Not yet.

That was the problem.

It had been building for weeks now, loops blurring together as Francis died to the ursaloths or to Haldor. Each time he came back, he sought out the forge, finding comfort in the rhythm of hammer on steel. Each time, Tormund noticed things he shouldn’t have been able to notice.

“That stroke,” Tormund said, moving closer as Francis pulled the blade from the water. “The one you used on the fuller. Where did you learn it?”

Francis set the blade on the anvil and reached for his tongs, buying himself a moment. “I… picked it up somewhere.”

“Picked it up,” Tormund repeated, his voice flat. He walked around the anvil, examining the blade Francis had been working on. “That is interesting. Because that particular stroke, I developed it myself. Twenty years ago. I have taught it to exactly three apprentices.”

Francis felt his stomach tighten. He’d gotten too comfortable, too confident in his growing skills. The Blacksmithing notification that had appeared a few deaths ago now mocked him.

[ Blacksmithing Increased - 18 ]

“And you are not,” Tormund continued, “one of those three.”

The forge fire crackled in the silence that followed. Francis could feel the heat on his face, could smell the coal smoke and hot metal. Around them, the sounds of the barbarian camp continued as normal. Warriors training, shamans chanting, the ever-present wind whistling through the tents.

“I wondered,” Tormund said, his voice quieter now. “When you first came to work metal. You named yourself a Southerner who’d barely touched a forge, and that’s what your kind always are. But your hands knew things they had no business knowing. You held the hammer right from the second strike. You watched the color of the steel before I ever taught you to. You learned in days what takes most men seasons. No green boy moves like that.”

Francis met the blacksmith’s eyes. Tormund’s gaze wasn’t hostile, just… curious. And maybe a little concerned.

“Can I share something personal?” Francis asked, the words coming out before he could stop them. “I feel like you might understand.”

Tormund was quiet for a long moment. Then he gestured to the back of the forge, where a small bench sat away from the main workspace. “Sit. We will talk.”

They moved to the bench, and Francis noticed that from this position, no one else in the camp could see them clearly. The forge building blocked most of the view, and the smoke provided additional cover.

“I have watched you,” Tormund said once they were seated. “Not just at forge. I have watched you fight, and watched you train with shamans. You carry our mark and are like one of us. Yet I am not sure how. I notice the patterns.”

“Patterns?” Francis asked.

“You know things you should not know. You fight like a warrior with years of experience, but also like one just learning. And sometimes…” Tormund paused. “Sometimes you look at people like you are seeing ghosts.”

He’d been carrying this weight alone for so long, even with Glitvall and Greythorn knowing about the loops. However, they were leaders, focused on the big picture and strategy, with a keen eye on survival. Tormund was different. Tormund was a craftsman, someone who understood the value of patience and repetition.

“What if I told you,” Francis said slowly, “that I’ve lived this day before? Many times. What if I told you that when I die, I wake up back at my training camp in the South, and I have to live through everything again?”

Tormund didn’t laugh. He didn’t scoff or call Francis crazy. Instead, the big man leaned back against the wall and nodded slowly. “That would explain much. The way you swing a hammer is how I taught others, years ago. Every smith learns differently, develops their own style. But you…” He gestured at Francis’s hands. “You have learned my style. My techniques. Things I have only taught to my apprentices.”

“Many deaths ago,” Francis said, the words spilling out now. “I came to your forge and asked you to teach me. You did. We spent weeks working together, and you showed me how to shape steel, how to read the fire, how to know when the metal was ready. And then I died to an ursaloth, and when I woke up, you didn’t remember any of it.”

“So you came back,” Tormund said. “And learned again.”

“And again. And again.” Francis looked at his hands, callused now from both combat and smithing. “Each time, I remember. Each time, I strive to become stronger, learn more, and improve. Because if I’m not, people die. I have a brother… Michael… He dies… Barbarians die… Everyone I care about dies, and I have to watch it happen over and over until I figure out how to stop it.”

The forge fire popped, sending a shower of sparks up into the smoke-stained rafters. Tormund watched them rise and fade before speaking.

“Our people,” Tormund said finally, “we believe in the cycle. Death and rebirth. The gods test us, and we are reborn stronger. But this…” He shook his head. “This is something else. You are not just reborn. You say you remember, and you learn. Even more is that you bring with you what you have learned and gained.”

“I don’t know if it’s a gift or a curse,” Francis admitted. “Sometimes I think I’m going insane. Doing the same things over and over, watching the same people die, having the same conversations. But then I make progress. I save someone who died before. I learn a skill that helps me survive longer. And it feels like maybe, just maybe, I can actually win this.”

“Win what?”

“The war. All of it. Keep everyone alive and defeat the beastkins.” Francis laughed, but there was no humor in it. “Sounds impossible, doesn’t it?”

“Everything sounds impossible until someone does it.” Tormund stood and moved back to the anvil, picking up the blade Francis had been working on. He examined it in the firelight, testing the edge with his thumb. “This is good work. Not perfect, but good. You have talent.”

“Thanks to you,” Francis said, joining him.

“Thanks to you not giving up.” Tormund set the blade down and looked at Francis. “I do not know if I believe in your loops. But I believe in what I see. And I see a man who keeps fighting, who keeps learning, who refuses to quit. That is worth something, whether you live once or a thousand times.”

He hadn’t realized how much he’d needed this, someone to just… accept it. Even better was that his blacksmithing mentor didn’t question or demand proof. He just acknowledged that Francis was carrying something heavy and offered to help bear the weight.

“So,” Tormund said, picking up his own hammer. “If you have learned from me before, then you know what comes next. We work on blade balance. Your fuller is good, but weight distribution needs adjustment.”

And just like that, they were back to work. But something had changed. As Francis heated the blade and began working on the balance point, he found himself relaxing in a way he hadn’t been able to in dozens of loops. Tormund asked questions about the loops, about what Francis had learned, about the battles he’d fought. And Francis answered with simple truths, finding relief in the honesty.

“The ursaloths,” Tormund said at one point. “You fight them often?”

“Most loops, yes. Sometimes, though not for a while.” Francis shaped the metal with steady strikes. “They’re how I practice. How I push my healing magic to its limits.”

“That is why you smell like blood and snow when you return,” Tormund observed. “I wondered. Most warriors do not seek out those beasts alone. They are pack hunters. Dangerous.”

“Dangerous is the point.” Francis plunged the blade into the quenching barrel again. “If I can’t survive them, I can’t survive what’s coming. The real battles, the ones that matter.”

They worked in silence for a while after that, the rhythm of the forge settling around them. Francis found himself remembering all the previous times he’d done this, all the conversations they’d had in other loops. But this time felt different. This time, Tormund knew. For once Francis didn’t feel alone.

A notification appeared in Francis’s vision as he finished adjusting the blade’s balance.

[ Blacksmithing Increased - 19 ]

“Tell me,” Tormund said as the afternoon wore on. “This magic you are learning. The Life Core Channeling. How does it work with your loops?”

“When I die, I lose anything I’m holding or wearing, but I keep all my stat and skill increases. The stat increases stay, as do the skill levels, but my actual body returns to its original state. So if I acquire a beautiful scar in one loop, it is gone when I die.”

“But knowledge remains,” Tormund said thoughtfully. “Like smithing. You know techniques.”

“Exactly.” Francis set down his hammer and flexed his fingers. “It’s frustrating. I know what I should be able to do, as if I’ve never stopped. So I keep pushing forward, and I keep dying, trying to learn more and improve with each death.”

“Sounds like smithing,” Tormund said with a slight smile. “You know what a good blade looks like, but making one? That takes practice. And failure. Lots of failure.”

“I’ve had plenty of that.” Francis looked at the blade they’d been working on. It was better than anything he could have made when he first arrived at the barbarian camp. Not perfect, not masterwork quality, but solid. Functional. “Do you ever regret becoming a smith? Instead of a warrior?”

Tormund considered the question while he banked the forge fire. “No. Warriors fight battles. Smiths make warriors able to fight. Without good weapons, even the greatest warrior falls. I serve my people this way. It is enough.”

“You’re a philosopher,” Francis said.

“I am smith who thinks too much,” Tormund corrected. “Now come. You will return tomorrow, yes? To work more?”

“If I don’t die tonight,” Francis said, then caught himself. “Sorry. Dark humor.”

“If you live a thousand lives, you are allowed dark humor.” Tormund clapped him on the shoulder. “Go. Train. Die if you must. But come back and work metal with me again. I would like to see what you can make with more practice.”

Francis nodded and headed back into the camp proper. The sun was setting, painting the snow in shades of orange and pink. Warriors were finishing their training for the day, and the smell of cooking meat drifted from the communal fires.

He made his way toward the training grounds, intending to practice with his swords before the evening meal. But as he walked, he noticed someone watching him from near one of the shaman tents.

Kerhi.

The shaman stood with her arms crossed, her blue eyes tracking Francis’s movement through the camp. She’d been doing that more often lately, he’d noticed. Watching him. Studying him. As if she were trying to figure out a puzzle that didn’t quite fit together.

Their eyes met across the distance, and for a moment, neither looked away. Then Kerhi turned and disappeared into the tent behind her, leaving Francis alone with his thoughts.

What does she see when she looks at me?

Francis shook his head and continued to the training grounds. He had work to do. The ursaloths would be waiting for him tomorrow, and he still had progress to make with his Life Core Channeling.

***

Five deaths later, Francis stood over the carcasses of three ursaloths, his chest heaving and blood streaming from a dozen wounds. The cold didn’t bother him anymore thanks to his Cold Resistance, but the pain still registered despite his Pain Resistance dulling it.

He grabbed his core and pulled, feeling the power flow through his threads. The sensation was becoming more familiar now, easier to maintain. Not effortless, not like the barbarians with their thick veins, but manageable.

The wounds on his arms began to close. Not quickly, not like true regeneration would, but faster than normal healing. Flesh knitting together, blood flow slowing, pain receding as his body repaired itself.

A notification appeared.

[ Life Core Channeling Increased - 20 ]

[ Magic Increased - 18 ]

Francis smiled despite the exhaustion. Progress. Slow, hard-won, paid for in blood and pain, but progress nonetheless.

Without waiting, he took off jogging, ignoring the roar of the alpha as it most likely called him a coward.

He made his way back to camp as the last of his wounds finished healing. The walk gave him time to think about what Tormund had said, about cycles and rebirth. The barbarians viewed death as a natural part of life, an inevitable transition. But what Francis experienced wasn’t natural. It was something else, something that broke the normal rules.

When he reached the forge, he found Tormund still there, working on some project of his own. The blacksmith looked up as Francis approached and grunted in greeting.

“Still alive,” Tormund observed.

“For now,” Francis replied. “Mind if I work for a bit? Need to keep my hands busy.”

“Forge is always open to those who respect it.” Tormund gestured to the anvil. “What will you make?”

Francis considered. “A knife. Something small. I want to practice detail work.”

“Good choice.” Tormund returned to his own work, but Francis could feel the man’s presence, steady and reassuring. Francis had already decided that he would share  who he was with Tormund. Having someone know about the loops, someone he could talk to without hiding or pretending, made everything feel a little less overwhelming.

As Francis worked the metal, shaping it with careful strikes, he found himself thinking about the path ahead. There would be hundreds more deaths, maybe thousands. Learning to regenerate properly would take time. It would require his Magic stat to climb higher, and would demand that he push his Life Core Channeling to levels he could barely imagine.

But he had time. He had all the time in the world, even if each moment was bought with death and pain.

And now, he had a friend who understood.

The hammer rang against the anvil, and Francis shaped the knife with steady hands, feeling the metal yield to his will. Outside, the barbarian camp settled into evening routines. Warriors told stories around fires, shamans chanted their prayers, and a few children that he had seen played in the snow despite the cold.

Life continued, cycle after cycle, death after death, and Francis continued with it, one strike of the hammer at a time.

Chapter 35

The sound of the morning bell rang.

“It’s earlier than usual,” Michael grunted as he sat up. “What gives?”

Francis sat up, already mentally counting. Death sixty-eight. The ursaloth alpha had caught him yesterday, its massive paw crushing his rib cage before he could activate Iron Wall. A stupid mistake, one born from overconfidence after taking down the pack.

Getting sloppy. Can’t afford that.

Glancing at his brother, who was yawning, Francis couldn’t help but smile.

He bolted out of bed, grabbing Michael and slung him over his shoulder.

“What the—”

Francis ignored his brother’s protests, running out the building they shared, and toward where Phillip was going to be waiting.

“Hey, I’m just trying not to be late!”

***

Having a confidant had changed everything. The weight of carrying the secret alone had been crushing him without Francis even realizing it. But with Tormund knowing, understanding, and accepting, it had felt like he could breathe again.

That was why he always told Tormund upon arriving each loop since the first time.

The forge was exactly as Francis knew it would be. Tormund stood at the anvil, hammer in hand, working a piece of steel that glowed orange in the morning light. The massive blacksmith didn’t look up as Francis entered, but his voice carried over the ring of metal on metal.

“You are here early, Southerner.”

“I need to tell you something,” Francis said, moving to stand near the fire. “And I need you just to listen until I’m done.”

Tormund’s hammer paused mid-swing. He set it down carefully and turned to face Francis, his scarred face unreadable. “That sounds serious.”

“It is.” Francis took a breath. “When I die, I wake up back at my training camp in the South. Everything resets. Everyone forgets. But I remember everything, and I retain my skills, stats, and all that I’ve learned. And then I have to do it all again.”

Tormund’s expression didn’t change.

“I’ve died thousands of times,” Francis continued. “Sometimes to the ursaloths. Sometimes in battle against one of the warriors here. Once, because I was stupid enough to challenge an elite warrior when I wasn’t ready. Each time, I come back. Each time, I have to build the relationships again, earn the trust again, prove myself again.”

“And you are telling me this now because…?” Tormund asked.

“Because in a previous loop, you figured it out. You noticed I knew techniques you’d never taught me, that I worked metal like someone who’d been your apprentice for months. We talked, and I told you the truth, and you… accepted it. Helped me carry the weight of it.” Francis met Tormund’s eyes. “I don’t want to wait for you to figure it out this time. I need someone who knows. Someone I can talk to without pretending.”

Tormund was quiet for a few seconds. Then he picked up his hammer again and gestured to the second anvil. “Show me. Work metal. Let me see what you know.”

Francis moved to the anvil, selected a piece of steel from the stockpile, and heated it in the forge. When the metal reached the right temperature, he pulled it out and began shaping it. Not hesitantly, not like someone learning. He worked with the confidence of someone who’d done this hundreds of times, his strikes precise and measured.

He used the fuller stroke Tormund had developed. He checked the color of the steel before each heat, adjusted his grip without thinking, and moved through the process as if it were second nature.

He’d refined it through repetition, earned every bit of knowledge through sweat and burns and patient instruction that the blacksmith didn’t even remember giving.

When Francis finally plunged the shaped blade into the quenching barrel, Tormund set down his own hammer and walked over. He picked up the blade, examining it in the firelight.

“This is my style,” Tormund said quietly. “My techniques. Things I have only taught to three apprentices over twenty years. Yet you work metal like you have been doing it for months.”

“Because I have been,” Francis said. “Just not in this version of today.”

Tormund set the blade down and moved to the bench at the back of the forge. “Come. Sit. Tell me everything.”

So Francis did. He talked about the first loops, about watching Michael die over and over. About learning to fight the ursaloths, about the ceremony that made him one of the barbarians. He talked about the grinding repetition of it all, the way days blurred together, the exhaustion of being the only one who remembered.

Tormund listened without interrupting, his expression thoughtful. When Francis finally finished, the blacksmith leaned back against the wall.

“It must be lonely,” Tormund observed. “To remember when no one else does. To build friendships that reset. To watch people die knowing you will see them alive again, but they will not remember what came before.”

Francis winced but nodded. “Yes. Exactly that.”

“Then you have my friendship, Francis Lancaster. In this loop and every loop after, if you choose to tell me. I will help carry this weight with you.” Tormund stood and offered his hand. “Now. Let us work metal together. Tell me what you are trying to learn.”

They returned to the forge, and Francis found himself falling into the familiar rhythm. This time, he could talk openly. He explained that he was trying to improve his healing magic, that he needed his Blacksmithing skill to climb higher, and that every point of progress mattered.

“Healing magic,” Tormund said as they worked. “The Life Core Channeling. You are trying to regenerate flesh?”

“Eventually. Currently, I can close wounds more quickly than normal, but it’s not true regeneration. That’s going to take a lot more deaths, a lot more practice.” Francis shaped the metal with steady strikes. “The problem is it’s incredibly mana intensive. Much harder than just enhancing strength or speed.”

“Because regrowing flesh is more complex than making it temporarily stronger,” Tormund said thoughtfully. “Like the difference between tempering existing steel and creating new steel from ore.”

“Exactly.” Francis appreciated how quickly Tormund understood. “So I’m constantly grinding against enemies. I’m always fighting ursaloths, dying when I push too far, coming back, and trying again. I’m also slowly building up my Magic stat, as well as increasing my Life Core Channeling skill.”

“How high is it now?”

“Twenty. My Magic stat is eighteen.” Francis plunged his work into the water. “I need both to be much higher before real regeneration is possible.”

Tormund grunted acknowledgment. “Then we work. You practice smithing, I teach techniques. Between fighting and forging, you will grow stronger.”

They fell into a comfortable pattern after that. Tormund would demonstrate a technique, Francis would practice it, and they’d talk. Sometimes about the loops, sometimes about smithing philosophy, other times about nothing in particular. Just two craftsmen working metal together.

“Tell me,” Tormund said as the morning stretched into afternoon. “In previous loops, what have we talked about? What have I told you?”

Francis paused in his work. “You told me about your apprentices. How one died in battle, how another moved south to work in Reevotort, how the third is still here in camp. You discussed your philosophy on crafting, explaining that a good blade is more than just sharp metal. You said that smithing is meditation, that the rhythm of the hammer teaches patience.”

“All true,” Tormund said. “What else?”

“You told me that you chose smithing over being a warrior because you wanted to create instead of destroy. That watching something take shape under your hammer was more satisfying than watching enemies fall.” Francis met the blacksmith’s eyes. “You said that warriors fight one battle at a time, but smiths fight every battle through the weapons they make.”

Tormund smiled slightly. “I do say that, yes. It is good philosophy.”

“It is,” Francis agreed.

They worked in silence for a while, and Francis felt the tension he’d been carrying ease. This was what he needed. Not just someone who knew about the loops, but someone who could help ground him in the present moment. The forge, the hammer, the metal, the fire. Real, tangible things that existed regardless of how many times Francis died and came back.

A notification appeared as Francis finished a particularly tricky joint.

[ Blacksmithing Increased - 21 ]

“You smiled,” Tormund observed. “Skill increase?”

“Twenty-one now.”

“Good. You are learning fast. But then, you have had practice.” Tormund examined Francis’s work. “This join is solid. Clean. You are ready for more complex projects.”

“What do you recommend?”

“A full blade. Not a practice piece, but a real weapon. Something you would be willing to carry into battle.” Tormund moved to his stock of metal. “We will use good steel. You will craft it properly, from heating to quenching to sharpening. And when you are done, you will have a weapon worthy of a barbarian warrior.”

Francis felt a surge of pride at the offer. “I’d be honored.”

“Then we begin tomorrow. Today, you practice joints and balance. Tomorrow, real work.” Tormund returned to his own project. “Now tell me about this brother of yours. Michael. What is he like?”

Francis smiled. “Skinny. Jokes too much. Terrible at swordplay but refuses to give up. He’s…” Francis paused, searching for the right words. “He’s the reason I keep fighting. The reason I keep coming back. As long as he’s alive, as long as I can save him, all of this is worth it.”

“Good reason,” Tormund said. “Best reason. Family is worth dying for. Or in your case, worth dying over and over for.”

They worked until the afternoon sun began to sink toward the horizon. Francis’s arms ached from the repetitive motion, his hands were sore despite his calluses, but he felt good. Productive. Like he’d accomplished something real.

“You will go fight ursaloths now?” Tormund asked as Francis prepared to leave.

“Probably. I need to practice my healing, test my limits.”

“Be careful. Even with your loops, pain is still pain. Death is still death.”

“I know.” Francis headed for the door, then paused. “Thank you. For believing me. For accepting it.”

“Thank you for trusting me with the truth,” Tormund replied. “Now go. Train. And come back tomorrow ready to forge a real blade.”

***

The ursaloths were waiting in their usual territory. Francis had fought them so many times now that he knew their patterns by heart. The way the smaller ones would circle while the larger ones attacked. The tells before they lunged. The moment when the alpha would enter the fight if things went badly for the pack.

He drew his swords and stepped into their territory.

The first ursaloth charged immediately, its massive bulk covering the distance faster than most people would expect. Francis sidestepped and cut across its flank, opening a deep wound. The beast roared and spun, but Francis was already moving to engage the second one.

This was the dance he knew. Strike, retreat, block, counter. Keep moving, never stay still, use their size against them. The ursaloths were powerful, but they were also predictable. At least, they had been.

Francis killed the first two without taking serious damage. The third managed to catch him with a glancing blow that opened his arm from elbow to wrist. Francis hissed at the pain but kept fighting, feeling his core respond as he pulled power through his threads.

The wound on his arm began to close even as he fought. Not quickly enough to matter in combat, but faster than it should. The flesh knitting, the blood flow slowing, the pain receding to a dull ache.

He finished the third ursaloth and stood among the dead, breathing hard. Three down. His arm was still healing, the sensation strange but not unpleasant. Like an itch he couldn’t quite scratch, combined with the warmth of the power flowing through him.

Then he heard it. The roar of the alpha.

Not today.

Francis turned and ran. Not out of fear, but strategy. He’d fought the alpha before, died to it multiple times. Today wasn’t about testing himself against the strongest opponent. Today was about controlled practice, about pushing his healing without pushing so far that he died.

The alpha roared again behind him, the sound echoing off the ice. Francis could hear the massive beast pursuing, but he had a head start, and he was faster. By the time he reached the edge of the ursaloth territory, the alpha had given up the chase.

Francis slowed to a walk, checking his arm. The wound was almost completely healed now, just a pink line of new skin showing where the gash had been. In another hour, even that would fade.

A notification appeared.

[ Life Core Channeling Increased - 22 ]

Francis smiled. Two levels in one day. Not bad. If he could maintain this pace, if he could keep grinding without dying too often, he’d make real progress.

The walk back to camp gave him time to think. About Tormund, about the forge, about the path ahead. He had a friend now who understood the loops. Someone he could talk to openly, someone who would help ground him when the weight of it all became too much.

That was worth more than any skill increase.

As Francis entered the camp, he noticed Kerhi again. She stood near the shaman tents, her blue eyes following his progress. When their gazes met, she didn’t look away this time. Instead, she nodded slightly, an acknowledgment that felt almost like respect.

Francis nodded back and continued toward his tent. Tomorrow he’d forge a real blade with Tormund. He’d keep pushing forward, one step at a time, one death at a time, one skill level at a time.

That was all he could do. Keep fighting, learning, and refusing to give up.

Chapter 36

The sound of the morning bell rang.

“It’s earlier than usual,” Michael grunted as he sat up. “What gives?”

Francis lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling. He was over one hundred deaths now in this new journey. The alpha had gotten him again, but this time he’d taken it down with him. A small victory that still ended with him being crushed under its bulk, but progress nonetheless.

“Just another day, brother.” Francis sat up and began dressing. The routine was second nature. Wake up, run to the camp, explain to Stenson, get to Tules, tell Tormund, work the forge, fight the ursaloths. Repeat until dead. Repeat until stronger.

***

Tormund listened to Francis’s explanation of the loops with the same patience he always did. By now, Francis had refined the telling down to its essentials. Quick, efficient, enough to prove he knew things he shouldn’t.

After the first day of smithing, Francis still couldn’t quite believe what the blacksmith had told him.

“I have known three men in my life who could not lie to me,” Tormund had said, testing a blade’s edge against his thumb. “You are the fourth. So when you tell me you have died more times than you can count, I will not laugh, I will only ask what you learned.”

They worked in silence for a while, the rhythm of hammer on steel settling Francis’s mind. He’d come to appreciate these mornings at the forge. The repetitive motion, the heat of the fire, the satisfaction of watching metal take shape. It was meditation disguised as labor.

Francis smiled. “Hit twenty-five in Life Core Channeling three deaths ago. It’s making a big difference. I can close wounds about twice as fast now compared to when I started.”

“But still not the true regeneration you desire, is it?”

“Still not true regeneration,” Francis confirmed. “That’s going to take a lot more. My Magic stat finally hit twenty, though, so that helps.”

“Good progress.” Tormund examined the piece Francis was working on. “This joint is better than yesterday. Your control is improving.”

A notification appeared as if summoned by the compliment.

[ Blacksmithing Increased - 24 ]

“Twenty-four now,” Francis said.

“Then you are ready.” Tormund set down his hammer and moved to the back of the forge. He returned, carrying a peculiar, half-finished yet recognizable weapon. An axe, its head roughly shaped but not yet sharpened or balanced. “We make this together. Proper barbarian axe.”

Francis felt a little bit of pride at reaching this point, as well as some anticipation. “You want me to help forge an axe?”

“I want you to learn how to fight with an axe,” Tormund corrected. “I don’t want you to just learn to make them. You need to learn how to use one to truly understand how to make them. You fight with swords, yes? Good weapons. But here in the north, the axe is king. If you truly want to be one of us, you should know our weapon.”

Francis took the unfinished axe head, feeling its weight. It was heavier than his swords, but balanced differently. “I’ve never really trained with axes beyond a few sparring matches.”

“Then we fix that.” Tormund gestured to the work area. “First, we finish this axe. Make it good, make it yours. Then, I teach you to swing it properly. And after that…” He smiled slightly. “After that, you find warriors to spar with. Learn from dying I guess, as you do with everything else.”

They spent the rest of the morning working on the axe. Tormund showed Francis how to shape the blade, how to create the proper curve, and how to ensure the balance was right. It was different from sword-making, requiring some new and old techniques, but Francis found he enjoyed it.

By afternoon, they had a rough handle attached and the blade properly shaped. It wasn’t finished, or sharpened, but it looked like an axe.

“Tomorrow, we sharpen and balance,” Tormund said. “Today, you take this and learn to swing it. Go to the training grounds. Find someone who will teach.”

Francis hefted the axe, testing its weight. “Any recommendations?”

“Kerhi,” Tormund said without hesitation. “She is a shaman, but she trains with an axe when she is not healing or channeling. She is a good teacher and patient.”

Francis thought about the woman who’d been watching him for the past several loops. “You think she’ll agree to teach me?”

“I think she has been watching you for a reason,” Tormund replied. “She is curious. Use that. Ask, and see what happens.”

***

Francis found Kerhi near the training grounds, as Tormund had suggested. She was working through forms with an axe, her movements fluid and precise. Francis watched for a moment, noting how she shifted her weight and controlled the weapon’s momentum.

“Are you going to stand there staring, or are you going to speak?” Kerhi asked without looking at him.

Francis moved closer, the unfinished axe resting on his shoulder. “I need to learn to use this. Tormund suggested you might be willing to teach me.”

Kerhi finished her form and turned to face him. Her blue eyes studied the axe, then Francis himself. “You made that?”

“With Tormund’s help. It still needs sharpening and final balance work.”

“Let me see it.” She held out her hand, and Francis passed her the axe. Kerhi tested its weight, made a few experimental swings. “It’s good work. Not perfect, but good. You have talent for smithing.”

“Thank you.”

“Why do you want to learn the axe?” Kerhi asked, handing the weapon back. “You fight with swords. I have seen you. You are good with them.”

“Because I’m here,” Francis said, motioning with his hands at the space around them. “If I’m going to be one of your people, I should know your weapons. And because…” He paused, considering. “Because every skill I learn might be the one that saves someone’s life.”

Kerhi’s lips tightened. It wasn’t a smile, but something close. “That is a good answer. Better than ‘I want to be stronger’ or ‘I want to kill more enemies.’”

“Those too,” Francis admitted. “But mostly the first thing.”

“Honest. I like that.” Kerhi picked up her axe again. “I will teach you. But you must understand, an axe is not a sword. You cannot use it the same way. They have a different balance, a different rhythm, and a different mindset.”

“I’m ready to learn.”

“Good. Then we start now.” She moved to the center of the training ground. “First lesson: stance. An axe carries its weight in the head, not down the length like a sword. It pulls when you swing and fights you when you try to stop. You need a base that can drive that momentum and haul it back. Show me how you stand when you fight.”

Francis fell into his combat stance, the one Phillip had drilled into him over countless hours and he’d built a foundation upon over thousands of deaths. Balanced on the balls of his feet, weight distributed evenly, ready to move in any direction.

“Good for swords,” Kerhi said. “Too light for axe. Feet wider. Lower center of gravity. Like this.” She demonstrated a solid and grounded stance. “Axe has more momentum. If you are too light on your feet, the weapon will control you instead of you controlling it.”

Francis adjusted his stance, trying to match hers. It felt strange, too planted, but he trusted her expertise.

“Better. Now, basic swing. Overhead, straight down.” She demonstrated her axe coming down in a clean arc. “Power comes from the whole body, not just the arms. See?”

Francis tried to copy the movement. His swing was a little off-balance, nothing like Kerhi’s fluid motion.

“Again,” Kerhi said. “Focus on hips. They start the motion. Your arms just guide the weapon.”

Francis swung again. Slightly better.

“Again.”

They worked for over an hour, Kerhi patiently correcting his form, showing him the basic strikes and blocks. By the end, Francis’s arms burned, and sweat soaked his furs despite the cold, but he was starting to feel the rhythm of the axe.

A notification appeared.

[ Axe Skill Acquired - 20 ]

Francis smiled despite his exhaustion. Progress.

“Enough for today,” Kerhi said, lowering her practice weapon. “You have a good foundation. Natural balance. It will be easier to teach you than some.”

“Thank you for taking the time.”

“You are welcome.” She studied him for a moment, her eyes narrowing. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course.”

“Why are you really here?” Kerhi asked. “Not just in Tules, but here. Learning our ways, working our forges, fighting our battles. You are a Southerner, even if you carry our mark. You could be safe in your kingdom, far from war. But instead, you are here, fighting against our enemy and learning to swing an axe. Why?”

Francis considered the question. He could give her the simple answer, the surface truth. But something about the way she asked, the genuine curiosity in her eyes, made him want to be honest.

Francis was quiet for a moment. The easy answer was Michael. It had always been Michael. But sitting in a camp that would forget him the moment he died, he realized that wasn’t the whole truth anymore, and maybe hadn’t been for a while.

“It started with my brother,” he said. “For a long time that was the only reason I needed. Just him.” He looked out at the warriors who would never remember this conversation. “But it’s grown past that. I’ve watched your people bleed and laugh around fires they’ll forget by morning. I’ve watched good people die in a war that’s going to swallow everything if no one stops it. And I’m the only one who carries all of it. Every death, every face, every loop.” He met her eyes. “So it can’t just be for Michael anymore. It has to be for all of it. For all of you, even if none of you will ever know I chose it.”

Kerhi’s brow furrowed slightly. “The only one who remembers what?”

Francis realized his mistake too late. He’d said too much, revealed something he hadn’t meant to. But backing away from it now would be worse than explaining.

“It’s complicated,” Francis said carefully. “And… probably sounds insane. But I promise you, everything I do, I do for good reasons.”

Kerhi was quiet for a few heartbeats. Then she nodded slowly. “I believe you. I do not understand, but I believe you.” She picked up her practice axe. “Come back tomorrow. We will train more. Maybe, when you are ready, you will explain this complicated thing to me.”

“Maybe,” Francis agreed.

“Until then, practice your forms. Get your body used to the weight of the axe.” She started to walk away, then paused. “And Francis? Thank you for being honest with me. Even if you cannot tell me everything.”

Francis watched her go, feeling the pain of wanting to say more. Kerhi was different from the others. She saw more, understood more, even without knowing about the loops. Even better, she was patient enough to wait for answers.

Maybe in a few more loops, I’ll tell her. See if she accepts it like Tormund did.

***

Three deaths later, Francis stood over four dead ursaloths, his new axe dripping with blood. The weapon felt better in his hands now, more natural. He’d died twice learning to use it properly in combat, but the skill was climbing steadily.

[ Axe Increased - 25 ]

Francis pulled power from his core, healing the gash across his ribs. The wound closed faster now, the flesh knitting together in seconds instead of minutes. It wasn’t instant, not true regeneration, but it was progress nonetheless.

He heard the alpha’s roar in the distance and smiled. He wasn’t going to fight it today. He had what he needed from this fight. It was time to retreat, regroup, and come back tomorrow.

As he jogged back toward camp, Francis thought about the pattern he’d established. Tell Tormund, work the forge, train with Kerhi, fight the ursaloths. Each loop, the same routine, but he was a little stronger, a little faster, a little closer to his goal.

His Life Core Channeling was at twenty-five. His Magic stat sat at twenty. His Blacksmithing was twenty-four, his Axe was twenty-five. That was real, measurable progress.

More than that, he had allies now. Tormund, who knew the truth, and Kerhi, who was starting to understand that Francis was more than he appeared to be. Both of them were helping him grow stronger in different ways.

The path ahead was still long. He knew he had hundreds of more deaths, maybe thousands. But Francis could see it now, the slow climb toward the power he needed.

Chapter 37

Four days into a new loop, and Francis had settled into the familiar pattern. Tormund was aware of the loops, accepting them with the same patience he showed when working with the metal under his hammer. Kerhi had been teaching him axe work, and her questions about his obsession were gentle but persistent. The ursaloths had died to his blades dozens of times across different loops, though the alpha remained an insurmountable obstacle if he wanted to live.

Francis was working at the forge, shaping a piece of steel into what would eventually become a short blade, when he noticed someone watching from the entrance.

Jarl Keara stood in the doorway, her blond hair braided in the intricate style favored by clan leaders.

“Jarl Keara.” Tormund greeted her with a respectful nod. “What brings you to my forge?”

“Curiosity,” she replied, her eyes fixed on Francis. “I have heard interesting things about the Southerner who took to our forges faster than any outsider has a right to, and who trains with the dedication of a man possessed. I wanted to see for myself.”

Francis set down his hammer and straightened, meeting her gaze. She studied him with the same intensity Kerhi did, but there was something different in the way she was staring.

“Francis Lancaster,” she said, making his name sound almost musical in her accent. “The one who somehow bears the mark of our gods. The one Glitvall himself has spoken of with respect.”

“I’m just trying to help,” Francis replied carefully. He’d learned across multiple loops that clan politics among the barbarians could be treacherous. Jarls competed for influence, for resources, for the favor of the warchief. Being caught in those games was something Francis had no interest in.

“Just trying to help,” Keara repeated, a slight smile playing at her lips. “How modest. Tell me, Francis Lancaster, what do you know of clan alliances?”

“Very little,” Francis admitted. “I’m still learning your ways.”

“Then let me educate you.” She moved closer, her presence commanding the space. “When someone of value appears in our lands, particularly someone blessed by the gods as you are, clans seek to align themselves with that person. To build relationships that benefit both parties.”

Francis glanced at Tormund, who had suddenly become very interested in his own work.

No help there.

“What kind of relationships?” Francis asked, though he suspected he knew where this was going, having avoided it before.

“Whatever kind serves both parties best.” Keara’s smile widened slightly. “My clan is strong, Francis. We have the best warriors, the finest weapons, and considerable influence with the clan leaders. An alliance with us would provide you protection, resources, and status. In return, we would benefit from your skills and from the favor the gods have shown you.”

“I appreciate the offer,” Francis said carefully, “but I’m not sure I’m in a position to make alliances right now. My focus is on training, on getting stronger.”

“All the more reason to accept,” Keara countered, her smile never fading. “We could provide you with the best training partners, access to weapons and armor you would not otherwise have. My clan’s shamans could teach you techniques that others keep secret.” She paused, letting her words sink in. “And of course, there are other benefits to such an alliance.”

The implication in her tone was clear. Francis had seen this tactic in previous loops, usually directed at warriors the jarl wanted to bind to her clan. Offers of status, of position, sometimes of more personal arrangements.

“You honor me with your offer, Jarl Keara,” Francis said, choosing his words with care. “But I must respectfully decline. My purpose here is specific, and I need to remain free to pursue it without obligations to any particular clan. I hope you understand.”

Keara’s expression didn’t change, but her eyes held… surprise, perhaps, that he’d refused her. “You are certain? I assure you, the benefits would be substantial.”

“I’m certain,” Francis replied. “Though I’m grateful for your interest.”

She studied him for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “Very well. However, please be aware that my offer remains open should you change your mind. A man of your talents should not stand alone when he could stand with powerful allies.” She turned to leave, then paused at the doorway. “Oh, and Francis? A gift, regardless of your decision. Consider it a token of respect.”

She gestured, and a younger barbarian who’d been waiting outside entered carrying a bundle wrapped in furs. He set it down near Francis’s workstation and left without a word.

“Quality steel from my clan’s personal stores,” Keara explained. “Even if you will not ally with us, the gods have marked you as one of our people. That deserves recognition.” With that, she departed, leaving Francis staring at the unexpected gift.

“That was interesting,” Tormund observed once she was gone.

“That was a test,” Francis replied. “She wanted to see if I could be bought.”

“And you passed by refusing.” Tormund examined the bundle of steel. “Though she will not give up easily. Jarl Keara is persistent when she wants something, and she clearly wants to bind you to her clan.”

“Let her try,” Francis said, returning to his work. “I don’t have time for clan politics.”

“Perhaps not,” Tormund agreed. “But be careful. Refusing a jarl can create complications. Not enemies, necessarily, but complications.”

Francis nodded. This was just another thing to navigate in future loops.

***

Kerhi noticed immediately when Francis arrived at the training grounds his unusual mood.

“You look troubled,” she observed, setting down her axe. “Something happened.”

“Jarl Keara visited the forge,” Francis admitted. “She made me an offer of alliance.”

Kerhi’s expression shifted, a hint of concern crossing her features. “And what did you tell her?”

“I declined. Politely, but firmly.”

“Good.” Kerhi’s response was immediate and certain. “Jarl Keara is ambitious. Too ambitious. She sees you as a tool to increase her influence with the warchief and the clan leaders, nothing more.”

“You don’t like her,” Francis observed.

“I do not trust her,” Kerhi corrected. “There is a difference. She is a capable leader, a strong warrior, and good to her people. She plays games of power, and those games often hurt those caught in them.” She picked up her weapon again. “You were wise to refuse.”

“She gave me a gift anyway,” Francis said. “Quality steel from her clan’s stores.”

“Of course she did.” Kerhi’s tone was dry when she snorted. “Now you are in her debt, whether you accepted her alliance or not. That is how she operates. Small gifts now, larger ones later, until you owe her enough that refusing becomes difficult.”

Francis felt a flash of frustration. He’d thought he was navigating the situation well, but apparently, he’d still been outmaneuvered. “What should I do?”

“Use the steel,” Kerhi advised. “Do not feel bound by it, but do not insult her by refusing her gift either. If owing her sits poorly with you, repay her in kind. Give her the carcasses of the beasts you fell with the blade you forge from her steel. That evens the scales between you and leaves no debt she can twist into an alliance. Just remain firm in refusing the alliance itself. Eventually she will see you cannot be moved, and look elsewhere.” She gestured for Francis to take his stance. “Now, enough talk of clan politics. Show me what you have learned.”

They trained for the next two hours, Kerhi pushing Francis harder than usual. It felt almost like she was trying to distract him, or perhaps work out her own frustration about Keara’s interference. Either way, Francis welcomed the intensity.

His axe work had improved significantly over the past loops. The weapon felt less foreign in his hands now, more like an extension of his body. He still preferred his swords for actual combat, but having axe skills gave him options, flexibility.

A notification appeared as Kerhi’s practice weapon slammed against his in a particularly demanding exchange.

[ Axe Increased - 31 ]

“Better,” Kerhi approved, stepping back. “Much better. You are starting to think like an axe fighter, not just a sword fighter using a different weapon.”

“Thanks to your teaching,” Francis said, breathing hard.

“Thanks to your willingness to learn.” She set down her weapon and looked at him thoughtfully. “Francis, about Jarl Keara. She will not give up easily. Be prepared for more offers, more gifts, more pressure. And be careful. Some jarls do not take rejection well.”

“I’ll be careful,” Francis promised. “And thank you. For the warning and for caring enough to give it.”

Something softened in Kerhi’s expression. “You are strange, Francis Lancaster. Full of secrets and driven by obsessions I do not understand. But you are also honorable. That is rare enough to be worth protecting.”

***

Francis killed the third ursaloth and immediately turned to run. He didn’t wait to see if more were coming. He didn’t push for a fourth kill. Three was the limit he’d learned through painful experience.

The alpha’s roar echoed across the rocky terrain, closer than he’d expected. Francis’s Battle Sense screamed warning, and he poured more speed into his retreat. His Life Core Channeling flooded power through his threads, enhancing his legs, pushing him faster than normal human limits.

He heard the massive beast pursuing, its heavy footfalls shaking the ground. The alpha was fast for something so large, faster than the smaller pack members, and it had the intelligence to cut off his escape route straight to the camp.

Francis vaulted over a frozen boulder, changed direction sharply, and sprinted toward the frozen treeline to the east. The alpha couldn’t follow as easily through the trees off to the side of the frozen battlefield. It was too big, too bulky. If he could just reach the trees before it caught him.

A notification appeared mid-sprint.

[ Life Core Channeling Increased - 29 ]

The power boost was immediate. Francis felt his control over the threads tighten, his ability to pull from his core improve. He pushed harder, legs burning with enhanced effort, and dove into the frozen forest with the alpha’s snapping jaws just feet behind him.

The beast roared in frustration as Francis disappeared into the trees, its massive form unable to pursue effectively through the frozen pines. Francis didn’t stop running until he’d put significant distance between himself and the territory, only then allowing himself to slow and check his wounds.

He had minor cuts and bruises from the fight with the three smaller ursaloths. None of them were serious. He pulled power from his core and began healing, watching the gashes close faster than they had even a few loops ago.

Still not fast enough for the real regeneration I need. Yet I’m getting closer… One loop at a time.

As Francis made his way back to camp, he thought about the day. Being over two hundred deaths since acquiring the Life Core Channeling skill had been interesting. Each loop was another to learn from. Another chance to get stronger.

He’d keep refusing Keara’s advances and keep training with Kerhi. Francis would always keep working the forge with Tormund, and he’d keep dying to the ursaloths until he was strong enough to face the alpha and win.

Chapter 38

The sound of the morning bell rang.

“It’s earlier than usual,” Michael grunted as he sat up. “What gives?”

Francis stared at the ceiling, feeling the phantom pain of the alpha’s claws that had torn through his chest in the previous loop. He’d miscalculated again, thought he could squeeze in a fourth kill before retreating. The price of greed was always the same.

Three… Always three. Don’t get greedy.

“Just another day, my favorite brother.” Francis sat up and began dressing. The routine was so ingrained now that his hands moved without conscious thought.

***

Six days into this loop. Francis had found a rhythm that worked, a pattern that maximized his progress without wasting time on variables he couldn’t control.

Tormund was already at work, shaping what looked like an axe head when Francis entered. The blacksmith glanced up and nodded in greeting, his scarred hands never pausing in their steady rhythm.

“You are early again,” Tormund observed. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Thinking about yesterday’s hunt,” Francis said, moving to the second anvil. It was easier than explaining the truth again. “Almost made a mistake and pushed too hard.”

“What kind of mistake?”

“I got greedy. Thought I could take four ursaloths instead of three.” Francis selected a piece of steel and began heating it. “The alpha is too fast. By the time I finish the fourth kill, it’s already there, cutting off my escape routes.”

“So you know your limit,” Tormund said. “That is good. Many warriors die because they do not know when to stop pushing. You at least have learned when enough is enough.”

“I’ve had plenty of practice learning that lesson,” Francis replied, the bitter truth of it hidden behind a wry smile. Every death that didn’t teach him something was wasted, and he’d wasted too many already.

They worked in silence for a while, the rhythm of hammer on steel filling the forge. Francis found himself thinking about the path ahead, about how many more loops it would take before he could face the alpha and not die. His Life Core Channeling was at twenty-nine, his Magic stat at twenty-two. Still not enough for true regeneration, but closer than he’d been.

The work was meditative in its own way. Heat the steel, strike it true, reheat, strike again. Each impact shaped the metal, refined it, made it stronger. Not unlike the loops themselves, Francis thought. Each death shaped him, refined him, made him stronger for the next attempt.

“Tell me about your brother,” Tormund said after a while, breaking the comfortable quiet. “This Michael you fight so hard to save. What is he like?”

Francis was quiet for a moment, the hammer slowing. The easy answer was the one he always gave. Skinny. Jokes too much. Hopeless with a blade. But he’d said all that before, to others and to himself, and it had never come close to the truth of his brother.

“There was a loop I spent an hour trying to teach him a single parry,” he said, resuming his hammering. “He failed it forty times, laughing harder with every miss, until I was laughing too and forgot for a moment that I’d watched him die more ways than I care to recall. That’s what he does. He makes the unbearable bearable. He sees good in people I gave up on years ago, believes things will work out even when every scrap of sense says otherwise. It drives me mad.” He plunged the work into the quenching barrel and watched the steam rise.  “And it’s the only reason I’m still someone worth saving.”

“But it is worth protecting,” Tormund finished.

“Yes.” Francis pulled the metal from its bath, checked it and then plunged it again into the quenching barrel. “He’s the reason I keep going. Every loop, every death, it’s all to make sure he survives. That he gets to keep being optimistic and annoying and alive.”

He pulled the steel from the water, examining it for flaws. “And somehow, despite being completely useless in a fight, he has this way with women that makes absolutely no sense. They find him… Charming. Him. The scrawny kid who can barely hold a sword without tripping over his own feet.”

Tormund’s laughter rumbled through the forge. “Ah, so there is jealousy mixed in with the brotherly concern?”

“Not jealousy,” Francis protested, though he felt his ears getting warm. “Call it confusion. I don’t understand it. I train, I’m stronger, I’m more capable in every measurable way, but he’s the one they gravitate toward.”

“Because strength is not everything,” Tormund said. “Your brother understands something you are still learning. That people want connection, not capability. They want someone who makes them feel safe through presence, not just through power. There are many who will trade themselves for position or gold, but those are not ones you should focus on.”

Francis set down his hammer, considering that. “He does make people feel safe. Even when he shouldn’t be able to. I mean he’s the one who needs protecting.”

“That is a gift,” Tormund said. “Different from yours, but equally valuable. You protect him with your strength. He protects you with his humanity.”

The words struck deeper than Francis expected. He thought of the last stretch of loops, when the deaths had blurred into a gray sameness and he’d caught himself looking at people as pieces to be moved rather than lives. It had been Michael who pulled him out of it, not with wisdom, but with some idiotic joke over breakfast that had him laughing before he remembered he wasn’t supposed to feel much of anything anymore. That was the gift. Every time the loops tried to grind the person out of him, Michael reminded him there was still a person there to save.

“That is a good reason,” Tormund said quietly, returning to his own work. “Better than revenge, glory, or any of the things that usually drive warriors. You fight for love. That gives strength that other motivations cannot.”

Tormund was right. Love was what kept him going through the grinding repetition of the loops. Love for Michael, yes, but also for the people he’d come to care about across the timelines. Tormund himself, Kerhi, and even the barbarians who died in battles he was trying to prevent.

They continued working, and Francis felt the familiar pull of skill progression, the way his hands moved more confidently now, reading the metal’s needs almost instinctively. He was no longer just following Tormund’s instructions. He was understanding the deeper principles, the why behind each technique.

A notification appeared as Francis completed the piece he’d been working on.

[Blacksmithing Increased - 30]

“Thirty now,” Francis said, feeling a surge of satisfaction. The skill was climbing steadily, each loop adding incremental progress that he carried forward.

“Good milestone,” Tormund approved, examining Francis’s work with a critical eye. “You are becoming a true craftsman, not just someone who knows techniques. There is a difference.”

“What do you mean?”

“A craftsman understands the why, not just the how.” Tormund turned the piece over in his scarred hands, testing its balance. “You are starting to read the metal, to feel when it is ready, to know what it needs. That cannot be taught. It must be earned through practice and patience.”

Francis looked at the piece he’d made, seeing what Tormund meant. It wasn’t just technically correct anymore. There was something more to it, a quality that came from understanding rather than just following steps. The metal had told him when it needed more heat, when it was ready for the quenching, and when to stop hammering. He’d listened, and the result showed it.

“Thank you,” Francis said, meaning it more than Tormund could know. “I appreciate you teaching me. For accepting the truth about the loops and for being someone I can talk to without pretending.”

“You are welcome,” Tormund replied. “And thank you for trusting me with your burden. It is a heavy thing to carry alone.”

The admission surprised Francis. He’d never thought of it as trust before, only necessity. He told Tormund because the weight was crushing him, because he had to tell someone. But Tormund didn’t see himself as a tool Francis used. He saw himself as someone Francis had chosen. The difference was small, and it changed everything, and Francis wasn’t sure what to do with the warmth it left behind.

They continued working until the afternoon sun began its descent. The forge had become a sanctuary of sorts, a place where he could focus on creation instead of destruction, where progress was measured in skill points rather than body counts.

***

Kerhi was waiting at the training grounds when Francis arrived. She’d set up a series of practice dummies, each one marked with colored paint in different spots.

“Something different today,” she explained as Francis approached. “You have learned basic forms and strikes. Now we work on targeting. An axe is not like a sword. You cannot thrust or stab easily. Every swing must be placed precisely, to hit where you intend.”

She gestured to the dummies, each one painted with colored circles representing vital points. “Red is kill shots. Neck, skull, major arteries. Yellow is disabling strikes. Joints, limbs, hands. Green is a distraction hit. Places that hurt but do not stop the enemy. Show me you can hit what you aim for.”

Francis hefted his practice axe and approached the first dummy. He adjusted his stance, clearing his mind of analysis and calculation. This time when he swung, his body knew what to do. The axe caught the red circle cleanly, the satisfying thunk of impact telling him he’d hit his mark.

“Now the next one. Try a different angle, a different height. Adjust.”

They worked through all the dummies, Kerhi correcting Francis’s form and aim with each strike. She was relentless but never harsh, pointing out errors with the kind of precision that came from genuine expertise. By the time they finished the circuit once, Francis could feel the difference in his swings, the way his body was internalizing the distances and angles.

“Again,” Kerhi said. “This time faster. In a real fight, you do not have time to think about each strike. It must be instinct.”

Francis ran through the circuit again, this time pushing for speed while maintaining accuracy. Some strikes hit perfectly, others were close but not quite right. He could feel himself improving with each pass, his body learning the distance and timing required. The axe was becoming an extension of his arm, the weight and balance so familiar now that adjusting for different targets felt natural.

A notification appeared after the third complete circuit.

[Axe Increased - 33]

“Good progress,” Kerhi approved, watching Francis complete the final strike. “Your targeting is improving. Not perfect yet, but better. In a few more sessions, you will become dangerous with that weapon.”

Francis lowered the axe, his breathing elevated but steady. The exertion was significant but manageable, his enhanced Body stat making what would have exhausted him months ago feel merely challenging now. “Thank you. This is exactly the kind of training I needed.”

“You are welcome.” Kerhi gestured for him to sit on a nearby bench, joining him after a moment. “Can I ask you something personal?”

“Of course.”

“This obsession of yours. This drive to become stronger. You said it was to protect people you care about. But…” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “But you push yourself like someone who has already failed. Like you are trying to atone for something. What happened to you, Francis?”

Francis was quiet for a long moment. He didn’t want to go down this path again, not yet. The loops were his burden to carry, his secret to keep. But he could give her something real, something that touched on the truth without revealing it.

“I’ve watched people die,” he said quietly. “People I cared about. People I should have been strong enough to save. Every time it happens, I realize I wasn’t prepared enough, wasn’t skilled enough, or wasn’t fast enough.” He met her eyes, letting her see the weight he carried. “So I train. I push myself. Because the next time someone I love is in danger, I want to be ready. I want to be enough.”

Kerhi’s expression softened with understanding. “That is a heavy burden to carry. This need to save everyone, to be strong enough for all challenges. It will break you if you let it.”

“Maybe,” Francis admitted. “But what’s the alternative? Give up? Accept that people will die and there’s nothing I can do about it?”

“The alternative is balance,” Kerhi said, her voice gentle but firm. “You can be strong without destroying yourself in the process. You can protect others without forgetting to protect yourself.” She placed a hand on his shoulder, the gesture surprisingly gentle from someone so fierce. “I see your determination, Francis. It is admirable. But I also see the cost it is taking on you. The haunted look in your eyes. The way you push past exhaustion into something darker.”

Francis wanted to tell her she was wrong, that he was fine, that he could handle it. But the truth was, she’d seen something real. Something he’d been trying to ignore. The loops were taking their toll, wearing him down in ways that went beyond physical exhaustion.

“I don’t know how to stop,” Francis admitted, the words coming unbidden. “Every time I rest, every moment I’m not training or fighting or improving, it feels like I’m failing. Like I’m wasting time I don’t have.”

“That is why you need people,” Kerhi said. “To remind you that you are a person, not a weapon. Rest is not failure, and taking care of yourself makes you stronger, not weaker.” She squeezed his shoulder once before letting go. “You do not have to carry this burden alone, Francis. Whether you believe it or not.”

“Thank you,” he said. “For caring. For saying what I needed to hear, even if I don’t know how to follow that advice yet.”

“You will learn,” Kerhi said with certainty. “You are smart, Francis. Stubborn, but smart. Eventually, you will understand that strength comes from many places, not just endless training.”

She stood and picked up her practice axe again. “Now, one more time through the circuit. Show me what you have learned today.”

Francis rose and moved back to the first dummy, his body already anticipating the movements. This time through, every strike landed true, each one hitting the colored circles with precision that would have been impossible weeks ago. Kerhi watched in silence, and when he finished, she nodded with something that looked like pride.

“Good,” she said simply. “Very good.”

***

Francis killed the first ursaloth with a precise strike to the neck, exactly where Kerhi had trained him to aim. The beast fell, dead before it hit the ground. The second came at him from the side, and Francis adjusted his stance automatically, his axe catching it mid-leap and redirecting its momentum into a devastating counterstrike.

Two down. One more.

The third Ursaloth was wary, having watched its pack members fall. It circled Francis, looking for an opening, testing his defenses with feints and false charges. Francis let it, conserving his energy, watching for the moment when it would commit to a real attack.

Then the beast’s muscles tensed, its weight shifted forward, and Francis knew the lunge was coming. His axe was already moving when the ursaloth leaped, his blade coming down in a killing strike that split the creature’s skull.

[ Power Strike ]

Three dead in less than five minutes.

Francis didn’t wait to admire his work. He turned and ran, heading for the camp before the alpha could arrive. He could hear the massive beast’s roar in the distance, closer than he liked, and pushed more power through his Life Core threads to enhance his speed.

His legs burned with enhanced effort as he sprinted across the icy terrain. Behind him, the alpha’s roar grew louder, more furious.

Only when Francis had put significant ground between himself and the ursaloth territory did he slow to a walk. His breathing was elevated but controlled. His body was tired from the enhanced running, yet still functional. He was alive and more importantly, victorious in this training moment. He’d learned something valuable from the hunt.

He checked his wounds as he walked. Minor cuts from the fights, nothing serious. Nothing that would slow him down. He pulled power from his Life Core and began healing, watching the injuries close over the next several minutes. Not as fast as he wanted, but faster than before.

A notification appeared.

[ Life Core Channeling Increased - 30 ]

Francis smiled. Thirty. Another milestone reached. The grind was paying off, slowly but steadily. His Magic stat was still at twenty-two, but that would climb eventually. Everything would keep rising if he refused to give up.

As Francis made his way back to camp, he thought about Kerhi’s words. About balance and rest, and not destroying himself. Part of him knew she was right. He was pushing too hard, burning himself out in pursuit of strength he might never fully achieve.

But the other part, the part that remembered watching Michael die. That could recall all the failures across hundreds of loops. That part couldn’t stop. It wouldn’t stop because the alternative was unacceptable.

Chapter 39

Another loop had started, and he was weeks into it.

The training grounds were already occupied when Francis arrived. Three barbarian warriors stood in the center of the practice area, each one armed with different weapons. Francis recognized Vornak with his massive hammer, Harald with a pair of hand axes, and a third warrior he’d seen around camp but hadn’t spoken with yet.

“Southerner,” Vornak called out when he spotted Francis. “You came early. Good. That means more time to beat some sense into you.”

“Or for me to surprise you again,” Francis replied, moving to join them in the circle.

Harald laughed at that. “Surprise us? You mean like when you face-planted in the snow yesterday after Vornak tapped you with his hammer?”

“That wasn’t a tap,” Francis protested, though he was grinning despite himself. “That was attempted murder.”

“If I had attempted murder, you would know it,” Vornak said seriously, though Francis caught the hint of amusement in the big man’s eyes. “That was teaching. There is a difference.”

The third warrior stepped forward, a woman with braided dark hair and a scar that ran from her temple to her jaw. “I am Astrid,” she said, her voice carrying the same accent as the others but with a harder edge to it. “Vornak says you are learning the axe. Show me.”

Francis hefted his practice weapon, feeling the familiar weight of it in his hands. Over the past weeks and dozens of deaths, he’d been working with Harald specifically on axe techniques.

“What do you want to see?” Francis asked.

“Everything,” Astrid replied. “Show me your forms, your strikes, your footwork. Show me what the Southerner has learned from our warriors.”

Francis began moving through the patterns Kerhi and Harald had drilled into him. Diagonal cuts and horizontal swings at varying heights followed by basic overhead strikes. He demonstrated the way to shift his weight to generate more power, the way to recover quickly after a heavy swing, and the way to maintain balance even when fully committed to an attack.

Astrid watched in silence, her expression unreadable. When Francis finished the circuit and lowered his axe, she nodded once.

“Not terrible,” she said, which from a barbarian warrior was apparently high praise. “Your foundation is solid, but you fight like someone who learned swordplay first. You are too cautious with your recovery, too worried about being open for a counterattack.”

“Because I am open for a counterattack,” Francis said. “Every time I commit to a heavy swing, there’s a window where I can’t defend properly.”

“Yes,” Astrid agreed. “And that is why the axe teaches you to make your attacks count. If you swing and miss, you deserve to be punished. If you swing and connect, your opponent should not have the opportunity to counter.” She picked up a practice axe and stepped into the circle with him. “Again. This time, I will show you what I mean.”

They began slowly, Astrid demonstrating the difference between defensive axe work and aggressive commitment. She showed Francis how to read an opponent’s stance, how to identify the moment when they were committed to their own attack and couldn’t properly defend. She taught him to be patient, to wait for that opening rather than creating his own through speed and precision the way he would with a sword.

“The axe is not subtle,” she explained after Francis landed a particularly solid strike on her practice shield. “The axe is honest. It tells your opponent exactly what you intend to do, and then it does that thing with enough force that their knowledge doesn’t matter.”

They worked through the morning, the other warriors occasionally offering advice or stepping in to spar with Francis themselves. Vornak’s style was characterized by overwhelming power, as he used his hammer to create openings through sheer force. Harald favored a dual-axes approach, a whirlwind strategy that kept opponents constantly off-balance. Each warrior had something different to teach, and Francis absorbed it all with the desperate focus of someone who knew his life depended on mastering these lessons.

A notification appeared after a particularly brutal exchange with Vornak.

[Axe Increased - 35]

Francis grinned despite the ache in his arms from blocking the big man’s strikes. The skill was climbing steadily, each session pushing him closer to proficiency. He could feel the difference in how the weapon moved now, how his body anticipated the weight distribution and adjusted automatically.

“You smile when you get hurt,” Vornak observed, lowering his hammer. “That is either bravery or madness. I have not yet decided which.”

“Maybe both,” Francis admitted, rolling his shoulder to work out the soreness.

“Then you will fit well here,” the big warrior said approvingly. “Madness and bravery are often the same thing in the north.”

They continued training until the afternoon sun began its descent. Francis’s arms trembled from exhaustion, his breathing was heavy despite his enhanced physical stats, and sweat soaked through his furs despite the cold. But he felt good. Every exchange taught him something new, every correction refined his understanding of the weapon.

“Enough for today,” Astrid finally called, lowering her practice axe. “You have done well, Southerner. Your dedication is clear, even if your technique still needs work.”

“High praise indeed,” Harald said with a grin. “Astrid rarely admits when someone has potential.”

“I said he has dedication, not potential,” Astrid corrected, though there was a hint of amusement in her voice. “Potential requires talent. Dedication only requires stubbornness.”

“I’ll take what I can get,” Francis said, setting down his practice weapon and flexing his tired hands.

As the warriors began packing up their gear and heading back toward the main camp, Francis noticed Kerhi approaching from the direction of the forge. She moved with that same predatory grace he’d first noticed during their fight, every step deliberate and controlled.

“The warriors say you train hard,” she said when she reached him. “That you push yourself beyond what most would endure.”

“I have my reasons,” Francis replied carefully, not sure where this conversation was going. “Maybe I just want to be prepared,” he said, keeping his voice neutral.

“Prepared for what?” Kerhi pressed. “You are far from your kingdom, training with weapons your people do not fight with, pushing yourself past exhaustion every day. What are you so afraid of failing to protect?”

Francis was saved from having to answer by Tormund’s arrival. The blacksmith approached from the forge, his expression curious as he glanced between Francis and Kerhi.

“Am I interrupting something?” Tormund asked.

“No,” Francis said quickly, perhaps too quickly, based on the knowing look Tormund gave him. “Kerhi was just asking about my training.”

“Ah,” Tormund said, and Francis could hear volumes in that single syllable. “Well, when you are finished with your conversation, the forge could use some attention. I have a new technique I want to show you.”

“I’ll be there soon,” Francis promised.

Tormund nodded and headed back toward the forge, leaving Francis alone with Kerhi once more. The warrior woman watched him for a long moment, and Francis had the uncomfortable feeling that she was weighing something in her mind.

“Tomorrow,” she finally said. “I will join your training. If you truly wish to learn the axe, then I will teach you what I know. But in return, I want answers to my questions.”

“What questions?” Francis asked warily.

“The ones you keep avoiding,” Kerhi replied. “The ones about why you are really here, and what you are running from.” She turned to leave, then paused and looked back over her shoulder. “Or perhaps what you are running toward. I have not yet decided which.”

She walked away before Francis could respond, leaving him standing in the training grounds with far more to think about than he’d anticipated. Kerhi was perceptive in ways that made her dangerous, not to his body but to his secrets. Every conversation with her felt like navigating a field of hidden traps, never quite sure when he’d step wrong and reveal too much.

But if she could teach him more about the axe, if her training could push his skills higher and give him a better chance against the ursaloths, then the risk might be worth it.

Francis sighed and headed toward the forge, where Tormund was waiting. At least there, the conversations were about metalwork and technique, not uncomfortable questions about his motivations and fears.

***

The forge was warm and familiar, a stark contrast to the cold training grounds. Tormund was already at work when Francis entered, shaping what looked like a spearhead.

“She troubles you,” Tormund observed without looking up from his work.

“Kerhi asks too many questions,” Francis admitted, moving to his usual anvil and selecting a piece of steel to work on.

“Because she is smart,” Tormund said. “And because she sees that you are different from other Southerners who come here. Most who visit Tules are either merchants seeking trade or warriors after glory. You are neither of those things.”

“What am I then?” Francis asked, genuinely curious what the blacksmith had observed.

Tormund was quiet for a moment, the only sound the steady ring of hammer on steel. When he finally spoke, his voice was thoughtful.

“You are someone who has seen too much for your age,” he said. “Someone who carries weight that should not yet be yours to bear. But you do not complain about it. You simply work, train, and prepare for whatever is coming.”

Francis felt a pain at the truth and accuracy of Tormund’s observation. Others knew about the loops, Glitvall and Greythorn among them, but they saw strategy and survival. Tormund saw the man underneath, and understood the weight the loops laid on him in a way the leaders never had.

“Is that admirable or foolish?” Francis asked, heating his steel in the forge.

“Both, probably,” Tormund replied with a slight smile. “Most admirable things are also foolish when examined closely. True wisdom would be to lay down such burdens, to let someone else carry them. But that is not who you are.”

They worked in silence after that, the familiar rhythm of forge work providing a kind of meditation. Francis found himself thinking about Kerhi’s words, about her observation that he trained like someone who had already failed. She was right, of course. Every death was a failure, every loop a chance to correct mistakes and prevent tragedies he’d already witnessed.

A notification appeared as Francis completed a particularly difficult piece.

[ Blacksmithing Increased - 32 ]

The skill was climbing more slowly now than it had in the beginning, each level requiring more practice and refinement. But that was fine. Progress was progress, no matter how incremental.

“That is good work,” Tormund said, examining the piece Francis had just finished. “You are starting to understand the metal, to feel what it needs rather than just following the steps. That is the difference between a craftsman and someone who merely knows the technique.”

“You’ve said that before in other loops,” Francis noted.

“Because  it is worth repeating,” Tormund replied. “Many warriors can swing a sword or fire an arrow. Far fewer truly understand the weapon they wield. The same is true of smithing. Anyone can heat metal and strike it. Only the best can make it sing.”

Francis looked at the piece he’d created, seeing what Tormund meant. There was a quality to it that went beyond mere competence, a subtle rightness that came from understanding rather than just executing steps.

They continued working until the evening meal, when the sounds of the camp gathering for food drifted through the forge’s walls. Francis set down his hammer, his arms and back aching pleasantly from the day’s work.

“Tomorrow, Kerhi will join my training,” Francis said as they banked the forge fires.

Tormund glanced at him, his expression knowing. “And you are worried about what she will ask you.”

“She sees too much,” Francis admitted.

“Then perhaps you should tell her the truth,” Tormund suggested.

Francis shook his head. “I can’t. Not yet. Maybe not ever again. The pain of sharing is hard.”

“Then you will have to decide how much truth you can give her without revealing everything,” Tormund said. “Kerhi is not someone who accepts half-answers easily. She will push until she understands, or until you convince her that some questions should not be asked. This will come every loop.”

“Any advice on how to do that?” Francis asked.

Tormund smiled. “You could try being less interesting. Stop training so obsessively, stop pushing yourself so hard, stop being mysterious and driven. Become ordinary, and she will lose interest.”

“That’s not going to happen,” Francis said.

“I know,” Tormund replied. “Which is why I suspect this will continue to be a problem for you. But that is not necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes the people who challenge us most are the ones who help us grow.”

Francis thought about that as he left the forge and headed toward the main hall for dinner. Kerhi challenged him, pushed him to examine his motivations and methods in ways that were uncomfortable but necessary. Maybe that was exactly what he needed, even if it scared him.

The evening meal was loud and boisterous, barbarians sharing stories and jokes over plates of roasted meat and root vegetables. Francis found himself sitting with some of the warriors he’d trained with earlier, listening to their tales of past hunts and battles.

“Tomorrow,” Vornak said between bites of food, “we hunt ursaloths again. Three packs are going out. You should come, Southerner. Put that axe training to use.”

Francis felt his pulse quicken at the suggestion.

“I’ll be there,” Francis said.

“Good,” Vornak rumbled. “We will see if you fight as well as you train.”

The conversation shifted to other topics, but Francis’s mind was already on the next day. Training with Kerhi in the morning, then hunting ursaloths in the afternoon. Another day of pushing himself to the limit, another set of opportunities to improve.

He glanced across the hall and saw Kerhi sitting with a group of other warriors. Her face was animated as she told a story that had them all laughing. She caught his eye for a moment, and something passed between them. Whatever it was, it made Francis both nervous and excited for what tomorrow would bring.

Chapter 40

Another death had come at the hands of the alpha. After three weeks of training in Tules he took the chance to see if he could kill it without dying. The answer was still no.

Francis was leaving the forge when Kerhi intercepted him. She didn’t speak, just gestured for him to follow, and the intensity in her expression told him this wasn’t optional. They walked in silence through the camp until they reached a quiet spot near the edge of the settlement, far enough from curious ears.

“What is this bond I sense between us?” Kerhi asked, turning to face him directly. Her blue eyes held something Francis couldn’t quite name. “Every time I see you looking at me, I can feel it. Like you know me in a way you shouldn’t, like we’ve shared something I can’t remember.”

This was the moment he’d been dreading and anticipating in equal measure. He could lie, deflect, or make some excuse. But looking at Kerhi’s face, seeing the genuine confusion there, he found he didn’t want to.

“Because we have,” Francis said quietly. “Shared something, I mean. Multiple times. You just don’t remember.”

Kerhi’s hand moved to the axe at her hip, an instinctive action. “Explain what you mean.”

Francis took a breath and began. He told her about the loops, about dying and resetting, about living the same spans of time over and over. He explained how he’d met her dozens of times, how they’d trained together, fought together, how she’d become someone he trusted in timelines she couldn’t remember.

“I know things about you,” Francis continued, watching her reaction carefully. “About your fighting style, about the way you think, about what drives you. Not because I’ve manipulated you or spied on you, but because you’ve chosen to share those things with me. Multiple times. Each time we meet, we start over, and each time you eventually decide I’m worth trusting.”

Kerhi was quiet for a while, her jaw working as she processed what he’d said. “This is madness,” she finally said, though her tone suggested she didn’t entirely disbelieve him.

“It is,” Francis agreed. “But it’s also true.”

“And these conversations we’ve had, this trust you claim I’ve given you…” Kerhi’s eyes narrowed. “Have you taken advantage of that knowledge? Used what I’ve told you to manipulate me in these loops ?”

Francis shook his head firmly. “No. I didn’t want to do such a thing. It would be wrong.” He met her gaze directly. “We both know what it is to stand apart. You carry no clan name and no father’s, raised by everyone and belonging to no one. A lone wolf, by your own reckoning. And at first glance, I’m a Southerner who’ll always be the enemy’s kind here, no matter how many of their battles I bleed in. I won’t do to you what the world has already done to us both.”

Kerhi studied him for several moments, and Francis could see her weighing his words, testing them against what she’d observed. Finally, something in her expression shifted, not quite acceptance but perhaps understanding.

“I believe you,” she said slowly. “Or at least, I believe that you believe what you’re saying. And I can feel something between us, something I can’t explain.” She rolled her shoulders, a gesture Francis had learned meant she was making a decision. “So prove it to me. Show me you can fight the way you claim you’ve learned to fight.”

“How?”

A fierce grin spread across Kerhi’s face. “We hunt. Together. And we don’t hold back.”

***

An hour later, Francis found himself standing at the edge of ursaloth territory with Kerhi beside him. She’d changed into her battle gear, the spiked armor he remembered from their first fight, leather wrappings with metal points on her fists, forearms, knees, and boots. She looked like a weapon given human form, beautiful and terrifying in equal measure.

“The packs usually hunt in groups of six,” Francis said, checking his axes. He’d switched from swords for this hunt, wanting to match Kerhi’s style. “Two of us against ursaloths is suicide by normal standards.”

“Good thing we’re not normal,” Kerhi replied, her grin widening. “I want to see what you can really do, Southerner. No holding back, no playing it safe. We fight until we can’t fight anymore.”

How many loops had it been since he’d fought alongside someone who truly understood what he was capable of? Who didn’t need him to hide or pretend to be weaker than he was?

“Let’s go,” he said.

They moved into the territory together, and it didn’t take long for the ursaloths to find them. Two of the massive creatures emerged from behind ice formations, their white fur rippling in the wind. These weren’t the alpha or its guards, just regular pack members, but they were still deadly.

“Left one’s mine,” Kerhi called out, already moving.

Francis took the right, his axes coming up as the ursaloth charged. The beast was fast, but Francis had fought these creatures hundreds of times. He knew their patterns, their tells, the way they favored their right side on opening attacks.

[ Quick Attack ]

[ Power Strike ]

Both axes bit into the ursaloth’s shoulder, drawing first blood. The creature roared and swung its massive claws, but Francis was already moving, rolling beneath the strike and coming up behind it. His axes found the back of its leg, hamstringing it, and the ursaloth stumbled.

A glance toward Kerhi showed her fighting with a savage joy Francis had rarely seen. She wasn’t just fighting the ursaloth, she was dancing with it. Kerhi was weaving between its strikes and landing devastating counters. Her spiked fists found vulnerable points with brutal precision, and each impact drew a roar from the creature.

Francis finished his opponent with a slash to the throat, then immediately moved to help Kerhi, but she didn’t need it. As Francis approached, she ducked under the ursaloth’s swing, drove her spiked knee into its stomach, and followed with an uppercut that snapped the creature’s head back. It collapsed, and Kerhi stood over it, breathing hard and grinning like a maniac.

“More,” she said.

Three more ursaloths arrived, drawn by the sounds of battle. These were more cautious, circling the two fighters and looking for openings. Francis and Kerhi moved instinctively into a back-to-back position, covering each other’s blind spots.

“On your left,” Francis called out, sensing movement through his enhanced Perception.

“I see it,” Kerhi replied. “The one behind you is preparing to charge.”

The ursaloths attacked simultaneously, trying to overwhelm them with coordinated strikes. Francis met his opponent’s charge head-on, using [Iron Wall]  to absorb the initial impact. The force of the collision would have shattered a normal person’s bones, but Francis’s defensive skills turned it into something manageable.

[ Warrior’s Resolve ]

The damage he’d taken fed power back into his body, making him faster and stronger. With the added power his core provided, Francis pressed the attack, his axes moving in patterns he’d refined over hundreds of deaths. The ursaloth tried to defend, but Francis was relentless, each strike building on the last until the creature’s guard crumbled.

Behind him, he heard Kerhi roar, not in pain but in exultation. She was in a state of berserker rage, her movements becoming increasingly aggressive and powerful. Francis risked a glance back and saw her tear into her opponent, her spiked fists leaving bloody trails across its white fur.

The third ursaloth tried to take advantage of Francis’s divided attention, lunging at him from the side. Francis saw it coming through his Battle Sense and twisted, bringing his axes up to intercept. The impact jarred his arms, but he held firm.

[ Riposte ]

The defensive move flowed seamlessly into a counter, his axe finding the gap in the ursaloth’s natural armor. The creature howled and staggered back, giving Francis the opening he needed to finish it.

“Behind you!” Francis shouted to Kerhi.

She was so lost in her battle fury that she didn’t react fast enough. The second ursaloth had joined her fight. It swung its massive paw toward her head, a blow that would crush her skull if it connected.

Francis moved without thinking, throwing himself between Kerhi and the strike. The ursaloth’s claws caught him across the chest, tearing through his armor and into his flesh. Pain erupted through him, but Warrior’s Resolve converted it into more power, and his Life Core was already working to heal the damage.

“Watch yourself!” Francis growled, finishing the ursaloth with a brutal overhead strike that split its skull.

Kerhi blinked, some of the battle fury fading from her eyes as she registered what had just happened. “You—”

“Later,” Francis interrupted. “More coming.”

They finished off the pair they had already wounded to see two ursaloths approaching. These ones were larger and bearing scars that marked them as experienced fighters. Francis and Kerhi shared a look. They understood each other and trusted their backs to one another. The kind of connection that came from fighting side by side.

They moved as one, flowing around each other’s attacks and covering each other’s weaknesses. When Francis overextended on a strike, Kerhi was there to guard him. When she threw herself recklessly at an opponent, Francis intercepted the counterattack. They weren’t just fighting together, they were fighting as a unit, each anticipating the other’s movements.

[ Axe Increased - 36 ]

[ Life Core Channeling Increased - 34 ]

The notifications appeared as Francis buried his axe in the last ursaloth’s chest. Seven dead in total, their white forms scattered across the frozen ground. Francis was bleeding from a dozen wounds, his armor torn, and his muscles screaming from exertion. But he was grinning, and so was Kerhi.

She looked wild, blood-spattered, and fierce, her eyes still burning with battle joy. She took a step toward another ice formation, where Francis could sense more ursaloths gathering.

Then a roar split the air, deeper and more powerful than any they’d heard so far.

The alpha.

The massive creature came charging toward them along the battlefield of ice. It was easily half as large as some of the others they’d fought.

“Yes,” Kerhi breathed, her whole body tensing for another fight. “Finally, a real challenge.”

Francis grabbed her arm, pulling her back. “No. We retreat. Now.”

“What?” Kerhi turned on him, her eyes still wild with battle fury. “We can take it! Together we can—”

“No, we can’t,” Francis said firmly. He stepped between her and the alpha, meeting her fierce gaze with his own. “I know what that thing can do, Kerhi. I’ve fought it before, died to it before. We’re not ready, and I will not watch you die today.”

The alpha drew closer, and Francis pushed more power through his Life Core threads, ready to buy time for their escape if needed.

“If you don’t pull back,” Francis said quietly, his eyes never leaving Kerhi’s, “I’ll never share a moment like this with you again. In any of my loops.”

Something in his tone, or perhaps the absolute certainty in his words, cut through Kerhi’s battle fury. The fire in her eyes diminished, replaced by frustration and reluctant acceptance. She nodded once, sharply.

“Next time,” she said. “Next time, we take it down.”

“Next time,” Francis agreed.

They retreated together, moving quickly, putting distance between themselves and the alpha. The massive ursaloth watched them go, its roar echoing across the frozen landscape.

***

The healing tent was warm and smelled of herbs. The shaman working on Francis’s wounds muttered disapprovingly about reckless Southerners, but she worked efficiently, her healing magic knitting torn flesh and mending broken bones. Kerhi sat nearby, her own wounds being tended to, and Francis caught her watching him with an expression he couldn’t quite read.

When the healers finally released them, Kerhi stood and gestured for Francis to follow. They walked through the camp in silence, and Francis realized she was leading him toward the warrior quarters, toward her tent.

“Kerhi,” Francis said carefully. “Are you sure—”

She laughed, a sound that was part amusement and part something else. “You haven’t earned that yet, Southerner, but perhaps in time.”

She pushed aside the flap and gestured for him to enter. Francis hesitated for just a moment, then stepped inside.

The tent was larger than Francis had expected, with furs covering the ground and weapons hung on the support poles. What caught his attention was the collection of carved figures arranged on a small shelf. There were animals, warriors, scenes from battles. Each one was detailed and beautiful, clearly the work of someone with great skill and patience.

“You made these?” Francis asked, genuinely surprised.

Kerhi moved to stand beside him, her earlier battle fury now completely gone. “Every warrior needs balance,” she said softly. “The fight cannot be everything, or it consumes you. The carving reminds me that there is more to life than blood and violence.”

Francis picked up one of the figures, a wolf mid-howl, captured in perfect detail. “These are incredible.”

“My mother taught me,” Kerhi said, and Francis heard the weight in those words. “Before she died in battle. She said that warriors who only know how to destroy will eventually destroy themselves. We must also know how to create, how to build, and how to see beauty in the world we fight to protect.”

Francis set the wolf down carefully, understanding now why Kerhi had brought him here. This was trust, real trust, not just the camaraderie of battle but the sharing of something personal and precious.

“Thank you,” Francis said. “For showing me this. For trusting me with it.”

Kerhi nodded, then moved to a chest in the corner and pulled out a wineskin. “Drink with me. We earned it after that fight.”

They sat on the furs, passing the wineskin back and forth. The liquid burned as it went down, warming Francis from the inside. For a while, they didn’t speak, just sat in silence and let the tension of battle drain away.

“The things you told me earlier,” Kerhi finally said. “About the loops, about living the same time over and over. I still don’t fully understand it, but I believe you. And I think…” She paused, choosing her words carefully. “I think that’s why I feel this connection to you. Some part of me remembers, even if my mind doesn’t.”

“Maybe,” Francis said. “Or maybe it’s just that in every timeline, you and I recognize something in each other. Kindred spirits, or something like that.”

Kerhi snorted. “Kindred spirits. That’s very poetic for a Southerner who just spent the afternoon covered in ursaloth blood.”

“I contain multitudes,” Francis said with a grin.

They talked as the afternoon faded to evening, sharing stories and observations. Kerhi asked about his life in the south, about Michael, and what drove him to push himself so hard. Francis asked about her training, growing up in the north, and what she wanted beyond battle and glory.

It was the kind of conversation Francis rarely had anymore—genuine, unguarded, without the weight of his secrets pressing down on every word. Kerhi knew about the loops now, knew about his ability to reset, and instead of fear or suspicion, she’d responded with curiosity and understanding.

“I should go,” Francis finally said as the light began to fade.

Kerhi walked him to the tent entrance. “Tomorrow,” she said, “we train again. But next time, we push further. I want to see what you’re really capable of when you stop holding back.”

“You saw that today,” Francis said.

“No,” Kerhi replied, her eyes sharp. “Today I saw you protecting me, fighting cautiously because you were worried about my safety. Tomorrow, I want to see you fight the way you would if you were alone. The way you fight when death doesn’t matter.”

Francis felt something cold settle in his stomach. “That’s not who I want to be around you.”

“Perhaps not,” Kerhi agreed. “But it’s who you are, Francis. The loops have made you into something more than just a warrior. You’re death that keeps coming back, and I want to see what that really means.”

She was right, Francis realized. He’d been holding back around her, not wanting to reveal the full extent of what hundreds of deaths had done to him. But if Kerhi was going to be someone he could truly trust, she needed to see all of it. She needed to see the good and the terrifying.

“Alright,” Francis said. “Tomorrow, no holding back.”

Kerhi grinned. “Good. Now go.”

Francis stepped out into the cold evening air, his mind churning with everything that had happened. The battle with the ursaloths had been exhilarating, but the conversation afterward, the trust Kerhi had shown him, that meant more than any victory in combat.

He headed back toward his tent, his body aching pleasantly from exertion and healing, his thoughts already turning to tomorrow. No holding back, Kerhi had said. She wanted to see what he was really capable of.

Francis smiled to himself in the darkness. If that’s what she wanted, that’s what he’d show her. And maybe, just maybe, having someone who understood the full weight of what he carried would make the burden a little lighter.

If over four hundred deaths since he started this new grind had taught him something important, it was that trust was worth more than any skill increase or stat improvement. With Kerhi knowing his secret, truly knowing it, Francis felt less alone than he had in hundreds of loops.

Tomorrow would bring more training, more fighting, more deaths. But tonight, Francis had something he hadn’t hadn’t expected to gain so quickly, another friend who knew the truth and accepted him anyway.

That was worth fighting for.

Chapter 41

The alpha felt like death itself. Francis had fought it before, died to it dozens of times, but never with Kerhi beside him.

“Left flank!” Kerhi shouted, her spiked fists already moving to intercept one of the alpha’s guards.

Francis engaged the other guard, his axes finding the gaps in its defenses. These fights he knew, had memorized, through repetition. The guards fell within minutes, their bodies crumpling to the frozen ground.

The alpha roared, a loud sound that shook the ice beneath their feet.

“Together,” Francis said, moving to stand beside Kerhi. “Watch for the feint to the right, it always—”

The alpha charged, and Francis’s warning came too late. The massive creature didn’t feint. It came straight at them with terrifying speed, and Francis realized that it had changed its pattern.

They fought with everything they had. Francis’s axes bit into thick hide, drawing blood that steamed in the cold air. Kerhi’s strikes landed with bone-crushing force, her berserker fury making her a whirlwind of violence. But the alpha was stronger, faster, and more cunning than he had given it credit for. Bringing her along had changed how it fought.

Francis saw the moment the alpha’s claws found an opening in Kerhi’s guard. She tried to dodge, but the creature anticipated her movement and adjusted mid-strike. The massive paw caught her across the chest, and Francis heard the sickening crack of breaking ribs.

Kerhi flew backward, hitting the ice hard. Blood spread beneath her, staining the white ground crimson.

“No!” Francis threw himself at the alpha, abandoning defense for pure aggression. His axes found flesh, opened wounds, but it wasn’t enough. The alpha’s massive paw caught him mid-swing, lifting him off the ground. Francis felt his ribs crumble under the pressure, felt his spine crack as the alpha squeezed.

Even with Warrior’s Resolve, the truth was he couldn’t win this fight.

The last thing he saw before darkness took him was Kerhi’s body lying still on the ice, her blood pooling around her.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang out, and Francis jerked upright, his hands clutching at ribs that were no longer broken. The phantom sensation of Kerhi’s death felt heavier than any physical wound.

“You alright?” Michael mumbled from the next bed.

Francis didn’t answer. He was already moving, getting dressed. There was no time for conversation, no time for anything except getting back to Tules and trying again.

***

The alpha’s claws tore through Francis’s throat. Darkness claimed him.

***

The morning bell rang.

Francis stood, dressed, and began the journey north without a word.

***

The alpha’s jaws closed around Francis’s skull. The world went black in a spray of bone and blood.

***

Bell. Reset. North.

***

Five deaths taught him the alpha’s new opening pattern. He wasn’t sure, but the creature had adapted, somehow. It no longer followed the predictable sequences Francis had memorized. Francis wondered if it was because he now used axes and not swords.

Ten more deaths showed him the counterattack windows, the brief moments when the alpha overextended and left openings. But the windows were small, smaller than anything Francis had faced before, and missing even one meant death.

Another fifteen deaths before he could consistently survive the first minute of combat. The alpha fought with intelligence and purpose, adjusting its tactics based on Francis’s approach. It was learning as fast as he was, maybe faster.

Francis stopped counting after thirty attempts. Each death blurred into the next. Claws, teeth, crushing impacts, the bitter taste of failure. His axes found flesh repeatedly, opened wounds that would have killed lesser creatures, but the alpha fought through the damage with terrifying determination.

[ Axe Increased - 37 ]

[ Axe Increased - 38 ]

[ Life Core Channeling Increased - 35 ]

[ Life Core Channeling Increased - 36 ]

The skills climbed, incremental progress bought with blood and pain. But progress toward what? Francis could now fight the alpha for minutes instead of seconds, and dodge attacks that would have killed him fifty deaths ago. But surviving wasn’t winning, and every loop ended the same way, with Francis’s body cooling on the ice. His skill with the axes was too low to do anything to this creature, and yet he didn’t want to simply swap back to the sword. He was torn, having to choose between fighting with a weapon he was better with or the one the barbarians said he needed to learn.

On the forty-seventh attempt, Francis managed to wound the alpha enough to make it retreat. He stood alone on the battlefield, surrounded by the carcasses of the guards he’d killed, watching the alpha withdraw on the frozen wasteland.

It wasn’t a victory. It wasn’t even close, but it was progress.

Francis killed himself with his own axe rather than wait for the reset, unwilling to waste time when he could be learning.

***

The morning bell rang, and Francis lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling. He was still nowhere near strong enough.

He sat up slowly, his mind already turning over the problem. The alpha was too fast, too strong, too smart. No amount of axe skill or combat experience would bridge that gap. He needed something more, something fundamental.

He needed the regeneration he’d been working toward.

But first, he needed to stop throwing himself at an unwinnable fight and regroup.

***

Three days into the new loop, Francis found himself standing outside Kerhi’s tent as evening settled over the camp. He’d sought her out deliberately, needing the connection to someone who understood, even if she wouldn’t remember their previous conversations.

“Kerhi,” Francis called out. “Can we talk?”

She emerged from her tent, her expression curious but guarded. “Southerner. What do you want?”

“I want to tell you something,” Francis said. “About us. About things we’ve shared that you don’t remember.”

Kerhi’s hand moved to her axe, but her eyes showed more interest than threat. “You’re speaking in riddles again.”

“Not riddles. Truth.” Francis took a breath and began explaining, just as he had before. The loops, the resets, the way he’d died and come back over and over. He told her about fighting together, about the trust they’d built across timelines she couldn’t recall.

And then he told her about the carvings.

“In another loop,” Francis said carefully, “you showed me something personal. Something beautiful. You invited me into your tent and shared your mother’s gift with me. The wooden carvings you make… Animals, warriors, moments captured in detail that most people would never expect from someone known primarily as a fighter.”

Kerhi’s expression shifted, surprise breaking through her usual stoic mask. “How could you possibly know about that?”

“Because you trusted me enough to show me,” Francis said. “Because in that timeline, we’d fought together, bled together, and you decided I was worthy of seeing that part of yourself. The part that creates instead of destroys, that finds beauty in a world of violence.”

For a long moment, Kerhi said nothing. Then she stepped aside and gestured toward her tent. “Show me you’re not lying. Come inside and tell me which piece I was working on last night.”

Francis followed her into the tent, his eyes immediately finding the small shelf of carvings. But there was also a partially finished piece on her work table, a barbarian warrior mid-swing, the detail already emerging from the rough wood.

“That one,” Francis said, pointing to a wolf he remembered from before. “The wolf howling. Your mother taught you that one first, because wolves represent pack and family. And that warrior you’re working on now, you started it two nights ago, trying to capture the moment of perfect balance right before a strike lands.”

Kerhi moved to the table and picked up the unfinished carving, her fingers tracing the emerging details. “I’ve told no one about this project. Not even the other warriors know I carve.”

“I know,” Francis said quietly. “Because you keep it private, something just for yourself. A reminder that there’s more to life than battle.”

She set the carving down and turned to face him, and Francis saw the moment when disbelief gave way to cautious acceptance.

“This ability of yours,” Kerhi said. “These loops. They’re real, aren’t they?”

“Yes.”

“And we’ve fought together before? The way you described?”

“Many times,” Francis confirmed. “Including against the alpha ursaloth. We both died in that fight.”

Kerhi nodded slowly, then moved to her chest and pulled out the familiar wineskin. “Sit. If what you’re saying is true, then we have much to discuss.”

They sat on the furs, and Francis told her about their recent battles together, about the seven ursaloths they’d killed fighting side-by-side, about the way they’d moved as one unit. He described her berserker fury, the savage joy she took in combat, and how he’d had to force her to retreat from the alpha.

“I don’t remember any of that,” Kerhi said, “but I can feel the truth in your words. And I recognize something in you… A familiarity I can’t explain.”

“That’s the bond you asked about before,” Francis said. “The connection you sense. Some part of you remembers, even when your mind doesn’t.”

They talked long into the evening, Francis sharing details only someone who’d truly known her would know, and Kerhi slowly accepting the reality of what he described. By the time Francis finally left her tent, something had changed between them. It wasn’t the easy trust of their previous timeline, but the foundation of it.

***

The next morning, Francis noticed Jarl Keara watching him during training. Her gaze was calculating, her expression unreadable, but there was an intensity to her attention that made Francis wary.

Later, as he was leaving the practice grounds, she intercepted him.

“You spend much time with Kerhi,” Keara observed, her tone casual but her eyes sharp. “Training together, sharing meals, private conversations.”

“Kerhi is a skilled warrior,” Francis replied carefully. “I’m learning from her.”

“Of course,” Keara said, though her expression suggested she saw more than that. “It’s good for warriors to train together, to build bonds through combat. Though some bonds become… complicated. Especially when one party might have other obligations.”

Keara had made her interest known and that she didn’t appreciate competition in other loops. Yet in this loop, as in all loops, her interest would reset. Whatever political maneuvering she attempted would vanish when Francis died again.

“I appreciate your concern, jarl,” Francis said, “but my focus is on becoming strong enough to help your people against the beastkins. Everything else is secondary.”

Keara studied him for a moment, then smiled. “Of course. Your dedication is admirable, Southerner. I simply wanted to ensure you understand the… dynamics of our camp. Kerhi is valuable to us. I would not want her distracted from her duties.”

The message was clear: Tread carefully.

Francis nodded and excused himself, aware of Keara’s gaze following him as he walked away. Politics were exhausting, especially when they reset every loop. But they were part of navigating life in Tules, and ignoring them completely would create unnecessary problems.

***

The summons came that evening. Glitvall wanted to see him, along with the High Shaman Greythorn. Francis made his way to the warchief’s tent, wondering what had prompted this meeting.

Inside, he found both barbarian leaders waiting. Glitvall sat in his usual chair, massive and imposing, while Greythorn stood near the fire, her white hair seeming to glow in the flickering light.

“Southerner,” Glitvall greeted. “Sit. We have matters to discuss.”

Francis sat. Glitvall still called him that, the way he had on the first day, but the word had changed shape somewhere along the way. It was no longer a label held at arm’s length. It had become something closer to a name, the way another man might be called by his clan.

“You’ve been here long enough now,” Glitvall continued, “and fought enough battles that we can assess your progress. The high shaman has been observing your magic use. Share with her your current skills.”

Francis pulled up his status, focusing on the skills that had improved since arriving in Tules.

“Axe is at thirty-eight, moving toward the Advanced  rank,” Francis said. “Life Core Channeling is at thirty-eight as well. Blacksmithing has reached thirty-four. My Magic stat sits at twenty-five.”

Greythorn’s eyes narrowed. “Show Life Core threads.”

Francis pulled power from his core, letting the golden threads become visible around his hands. The high shaman studied them intently, her expression thoughtful.

“Good progress you make,” she said finally. “Control improved. Density of threads… core develops proper. But far from threshold you seek. Still far.”

“The regeneration ability,” Francis said. “I know I need Life Core Channeling at the Advanced rank, but that requires reaching forty-one. I’m close.”

“Close to one requirement,” Greythorn corrected, her voice sharp. “Regeneration requires more than Life Core mastery. Requires magical capacity to sustain continuous healing. Magic stat too low. Much too low.”

Francis felt something sink in his chest. “How high does it need to be?”

“Forty-one minimum,” Greythorn said. “Same threshold as Life Core Channeling. True regeneration requires both skill to manipulate lifeforce and raw magical power to fuel continuous. One without other? Insufficient. Useless.”

“That’s…” Francis did the math quickly. “That’s sixteen more points in Magic. That could take hundreds of deaths.”

“Yes,” Glitvall said bluntly. “Which is why we’re having this conversation. You told me the day you arrived that you’ve been throwing yourself at the alpha repeatedly, grinding your combat skills, but neglecting your magical development. If regeneration is truly your goal, you need to change your approach.”

Francis leaned back, processing this information. He’d been so focused on mastering the axe, on becoming strong enough to defeat the alpha through pure combat skill, that he’d lost sight of the bigger picture.

“What do you suggest?” Francis asked.

“Train with Greythorn,” Glitvall said. “Focus on magical development alongside your combat training. The alpha will still be there when you’re ready, but rushing to fight it before you have the tools to survive it is foolish.”

“I’ve died to it almost fifty times already,” Francis admitted. “And I’m no closer to victory than when I started.”

“Because you try to win with insufficient power,” Greythorn said. “Alpha is Master-rank warrior. You fight at Advanced proficiency with limited magical reserves. No amount of skill bridge that gap without capabilities to support.”

She moved closer, her ancient eyes studying him with disconcerting intensity. “Can teach you increase magical capacity. More efficient. Still require deaths, still require grinding, but focused magical training accelerate progress. Few hundred focused deaths instead of thousand scattered ones.”

Francis considered the offer. Everything in him wanted to keep fighting the alpha, to keep pushing against that wall until it broke. But that was pride and stubbornness, not strategy.

“How would the training work?” Francis asked.

“You spend time each loop working with me,” Greythorn explained. “Meditation to expand magical channels, exercises to increase capacity, practice with more advanced Life Core techniques. Combined with combat training and forge work, create balanced approach to development.”

“And the alpha?”

“Test yourself against it periodically,” Glitvall suggested. “But don’t waste entire loops dying to it repeatedly when you could build foundation you need for victory. Take one or two attempts to measure progress, then focus on development.”

It made sense. Francis hated admitting it, but they were right. He’d been spinning his wheels, dying over and over to an opponent he couldn’t beat with his current capabilities.

“I’ll do it,” Francis said. “Starting tomorrow, I’ll train with the high shaman.”

Greythorn nodded approvingly. “Good. Begin basic magical capacity exercises. Work way up. Won’t be comfortable. Will be effective.”

“I’m used to discomfort,” Francis said dryly.

“Yes,” Greythorn replied, her expression unreadable. “Imagine you are. Someone who dies and returns, very familiar with pain.”

They discussed the training schedule and what it would entail. By the time Francis left the tent, he had a clear path forward. It would take time and require patience, a quality he didn’t naturally possess, but it was the right approach.

As Francis walked back through the camp, he thought about Kerhi, and the trust they were rebuilding in this loop. He considered Keara’s political maneuvering and the complications it would create. Plus there was Tormund at the forge, teaching him the patience and precision that smithing required.

All of it would reset when he died. Yet the skills he built, the knowledge he gained, the understanding of what he needed to achieve, those would carry forward.

Today he was about to learn humility. Glitvall and Greythorn had just taught him that sometimes the direct approach wasn’t the answer. Sometimes you needed to step back and build a stronger foundation before attempting to break through the wall.

Francis had clarity. He knew what needed to be done, had allies willing to help him do it, and a clear understanding of the path ahead.

It would take hundreds more deaths. But eventually, he would be strong enough.

Chapter 42

The pain was unlike anything Francis had experienced, and that was saying something given his extensive history with death.

“Breathe through,” Greythorn commanded, her hands hovering near Francis’s temples. “Channels expand. Must endure or remain weak.”

Francis sat cross-legged in the high shaman’s tent, sweat pouring down his face. Greythorn’s magic probed at something deep inside him, stretching and widening pathways that felt like they were being carved through his very essence. It wasn’t physical pain, it was something deeper, more fundamental, like his soul was being restructured.

“How much longer?” Francis managed through gritted teeth.

“Until done,” Greythorn replied. “Southerners always want know how long. Time not matter. Only result matter.”

The sensation intensified, and Francis felt something give way inside him, like a dam breaking. Power flooded through newly opened channels, and for a moment the world went white.

[ Magic Increased - 26 ]

When Francis could see again, Greythorn was nodding with satisfaction. “Good. Tomorrow we do again. And again. And again. Until reach threshold.”

“Looking forward to it,” Francis said weakly.

“Lie,” Greythorn said with what might have been amusement. “But you endure anyway. That why you succeed eventually.”

Francis stumbled out of the tent an hour later, his legs unsteady and his head pounding. The magical expansion exercises were brutal, but they were working. Three sessions with Greythorn over the past week had pushed his Magic stat higher.

The routine was exhausting but effective. Mornings with Greythorn, expanding his magical capacity through meditation and channeling exercises. Afternoons training with the warriors, pushing his combat skills and building relationships. Evenings at the forge with Tormund, finding peace in the rhythm of hammer on steel.

Throughout all that he looked forward to moments with Kerhi. Training together, fighting side by side, building something that felt more substantial with each passing day.

***

Francis was sparring with Harald when the challenge came. They’d been working through axe combinations, Harald demonstrating a particularly nasty feint-and-counter technique, when a voice cut across the training ground.

“So this is the famous Southerner we’ve heard so much about.”

Francis turned to see a warrior he’d noticed around camp dozens of times but had never spoken with.  Halvir was massive even by barbarian standards, easily seven feet tall with shoulders like a bull. His arms were covered in scars, and he carried a war axe that looked like it weighed as much as Francis.

“I am Francis,” he replied carefully. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

“Halvir Stormbreaker,” the warrior said, moving closer. His eyes were cold, assessing. “I hear tales of the Southerner who trains with our warchief, shares a tent with our shamans, and somehow earned a place among our warriors.”

There was something in Halvir’s tone that made Francis wary. This wasn’t friendly curiosity.

“I’ve been fortunate to learn from skilled teachers,” Francis said.

“Fortunate,” Halvir repeated, his voice dripping with contempt. “That’s one word for it. Another word might be ‘privileged.’ You arrive with letters from your king, get an audience with Glitvall immediately, train with the high shaman herself, and somehow convince Kerhi to spend time teaching you.”

A crowd was gathering now, warriors drawn by the confrontation. Francis saw Kerhi emerge from a nearby building, her expression unreadable as she moved to watch.

“I’ve earned my place here through training and combat,” Francis said, keeping his voice level. “The same as any warrior.”

Halvir laughed, a harsh sound. “Have you? You train with practice weapons and wooden dummies. You fight ursaloths with others backing you up. But have you truly been tested? Proven yourself against a real warrior in single combat?”

“Are you offering?” Francis asked.

“I’m demanding,” Halvir corrected. “I’ve spent ten years earning my place in this camp. I’ve bled on the ice, lost brothers to the beasts, and fought until my hands couldn’t grip my axe. And now I find a Southerner wearing borrowed furs, wielding axes he barely knows how to use, and hiding behind friendship with shamans.”

Something feels off… I’ve seen him before and never had this kind of reaction. Was he put up to this?

The crowd murmured at that, some in agreement, others looking uncomfortable. Francis felt their attention, understood what was really happening here. This wasn’t just about him. It was about whether an outsider could truly become one of them.

“Then let’s settle this,” Francis said, his voice carrying across the training ground. “You and me, right now. No holding back.”

Halvir’s grin was predatory. “Exactly what I wanted to hear. Glitvall!” he called out. “I challenge the Southerner to prove his worth. Single combat, to submission. Do you witness?”

The warchief had appeared at the edge of the crowd, his massive frame unmistakable. “I witness,” Glitvall confirmed. “And I will judge.”

Francis met Kerhi’s eyes across the crowd. She gave him the smallest of nods, and he understood her message: Show them what you really are.

“Choose your weapon, Southerner,” Halvir said. “I’ll even give you the advantage of letting you use whatever you’re most comfortable with.”

It was a calculated insult, suggesting Francis would need every advantage he could get. The crowd expected him to choose swords, everyone knew Southerners preferred blades. Taking axes would be a risk, but it would also be a statement.

Francis walked to the weapon rack and selected two axes, one for each hand, the steel worn but sound. The weight was familiar now, the balance second nature after hundreds of hours of training and hundreds of deaths learning to wield them properly.

“Axes,” he said.

The crowd erupted in surprised murmurs. Two axes and no shield, all attack and no guard. Halvir’s eyes narrowed for a second before a smile appeared, certain the choice was a foolish one.

They moved to the center of the training ground. Glitvall raised his hand for silence.

“This is a challenge witnessed,” the warchief announced. “Fight until submission. No killing strikes. Begin when ready.”

Halvir didn’t waste time on ceremony. The moment Glitvall finished speaking, he charged.

Francis had fought enough barbarians to recognize the tactic, overwhelming aggression meant to intimidate and overwhelm. He’d also died enough times to know better than to panic. His Battle Sense fed him the information that Francis needed as he watched Halvir’s approach, reading the tells in his footwork and grip.

The overhead strike came exactly as Francis anticipated. He rolled left, coming up inside Halvir’s guard and striking at the exposed ribs. His practice axe connected with a solid thunk, but Halvir absorbed the blow without flinching and spun.

Francis barely got his axes up in time to block the counter. The impact sent him sliding backward across the frozen ground. Halvir was strong, stronger than anyone Francis had faced in this camp so far, even stronger than Kerhi. Unfortunately for his opponent, Francis had faced the alpha itself and knew real power.

“Not bad,” Halvir admitted. “But strength isn’t enough.”

The barbarian pressed the attack, his war axe moving in combinations that spoke of decades of practice. Francis defended, blocked, and parried, each impact testing his endurance and skill. He couldn’t match Halvir’s raw power, but he had something else, experience bought through hundreds of deaths.

[ Iron Wall ]

Francis activated the defensive skill as Halvir’s axe came down in an overhead strike meant to end the fight. The impact that should have driven Francis to his knees barely budged him, his enhanced defense absorbing the force.

Halvir’s eyes widened slightly at Francis’s ability to withstand the blow. Francis traded that moment of surprise to counter, his axes moving in the pattern Astrid had drilled into him. Strike high, feint low, follow with a spinning attack that forced Halvir back.

The crowd was roaring now, barbarian voices rising in excitement as they watched their champion being pushed by the outsider.

Francis’s Life Core threads were active, ready to heal any damage he took. It gave him an advantage Halvir didn’t have. He could trade blows, accept hits that would slow a normal fighter, and keep pressing forward. His body felt alive as the power of his core flowed through the webs carrying it to his muscles.

Halvir seemed to realize this as their fight continued. He changed tactics, becoming more defensive, trying to tire Francis out rather than overwhelm him. It was a smart strategy, but it gave Francis openings.

[ Quick Attack ]

The skill let Francis accelerate one of his strikes, his axe finding Halvir’s shoulder before the larger warrior could react. It wasn’t enough to draw blood through the furs, but it was a solid hit that made Halvir grunt.

They circled each other, both breathing hard now. Francis’s arms ached, his muscles screaming from the repeated impacts, but Warrior’s Resolve was giving him power from the damage he’d taken. Every bruise, every strained muscle was making him stronger.

“You’re better than I thought,” Halvir said, his voice carrying grudging respect. “But still not enough.”

The warrior exploded into motion, his axe moving in a combination Francis had never seen before. It was beautiful and deadly, a pattern that seemed to anticipate every defense Francis could mount. The first strike got through his guard, catching his left arm. The second hit his ribs. The third would have taken his head off if Francis hadn’t thrown himself backward.

Francis rolled, came up with his axes crossed defensively, and felt blood trickling down his arm where Halvir’s practice axe had torn through his sleeve and opened the skin beneath.

First blood. Halvir could have won had that been the desired victory terms.

Except Francis saw something in the warrior’s eyes that told him Halvir wasn’t stopping there. This had started as a challenge about proving worth, but it had become something more, a test of how far Francis would push himself.

“Continue?” Francis asked.

Halvir grinned. “Until one of us submits. You heard our warchief.”

They clashed again, and this time Francis stopped holding back. He’d been fighting cautiously, worried about revealing too much of what he was capable of. But Kerhi’s words echoed in his mind: Show them what you really are.

[ Riposte ]

Francis caught Halvir’s next strike on his axe and flowed seamlessly into a counter, his blade finding the gap between Halvir’s arm and chest. The hit landed solidly, and Francis saw the warrior’s eyes widen as he realized Francis had been holding back.

[ Power Strike ]

Francis’s next attack carried enough force to drive Halvir back three steps. The warrior’s eyes shifted, the easy confidence gone, replaced by something wary. Whatever Halvir had expected from a Southerner, this clearly wasn’t it.

They traded blows, neither giving ground now. Francis felt his axes finding their rhythm, the weapon becoming an extension of his intent rather than just a tool he wielded. All of Kerhi’s training, Harald’s lessons, the deaths to the ursaloths, and the alpha, everything flowed together into something greater than the sum of its parts.

[ Axe Increased - 39 ]

The notification appeared mid-fight, and Francis felt the shift immediately. His movements became smoother, his strikes more precise. He was approaching the threshold where skill transcended mere competence and became mastery.

Halvir noticed it too. The warrior’s grin grew wider even as Francis pressed him harder. “There it is,” he said between exchanges. “There’s the fighter hiding beneath the southern manners.”

Francis didn’t respond with words. He responded with his axes, driving Halvir back across the training ground. The crowd was screaming now, barbarian voices raised in savage appreciation of the combat before them.

[ Flurry ]

Three strikes in rapid succession, each one forcing Halvir to defend rather than attack. Francis saw the opening he’d been working toward, a gap in Halvir’s guard that appeared for just a moment after the third strike.

[ Quick Attack ]

[ Power Strike ]

Both skills activated simultaneously, Francis’s axe moving with enhanced speed and devastating force. It caught Halvir’s weapon hand, and despite being a practice weapon, the impact was enough to send the warrior’s axe flying from his grip.

Francis’s second axe stopped an inch from Halvir’s throat.

The training ground went silent.

Neither of them moved. Then Halvir slowly raised his empty hands in submission.

“I yield,” the warrior said, and there was no shame in his voice. Only satisfaction.

The crowd erupted. Warriors shouted, stamped their feet, raised their weapons in salute. Francis lowered his axes, suddenly aware of how exhausted he was, how his arms trembled and his breath came in ragged gasps.

Glitvall stepped forward. “The challenge is complete. Francis has proven his worth.”

Halvir retrieved his axe and then did something Francis didn’t expect. The massive warrior clasped Francis’s forearm in the barbarian gesture of respect between equals.

“You fight like one of us,” Halvir said. “Like someone who knows what it means to bleed for every victory. That’s what I needed to see.”

“You’re stronger than anyone I’ve fought,” Francis admitted.

“And you’re tougher than you look,” Halvir replied. “The stories don’t do you justice, Southerner. You’ve earned your place here.”

[ Axe Increased - 40 ]

[ Axe Increased - 41 ]

The notifications came together as his last combo had struck, and Francis felt something fundamental shift. The Advanced rank wasn’t just a number; it was a threshold where the weapon truly became part of him. He understood axes now, not just how to use them but how they moved, how they felt, what they could do.

The crowd pressed forward, warriors wanting to clasp Francis’s arm, offer words of respect, and invite him to train with their packs. Francis accepted the attention with as much grace as he could manage, but his eyes kept finding Kerhi in the crowd.

She was watching him with a smile he’d never seen before. It made his chest tight and his pulse quicken.

***

The celebration lasted into the evening. Warriors shared stories, passed wineskins, and treated Francis like one of their own in a manner they had never done before. He wasn’t the Southerner anymore, or at least not just that. He was Francis, the warrior who’d faced Halvir Stormbreaker and won.

But as the night wore on, Francis slipped away from the gathering. His body ached pleasantly from the fight, and his mind was buzzing with the realization that he’d actually done it, proven himself to the barbarians on their own terms.

He was heading back toward his tent when a familiar voice called out.

“Running away from your own victory celebration?”

Francis turned to find Kerhi leaning against a building, her arms crossed and a slight smile on her lips.

“I needed some air,” Francis said. “It’s been a long day.”

“Long day,” Kerhi repeated, pushing off the wall and moving closer. “You fought a senior warrior in single combat, forced him to submission, and earned the respect of the entire camp. Yes, I suppose that qualifies as a long day.”

Francis smiled despite his exhaustion. “When you put it like that, it sounds almost impressive.”

“It was impressive,” Kerhi said, her voice serious now. She stopped directly in front of him, close enough that Francis saw the firelight reflecting in her eyes. “You fought the way I told you to. No holding back. No hiding what you are. You showed them the truth.”

“I had good teachers,” Francis said.

“You have more than that,” Kerhi replied. “You have heart. Determination. Willingness to die and die again until you succeed. That is not something that can be taught. That’s something you either have or you don’t.”

She reached out and placed her hand over his chest, right where his heart beat. Francis felt the warmth of her palm through his shirt.

“You have earned a reward,” Kerhi said quietly. “And I would like to give it to you.”

“What kind of reward?” Francis asked, though his voice came out rougher than he intended.

Kerhi’s smile widened, and she stepped even closer. “The kind you cannot get from Glitvall or Greythorn. The kind only I can give.”

She pulled him close, her hand sliding from his chest to the back of his neck. Francis’s breath caught as he realized what was about to happen.

“If you don’t want this—” Kerhi started.

“I want this,” Francis interrupted.

Kerhi’s lips found his, and the kiss was nothing like Francis had imagined. It wasn’t gentle or tentative. It was fierce and demanding, carrying all the intensity she brought to combat. Francis’s hands found her waist, pulling her closer, and she made a sound low in her throat that sent heat rushing through him.

The world narrowed to just this moment, Kerhi’s mouth on his, her body pressed against him, her fingers tangled in his hair. Nothing else mattered. Not the loops, not the deaths, not the grinding pursuit of strength. Just this.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Kerhi rested her forehead against his.

“Been wanting to do that,” she admitted. “For longer than you know.”

“How long?” Francis asked.

“Since you proved you knew about my carvings,” Kerhi said. “Since you trusted me with the truth about your loops. I now understand you more than you realize. You don’t just fight for strength, Francis. You fight for people you care about. That is worth more than all combat skills in the world.”

Francis cupped her face in his hands, marveling at the fact that this fierce warrior woman was looking at him with such open warmth. “I care about you,” he said simply. “More than I probably should, given that everything resets.”

“Then we make most of the time we have,” Kerhi replied. “Every loop, every moment. We make it count.”

She kissed him again, slower this time but no less intense. Francis lost himself in it, in her, in the feeling of connection he’d been missing for so long.

When they finally separated, Kerhi took his hand. “Come with me.”

Francis followed her through the camp, away from the celebrations and toward the warrior quarters. She led him to her tent, and when she pulled aside the flap and gestured inside, Francis understood what she was offering.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“More sure than I’ve been about anything in a long time,” Kerhi replied. “You have proven yourself today. To warriors, to Glitvall, and to me. Now let me show you what you’ve earned.”

Francis stepped into the tent, and Kerhi followed, letting the flap fall closed behind them.

The firelight inside cast dancing shadows on the walls. Kerhi moved close again, her hands finding the clasps of his armor.

“Tonight,” she said softly, “no training, fighting, or death. Just us.”

Francis pulled her close and kissed her again, and as the world faded around them, he thought that maybe this, connection, intimacy, genuine feeling, was worth more than any skill increase or stat improvement.

It was worth fighting for, and it was definitely worth dying for.

Chapter 43

Francis woke to unfamiliar warmth.

For a moment, he didn’t understand where he was or why the furs beneath him felt different from his usual bedding. Then Kerhi shifted against him, her arm draped across his chest, and memory flooded back. The fight with Halvir. The celebration afterward. Kerhi pulling him into her tent with a look that had promised exactly what followed.

He lay still, not wanting to wake her, and simply enjoyed the moment. How many deaths had it taken to reach this point? How many loops of training, dying, resetting, and starting over? Now here he was, lying beside a woman who knew his secret and accepted him anyway.

Kerhi’s eyes opened, meeting his with an awareness that suggested she’d been awake for a while. “You think loudly.”

“Sorry,” Francis said. “I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t.” She propped herself up on one elbow, studying his face with an intensity that made him smile. “You were somewhere else just now. In your head. Where did you go?”

“Nowhere bad,” Francis assured her. “Just thinking about how long it took to get here. All the deaths, all the resets. And now…”

“And now you’re in my tent, in my bed, and wondering if it was worth it?” Kerhi’s tone was light, but her eyes were serious.

“Wondering if I deserve it,” Francis corrected. “You don’t remember the loops. You don’t know how many times I watched you from across the camp, wanting to talk to you but not knowing what to say. There were so many times I trained beside you and tried not to stare. This feels like I cheated somehow.”

Kerhi was quiet for a moment. Then she sat up fully, the furs falling away from her scarred shoulders. “You told me about your ability. You shared something that could have gotten you killed, trusted me with knowledge that gives me power over you. You say you used none of what you learned about me in those loops to manipulate me into this bed?”

“None of it,” Francis said firmly. “I swear.”

“Then you didn’t cheat.” Kerhi leaned down and kissed him, brief but warm. “You earned this the hard way. Hundreds of deaths to become the warrior who defeated Halvir. Hundreds more to become someone I wanted to know better.” She pulled back, a slight smile on her lips. “Besides, do you think I’m so easily manipulated? I chose to bring you here. I chose this.”

Francis felt something ease in his chest. “I just wanted you to know. To understand.”

“I understand.” Kerhi stood, stretching in a way that made Francis’s mouth go dry. “Now get dressed. The camp will be talking about last night, and I won’t have them saying I’ve made you soft by keeping you in bed all day.”

***

The camp was indeed talking.

Francis noticed the difference immediately as he emerged from Kerhi’s tent. Warriors who had barely acknowledged him before now met his eyes with respect, some offering the barbarian gesture of clasping their fists to their chests. A few called out greetings, using his name rather than “Southerner.”

“You’ve made an impression,” Kerhi observed, walking beside him toward the training grounds. “Halvir doesn’t lose often. That you beat him with axes, our weapon, not your southern swords… that matters.”

“It was close,” Francis admitted. “He’s stronger than anyone I’ve faced in the north.”

“And yet you won.” Kerhi stopped, turning to face him. “That’s what they see. Not how close it was, but that you found a way. That’s what warriors respect.”

They parted ways at the training grounds, Kerhi heading to meet with Greythorn while Francis made his way toward where Harald was already working through morning drills. The older warrior saw him coming and grinned.

“The champion arrives!” Harald called out, loud enough for others to hear. “Come, Francis. Show me what else you’ve been hiding.”

The training session that followed was different from any Francis had experienced in the camp. Before, he’d been tolerated, taught with a patience that bordered on condescension. Now Harald engaged him as an equal, pushing harder, expecting more, and offering genuine critique rather than simplified instruction.

“Your footwork is still too southern,” Harald said after a particularly intense exchange. “You plant when you should flow. Watch.” He demonstrated the movement, a gliding step that kept his weight centered even while attacking. “The ice doesn’t care about your fancy stances. It will betray you if you’re not ready to move.”

Francis copied the movement and felt the difference immediately. His balance was better, his recovery faster. “Why didn’t you show me this before?”

“Because before, you weren’t ready to learn it,” Harald replied simply. “Some things can only be taught to those who’ve proven they can handle them.”

[ Axe Increased - 42 ]

The notification appeared as Francis integrated the new footwork into his combinations. It was a small improvement, but it represented something larger: He was being taught things the barbarians reserved for their own now. Not just the basics, but the deeper knowledge that separated good warriors from great ones.

***

The loops that followed settled into a new rhythm.

Each reset, Francis would tell Kerhi about his ability, and each time she would accept it with the same fierce practicality. Their relationship didn’t progress the same way every loop since sometimes they had more time together, sometimes less, depending on how Francis died. But there was a consistency to it now, a foundation that he could build upon.

“Tell me something you learned about me,” Kerhi said one evening, several loops after that first night. They were sitting by a fire outside her tent, watching the aurora dance across the sky. “In these loops of yours. What did you learn?”

Francis considered the question carefully. “You carve. Small figurines, animals mostly. You hide them in a box under your sleeping furs because you think it’s not something a shaman warrior should do.”

Kerhi’s widened slightly in surprise. “You noticed that.”

“I notice everything about you,” Francis admitted. “But I never mentioned it before because it felt like something private. Something you weren’t ready to share.”

“And now?”

“Now I’m telling you because you asked. Also because I want you to know that I see you. Not just the warrior, not just the shaman. All of you.”

Kerhi was quiet for a long moment. Then she stood, disappeared into her tent, and returned with a small wooden wolf, intricately carved with details that spoke of hours of patient work.

“My mother taught me,” Kerhi said, and Francis heard the weight in those words he’d hadn’t heard before, yet the conviction remained the same . “Before she died in battle. She said that warriors who only know how to destroy will eventually destroy themselves. We must also know how to create.”

Francis looked at the wolf, understanding the importance of what she was sharing. “Kerhi…”

“I’ve never shown anyone,” she continued. “Not Glitvall, not Greythorn, not anyone. But you…” She met his eyes. “You already knew. And you kept it safe. Kept my secret even when I didn’t know I’d given it to you.”

“I always will,” Francis said.

She kissed him then, and this time there was something different in it. Not just desire, but trust. Connection. The beginning of something that might survive even the endless cycle of death and rebirth.

***

“Again,” Greythorn commanded.

Francis sat cross-legged in the high shaman’s tent, sweat pouring down his face despite the cold. The magical expansion exercises had become a constant in his routine now, painful but productive. Each session pushed his channels wider, allowed more power to flow through his Life Core.

He reached for the golden threads inside himself and pulled.

The sensation was still uncomfortable, but he’d learned to work through it. The threads responded to his will, weaving through his body in patterns that Greythorn had taught him. He could feel them strengthening, growing denser with each loop of practice.

[ Life Core Channeling Increased - 37 ]

“Better,” Greythorn said, though her tone suggested it was barely adequate. “Channels expanding. Soon you reach threshold.”

“The Advanced rank,” Francis said. “You mentioned something would change when I crossed it.”

“Change, yes. Fundamental change.” Greythorn studied him with those unsettling eyes. “Your body learning to heal itself. Not like shaman healing, not directed. Automatic. Constant. Like breathing.”

“Regeneration,” Francis said, remembering what she’d told him in previous loops.

“Yes. But not free. Requires Magic stat to support. Your body must have capacity to fuel the healing.” She tilted her head. “You approach threshold in Life Core. But Magic still too low for true regeneration. Must push both.”

It was the same advice she’d given him before, but Francis appreciated the reminder. The grind toward higher stats was slow, measured in deaths rather than days. But he was making progress.

***

The alpha killed him on death four hundred and seventy-three.

Francis had pushed too deep into the ursaloths’ territory, trying to test a new approach he’d developed with Harald’s footwork techniques. It had worked against the regular beasts, allowing him to maintain his balance on the ice while delivering devastating combinations. But the alpha was something else entirely.

The massive creature had appeared from behind an ice formation, moving faster than something that large should be able to move. Francis had managed to wound it, his axes finding purchase in its thick hide, but the counterattack had been brutal. Claws had torn through his armor, his chest, his everything.

He woke to the morning bell, the phantom pain of his death already fading.

“Bad night?” Michael asked from across the tent.

“Something like that,” Francis replied.

The loop proceeded as it always did. He told Kerhi about his ability, watched her process the information, felt the connection form between them again. He trained with Harald, pushed his limits with Greythorn, and worked to rebuild everything he’d established.

But something was different this time.

Halvir found him at the training grounds three days in, the same challenge in his eyes that had led to their first fight. Francis had been dreading this, knowing he’d have to prove himself again in every loop.

“Southerner,” Halvir said. “I’ve heard stories about you. That you fight with our axes. That you’ve earned Kerhi’s attention.”

Francis braced himself for the confrontation. “I’ve been training hard.”

“Show me.”

The fight was shorter this time. Francis knew Halvir’s patterns now, had died enough times studying his technique. He used Harald’s footwork, Kerhi’s aggressive combinations, and the bone-deep knowledge that hundreds of deaths had carved into his reflexes.

Halvir yielded after three minutes.

“Faster than I expected,” the big warrior said, clasping Francis’s arm in respect. “You fought like you knew what I was going to do.”

“I’ve had great teachers,” Francis replied.

[ Life Core Channeling Increased - 38 ]

The notification appeared as Francis walked away from the training ground, and he felt the threads inside him pulse with new strength. He was getting closer. The threshold that Greythorn had mentioned, the crossing point into true Advanced mastery, was within reach.

But he knew from experience that the final steps were always the hardest.

***

“You’re different,” Kerhi observed one evening, watching Francis work through axe forms in the fading light. They were alone at the edge of camp, the sounds of the settlement a distant backdrop to their conversation.

“Different how?”

“You fight like someone who has already seen everything,” Kerhi said, watching him complete the form. “Most warriors your age are still hungry to prove themselves. You move like you stopped needing to prove anything long ago.”

Francis finished the form and lowered his axes. “I’ve died more times than most can imagine, and lived more years inside these loops than I’ve spent outside them. Somewhere along the way I stopped counting time and just kept counting deaths.” He shrugged. “It changes you.”

“Does it get easier? The dying?”

“The pain doesn’t,” Francis admitted. “But the fear does, eventually. You stop being afraid of death when you’ve experienced it hundreds of times. It becomes just another obstacle, another problem to solve.”

Kerhi was quiet for a moment. “That sounds lonely.”

“It was.” Francis met her eyes. “Before I told anyone or I found people who believed me, who accepted what I am. Now it’s different. Now I have something to come back to.”

She crossed the distance between them and pulled him into a kiss that tasted like cold air and woodsmoke. When they separated, her forehead rested against his.

“It feels wrong that I cannot recall what you say,” she said softly. “But I believe you when you say they happened. And I want you to know something.”

“What?”

“In every loop, no matter what happens, I choose to be here with you. Maybe I don’t remember choosing before, but I choose now. That has to count for something.”

Francis felt his throat tighten. “It counts for everything.”

They stood together as the last light faded from the sky, two warriors bound by something that transcended memory and death. Tomorrow Francis would train again, would push toward the threshold that Greythorn had promised would change everything. He would probably die again, would reset and have to rebuild these moments from scratch.

But for now, in this moment, he had everything he needed.

The forge called to him lately, a desire to create something that would last even if only for a little while. Tormund had been hinting that Francis was ready for more advanced work, that his hammer control and heat management had improved enough to attempt something meaningful.

Maybe tomorrow he would take the smith up on that offer. Maybe he would try to make something beautiful for the woman standing beside him, something that would show her what she meant to him even if the words felt inadequate.

Death four hundred and ninety-seven had taught Francis that progress wasn’t always about combat skills and stat increases. Sometimes it was about connections, about trust, about finding reasons to keep fighting beyond mere survival.

Kerhi squeezed his hand, and Francis squeezed hers back.

The threshold was close… It was so close he could almost taste it.

Chapter 44

Francis woke to Kerhi pressed against him, her breathing deep and even in sleep. Dawn light filtered through the tent’s hide walls, painting everything in soft amber tones. For a moment, he simply lay there, savoring the peace of it, the quiet intimacy of waking beside someone who knew him, truly knew him, loops and all.

Kerhi stirred, her eyes opening to meet his. A smile touched her lips. “Morning.”

“Morning,” Francis replied, brushing a strand of hair from her face.

She stretched, muscles rippling beneath scarred skin, then sat up with the grace of a warrior accustomed to moving quickly upon waking. “I have patrol duties today. Glitvall wants scouts checking the eastern approaches.”

“And I have training with Greythorn,” Francis said, sitting up as well. “Then the forge.”

Kerhi began gathering her scattered armor, buckling leather and checking straps. Francis watched her, memorizing the moment, the way firelight caught in her hair, the curve of her shoulders, the small satisfied smile she wore.

She caught him staring and raised an eyebrow. “What?”

“Just thinking about how this is part of the routine now,” Francis said. “In every loop going forward, I’ll tell you about the resets, we’ll train together, and eventually…” He gestured at the rumpled furs they’d shared.

“Eventually I’ll drag you to my tent and have my way with you?” Kerhi asked with a grin.

“Something like that.”

She crossed to where he sat and cupped his face in her hands, kissing him with a tenderness that contrasted beautifully with her fierce warrior exterior. “Good. Something to look forward to through all those deaths. Now get dressed. I can’t have warriors thinking I’ve gone soft.”

Francis laughed and began pulling on his own gear. They parted outside her tent with a final kiss, and Francis headed toward Greythorn’s dwelling for his morning magical training, his mind already processing everything that had changed.

***

The magical expansion session was as brutal as ever, but Francis endured it with something approaching patience now. Pain was temporary. Growth was permanent, at least in the ways that mattered.

[ Magic Increased - 27 ]

When Greythorn finally released him, Francis made his way to the forge rather than the training grounds. He needed something different today, something that engaged his hands and mind in a new way.

Tormund looked up from the blade he was tempering as Francis entered. The old smith’s scarred face creased in what might have been a smile. “Francis. Come for more lessons?”

“If you’re willing to teach,” Francis replied.

Tormund gestured at the workspace Francis had been using for the past several loops. “Your basics are solid now. Your hammer control is good, as is your heat management. But you still forge like someone going through motions. No purpose behind it.”

Francis frowned. “What do you mean?”

“Every piece I make, I make for a reason,” Tormund explained, setting down his work and moving to Francis’s station. “This blade? For Astrid’s daughter, coming of age next month. The axe head yesterday? Replacement for the warrior who lost his in a battle with an ursaloth. I don’t just make things. I make things that matter to people.”

“I’m just learning the skill,” Francis said.

“No,” Tormund corrected, his voice firm. “Skills you learn through repetition. A craft you learn through purpose. It’s time you stop practicing and start creating.”

He pulled out a chunk of high-quality steel, better than the practice pieces Francis had been working with. “Make something meaningful. Something with purpose. Not just for skill increase, but because you want it to exist.”

Francis stared at the metal, his mind already turning.

Something meaningful. Something with purpose.

An image formed: Kerhi’s axes, well-made but worn from years of use. He could forge her new ones, perfectly balanced, beautiful and deadly in equal measure.

“I want to make axes,” Francis said. “For someone important to me.”

Tormund’s eyes narrowed to something like approval. “Good. Then we begin properly. First, you must understand the metal you work with. Each piece has character, has strengths and weaknesses. You must listen to it, feel how it responds to heat and hammer.”

What followed was different from any training Francis had received before. Tormund didn’t just teach techniques, he taught philosophy, the deeper understanding of what it meant to shape metal into purpose.

“Fire transforms,” Tormund said as Francis worked the steel to temperature. “But transformation requires right heat, right time, right pressure. Too hot, metal becomes brittle. Too cold, it won’t shape. You must find balance.”

Francis lost himself in the work. The rhythmic ring of hammer on steel, the heat of the forge, the way the metal slowly took shape beneath his hands, it all had a meditative quality that quieted the constant churning of his mind.

[ Blacksmithing Increased - 35 ]

The first session ended with Francis having shaped the basic form of one axe head. It was still rough, needing refinement and edge work, but the potential was there.

“Not bad,” Tormund said, examining the piece. “But not finished. Good work takes time. Takes patience. Come back tomorrow.”

***

Francis returned the next day, and the day after, and the day after that. Some days ended with his death to the alpha or in magical training accidents. Each time he reset, he’d tell Tormund about the loops early in the cycle, then restart work on the axes when he reached the forge again.

The repetition didn’t diminish the work; if anything, it enhanced it. Each loop, Francis learned something new, refined his technique, and gained a better understanding of the metal. The axes took shape slowly with each death. Even better was that each loop led Francis to be deliberate with every hammer strike.

“You’re getting better,” Tormund observed during one late-night session. The camp was quiet, most warriors asleep, but Francis found he did his best work in these hours when distraction fell away.

“The loops help,” Francis admitted, carefully filing the edge of one axe head. “I can try something, fail, reset, and try again with the knowledge of what went wrong.”

“Yes and no,” Tormund said. He was working on his own project nearby, a long knife with intricate patterns in the steel. “Knowledge helps. But creation requires more than knowledge. It requires feeling, understanding, and a connection to work.”

He set down his tools and moved to watch Francis work. “Every time you reset, these axes vanish. Everything you make disappears. Why keep making them?”

Francis paused, considering the question. “Because the act of making them matters… And because I want Kerhi to have them, even if only for a little while…” He struggled to articulate the thought. “Because creating something beautiful, even temporarily, feels like the opposite of all the dying I do.”

Tormund nodded slowly. “Good answer. This is what I try to teach. Forge not just to make an object, but to make meaning. When you understand that, you understand craft.”

Francis returned to his work, but Tormund’s words lingered.

Making meaning. Creating purpose that transcends the physical object itself.

[ Blacksmithing Increased - 36 ]

***

Several loops later, Francis was deep in the detail work on the axes when Tormund spoke again. They’d fallen into a comfortable pattern, working in silence, occasionally sharing observations or techniques, but mostly just existing in the shared space of creation.

“Your loops,” Tormund said without preamble. “They are like the forge.”

Francis looked up from the etching he was working on, a pattern of wolves running along the edge of the axe blade. “How so?”

“Forge transforms metal through heat and pressure,” Tormund explained. “Metal goes into fire, comes out changed. Stronger, sharper, more useful. But transformation requires breaking down first. Must heat metal until it loses shape, becomes soft, vulnerable. Then reshape it into something better.”

He gestured at Francis with his hammer. “You die. Break down. Lose everything. Then re-form, shaped by what you learned. Each death is heat and pressure. Each reset is reshaping. Over and over, until you become what you need to be.”

Francis set down his tools, giving Tormund his full attention. “I’ve never thought about it that way.”

“Most would never,” Tormund said. “They see death as ending. But for you? Death is part of the process. Like quenching a blade in water, violent, shocking, but necessary for strength.”

“It doesn’t feel necessary,” Francis admitted. “It feels like punishment. Like I’m trapped in a cycle I can’t escape.”

“All transformation feels like punishment at first,” Tormund replied. “Metal doesn’t want to change shape. Fights against the hammer. But a smith knows the fighting is part of the process. Resistance makes the final product stronger.”

He returned to his own work, but continued speaking. “Every hammer strike I make, I make with purpose. Not random. Not hoping for the best. Each one planned, controlled, and refined the metal to its final form. Your deaths should be the same. Not accidents or failures, but purposeful steps toward becoming what you need to be.”

Francis thought about that as he returned to his etching. How many of his deaths had been purposeful? How many had been strategic steps toward a goal versus simply throwing himself at obstacles until something worked?

“The loops will end eventually,” Francis said. “When I accomplish whatever it is I’m supposed to accomplish. What happens to who I’ve become then?”

“What happens to the blade when the battle ends?” Tormund countered. “It doesn’t stop being sharp, and doesn’t forget its edge. You carry what you forge in yourself. Skills, knowledge, understanding, these don’t vanish when loops end. They are part of you now.”

Francis carefully threaded his Life Core power through his hands as he worked, using the golden energy to enhance his precision. The threads had become second nature, an extension of his will that responded to his intention.

[ Life Core Channeling Increased - 39 ]

“You do that without thinking now,” Tormund observed. “The magic. At first, you struggled to maintain threads while working. Now it’s natural as breathing.”

“Repetition,” Francis said. “Hundreds of hours of practice.”

“No,” Tormund corrected. “Understanding. You don’t practice magic anymore. You live it. It’s part of you, woven into your very existence. That’s the difference between skill and mastery. Skill is something you do. Mastery is something you are.”

The words resonated with something deep in Francis’s chest. He felt the Life Core threads pulse stronger, responding to the understanding, and pushed more power through them.

[ Life Core Channeling Increased - 40 ]

“There,” Tormund said with satisfaction. “Feel that? That’s the threshold approaching. One more step and you’ll cross into true Advanced mastery.”

Francis focused on the sensation, on the way the power moved through him, became part of him. It was like the difference between holding a weapon and being a weapon, between using magic and embodying it.

He channeled more power, letting it flow through the intricate pathways Greythorn had helped him expand. The golden threads grew denser and more complex, weaving intricate patterns through his body that felt almost alive.

[ Life Core Channeling Increased - 41 ]

[ Advanced Rank Achieved - Life Core Channeling ]

[ New Ability Unlocked: Regeneration (Rare) ]

The notification hit Francis like a physical force. He felt something fundamental shift in how his Life Core functioned. Where before he could heal injuries with focused effort, now the healing was becoming automatic, constant, woven into his very existence.

“You felt it,” Tormund said, not a question but a statement. “The crossing. Now you understand why I say mastery is about being, not doing.”

Francis stared at his hands, watching the Life Core threads pulse with newfound strength and complexity. “I can feel it. The regeneration. It’s like my body wants to heal itself now, and doesn’t need me to direct it consciously.”

“Good,” Tormund said. “Now finish your axes. You have purpose to fulfill, meaning to forge.”

***

It took three more loops before Francis was satisfied with the axes. Every detail had to be perfect, the balance, the edge, the way they sat in the hand. He’d tested them himself countless times, dying and resetting to refine even the smallest imperfections.

Finally, late one night, he held both finished axes and knew they were ready. The blades gleamed in the firelight, etched with running wolves that seemed to move in the flickering shadows. The handles were wrapped in leather dyed the same deep blue as Kerhi’s eyes, and the balance was so perfect they felt like extensions of his arms.

“These are good work,” Tormund said, examining them with a critical eye. “Better than good. These are pieces you can be proud of.”

“They’ll disappear when I reset,” Francis said, but there was no bitterness in the words. He understood now what Tormund had been teaching him, the object wasn’t the point. The creation was the point.

“Everything disappears eventually,” Tormund replied. “Blades break, metal rusts, people die. But the making of them? That changes the maker. You are not the same person who walked into my forge all those loops ago, I’m certain of that. Creating these changed you. Taught you patience, precision, and purpose. That doesn’t disappear.”

Francis nodded, understanding settling deep in his bones. “Thank you. For teaching me this. For showing me there’s more to strength than just combat skills.”

“Strength comes in many forms,” Tormund said. “Combat strength, yes. But also strength to create, to endure, to find meaning in repetition. You have all three now. Use them well.”

[ Blacksmithing Increased - 37 ]

Francis carefully wrapped the axes in oiled cloth, protecting the blades. He’d give them to Kerhi tomorrow, watch her face when she saw what he’d made for her. Even though they’d vanish when he died again, the memory of her reaction would carry forward. The understanding of what it meant to create something beautiful for someone he cared about, that would persist.

As he left the forge that night, the wrapped axes in his hands and the warmth of accomplishment in his chest, Francis reflected on everything he’d learned. Greythorn had taught him to expand his magical capacity, to push past limits he’d thought were absolute. The barbarian warriors had taught him to fight with axes, to earn respect through skill and determination. Kerhi had taught him that connection mattered, that intimacy and trust were worth pursuing even in the face of endless resets.

And Tormund had taught him that creation was its own form of strength, that the act of making something beautiful held value beyond its physical existence.

Death five hundred and ninety-seven had given Francis more than just skill increases. It had given him perspective, understanding, and a sense of purpose that transcended mere survival.

The regeneration hummed quietly beneath his skin, a constant gentle pulse of healing power that would make him harder to kill, harder to break. But more important than the new ability was the understanding of what it represented, mastery of Life Core Channeling wasn’t about the power itself, but about integration, about making the magic so thoroughly part of himself that it existed as naturally as breathing.

Tomorrow was going to be a day of many things. He’d give Kerhi the axes, continue his training with Greythorn, and push his Magic stat higher toward the threshold that would unlock true regeneration. Tomorrow he’d face the alpha again and test himself against the creature that had killed him so many times.

But tonight, Francis had learned something that would carry through every future loop: that there was strength in creation, wisdom in patience, and meaning in the act of making something beautiful for someone you cared about.

The forge had taught him well.

Chapter 45

Francis found Kerhi in the training yard, working through forms with her old axes. The weapons were well-maintained, but showed their age. Countless battles had left their marks on the steel, and the balance was slightly off from years of repeated sharpening.

“Got a moment?” Francis called out.

Kerhi finished her current sequence before turning to face him, a slight sheen of sweat on her brow despite the cold. “For you? Always.”

Francis unwrapped the oiled cloth, revealing the axes he’d spent loops perfecting. The morning light caught the etched wolves along the blades, making them seem to run across the steel. Kerhi’s eyes widened as she took in the craftsmanship.

“These are…” She reached out, then hesitated. “Are these for me?”

“Made them myself,” Francis said, offering them to her. “With Tormund’s guidance. Thought you could use weapons that matched your skill.”

Kerhi took the axes carefully, testing their weight and balance. She moved through a basic form, and Francis saw the exact moment she understood how perfectly they’d been crafted for her style. The weapons flowed like water in her hands, responding to the slightest shift in her grip.

“Francis,” she said softly, “these are beautiful. The balance, the edge work, even the color of the wrapping…” She looked at him with something that made his chest tight. “You made these for me.”

“Seemed appropriate,” Francis replied. “You’ve taught me so much. I wanted to give you something that would last, even if…” He trailed off, the unspoken truth hanging between them.

“Even if only for this loop,” Kerhi finished. She set the axes down carefully and pulled him into a fierce embrace. “Thank you. This means more than you know.”

When she pulled back, her eyes were bright with unshed tears. “Want to help me break them in properly?”

They spent the next hour sparring, Kerhi testing her new weapons against Francis’s axes. She moved with renewed confidence, the perfectly balanced blades allowing techniques that had been harder with her old weapons. By the end, both of them were breathing hard and grinning.

“These are incredible,” Kerhi said, examining the blades for any damage. There was none. The steel had held perfectly. “You have a gift for this, Francis. Not just the smithing, but understanding what a warrior needs.”

“I had a good teacher,” Francis replied, thinking of Tormund’s patient instruction. “Both in the forge and out of it.”

Kerhi kissed him, quick but intense. “I have patrol. But tonight?”

“Tonight,” Francis agreed.

He watched her leave, the new axes strapped to her back, and felt a warmth that had nothing to do with the exercise. Creating something meaningful for someone he cared about. Tormund had been right. That mattered in ways that transcended the loops.

***

Two days later, Francis was hunting ursaloths in the frozen wastes beyond the camp’s borders. The routine was familiar now. He would track their patterns, engage them at favorable terrain, use his superior skill and regeneration to grind them down. It was good training, kept his combat skills sharp between attempts at the alpha.

But something felt off.

Francis couldn’t place it at first. The ursaloth he was fighting moved normally, struck with the expected patterns, and defended as it always had. Yet there was something in its positioning, something in the way it had approached that didn’t quite match what he remembered.

He killed it with a combination of Power Strike and Quick Attack, then stood over the body, frowning.

I want it to be nothing, to believe I’m imagining the differences, but I’ve killed these things more times than any man alive, and I know exactly how they move. This is new.

The feeling persisted for a long time.

***

Three loops later, Francis engaged a pair of ursaloths, and the feeling returned, stronger this time. One of them reacted to his feint a split second faster than it should have, as if it had anticipated the move rather than simply responding to it.

Francis finished the fight, but his mind was churning. Random chance? Or something else?

He began testing deliberately. Same approach, same opening moves, same tactics across multiple encounters. The results should have been consistent. The ursaloths were beasts, operating on instinct and training. They didn’t learn, didn’t adapt within a single encounter.

Except now, sometimes they did.

Not always. Not even most of the time. But often enough that Francis couldn’t dismiss it as a coincidence.

[ Magic Increased - 28 ]

The notification appeared during one of Greythorn’s training sessions, but Francis barely registered it. His mind was occupied with the puzzle of the ursaloths’ changing behavior.

***

“You’re distracted,” Tormund observed one evening at the forge. Francis had been working on a practice piece, but his hammer strikes lacked their usual rhythm.

“Sorry,” Francis said, setting down his tools. “My mind’s elsewhere.”

“The beasts,” Tormund said.

Francis looked up sharply. “How did you know?”

“The last few days, you come back from hunts with a face like something doesn’t fit right.” Tormund set aside his own work and gave Francis his full attention. “What troubles you?”

Francis hesitated, then explained what he’d noticed. The small inconsistencies, the moments where ursaloths seemed to anticipate rather than react, the patterns that didn’t quite match what he’d learned through hundreds of encounters.

Tormund listened without interrupting, his scarred face thoughtful. When Francis finished, the old smith was quiet for a long moment.

“Beasts don’t change patterns without reason,” Tormund said finally. “They hunt the same way. Only change when something changes them.”

“What could change them?” Francis asked.

“Injury. Sickness. Fear.” Tormund paused. “Or instruction.”

The word sent a chill down Francis’s spine. “You think something’s teaching them?”

“Don’t know what I think,” Tormund replied carefully. “But you should take this seriously. Trust your instincts. If something feels wrong, it probably is wrong.”

Francis returned to his hunting the next day with a new focus. He wasn’t just fighting anymore, he was observing, cataloging, looking for patterns in the inconsistencies.

[ Magic Increased - 29 ]

And he found them.

The changes weren’t random. They centered around specific tactics Francis used frequently. The feint-and-counter he’d developed fighting Harald. The defensive stance he favored when outnumbered. The way he used Quick Attack to close the distance against ranged opponents.

The ursaloths were adapting to his style.

Not all of them. Not even most. But enough that Francis couldn’t ignore the implications.

Something out there was learning about him and studying his methods and somehow feeding that knowledge to the beasts.

***

“It’s getting worse,” Francis told Tormund that evening. The forge was quiet, and most of the warriors had already retired for the night.

He detailed his findings, the specific tactics that triggered different responses, the way some Ursaloths seemed to possess knowledge they shouldn’t have, and the pattern of adaptation that suggested deliberate instruction rather than random changes.

Tormund’s expression grew increasingly grim as Francis spoke.

“This is not good,” the old smith said when Francis finished. “Beasts are dangerous, yes. But predictable. Can plan for the predictable. Can train for predictable.” He met Francis’s eyes. “Beasts that learn, that adapt? That’s something else entirely.”

“What do I do?” Francis asked.

“Tell Glitvall,” Tormund said immediately. “This is beyond forge wisdom. The warchief needs to know.”

But Francis hesitated. What would he tell Glitvall? That some of the ursaloths seemed slightly smarter than they should be? That he had a feeling something was wrong based on hundreds of loops, only he remembered?

“I need to be sure first,” Francis said. “One more test. If I’m right, I’ll tell him.”

Tormund didn’t look happy, but he nodded. “One more test. But Francis? Be careful. If something out there is studying you, learning your methods…” He left the thought unfinished, but the implication was clear.

Whatever was out there might be preparing a counter.

***

The next morning, Francis set out alone. He’d told Kerhi he needed to clear his head, needed some time to think. It wasn’t entirely a lie. He did need to think, and needed to process what he’d discovered.

But mostly, he needed to test his theory one final time.

Francis tracked a lone ursaloth to a clearing near the ice cliffs. Standard territory, standard prey. He’d fought this exact scenario dozens of times.

He engaged by using his most common opening, Quick Attack to close the distance, Power Strike to the shoulder to limit mobility, then a defensive stance to weather the counterattack.

The ursaloth responded exactly as expected. No anticipation, no adaptation. Just the standard pattern Francis had learned through repetition.

Relief flooded through him. Maybe he’d been imagining things. Perhaps the stress of the loops was making him paranoid, causing him to see patterns that didn’t exist.

Then two ursaloths emerged from behind an ice formation.

That wasn’t unusual. They sometimes hunted in pairs.

But the way it positioned itself was wrong. Not flanking Francis as they usually did, but cutting off his retreat angle and coordinating with its partner in a way that suggested tactical planning.

Francis shifted his stance, activating Battle Sense to track both threats. The first Ursaloth charged, but its attack was a feint—drawing Francis’s attention while the second circled wider, looking for an opening.

They were working together. Actually working together, not just attacking the same target.

Francis dispatched them both, but the fight required more focus than it should have. These weren’t the same beasts he had been fighting anymore. They were displaying a different level of coordination, tactical awareness, and intelligence.

He stood in the clearing afterward, breath misting in the cold air, and felt the realization that he was right. They were fighting differently now.

Something was out there. Something that could watch his fights loop after loop, learn his methods, and teach the ursaloths to counter the very tactics he’d used in timelines that no longer existed. They were answering moves he hadn’t made yet this loop, moves from lives only he should remember.

The question was, what?

And more importantly, how many of his deaths had it been watching?

***

Francis returned to camp as evening settled over Tules. The familiar sights and sounds should have been comforting. There were warriors training, fires burning, and the smell of cooking meat. Yet now everything felt different, tainted by the knowledge that something was studying him from the frozen wastes.

He found Tormund at the forge, as expected.

“Well?” the old smith asked.

“I was right,” Francis said quietly. “Something’s out there. Teaching them to adapt, to counter my tactics.”

Tormund set down his hammer. “You’re certain?”

“As certain as I can be without seeing whatever’s doing it directly.” Francis moved to the fire, warming his hands. “The coordination was too precise, too deliberate. That wasn’t natural behavior.”

“Then you must tell Glitvall,” Tormund said firmly. “Tonight. This threatens more than just you.”

Francis nodded. He would tell the warchief, and explain what he’d discovered. But even as he made that decision, another thought nagged at him.

If something out there was learning about him, studying his methods across multiple encounters, what did that mean for his loops? Every reset, Francis retained his knowledge and skills. He’d assumed that gave him an advantage, that he was the only one learning and adapting.

What if something out there had an ability like his? He already knew the enemy might have a looper of their own. Stenson believed it, and that unexplained reset months ago had all but proven it. But this felt different. A looper would relive the same stretch of time the way he did. This thing seemed to simply watch, loop after loop, forgetting nothing. Whether that made it another looper or something stranger, he couldn’t say. Either way, he was no longer the only one learning.

[ Life Core Channeling Increased - 42 ]

[ Magic Increased - 30 ]

The notifications felt distant and irrelevant compared to the problem before him. Francis had been so focused on grinding skills, on becoming strong enough to defeat the alpha and help the barbarians against the beastkins. He’d treated the loops as his advantage, his unique edge.

Now, standing in Tormund’s forge while shadows lengthened across the camp, Francis felt that certainty crumble.

Everything pointed to the fact that he wasn’t the only one learning and adapting.

And whatever was out there in the frozen wastes, whatever was watching and teaching the ursaloths to counter his tactics, it had been doing so for who knew how long.

Francis looked out toward the battlefield beyond the camp’s borders, toward the ice and snow where the ursaloths prowled. Somewhere out there, something was watching back.

Learning and preparing.

Francis had no idea what it was, or what it wanted.

He was sure of one thing though. That the comfortable routine he’d fallen into, the steady grinding of skills and stats, the predictable pattern of loops and resets, all of that was about to change.

The thought should have terrified him.

Instead, Francis felt a strange sense of relief. He’d been playing the same game for hundreds of deaths, following the same patterns, pursuing the same goals.

Now the game had changed.

Chapter 46

Francis stood in Glitvall’s tent, the warmth from the central fire doing nothing to ease the cold knot in his stomach. The warchief listened in silence as Francis explained what he’d discovered, the changing patterns, the tactical coordination, the way the ursaloths seemed to be learning his methods.

“You’re certain of this?” Glitvall asked when Francis finished.

“As certain as I can be,” Francis replied. “I’ve fought these creatures hundreds of times across my loops. I know their patterns. What I saw yesterday wasn’t natural behavior.”

Glitvall was quiet for a long moment, his massive frame somehow seeming even larger in the flickering firelight. Finally, he nodded. “I believe you. If something is teaching our enemies to counter our warriors, that changes everything.”

He moved to the tent entrance and called for runners. Within minutes, pack leaders were being summoned, patrol routes were being adjusted, and the entire camp was shifting to a higher state of alert.

“We will investigate,” Glitvall said, turning back to Francis. “Carefully. Whatever is out there, we need to understand it before it understands us completely.”

Francis felt a weight lift from his shoulders. He wasn’t alone in this anymore. The barbarians were taking the threat seriously, and would help him figure out what was happening.

“Thank you,” Francis said. “For believing me.”

“You have earned trust,” Glitvall replied simply. “Now we must earn answers. Be careful in your hunts, Francis. If something is watching, it may not like being noticed.”

***

Three days passed in a new routine. Francis trained with Greythorn in the mornings, his magical capacity slowly expanding. Afternoons were spent with the warriors, continuing to refine his axe work and combat skills. Evenings belonged to Kerhi and Tormund, finding comfort in connection and creation.

The increased patrols found nothing unusual. No strange tracks, no signs of observers, no evidence of whatever had been teaching the ursaloths. The beasts themselves seemed to revert to their normal patterns, as if aware they were being watched more closely.

Francis began to wonder if he’d overreacted. Maybe the coordination he’d seen had been coincidence. Maybe stress and paranoia had made him see patterns that didn’t exist.

But the feeling of wrongness persisted, a constant itch at the back of his mind that something was still out there, watching and waiting.

On the fourth day, Francis decided to test himself against the alpha again. He’d made significant progress. His regeneration was functioning automatically now, his axe skill had reached Advanced rank, his Life Core Channeling hummed with power he’d only dreamed of months ago.

Maybe he was finally strong enough.

“I’m going to try the alpha today,” Francis told Kerhi over breakfast.

She looked up from her meal, concern flickering across her face. “Alone?”

“I need to see where I stand,” Francis said. “With the regeneration and everything I’ve learned, maybe I can finally take it down.”

Kerhi studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Be careful. That thing has killed you more times than anything else out there.”

“I know,” Francis replied. “But I have to try eventually. Might as well be today.”

They parted with a kiss, and Francis headed toward the frozen wastes beyond the camp. The morning was clear, the kind of bitter cold that made every breath visible and turned exposed skin numb in minutes. Francis pulled his furs tighter and pressed forward.

The route to the alpha’s territory was familiar now, carved into his memory through hundreds of trips. He knew every ice formation, every treacherous patch of frozen ground, every landmark that told him he was getting closer.

The guards appeared right on schedule, two massive ursaloths emerging from behind ice walls to block his path. Francis engaged them with confidence born of experience, his axes moving in patterns he’d refined through countless deaths.

[ Quick Attack ]

[ Power Strike ]

The first guard fell faster than it ever had before. Francis’s improved skills and stats made the fight almost easy, his regeneration healing the minor wounds he took before they could slow him down.

The second guard lasted only slightly longer. Francis’s axes found vulnerable points with precision, and when the creature finally collapsed, Francis stood over it barely winded.

He was stronger. Significantly stronger than the last time he’d challenged the alpha.

Francis moved forward, anticipation building in his chest. This might actually be it. The moment he’d been working toward for hundreds of deaths.

The alpha’s roar split the air, and Francis felt the familiar rush of adrenaline that came with truly dangerous combat. He rounded the ice formation where the alpha always waited, his axes ready and his Life Core threads pulsing with power.

But the alpha wasn’t there.

Instead, something else stood in the clearing.

It was roughly the size of a large ursaloth, but the resemblance ended there. The creature was built like a living weapon—compact, densely muscled, with claws that gleamed like daggers and a face that was all teeth and rage. Its fur was dark brown with lighter stripes, and its small eyes held an intelligence that made Francis’s skin crawl.

A wolverkin. He’d heard the barbarians mention them in passing, always with a mixture of fear and respect.

But this wasn’t just any wolverkin. The creature radiated power in a way that made even the alpha seem mundane. This was something else entirely.

Francis’s instincts were screaming that he was facing something stronger than any creature he had in Tules before. This was an elite-rank creature, a beast that made the alpha seem utterly weak in comparison.

The wolverkin didn’t roar or posture. It simply charged.

Francis barely got his axes up in time. The impact of the wolverkin’s strike sent him sliding backward across the ice, his arms aching in a way they hadn’t in a while from the force. The creature was fast, and it hit like a siege weapon.

[ Iron Wall]

Francis activated his defensive skill and braced for the next attack. The wolverkin came at him again, claws raking across his axes and finding the gaps in his defense. Francis felt claws tear through his armor and into his flesh, and his ribs cracked under the pressure.

But his regeneration kicked in immediately, golden threads of Life Core energy flooding the wounds and knitting them closed almost as fast as they appeared.

The wolverkin’s eyes narrowed, and Francis knew that it had noticed his healing. Noticed and understood what was happening.

The creature’s lips pulled back in what might have been a grin, and then something changed. The wolverkin’s muscles bulged, its movements became even faster, and foam began to gather at the corners of its mouth.

Francis threw himself to the side as the enraged creature tore through the spot where he’d been standing. Ice shattered under its claws, and the frozen ground cratered from the impact of its strikes. It wasn’t just stronger or faster. This was a creature that had abandoned all defense in favor of pure, overwhelming offense.

Warrior’s Resolve flooded him with power immediately as the beast began to tear into him.

Francis felt his own combat skill activate, converting the damage he’d taken into increased power. But even enhanced, he was struggling to keep up. The wolverkin was relentless, giving him no time to breathe, no space to recover.

Worse, when Francis managed to land a solid hit, his axe cutting deep into the wolverkin’s shoulder, he watched in horror as the wound closed almost immediately. Golden energy, similar to his own Life Core threads but tinged with red, pulsed through the creature’s body.

It has regeneration, too!

Francis’s advantage, the thing that had let him outlast so many opponents, was meaningless here. This creature could match him blow for blow and heal just as fast.

The fight became desperate. Francis used every skill he’d learned, every technique the barbarians had taught him. He activated Quick Attack to create openings, Power Strike to maximize damage, and Riposte to punish the wolverkin’s aggression. Nothing worked. Every wound he inflicted healed almost immediately, while the accumulated damage he was taking was starting to overwhelm even his enhanced regeneration.

The wolverkin caught him with a backhanded strike that sent Francis flying into an ice wall. He felt his spine crack and his left arm bend at an unnatural angle. Regeneration started working immediately, but not fast enough.

The creature was on him before he could recover, massive jaws closing around his throat. Francis tried to fight, tried to activate another skill, but the wolverkin’s teeth found his spine, and everything below his neck went numb.

His last thought before darkness took him was a simple one:

That thing was waiting for me.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang out, and Francis jerked upright in bed, his hand flying to his throat. The phantom sensation of teeth crushing through his neck made him gag, made his whole body shudder with remembered pain.

“You alright?” Michael mumbled from the next bed.

Francis didn’t answer. He was already moving, getting dressed. He needed to get back to Tules and to understand what had just happened.

The wolverkin had been waiting where the alpha should have been. That wasn’t random. That wasn’t a coincidence.

Something had changed within the pattern.

***

Francis made the journey north in record time, his mind churning with questions. When he reached the alpha’s territory, he didn’t bother with caution or strategy. He tore through the guards and rushed toward the clearing.

The wolverkin was there again.

This time, Francis was ready for its speed, its strength, its berserker rage. He fought smarter, using the terrain to his advantage and activating his skills in combinations meant to maximize damage while minimizing exposure.

It didn’t matter.

The wolverkin appeared to have somehow learned from their first fight. It anticipated his tactics, countered his combinations, and exploited weaknesses Francis hadn’t even known he had. When Francis tried to create distance, the creature closed it faster than he could react. When Francis tried to trade blows, the wolverkin’s regeneration matched his own while dealing far more damage.

Minutes into the fight, the wolverkin’s claws found Francis’s chest and tore through his Life Core directly. The golden threads that had been sustaining his regeneration flickered and died, and without them, Francis’s body couldn’t keep up with the damage.

He died watching the wolverkin stand over him, its intelligent eyes studying his corpse with what looked like satisfaction.

***

The bell rang. Francis got up. Dressed. Headed north.

This time, he’d change his approach completely. Use different tactics, different skills, fight in a different style than the wolverkin had seen before.

But when he arrived at the clearing, the wolverkin wasn’t there.

Instead, a different creature waited.

This one was sleeker, built for speed rather than raw power. Its spotted fur seemed to shift and shimmer in the pale northern light, and when it moved, it was almost like watching smoke drift across ice.

It’s a different kind of lynxkin.

Francis’s Battle Sense screamed warnings as the creature vanished from sight. It wasn’t invisible; his enhanced perception could still track it. But it was camouflaged so perfectly that his eyes refused to focus on it.

The first strike came from behind, claws raking across Francis’s back before he could turn. The second came from his left side, impossibly fast. The third from above, the lynxkin having leapt over him.

Francis tried to predict its movements, using his Battle Sense to anticipate the attacks. But the lynxkin was learning with each exchange, identifying the gaps in his awareness and exploiting the split-second delays in his reactions.

It never committed to a prolonged engagement. Every attack was a hit-and-run, striking from Francis’s blind spots and vanishing before he could counter. His regeneration kept him alive, but the accumulated damage was mounting faster than he could heal.

Twenty minutes into the fight, Francis made a mistake. He overcommitted to a strike that the lynxkin had baited him into. The creature’s claws found his throat from behind, and this time, there was no recovery.

***

Bell. Reset. North.

Francis approached the clearing with his heart pounding and his mind reeling. Two different elite bosses in two loops. This wasn’t random. This was deliberate.

Whatever was out there knew about his loops. Knew he was coming back, and was adapting its response each time.

The third attempt brought a Mammothkin Crusher. It stood twice a man’s height at the shoulder, a mountain of muscle sheathed in plates of bony armor that had grown over its grey hide like bark over a trunk. Twin tusks the length of spears curved down from its lowered skull, and each footfall split the frozen ground. Massive, armored, and slow, but utterly devastating. It used the terrain as a weapon, herding Francis into confined spaces where its size became an advantage rather than a liability. Area-of-effect attacks he couldn’t dodge, crushing blows his regeneration couldn’t heal fast enough.

Francis died with the certainty that each boss had been specifically chosen to counter the tactics he’d used in previous attempts.

***

After the fourth death, this time to a creature that seemed to be a hybrid of multiple beastkin types, combining the worst aspects of everything he’d faced, Francis stopped.

He walked down the dirt road, having left the barracks, ignoring Michael’s questions and Phillip’s single attempt to stop him. The comfortable lie he’d been telling himself had finally shattered completely.

I’m not the only one with an advantage.

Someone or something out there could observe his loops. It appeared that it could see what tactics he used, what strategies he employed, and what weaknesses he revealed. And that entity was using that knowledge to place perfectly countered opponents in his path.

Every elite boss had been different. Each one had been designed to exploit specific vulnerabilities in Francis’s fighting style. The wolverkin matched his regeneration and overwhelmed him with berserker rage. The lynxkin countered his Battle Sense with stealth and hit-and-run tactics. The mammothkin negated his speed and skill with raw power and terrain control.

This wasn’t just an adaptation. This was active opposition.

Something out there was playing the same game Francis was, learning and adjusting with each loop. Unlike Francis, who had to experience each reset physically, this entity seemed to have perfect knowledge of what had happened in previous timelines.

The implications terrified him.

How long had it been watching? How much did it know? And most importantly, what was it trying to achieve?

Francis thought about all the loops he’d spent grinding skills, all the deaths he’d used to learn enemy patterns, all the careful optimization he’d done to become stronger. He’d thought he was being strategic, methodical, and smart.

But what if he’d been training himself according to someone else’s plan? What if every skill he’d developed, every tactic he’d refined, was being catalogued and studied so this entity could build perfect counters?

The comfortable routine he’d fallen into, mornings with Greythorn, afternoons with warriors, evenings with Kerhi and Tormund, all of it felt different now. Tainted by the knowledge that every action he took might be feeding information to an enemy that could use it against him.

Francis rose and stepped out of his tent into the cold, looking out over the dark camp. Somewhere beyond those borders, in the frozen wastes where the ursaloths prowled and elite bosses waited, something was watching.

Learning and preparing.

And Francis had no idea how to fight an enemy that knew everything he was going to do before he did it.

Tomorrow, he would need to do something different. Something unpredictable and hopefully something this entity wouldn’t see coming.

Chapter 47

The moment he was dressed, Francis was moving, heading straight for the battlefield.

He needed to tell Stenson and needed to share the burden of what he’d discovered before it crushed him completely.

He found the general exactly where expected, bent over a map table with markers indicating troop positions and enemy movements. Stenson looked up as Francis entered, his experienced eyes immediately sensing the power that Francis now gave off.

“Apples under a hat,” Francis said, and the general’s eyes widened.

“What?”

“The phrase. We need to talk,” Francis stated. “And I’m going to blow your mind about the enemy, the army, and why we’re losing.”

***

He shared so much of the story and details of past loops, but when Francis got to the part where he saw the new beastkins, his whole body shook.

“Francis,” Stenson said, straightening. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

“Worse,” Francis replied, his voice tight. “The elite bosses, they’re not random.”

He laid it out as clearly as he could. The changing ursaloth patterns he’d noticed, the way they seemed to be learning his tactics. Then the appearance of the elite bosses where the alpha should have been. The wolverkin that matched his regeneration. The lynxkin that countered his Battle Sense. The mammothkin that overwhelmed his combat skills.

“Each one was different,” Francis said, his hands clenching into fists. “Each one was specifically designed to counter what I’d tried in the previous loop. That’s not a coincidence, General. That’s not natural adaptation. Something out there is watching my loops and placing perfect counters in my path.”

Stenson’s expression grew increasingly grim as Francis spoke. When Francis finished, the general was quiet for a while, his fingers drumming on the map table.

“You’re certain about this?” Stenson asked finally. “Absolutely certain?”

“I’ve died four times to different elite bosses in four consecutive loops,” Francis said. “Each one appeared where the alpha should have been. Each one countered the specific tactics I’d used in previous attempts. Yes, I’m certain.”

Stenson moved to pour himself a drink from a decanter on the side table. He offered one to Francis, who shook his head.

“If what you’re saying is true,” Stenson said slowly, “then we’re facing something far more dangerous than just stronger enemies. We’re facing an intelligence that can observe across time, learn from multiple timelines, and adapt its strategy accordingly.”

“Like another looper,” Francis said, the words tasting like dirt in his mouth.

“Perhaps,” Stenson replied. “Or something else entirely. I don’t know enough about your ability, Francis. I don’t know if there could be others with similar powers, or different powers that achieve similar results. It would seem reasonable to believe so, and that makes things even worse.”

He drained his glass and set it down. “We need to go to Tules. Immediately. Glitvall needs to hear this, and Greythorn might have insight from a magical perspective that we lack.”

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Francis admitted.

“Let me get Priscilla,” Stenson said. “If this is a magical phenomenon, her expertise could be invaluable.”

***

An hour later, Francis found himself in a tent with Stenson and Priscilla. The royal mage had listened to Francis’s explanation with intense focus, her sharp mind already working through the implications.

“The question,” Priscilla said, staring at the cloth ceiling, “is whether this entity observes you specifically, or observes time itself more broadly.”

“What’s the difference?” Francis asked.

“If it observes you specifically, then its knowledge is limited to what you do, where you go, what tactics you employ,” Priscilla explained. “That’s still dangerous, but it’s a focused threat. We could potentially work around it by having you change your patterns completely, or by having others take actions that this entity wouldn’t see coming.”

She turned to face him, her expression serious. “But if it observes time more broadly, if it can see everything that happens in a given timeline regardless of whether you’re involved, then we’re facing something far more powerful. Something that might know every move we make before we make it.”

The thought sent a chill down Francis’s spine. He’d been assuming the entity was focused on him specifically, tracking his movements and countering his tactics. But what if Priscilla was right? What if it could see everything?

“How would we test that?” Stenson asked.

“We’d need to have Francis do something while others take completely independent action,” Priscilla said. “If the entity responds to both, we know it has broad observation capabilities. If it only responds to Francis’s actions, then we know it’s targeting him specifically.”

“The Southern Kingdom battle,” Francis said suddenly. “I could fight here instead of heading north. I could check if elite bosses also appear there. If they do, we know the entity can observe everywhere. If they don’t, maybe it’s limited to watching what happens in the north.”

Stenson nodded slowly. “That could work. Though we’d need to be careful. If the entity can observe broadly, keeping you at our spot would be beneficial to learn something that it doesn’t.”

They discussed possibilities for a few more hours, but no clear answers emerged. There were too many unknowns, too many variables. Eventually, Francis felt like his head was spinning with theories and counter-theories. So Priscilla opened a portal and they stepped into the north.

***

Glitvall’s tent felt smaller with five people in it. The warchief sat in his usual chair, massive and imposing, while Greythorn stood near the fire. Stenson, Priscilla, and Francis stood in a rough semicircle, and the weight of the moment pressed down on all of them.

Francis explained everything again, this time with more detail. The subtle changes he’d first noticed in the ursaloths. The deliberate coordination. The appearance of elite bosses that shouldn’t have been there. The way each one perfectly countered his tactics from previous loops.

Greythorn listened without interrupting, her ancient eyes fixed on Francis with an intensity that made him uncomfortable. When he finished, she was quiet for a while.

“No magic I know do this,” Greythorn said finally, her broken speech somehow making the words even more ominous. “Scrying shows present. Divination shows futures. But to observe past, timelines that no longer exist? To know what was unmade?” She shook her head. “This beyond what shamans do. Beyond any magic I can do.”

“Could it be another person with Francis’s ability?” Glitvall asked. “Another Blood of the Undying?”

“Possible,” Greythorn replied. “But from outside, I could not tell them apart. Loops as Francis loops, or watches some other way. A man who relives, a thing that only remembers, both would know what was unmade. This is what matters: Something out there keeps what his deaths erase. The how, we learn when we face it.”

Priscilla leaned forward. “What if it’s not a person at all? What if it’s something else? A magical construct, perhaps, designed to observe and adapt?”

“To what end?” Stenson asked. “If someone created a construct to counter Francis, why? How would they even know he exists, know what he can do?”

“Maybe they don’t know about Francis specifically,” Priscilla suggested. “Maybe they created something to counter any threat that emerges. A defensive measure that learns and adapts to whatever challenges it faces.”

Glitvall’s expression was troubled. “If that’s true, then this war becomes far more complicated. We’ve been treating the beastkins as the enemy, but what if they’re just pieces on a board controlled by something else?”

“Or someone else,” Stenson added grimly.

Francis had been quiet, listening to the theories swirl around him. Now he spoke up. “Does it matter what it is? The important question is, what do we do about it?”

“You can’t fight what you can’t see,” Glitvall said. “Can’t strategize against an enemy you don’t understand.”

“Then we need to understand it,” Francis replied. “We need to test it, figure out its limits, learn its patterns the same way it’s learning mine.”

“How?” Greythorn asked.

Francis outlined the plan he’d discussed with Stenson and Priscilla back in their kingdom. He’d go to the Southern Kingdom battle instead of continuing to fight in the north. There he could check if different elite bosses also appeared there. That would allow him to test whether the entity’s observation was focused on him specifically or more broadly distributed.

“And if elite bosses appear in the south?” Glitvall asked.

“Then we know its reach is far greater than we feared,” Francis said. “And we’d have to ask how. Nothing should be able to watch a man in the south and adjust beasts in the north, not across that distance, or fast enough to matter. If the bosses follow me there, this thing is either far larger than one creature or not bound by distance at all. But if the south stays quiet, then its eyes are here, in the north, and that’s a limit we can use.”

“That could get you killed,” Stenson pointed out.

“I’m already getting killed,” Francis replied with a bitter smile. “At least this way, I’d be learning something from it.”

Greythorn moved closer to Francis, studying him with those disconcerting eyes. “You understand what this means? If something watches you, studies you, learns from every death?” She paused. “Your advantage becomes disadvantage. Your strength becomes weakness. Everything you do feeds information to enemy.”

“I know,” Francis said quietly. “That’s what terrifies me.”

“Good,” Greythorn said. “Fear keeps you careful. Keeps you alive till you die again.” There might have been dark humor in her voice, though it was hard to tell.

Glitvall stood, his massive frame somehow making the already cramped tent feel even smaller. “Then we have a plan. Francis goes to the southern battle. Tests if this entity can observe him there. Meanwhile, we increase patrols here, look for any sign of what might be watching.”

“And if Francis encounters new elite bosses in the south?” Stenson asked.

“Then we know the scope of the threat,” Glitvall replied. “And we adapt accordingly. If something can observe everywhere, we must assume it sees everything we do.”

“There’s another consideration,” Priscilla said. “This thing already remembers him across his resets, or it couldn’t be adapting at all. But remembering and understanding aren’t the same. Right now it might think it’s facing a warrior the gods won’t let die, or a string of Southerners who all fight alike. What it may not yet grasp is the truth, that he resets time itself and arrives each loop knowing everything that came before. The moment it pieces that together, it stops reacting to him and starts preparing for him.”

The implications hung heavy in the air. The thing was already countering his tactics loop after loop. But if it grasped the mechanism, it could do worse than counter him. It could anticipate him, lay traps that only made sense against a man who spent deaths like coin and walked into danger because he knew he’d wake again. It could turn his greatest advantage into the snare that finally caught him.

“All the more reason to be unpredictable,” Francis said. “Change my patterns completely. Do things that don’t make sense from a tactical perspective but keep the entity guessing.”

“Dangerous strategy,” Greythorn observed. “Fighting bad gets you killed faster.”

“Maybe,” Francis agreed. “But fighting optimally means teaching this thing exactly how to counter me. At some point, I have to choose between efficiency and unpredictability.”

Stenson was frowning, clearly thinking through scenarios. “There’s a middle ground. You don’t have to fight stupidly, just differently. Use weapons you haven’t favored before. Engage enemies from unexpected angles. Mix up your skill usage in ways that don’t follow obvious patterns.”

“And vary your timing,” Priscilla added. “If you always arrive at the same moment, try arriving early or late. If you always fight alone, bring allies. If you always engage head-on, try ambush tactics. Make yourself harder to predict.”

Francis nodded, absorbing the suggestions. It made sense, but it also felt like giving up his hard-won advantages. He’d spent hundreds of deaths optimizing his approach, learning the most efficient ways to fight and survive. Now he’d have to deliberately unlearn those patterns, fight in ways that felt wrong, all to stay one step ahead of an enemy he couldn’t see.

“There’s something else we should consider,” Stenson said. “If this entity is placing elite bosses to counter Francis, what’s its goal? Is it trying to kill him permanently? Drive him away? Or is it testing him, seeing what he’s capable of?”

“Does it matter?” Glitvall asked.

“It might,” Stenson replied. “If it’s trying to kill him, we need defensive strategies. If it’s testing him, we need to consider why. What would something gain from understanding Francis’s capabilities?”

“Knowledge,” Priscilla said. “If I wanted to counter someone with Francis’s ability, I’d need to understand exactly how it works, what its limits are, what weaknesses it has. The elite bosses might not be meant to just kill Francis. They might be meant to force him to reveal more about what he can do.”

Francis felt a chill at that thought. Every loop he’d used to test himself against the elite bosses might have been doing exactly what the entity wanted, showing it more of his capabilities, revealing more of his skills and tactics.

“Then maybe I shouldn’t go to the Southern Kingdom,” Francis said slowly. “Maybe I shouldn’t give it more information.”

“But we need information too,” Glitvall countered. “We need to understand what we face. We cannot plan without that knowledge.”

“He’s right,” Stenson agreed. “As dangerous as it is to give this entity more data, we’re blind without understanding its capabilities. The southern battle is our best chance to test its reach and limitations.”

Francis wanted to argue, wanted to find a third option that didn’t involve either staying ignorant or feeding more information to an unknown enemy. But he couldn’t think of one. The problem was a false pattern would only work if he could prove that the entity had seen it and accepted it. He didn’t even know from where or how it watched.

“Fine,” he said finally. “I’ll go to the southern battle. Try to engage enemies there and see what happens. But I’m going to be unpredictable about it. Different timing, different approach, different tactics than I’ve used before.”

“Good,” Glitvall said. “And we continue our investigation here. If something watches, it must watch from somewhere. It must have a physical presence, or a magical anchor, or something we can find.”

“I’ll work with shamans,” Greythorn said. “Look for magical signs of observation, unusual flows of power around battlefield.”

“I’ll coordinate with our scouts,” Stenson added. “Have them look for anything out of place. If there’s an observer, physical or magical, we’ll find it.”

They discussed logistics for another hour. Timing, communication methods, what to do if Francis encountered new elite bosses in the south, and contingency plans if things went wrong. By the time the meeting ended, Francis felt simultaneously more prepared and more uncertain than when he’d arrived.

As everyone filed out of the tent, Glitvall caught Francis’s arm.

“You carry a heavy burden,” the warchief said quietly. “Heavier than most warriors face. But you are not alone in this. We fight with you, even if we cannot remember the fights when you reset.”

“Thank you,” Francis said. “That means more than you know.”

“One more thing,” Glitvall added. “If you face something you cannot defeat, if this entity proves too powerful, do not hesitate to retreat. Pride is worthless to the dead. Live to fight another day, even if that day is after a reset.”

Francis nodded and left the tent to find Stenson waiting outside with Priscilla.

“We’ll head back tomorrow,” the general said. “Give you time to rest, prepare, and say goodbye to anyone you need to say goodbye to.”

The words carried weight. They all knew that the next loop might be very different from the ones that had come before. If the entity could observe the southern battle as well, if it could place elite bosses anywhere Francis went, then the comfortable patterns of the past months would be gone forever.

“I’ll find you in the morning,” Francis said. “Right now, I need to think.”

He walked through the camp as evening settled over Tules, watching warriors spar and laugh and live their lives without any knowledge of the threat that hung over them all. In a few hours, or a few days, or a few loops, everything might reset, and they’d forget this conversation ever happened.

But Francis would remember. He’d carry the weight of knowing that something out there was watching, learning, preparing counters to everything he tried.

The question was whether that knowledge would help him or destroy him.

***

Francis sought out Kerhi, immediately capturing her attention by describing her carvings and then the loops. They walked to a quiet spot at the edge of camp, and Francis told her everything. Not the sanitized version he’d given the council, but the full truth of how terrified he was. How every certainty he’d built over hundreds of loops was crumbling. How the advantage he’d thought was unassailable was turning into a vulnerability.

This was not their first night, though she sometimes swore it was. Loop after loop he found her, told her the truth, and watched her choose to believe him. The rebuilding came easier each time now, the bond she sensed but could not place pulling her toward him faster than reason should allow. It was never the same span of days. This loop had been only a handful, but it always arrived here, and he had long since stopped questioning the gift of it.

Kerhi listened without interrupting, and when he finished, she pulled him into an embrace.

“You’ll figure it out,” she said simply. “It appears you always do.”

“What if I don’t?” Francis asked. “What if this thing is smarter than me, faster than me, better at learning than I am?”

“Then you adapt,” Kerhi replied. “That’s what warriors do. We face things we can’t beat, and we find a way anyway. You’ve died how many times now? Three thousand? Four thousand? And you’re still here, still fighting, still finding new ways to grow stronger.”

She pulled back to look at him directly. “This thing may be watching you, learning from you, countering you. But you’re doing the same thing to it. Every elite boss it sends teaches you something about its capabilities. Every counter it develops reveals something about its knowledge. You’re learning about it too.”

Francis hadn’t thought about it that way. He’d been so focused on the entity learning about him that he hadn’t considered what he was learning about it.

“You’re right,” he said slowly. “Every elite boss it places tells me something. The wolverkin showed me it understands regeneration. The lynxkin showed me it knows about Battle Sense. The mammothkin showed me it can place different types of creatures strategically.”

“Exactly,” Kerhi said. “So instead of being afraid of what it knows, start thinking about what you’re learning about it. Build a picture of what this thing is, how it thinks, what its limitations might be.”

Francis kissed her, grateful for the shift in perspective. “How do you always know what to say?”

“Because I pay attention,” Kerhi replied. Then, softer, the guarded edge she wore for everyone else slipping for a moment, “I have known you days, Francis, and I trust you the way I trust men I’ve bled beside for years. It makes no sense. Some part of me swears I’ve known you far longer.” She took his hand. “It should frighten me, but it doesn’t.”

They headed back toward her tent, and for a few hours, Francis let himself forget about elite bosses and mysterious observers and the weight of impossible choices.

But later, lying beside Kerhi in the darkness, Francis’s mind returned to the problem. Somewhere out there, something was watching. Learning. Preparing.

Tomorrow he’d go to the southern battle and test its reach. He’d fight unpredictably, trying to stay ahead of whatever counters it prepared.

He’d start building his own understanding of this entity, learning about it the same way it was learning about him.

Kerhi had been right. He had died so many times that he had honestly lost count. He was probably at five thousand or over it by now. Francis knew he had learned a great deal with each one, but this new idea made him wonder about what he might have overlooked.

He knew the comfortable grind was over. From now on, every death, every loop, might be a chess match against an opponent he couldn’t see.

The game had changed, and now he just had to figure out how to win it.

Chapter 48

Francis bypassed the main battle lines entirely, moving through the chaos, striking down anything that got close. He’d fought on these fields so many times that the terrain was carved into his memory. Even though he hadn’t fought here in so many deaths, it was a place he could cross blindfolded.

Regular beastkins came at him as he pushed deeper into their territory. Wolfkins and tigerkins fell in seconds. His sword moved with precision born from thousands of lives spent getting stronger.

A wolfkin lunged at his throat. Francis sidestepped, his blade opening its side as it passed. Quick Attack let him close on a tigerkin before it could bring its claws to bear, his sword plunging through its chest and into its heart.

His regeneration kept the occasional minor wounds in check, closing almost as fast as they appeared, golden threads of Life Core energy knitting torn flesh. The regular beastkins couldn’t land clean hits due to Francis’s Battle Sense. Only when a swarm of beasts converged did a few stray claws connect.

He was so much stronger than when he’d first fought here. Months of grinding in the north, hundreds of deaths learning from elite opponents, all of it had transformed him into something these regular troops weren’t prepared to handle.

Then the rhinokins appeared.

Three of them, each easily twelve feet tall and covered in thick hide that regular weapons could barely scratch. They bellowed challenges, massive feet cratering the packed dirt as they charged.

Francis met the first one head-on. [ Iron Wall ]  activated as he braced behind his shield, the impact sending shockwaves up his arm but holding firm. His sword came around, finding the gap between armor plates at the creature’s knee. The rhinokin stumbled, and Francis’s follow-up strike opened its throat.

The second rhinokin was smarter, using its companion’s death to judge Francis’s tactics. It came in more cautiously, trying to use its bulk to pin Francis against terrain.

He gave ground strategically, letting the rhinokin think it was herding him. Then [ Quick Attack ]  carried him past its guard, his blade finding the vulnerable spot behind its front leg where arteries ran closer to the surface. Blood sprayed across the grass, and the creature’s roar of rage soon became a gurgle as it collapsed after a few more wounds were inflicted by Francis.

The third rhinokin didn’t charge like the others had. It circled instead, looking for openings, testing Francis’s defense with feints, churning the dirt as it shifted its weight, seeming to play with him.

Francis waited.

The rhinokin finally committed, coming at him with an upward strike with its massive horn meant to impale. Francis stepped left and inside the attack’s arc, too close for the horn to reach, and drove his sword up through the soft tissue under its jaw.

[ Power Strike ]

The blade punched into the creature’s brain, and it died standing, muscles locked in its final charge.

[ Swordsmanship Increased - 77 ]

Francis pulled his weapon free and kept moving. He needed to know if whatever he was facing had changed the elite opponents here. This was going to be the first test to see if they had adapted to counter him.

That’s when he heard the roar.

It was higher-pitched, focused, and carried a challenge that made Francis’s Battle Sense scream warnings. He turned toward the sound and saw it emerging from between formations of regular beastkins.

The elite tigerkin.

The creature stood at least twelve feet tall, its orange-and-black-striped fur rippling over muscles that looked carved from stone. But what drew Francis’s eyes from its body were the two massive swords it carried. Each blade was easily five feet long, gleaming in the sunlight. The creature wore armor flowing like liquid across its form, shimmering with each movement.

It was the same elite that had killed General Stenson. Francis had watched that battle, had seen the general, a master swordsman with decades of experience, struggle against this creature. It had taken Stenson’s other arm before it ripped off his head.

Now Francis was facing it alone.

The elite tigerkin’s yellow eyes locked onto Francis.

It circled, both swords held in a guard position that would warn anyone with half a brain it had skill with weapons. The creature was studying Francis, looking for tells, weaknesses, or patterns to exploit.

Francis settled into his own stance, shield ready, sword held in a middle guard. His heart pounded, but his breathing remained controlled.

Then the elite tigerkin moved.

The speed was incredible. One moment it was twenty yards away, and the next it was on him, both swords coming in from different angles. Francis barely got his shield up to catch the first strike, the impact sending pins and needles up his arm and shoulder. His own sword came around to deflect the second blade, steel ringing against steel with a sound like a bell.

The force behind each strike was tremendous. Francis felt himself being driven back across the grass, his boots tearing furrows in the soft earth as he gave ground. The elite tigerkin pressed its advantage, both swords working in combination. It attacked with high and low, left and right swings, always using constant pressure designed to overwhelm his defenses.

[ Guarded Stance ]

Francis activated his defensive skill, settling into a more solid stance. He couldn’t just defend. That was a death sentence against an opponent this skilled. He needed openings, and a way to counter.

The elite tigerkin’s right sword came in with a diagonal slash. Francis deflected it with his shield and immediately thrust at the creature’s exposed side. His blade scored a line across its ribs, cutting through the flowing armor and into flesh beneath.

First blood.

The wound was shallow, barely slowing the creature, but it made the elite tigerkin’s eyes narrow, and Francis saw calculation there. It wasn’t angry about being hit, it was analyzing how Francis had created that opening.

The pace of combat increased. The elite tigerkin came at Francis with combinations that would have overwhelmed him in a moment a thousand deaths before today. Feints came, mixed with genuine attacks, bladework so fast Francis’s Battle Sense was working overtime just to keep track. Francis gave ground strategically, using his shield to absorb hits he couldn’t dodge and his sword to punish any overextension.

But the elite tigerkin wasn’t overextending. It fought with the discipline of a master, each strike purposeful, each movement calculated. Francis began to recognize some of the style combinations as they fought.

It appears there’s a similar foundation in all sword play, regardless of where one learns it.

A low cut came at Francis’s legs. He jumped back, but the elite tigerkin had anticipated the dodge. Its second sword was already coming around in a follow-up strike aimed at where Francis would land.

Francis twisted in midair, barely getting his shield between himself and the blade. The impact sent him tumbling across the grass, rolling twice before he could regain his feet.

The elite tigerkin didn’t pursue immediately. It stood there, watching, evaluating. Francis realized that the creature was testing him, learning his patterns the same way Francis had learned theirs through loops.

This was going to be a long fight.

Francis charged first, using [ Quick Attack ]  to close the distance before the elite tigerkin could set itself. His sword came in low, forcing the creature to block with one blade, then Francis’s shield smashed forward in a bash aimed at its chest.

The elite tigerkin leaned back, taking the shield bash on its shoulder instead of center mass. Both of its swords came around in a scissor strike meant to catch Francis between them.

Francis dropped into a crouch, the blades passing overhead with inches to spare. He thrust upward, his sword finding the creature’s thigh and opening a gash.

The elite tigerkin roared in what sounded like a laugh. It kicked out, catching Francis in the chest and sending him sprawling backward.

[ Warrior’s Resolve ]

The skill activated, converting the pain and injury into power. Francis rolled with the impact and came up ready, his shield raised and sword poised.

They circled each other, both breathing harder now. Francis’s chest ached where the kick had landed, but his regeneration was already working, golden threads visible at the edges of his armor as they knit cracked ribs.

[ Regeneration Increased - 5 ]

The elite tigerkin noticed the golden glow. Its eyes widened slightly, and Francis saw its entire tactical approach shift in real-time. If its opponent could heal, then causing accumulated damage wouldn’t work. It needed killing blows.

The elite tigerkin attacked with renewed aggression. Both swords moved in a blur, striking from every angle. High, low, left, right, diagonal cuts mixed with straight thrusts. Francis’s world narrowed to nothing but blade and shield, block and parry, the constant ringing of steel on steel.

A cut got through his guard, slicing across his shoulder. Pain came, but Francis felt his regeneration activate immediately. Another strike found his thigh, opening a wound that would have spelled his death any other loop. The golden threads worked frantically, keeping Francis mobile even as blood stained the grass beneath his feet.

Francis gave ground, step by step, as the elite tigerkin pressed forward. The creature was relentless, giving him no time to breathe, no space to recover. Each exchange left Francis with new wounds that his regeneration struggled to keep up with.

But Francis was learning too. He was seeing the tells in the elite tigerkin’s attacks. There was a slight shift of weight before a thrust, the angle of its shoulders that telegraphed which sword would strike first. The patterns were subtle, but they were there.

Francis waited for his moment. The elite tigerkin committed to a double overhead slash, both swords coming down with enough force to split him in half. Francis didn’t try to block, knowing the force would have shattered his shield. Instead, he dove to the side, rolling across the grass and coming up inside the creature’s guard.

[ Power Strike ]

Francis’s sword caught the elite tigerkin’s left wrist with devastating force. Bone cracked, and one of the creature’s swords fell from nerveless fingers.

The elite tigerkin howled, but instead of retreating, it attacked even more viciously with its remaining sword. One-handed, the creature was still faster than Francis, still skilled enough to keep him on the defensive.

In seconds the balance had shifted. Francis pressed forward, using [ Quick Attack ]  to harry the creature, not giving it time to adjust to fighting one-handed. His sword found openings that he didn’t have before. Francis landed a cut across the creature’s bicep, a thrust that scraped ribs, a slash that opened its side.

The elite tigerkin’s regeneration, if it had any, wasn’t keeping up. Blood matted its fur, and its movements were slowing. Francis saw desperation enter those yellow eyes as the creature realized it was losing.

That’s when it got dangerous.

The elite tigerkin dropped its remaining sword and charged, abandoning all technique for pure ferocity. Massive claws came at Francis’s face, teeth snapping toward his throat. The creature was clearly betting everything on overwhelming force.

Francis’s shield caught the first claw strike, but the impact was tremendous. The metal held, but Francis felt his arm go numb from the blow. He couldn’t get his sword around in time to counter. The elite tigerkin was too close, inside his defenses.

Claws raked across Francis’s chest, tearing through chain armor and into flesh. Francis felt his ribs crack, felt the claws scraping against bone. His regeneration struggled under the number of injuries he faced. His core was burning through all the power it had, trying to help him with healing, strength, and speed.

The elite tigerkin’s jaws closed on Francis’s sword shoulder, teeth sinking through armor and into muscle. Francis felt his grip weaken, felt the sword slipping from his grasp.

But he didn’t need the sword. His body filled with strength as Warrior’s Resolve took the damage from the beast and converted it to power.

[ Riposte ]

[ Power Strike ]

The defensive skill activated automatically, punishing the elite tigerkin’s attack. Francis’s free hand grabbed the knife from his belt and drove it up under the creature’s jaw, through the soft tissue of its throat, and into its brain.

The elite tigerkin’s eyes went wide with shock. Its jaws released Francis’s shoulder, and the massive body collapsed, dead before it hit the ground.

Francis stood there, the knife still in his hand, blood pouring from all over his body, shaking. Only the power that Warrior’s Resolve gave kept him on his feet.

[ Shield Use Increased - 59 ]

[ Life Core Channeling Increased - 43 ]

[ Regeneration Increased - 6 ]

His regeneration was working overtime, golden threads flooding through his body, knitting torn muscle and broken bone. The wounds were severe. Without his healing ability, Francis would have died. Even with it, he was barely conscious as the golden energy worked to save his life.

Minutes passed before Francis could walk. His armor was ruined, his chain mail shredded, and blood covered him from head to toe. Yet he was alive, and the elite tigerkin was dead.

Francis looked down at the creature’s carcass. This was the same opponent that had nearly killed General Stenson.

Francis had barely defeated it. It was partially through luck, some skill, and due to his regeneration ability.

Having retrieved his sword, Francis moved to the side, ignoring the cries of the beasts who had watched the fight as he raised his sword. He needed proof of this kill. Something that would convince the entire Southern Kingdom’s leadership that he was worth listening to.

The work was grim but necessary. When he finished, he wrapped the severed head in cloth torn from his own cloak and began the trip back toward the human battle lines.

***

The war council assembled within the hour. King Baxter sat at the head of the table, his presence commanding despite the exhaustion of the ongoing war visible in his eyes. Queen Auri stood beside him, already assessing Francis.

Priscilla and General Stenson stood across from Francis, smiling.

“Speak,” King Baxter said simply.

Francis took a breath and told them everything. His ability to reset upon death. The thousands of loops he’d lived through. Learning enemy patterns through repetition, dying until he understood how to win. The Southern Kingdom battles where he’d died to the elite tigerkin dozens of times before finally defeating it today.

He told them about the Northern observer who seemed to counter his tactics, about elite bosses appearing where they shouldn’t be, each one specifically designed to exploit his weaknesses. About his theory that the observer’s knowledge had limits and that it couldn’t see everywhere at once.

“I came here to test if the Southern elites had been adapted to fight me,” Francis explained. “That elite tigerkin fought exactly as I remembered. It had the same patterns, tactics, and no adaptation to my current abilities. That proves the Northern observer doesn’t have intelligence about what happens here.”

The silence that followed was heavy. King Baxter’s expression remained unreadable. Queen Auri looked thoughtful, her fingers drumming once on the table.

“He’s telling the truth,” the queen said. “Every word of it.”

“Impossible… That’s… quite a story,” King Baxter said finally. “But to have a regeneration ability… Many forms of magic can imitate  such a thing.”

“I told you, my king, that we had a possible new hope,” Stenson said. “This was why Priscilla and I needed to leave like we did. He is why I have been less  grouchy as my daughter stated this morning.

“I’m not faking anything either,” Francis stated. Without hesitation, he drew his sword and drove it through his own thigh. The pain was unpleasant, and he let it show on his face as he pulled the blade free.

Blood poured from the wound. The king and queen both looked on in shock.

“Watch,” Francis said through gritted teeth.

Golden threads became visible around the wound, his Life Core energy made manifest. The bleeding slowed, then stopped. Flesh began to knit together at a speed that defied all natural healing. Within thirty seconds, only blood-stained skin remained where a crippling injury had been.

“Life Core Channeling at an advanced level,” Priscilla pointed out. “Combined with regeneration. None of what he does should be possible for someone your age. That level of ability takes decades to develop.”

“Or thousands of deaths,” Francis replied quietly.

Queen Auri spoke again. “I already told you all what he said was true… it appears you felt you needed to give more proof. Still… to have lived and died that many times. And you’ve learned and grown stronger from all of those deaths?”

“Yes,” Francis said simply.

King Baxter leaned back in his chair, processing everything. The room remained silent for a long moment. Finally, the king spoke again. “And you believe there’s another entity, similar to you but different, observing and countering your actions in the north?”

“I’m certain of it,” Francis replied. “The elite bosses appearing where the alpha should have been, each one perfectly designed to counter tactics I’d used in previous loops can’t be a coincidence. That’s active opposition from something that can observe across timelines.”

“Tell the king what you need,” Stenson said.

“Better equipment,” Francis replied. “Plate armor instead of chain, a proper shield that can withstand elite-rank opponents. I’ll also need access to fight wherever I need to test my theories. If I’m right about the observer’s limitations, I might have time to learn and grow stronger before it adapts to what I’m doing here.”

“And if you’re wrong?” Queen Auri asked. “If the observer can see everything?”

“Then I’ll find out when I die to an adapted elite tomorrow,” Francis replied. “If I die, I’ll reset, come back here, and we’ll have this conversation again. I’ll prove myself as many times as necessary.”

King Baxter and Queen Auri exchanged a look, some unspoken communication passing between them. Finally, the king nodded.

“The quartermaster has plate that will serve,” Baxter said. “The smiths will fit it to you by morning. Stenson will see that you have the best shield available. Priscilla, examine his abilities when time permits. And, Francis”—the king’s voice hardened slightly—“you’ll report your findings directly to this council. If there truly is an intelligence countering our efforts, we need to understand it.”

“Of course, Your Majesty,” Francis replied.

“One question,” King Baxter said, his eyes boring into Francis. “You’ve died thousands of times, lived through countless loops, seen the same people die over and over. You really aren’t afraid of death, are you?”

Francis snorted but met the king’s gaze without shying away. The weight of five thousand deaths pressed upon him. The memory of pain, failure, and watching people he cared about die while he remained helpless to save them was always there.

“Not for myself,” he said quietly.

King Baxter held his gaze for another moment, then nodded slowly.

“Go and rest. Tomorrow you’ll have your equipment.”

***

The plate armor was ready as promised, drawn from the quartermaster’s stores and adjusted overnight to the measurements they’d taken before he slept. It fit well enough, the articulated joints allowing a full range of motion. The shield stood nearly as tall as he was, reinforced metal with enchantments Priscilla had etched along its surface in the dark hours.

“This should withstand hits from elite-rank opponents,” Priscilla said as she handed it over. “The enchantments will absorb impact and distribute force. It won’t make you invincible, but it will help.”

“Thank you,” Francis said sincerely.

Stenson appeared as Francis was strapping on the armor. “The king wants a report after your next test. Whatever you find out there, he wants to know. But tell me… will any of this really matter?”

“In what way?” Francis asked.

“I can see how you move… the way you speak your mind and hold yourself. You’ve spoken a little bit about this when we talked before heading to the north. Tell me… what kind of relationship have we had over all these deaths?”

“A good one,” he replied. “You’ve helped push me forward, directing my actions and my path. I know your desire is for the kingdom, and you knew my desire to save my brother. Together, we worked on getting me to a point where I could save both of those. I’m not there yet, but perhaps soon.”

Stenson nodded. “Then be safe, and thank you for becoming what I see before me. A warrior… and a young man who has done something I struggle to believe was even possible.”

Francis nodded and headed back toward the battlefield. The morning was clear, and he could feel the weight of the new armor and shield, the way they changed his balance and movement. He’d need to adjust his fighting style, but the protection they offered would be worth it.

He pushed deep into enemy territory again, cutting through regular beastkin again. The new shield made defense easier. He could block strikes that would have forced him to dodge previously, and could press forward more aggressively.

Then he heard the roars. Plural.

Two elite opponents emerged from the enemy lines, positioning themselves to flank Francis. One was a jaguarkin. It was massive, rippling with muscles, carrying scars suggesting it had survived countless battles. The other was a pantherkin , sleeker and faster, its black coat seeming to shimmer as it moved.

Francis’s Battle Sense screamed warnings. Facing two elites at once was new territory.

The jaguarkin charged from his left. The pantherkin came from his right, moving with liquid grace. Francis raised his shield to block the jaguarkin’s strike and tried to bring his sword around to intercept the pantherkin.

But he was too slow.

The pantherkin’s claws screeched off his breastplate and caught the mail at his side, shearing through the rings and the padding beneath to score the flesh under them. Francis’s regeneration activated immediately, but the jaguarkin’s follow-up strike slammed into his shield hard enough to drive him back several feet across the grass.

[ Regeneration Increased - 7 ]

Francis tried to create space and get both opponents in front of him instead of flanking. The pantherkin was too quick, circling faster than Francis could turn, while the jaguarkin pressed from the front with relentless aggression.

[ Iron Wall ]

The defensive skill helped Francis weather the jaguarkin’s assault, but it did nothing about the pantherkin’s hit-and-run attacks from behind. Claws found his legs, his back, his sword arm. Individual wounds weren’t fatal, but they were accumulating faster than his regeneration could handle.

Francis activated Power Strike, catching the jaguarkin with a devastating blow that opened a deep wound across its chest. But the moment he committed to the attack, the pantherkin struck from behind, claws finding the gap in his armor at the back of his knee.

Francis’s leg buckled. He fell to one knee, shield coming up desperately to block the jaguarkin’s killing strike. The impact rang like thunder, the enchanted shield holding, but Francis’s arm went numb from the force.

The pantherkin’s claws found his throat.

Francis felt the familiar sensation of death approaching as his body filled with power. Warrior’s Resolve wasn’t going to help here. His regeneration tried to work, golden threads flickering weakly, but there wasn’t enough time. The damage was too severe as nails dug into his jaw and yanked upward.

Two elites at once… I’m not ready for that yet.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang, and Francis lay in bed for a moment, processing what had happened. Two elites where there had been one. He’d cut down their tigerkin, so they’d reinforced the breach with a pair to hold it. That much was simple soldiering; any commander worth the name answered a gap with more steel. The real question was the one the council had sent him here to settle. Would these two change across his deaths the way the ursaloths had in the north, countering tactics from timelines only he remembered? Or would the south stay blind to him? He’d know soon enough.

The fact that he continued to wake up here, at the same reset point, meant the looping part hadn’t changed. At least that was consistent.

Francis rose and dressed, already planning. He’d report to the council again, explain what happened, and get the same equipment. And then he’d figure out how to handle two elite opponents at once.

Chapter 49

Convincing the war council went faster the second time. Francis knew exactly what to say, when to demonstrate his regeneration, and how to let Queen Auri’s truth-sensing ability do the heavy lifting. Within an hour, he had their support, and by morning, the plate armor and enchanted shield were his again.

The weight of the new equipment felt familiar now. Francis adjusted the straps as he moved toward the battlefield, already planning his approach.

Two elites at once had overwhelmed him. The jaguarkin and pantherkin worked together with a coordination that suggested they’d fought as a pair before. If Francis wanted to survive against them, he needed to understand their patterns, both individually and together.

It was time to learn.

***

For the first loop of what Francis knew was going to be a lot more, he pushed deep into enemy territory, cutting through regular beastkins. The new armor made him bolder.

The tigerkin had fallen quickly this time. He knew its patterns now, had killed it across enough loops that the once-impossible fight had become routine. It was the pair that came after which still beat him. The roars came when he expected them, and the jaguarkin and pantherkin emerged from the enemy lines, positioning themselves to flank him just as they had before.

This time, Francis didn’t try to fight. He just observed.

The jaguarkin was the aggressor. It used its massive, powerful, wall of muscle body covered in spotted orange fur as a battering ram. It charged directly at Francis.

The pantherkin was the opportunist. Sleeker, faster, its black coat seeming to absorb light as it circled. It waited for Francis to commit to defending against the jaguarkin before striking from his blind spot.

Francis raised his shield to block the jaguarkin’s first strike. The impact was tremendous, even through the enchanted metal. He felt the force travel up his arm and into his shoulder. This creature hit harder than the elite tigerkin had.

The pantherkin’s claws raked across his back, once again finding the gaps between armor plates. His back became warm and wet, and Francis’s regeneration along with Warrior’s Resolve was activated.

[ Regeneration Increased - 8 ]

He tried again to create space, to get both opponents in front of him, but the pantherkin was too fast, always circling, always staying in his peripheral vision where it was hardest to track.

The jaguarkin pressed forward, not giving Francis room to breathe. Its claws came in heavy combinations of overhead strikes, side swipes, kicks that would have shattered bones if they connected cleanly.

[ Iron Wall ]

Francis weathered the assault, his defensive skill helping him absorb the impacts. Every moment he spent focused on the jaguarkin, the pantherkin was scoring hits from behind.

Thirty seconds. That’s how long Francis lasted before the accumulated damage overwhelmed his regeneration. Then the pantherkin’s claws found his throat again, and darkness took him.

They’re not even using weapons yet. They’re toying with me.

***

Francis convinced the council again, got his armor, and returned to the battlefield. This time, he had a new plan.

When the two elites appeared, Francis didn’t wait for them to flank him. He charged the pantherkin directly, hoping to eliminate the faster opponent first.

The pantherkin’s yellow eyes widened slightly, but it didn’t retreat. Instead, it met his charge with a burst of speed that made the elite tigerkin look slow.

Francis’s sword thrust at its chest. The pantherkin twisted aside, the blade missing by inches, and suddenly Francis was overextended, off-balance.

Claws raked across his sword arm, catching the gap at his elbow. Pain came, and Francis felt his grip weaken. He brought his shield around in a desperate bash, but the pantherkin was already gone, circling behind him.

The jaguarkin’s fist caught Francis in the side of the head.

The world spun. Francis staggered, trying to raise his shield, but his arms weren’t responding properly. The blow had rattled his brain, disrupted his coordination.

Warrior’s Resolve activated, converting pain into power, but it wasn’t enough. The pantherkin’s claws found the back of his knee, and Francis went down. The jaguarkin’s foot came down on his chest, pinning him to the grass.

Francis looked up at the massive creature looming over him. The jaguarkin’s yellow eyes seemed to glow as it smiled.

Its claws punched through his chest plate and into his heart.

Together they’re faster than me. I can’t out-speed the pantherkin, while trying to out-muscle the jaguarkin.

***

This time, Francis changed his approach entirely. Instead of trying to attack, he focused purely on defense. If he couldn’t beat them, maybe he could outlast them long enough to learn something useful.

The elites appeared and began their coordinated assault. Francis set his feet and raised his shield.

[ Guarded Stance ]

[ Iron Wall ]

He became a fortress. Every strike from the jaguarkin met his shield or was deflected by his sword. He didn’t counter-attack, nor did he try to create openings. He just defended, reading their patterns, learning their timing.

The jaguarkin grew frustrated. Its attacks became more aggressive, more committed. Francis noted the tells, the slight drop of the shoulder before an overhead strike, the shift of weight that telegraphed a kick.

The pantherkin was harder to read. It struck from angles Francis couldn’t fully track, exploiting every gap in his defense. But even there, patterns emerged. It always went for joints and tendons, trying to cripple rather than kill outright. It preferred the back of the knee, the elbow, and the Achilles tendon.

A minute passed. Then two.

The jaguarkin roared in frustration. It stepped back, and Francis saw it reach for something on its back with both hands.

Two massive swords emerged, each blade easily five feet long. The jaguarkin’s fingers flexed around the grips as it lowered itself into a different stance.

There it is. The real fight.

The first sword came in high, the second low. Francis blocked the high strike with his shield and tried to parry the low one with his sword.

The force was overwhelming. His parry failed, the blade slicing across his thigh, splitting his armor and opening a wound that went to the bone. Francis staggered, and the pantherkin struck from behind, claws finding the gap at his lower back.

[ Regeneration Increased - 9 ]

[ Shield Use Increased - 60 ]

The notification came as Francis fell to his knees. His regeneration was working frantically, but the damage was mounting faster than he could heal.

The jaguarkin’s second overhead strike split his shield in half. The enchanted metal, which had withstood its fist and feet, shattered under the force of the massive blade.

Francis looked at the broken shield in his hand and had just enough time to think I need a better one  before the pantherkin’s claws opened his throat and yanked upward on his jaw.

***

Francis went through the motions, but this time, he requested a different shield. Heavier. Thicker. Made for blocking rather than mobility.

“You’re not going to be able to move as quickly with this,” Priscilla warned as she handed it over.

“I don’t need to move quickly,” Francis replied. “I need to not die.”

The royal mage studied him for a moment, then nodded. “Be careful. Whatever you’re facing out there, it appears it is beyond your limits.”

You have no idea, Francis thought.

The elites appeared as expected. This time, Francis was ready for their full capabilities from the start.

The Jaguarkin drew its swords after about the same amount of time had passed as the previous loop. The pantherkin circled, but Francis noticed it keeping one hand near the curved blades strapped to its back.

“Am I worthy of your name?” Francis called out, trying to throw his attackers off. “Or are we just going to fight?”

The jaguarkin’s eyes narrowed, not responding to his taunt. It charged, both swords coming at him.

Francis met the assault with his new shield. The impact was tremendous, but the heavier metal held. He deflected the second strike with his sword and immediately brought the shield around in a bash aimed at the jaguarkin’s face.

The creature leaned back, avoiding the strike, but the movement created space. Francis used it, repositioning so the pantherkin couldn’t get directly behind him.

The pantherkin drew its curved blades.

They were beautiful weapons. Each one was elegant, deadly, designed for speed and precision rather than raw power. The pantherkin held them in a reverse grip, blades extending past its forearms like extensions of its claws.

Now Francis faced both elites at their full capability.

The jaguarkin came from the front, swords working in powerful combinations. The pantherkin came from the side, curved blades seeking joints and tendons. Francis’s world narrowed to shield and sword, block and parry, the constant sound of metal on metal.

[ Guarded Stance ]

[ Iron Wall ]

He weathered the storm. His heavier shield absorbed the jaguarkin’s strikes without breaking. His sword deflected the pantherkin’s precise cuts. His regeneration worked constantly, healing wounds almost as fast it could.

It just wasn’t enough. He was merely holding them off, not defeating them, and he couldn’t hold them off forever.

Two minutes passed. Then three.

Francis’s arms were burning. His regeneration was draining his Life Core faster than it could replenish. Every block took more out of him than the last.

The jaguarkin feinted high, then came in low with a thrust that punched through Francis’s armor. The blade sank into his side, grating against ribs.

Francis tried to counter, but the pantherkin was already there. A curved blade sliced across the back of his hand, severing tendons. His sword fell from nerveless fingers.

The jaguarkin’s second blade came around in a decapitating strike.

Three minutes… Better… But not good enough.

***

Francis knew what he needed to do. He’d spent four loops learning their patterns, coordination, and their tells. Now he needed to use that knowledge.

This time, Francis asked Priscilla for something additional.

“Can you enchant the shield to redirect force? Not just absorb it, but send it back?”

The royal mage considered the request. “That’s advanced work. It won’t be perfect. I might be able to make it redirect a third of the impact at most.”

“That’s enough,” Francis said.

The shield came back to him the next morning, Priscilla’s redirection enchantment humming faintly along its surface. By the time the army’s bell rang, Francis was on the field, moving through the regular beastkins and conserving energy for the real fight ahead.

The roars came, and soon enough, both beasts had drawn their weapons. Francis was pushing them hard enough that they weren’t holding back.

[ Guarded Stance ]

[ Iron Wall ]

The impact was just as brutal, but some of that force reflected back into the jaguarkin’s arms. The creature’s eyes widened slightly, clearly surprised by the feedback.

Francis pressed the moment of hesitation. His sword came around in a Power Strike aimed at the jaguarkin’s leading knee.

The blade bit deep, opening a wound that bled freely. The jaguarkin roared and stepped back, favoring the injured leg.

The pantherkin struck from behind, curved blades seeking Francis’s spine. But Francis had learned its patterns.

Francis spun, bringing his shield around in a wide arc. The pantherkin tried to dodge, but Francis had anticipated the angle and had the assistance of his Battle Sense. The edge of his shield caught the creature across the face, snapping its head back.

He had managed to draw blood on both elites.

But they adapted quickly. The jaguarkin’s injury didn’t slow it nearly as much as Francis had hoped. The creature was fighting through the pain like it was nothing. The pantherkin shook off the shield bash and came at Francis with renewed aggression.

Their coordination tightened. Every time Francis focused on one, the other struck. Every time he created an opening, the other covered it.

Francis gave ground, step by step, trying to maintain his defense while looking for opportunities. His shield arm ached, his regeneration constantly working to keep him combat able.

The jaguarkin pressed hard, both swords working in devastating combinations. Francis blocked one strike, deflected another, and took a third on his shoulder plate. Metal crumpled under the blow, the armor saving him from losing the arm but not from the pain.

Warrior’s Resolve once again converted his pain into power, sharpening his reflexes. Francis caught the jaguarkin’s next strike on his shield and riposted, his blade opening a cut across its forearm.

The pantherkin came in low, curved blade seeking the back of his knee. Francis had seen this pattern four times now. He dropped his shield, catching the blade against the reinforced metal, and kicked out with his other leg.

His boot caught the pantherkin in the crotch, sending it stumbling back.

The two elite opponents were both injured, and angry, and obviously not happy that Francis was somehow still standing.

The jaguarkin roared and charged with everything it had. Both swords came in simultaneously. It used its high-low attack, a combination that Francis had no way to block entirely.

He chose his shield to catch the overhead strike, leaving his sword to deflect the thrust.

The overhead strike rang against his shield, driving him to one knee. The thrust he managed to parry, but only barely, the blade shearing through his armor and cutting a line across his hip instead of punching through his gut.

The pantherkin appeared behind him, curved blades raised for a killing stroke.

Francis tried to turn, wanting to bring his shield around, but he was out of position, out of time.

The metal edge found his throat again.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang, and Francis lay in bed, processing.

Five loops against the jaguarkin and pantherkin. Five deaths. But he’d learned more about their fighting styles each time.

The jaguarkin was power and discipline. It was a trained swordsman who hit like an avalanche. Its weakness was mobility, especially when injured.

The pantherkin was speed and precision. It was more akin to an assassin who struck at weak points with surgical accuracy. Its weakness was direct confrontation. It preferred to attack from angles rather than face an opponent head-on.

Together, they covered each other’s weaknesses perfectly. The jaguarkin drew attention and absorbed punishment while the pantherkin circled and struck from behind. It was a partnership refined through countless battles.

Francis needed to separate them. Or find a way to neutralize their coordination. The only other option was to become so much stronger that he could simply overwhelm them both.

None of those options seemed possible with his current abilities.

But his Shield Use had increased. He was getting better at defensive fighting, at reading attacks and positioning himself to absorb or redirect force. If he kept pushing, kept learning, kept dying…

Eventually, something would have to give.

Francis rose and got dressed, already planning his next approach. Since it didn’t appear the enemy was adapting, he could continue doing what he was doing.

Chapter 50

He was on his sixth loop now against the jaguarkin and pantherkin. He felt he knew their patterns, their tells, and exactly how they would attack.

What he didn’t know was how to beat them.

He’d scored hits on both elites in the last loop. He’d lasted longer than ever before. But lasting wasn’t the same as winning, and Francis needed to win.

The regular beastkins fell before him as he pushed into enemy territory. Wolfkins, tigerkins, rhinokins all died without slowing him down. It was almost comical at how easily he waded through them now.

The roars announced their arrival, and the jaguarkin and pantherkin emerged from the enemy lines, moving to take their usual flanking positions.

Francis didn’t wait. He charged the jaguarkin directly, closing the distance before the pantherkin could get behind him.

The jaguarkin met his charge with a powerful strike. Francis caught it on his shield, feeling the force redirect back into the creature’s arms, and immediately thrust at its chest.

The blade scored a line across the jaguarkin’s ribs. It was shallow, but enough to draw blood. The creature snarled and stepped back, reaching for its swords.

Francis pressed the advantage. He couldn’t let it draw those weapons, couldn’t let the fight become like the others where they’d killed him five times already. His sword came in fast, a [ Quick Attack ]  aimed at the jaguarkin’s sword arm.

The struck bit into muscle, and the jaguarkin roared in pain. One of its massive swords clattered to the ground, the arm too damaged to grip properly.

One sword down.

But the pantherkin was already there. Francis felt his Battle Sense scream a warning, and he spun just in time to catch curved blades on his shield. The pantherkin had drawn its weapons the moment Francis committed to the jaguarkin and drawn blood. It was covering its partner, just like always.

Francis kicked out, trying to create space, but the pantherkin was too fast. It flowed around his attack like water, curved blades seeking the gaps in his armor.

The jaguarkin, fighting through its injury, came at Francis with its remaining sword. One-handed, the creature was still devastating. The blade struck in with enough force to split Francis’s body in half if it connected.

[ Iron Wall ]

Francis caught the strike on his shield. The impact drove him back several feet, boots tearing gouges in the grass.

The pantherkin struck from behind. Curved blades found the gap at Francis’s lower back, cutting deep into muscle. Pain came, and Francis felt his regeneration activate.

He was losing. Even with one of the jaguarkin’s swords removed from the fight, their coordination was too good. Every time Francis gained an advantage, the other covered it.

Francis gave ground, defending desperately, looking for any opening. The jaguarkin pressed forward while the pantherkin circled and struck from angles Francis couldn’t fully track.

Two minutes passed. Then three. Francis was bleeding from a dozen wounds, his regeneration struggling to keep up with the damage. His shield arm was failing, the muscle had torn from absorbing multiple blows. He was struggling to maintain proper form, unable to regenerate fast enough from the continued abuse.

The jaguarkin feinted low and struck high. Francis raised his shield to block. As he did, the pantherkin’s curved blade punched through the gap in his armor at the armpit, sliding between ribs and into his lung.

Francis coughed up blood. He let his sword fall from his grip as his body wasn’t going to recover from this. This fight was over, and he needed to try again. The jaguarkin’s blade came around in a finishing strike, ending this loop.

Still not good enough.

***

Francis tried using terrain. He positioned himself near a cluster of fallen rhinokin carcasses, limiting the angles the pantherkin could attack from.

The jaguarkin simply charged through them, scattering the dead like leaves. The pantherkin came over the top, using the bodies as launching points for aerial strikes.

He died in ninety seconds.

***

Francis tried pure aggression, attacking both elites simultaneously with everything he had. Power Strike after Power Strike, burning through his stamina in a desperate attempt to overwhelm them before they could coordinate.

He managed to wound both of them. The jaguarkin was bleeding from cuts on its arms and legs. The pantherkin had a deep gash across its shoulder.

But Francis’s stamina ran out before their health did. He slowed, and they didn’t. The killing blow came from behind, as it had so many times.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang, and Francis lay in bed, staring at the ceiling.

He was at ten deaths against these same two opponents. He was learning, improving, but not fast enough. Every approach he tried, they countered. Every advantage he gained, they covered.

He needed something to change. Something fundamental.

Francis rose and dressed. If he couldn’t beat them with skill alone, he’d have to push his abilities to the point where something evolved.

That’s how he’d gained most of his best skills. Through desperation. Through being pushed past his limits until something inside him broke through to the next level.

It was time to see how far he could push.

***

This time, Francis asked Priscilla for one more thing.

“I need you to reinforce the shield’s edge. Make it sharp enough to cut.”

The royal mage raised an eyebrow. “A shield’s a strange thing to put an edge on.”

“A shield’s already a weapon,” Francis replied. “I just want this one to cut as well as it blocks.”

Priscilla studied him for a few seconds, then nodded. “I’ll get it done.”

***

Reaching the same spot as always, the jaguarkin and pantherkin emerged and took their positions.

Francis set his feet and waited.

The jaguarkin charged first. Francis raised his shield and braced for the strike.

[ Guarded Stance ]

[ Iron Wall ]

The impact was tremendous, but the enchantment redirected back some of the force into the jaguarkin’s arms, staggering it slightly. Francis immediately swung the shield in a horizontal arc, the sharpened edge catching the creature across its forearm.

Blood sprayed, and the jaguarkin roared in pain, stumbling back.

The pantherkin attacked from behind. Francis spun, bringing his shield around to block. The curved blades met the reinforced metal with a ring of steel, and Francis used the contact to push forward, driving the sharpened edge toward the Pantherkin’s face.

The creature twisted away, but not fast enough. The shield’s edge opened a cut across its cheek, narrowly missing its eye.

He had managed to bloody both elites in the first exchange.

They adapted quickly. The jaguarkin drew its swords despite the injury, and the real fight was beginning.

Francis defended with everything he had. Shield and sword working in concert, blocking and cutting, deflecting and riposting. His Battle Sense warned him of incoming strikes, and his defensive skills absorbed impacts that would have broken lesser warriors.

The jaguarkin’s swords came in devastating combinations. Francis caught them on his shield, feeling the force redirect, and countered with cuts that opened wounds on the creature’s arms and legs.

The pantherkin circled and struck from angles, curved blades seeking joints and tendons. Francis tracked its movements, anticipated its attacks, and used his sharpened shield to punish every committed strike.

Three minutes passed. Then four, and finally five.

Francis was still standing.

His armor was ruined, dented, and torn from countless impacts. His body was a mass of wounds that his regeneration was struggling to close. His shield arm burned with pain, the muscle tearing and reknitting with every block.

But he was still standing.

[ Regeneration Increased - 10 ]

The jaguarkin roared in frustration. It charged with everything it had, both swords coming in simultaneously, committing to the often-used attack. One high, one low.

Francis made his choice. Shield high to catch the overhead strike. Sword low to deflect the thrust.

The overhead strike rang against his shield with tremendous force. His arm buckled, muscle failing, and the shield dropped several inches, exposing his shoulder.

The jaguarkin’s blade was redirected and found the gap, cutting deep into the joint. Francis’s shield arm went limp, the shield hanging from a hand that wouldn’t let go.

The pantherkin struck from behind, curved blades punching through the gap in his lower back. Francis felt the blades grate against his spine, felt his legs start to go numb.

He was dying. Again.

But something was different this time. The damage was mounting, his regeneration was failing, his body was struggling to stay upright. Yet Francis didn’t fall. His legs were numb, but he stayed on his feet. His shield arm was useless, so he raised his sword.

Warrior’s Resolve converted his pain into power as it always did, but it was more than that. Every wound, every injury, every near-death moment across these ten loops, all of it was building toward something.

Francis felt his Shield Use skill straining, pushing against some invisible boundary. He’d used it more intensively in these loops than ever before. He’d blocked more strikes, and had pushed the skill to its absolute limits.

The jaguarkin raised its sword for the killing blow. Francis couldn’t dodge it. His body was failing, his skills depleted, and his health was at the dregs of life.

But he could still choose how he died.

Francis threw himself forward, not away from the strike but into it. His shield came up, regeneration having healed the injury enough that he could do something with it in a desperate thrust aimed at the jaguarkin’s heart.

The jaguarkin’s blade came down at the exact moment, aimed at Francis’s skull.

[ Shield Use Increased - 61 Elite ]

[ Skill Conditions Met ]

[ Blood-Forged Aegis Acquired (Rare) - 1 ]

The notification came as the blade descended. And with it, something changed.

Francis’s ruined armor seemed to drink in his own blood, the metal darkening to a deep crimson. The damage he was taking, the killing blow coming down at his head, didn’t translate into health loss. Instead, it became something else. A pressure… A weight… A drain on something other than his lifeforce.

The jaguarkin’s blade struck his skull.

And Francis didn’t die.

The impact was devastating. Francis felt it like exhaustion, like running a marathon at full sprint. His vision swam, his legs buckled, his body screamed, yet he stayed conscious. Somehow he was still alive.

The tip of his shield, still committed to its thrust, punched into the jaguarkin’s chest.

The creature’s eyes went wide with shock. It staggered back, Francis’s shield buried in its heart. Blood poured from the wound, and the jaguarkin collapsed, grabbing the edges of the shield before it hit the ground.

Francis fell to his knees, his body completely spent. The new skill had saved his life, but at a heavy cost. He could barely move, barely think. His Resolve, whatever that was, was utterly drained.

The pantherkin stood over him, curved blades raised.

Francis looked up at the creature, knowing he had nothing left to give. He’d killed the jaguarkin, but the effort had destroyed him.

The pantherkin’s blades came down.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang, and Francis shot upright in bed, his heart pounding.

He’d killed the jaguarkin. Actually killed it. Of course the pantherkin had finished him only because he’d been completely depleted from the effort.

More importantly, he’d gained a new skill. Blood-Forged Aegis. He could still feel it, inside him.

[ Blood-Forged Aegis (Rare) - 1 ]

[ When HP drops below 20%, convert the subsequent 35% damage into Resolve drain instead of health loss. Resolve recovers only after combat ends. ]

Francis understood immediately what this meant. It was a buffer. Some last-chance defense that could keep him alive through damage that should end him. The jaguarkin’s killing blow had been converted into Resolve drain, giving Francis the extra moment he needed to land his own killing strike.

But the skill had limits. Once his Resolve was depleted, he was helpless. And it only activated when he was already near death. It wasn’t a replacement for defense. It was a supplement to it. A final line of protection when everything else failed.

Which meant he’d still been right to focus on shield work. The skill had evolved from his defensive fighting, from being pushed to his absolute limits while trying to survive overwhelming opponents.

Now he needed to learn how to use it properly. How to manage his Resolve alongside his health. He also needed to learn how to time his attacks to take advantage of the buffer, and to fight knowing he could survive one killing blow but not two.

Francis rose and dressed, a smile on his face.

One elite down, one to go.

Chapter 51

So I’m guessing I can’t use it all on one Elite. I’ll have to manage it somehow.

The real problem wasn’t the pantherkin’s skill; it was that Francis kept fighting them together. He’d watched them coordinate across dozens of deaths now, understood their patterns intimately. As a pair, they were devastating.

But separately?

Kill the jaguarkin faster. Have enough Resolve left when the pantherkin commits.

***

The journey to the Southern Kingdom’s command area took most of the day. By late afternoon, he was approaching the outer perimeter of the military encampment.

They slowed as he drew near, exchanging glances, visibly thrown by a lone young man strolling calm and unhurried toward an active war zone.

“State your business,” the lead guard demanded.

Francis had learned that demonstrations worked better than explanations. He drew his knife before the guards could react and drove it into his own forearm. The blade went deep, scraping bone, and blood immediately began flowing down his wrist.

The guards recoiled, hands tightening on their weapons. One of them started forward, probably thinking Francis had lost his mind.

“Watch,” Francis said calmly.

Golden threads of energy became visible around the wound. His Life Core Channeling manifested as visible light, and the guards’ eyes went wide as they watched flesh begin to knit back together. The bleeding slowed, then stopped. Within thirty seconds, only blood-stained skin remained where a crippling injury had been.

“I need to speak with General Stenson,” Francis said, wiping the blood from his arm. “Tell him someone with information about elite beastkins is here. He’ll want to see me.”

The guards exchanged glances. One of them nodded and disappeared into the camp while the other kept watching Francis with a mixture of wariness and fascination.

Francis waited. He’d done this enough times to know exactly how long it would take for word to reach Stenson, for the general to decide whether to grant an audience, for the summons to come back. The waiting was always the hardest part, not because he was anxious, but because every moment spent proving himself was a moment not spent fighting.

The messenger returned within fifteen minutes. “General Stenson will see you.”

***

Francis had given this speech before. He knew exactly which words to use, which demonstrations to perform, which details would convince them and which would only confuse. He explained his ability to reset upon death. The thousands of loops he’d lived through. His purpose here and to test whether elite opponents in the south had been adapted to counter him the way they had in the north.

When it was all said and done, and everything else had happened as it had before, Francis asked a question he had been thinking about.

“One other thing,” Francis said. “General Stenson. You mentioned once in another loop that there’s a connection between Quick Attack and Flurry. That if you push them both high enough, something happens.”

Stenson’s eyes narrowed. “We spoke of this? Yet I didn’t tell you more?”

“You like to keep things secret until you feel I am ready to learn,” Francis said.

A chuckle came from Baxter, and even the general smiled some at that statement.

“Let me rephrase. I’ve… heard rumors from an older man that those who develop both Quick Attack and Flurry past certain thresholds can unlock something greater. Is there truth to that?”

Stenson studied him for a few seconds, then nodded slowly. “There is. Push Quick Attack to Elite rank and Flurry to Advanced, and they can merge into something called Blade Tempest. It’s rare. Most warriors don’t have the patience or the pain tolerance to develop both skills that high. But if you’re really dying over and over again…” He trailed off. “Use them both. Constantly. Every fight. You’ll see.”

Francis added that information to his growing list of things to track. Quick Attack was already at 54, close to Elite rank at 61. Flurry was only at 32, still far from Advanced at 41. But he had time. He had all the time in the world.

“The smiths will have your equipment ready by tomorrow morning,” Stenson said. “Try not to waste it.”

***

The armor was good, not quite as fine as what he’d worn in previous loops, but solid enough to matter. He wasn’t sure what had changed, as the conversation had been different than the last dozen or so loops. Still, he now had plate over chain, properly fitted, with joints that allowed a full range of motion. The shield was the real prize he had learned.

He strapped on the equipment, testing the weight distribution and adjusting straps until everything felt right. His sword went at his hip completing his outfit.

Time to hunt.

***

The jaguarkin and pantherkin emerged from the enemy formations, moving to get into position.

Not this time.

Francis charged the jaguarkin before it could fully set itself. His sword came in fast, empowered by [ Quick Attack ] , and the jaguarkin barely got its massive blade up in time to deflect. Francis kept attacking, pressing his advantage.

Francis’s Battle Sense screamed a warning, and he spun to catch curved blades on his shield. The force-redirecting enchantment flared, sending the pantherkin’s momentum back into its own arms, but the creature was too fast to be truly caught off guard. It flowed around his counter, its curved blades seeking gaps in his armor.

Francis blocked, parried, and retreated. The jaguarkin recovered and came at him from the other side, and quickly he was fighting both of them again, just like every other loop. His sword moved in desperate arcs, Quick Attack and Flurry activating over and over as he tried to create space.

[ Quick Attack Increased - 55 ]

The notification barely registered. Francis was too focused on staying alive. His regeneration worked constantly, but once again he was taking damage faster than he could heal due to the onslaught.

All he could do was constantly use those two skills as quickly as possible, grateful for the power Warrior’s Resolve provided.

The jaguarkin’s attacks kept him on the defensive, and a combination attack prevented Francis from being able to stop the attack from behind.

Curved blades found the gap between his helmet and gorget. Francis felt steel slide into his neck. His vision went dark at the edges.

I’m still too slow.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

“It’s earlier than usual,” Michael grunted.

Francis was already moving, his mind cycling through what had gone wrong. He’d fought them together again, let them coordinate, and use their numbers against him.

Kill the jaguarkin faster. Don’t let the pantherkin get involved.

This time, when he reached the battlefield, he didn’t charge directly at the Jaguarkin. Instead, he angled his approach to put the larger creature between himself and the Pantherkin, using its bulk as a shield.

The Jaguarkin came at him with its massive swords, exactly as expected. Francis didn’t try to block—he sidestepped, letting the blade pass within inches of his face, and drove his own sword into the creature’s exposed side. The Jaguarkin roared and swung again, but Francis was already, circling, keeping the creature’s body between himself and its partner.

[ Quick Attack ]

[ Flurry ]

[ Power Strike ]

Francis threw everything he had at the jaguarkin, hammering it with combinations that would have killed any regular beastkin three times over. Blood sprayed from a dozen wounds, and the creature’s movements grew slower, more desperate.

[ Flurry Increased - 32 ]

The pantherkin tried to circle around, tried to get a clear line to Francis, but he kept repositioning, kept the jaguarkin in the way. It was like a deadly dance, three partners moving around each other with lethal intent.

Finally, Francis saw his opening. The jaguarkin overextended on a thrust, leaving its throat exposed for just a moment. Francis’s sword came up in a vicious arc.

[ Quick Attack ]

[ Power Strike ]

He drove it faster than the eye could follow, and his blade pierced deep into the creature’s neck.

The jaguarkin fell, clutching its throat.

Francis had burned through most of his stamina to do it. He was pushing his skills to their limits. When the pantherkin came for him, furious at its partner’s death, he didn’t have enough left to match its speed.

Curved blades slipped through his guard. Francis blocked what he could, his regeneration working overtime to close wounds that kept opening. But the pantherkin was relentless, a whirlwind of steel that gave him no chance to recover.

A blade eventually took off his head.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

Francis didn’t even hear Michael’s usual greeting. He was already replaying the fight, analyzing his mistakes. He’d killed the jaguarkin, but it had cost him too much. He needed to be more efficient and save something for the pantherkin.

And I need to use Blood-Forged Aegis better.

The skill was new, still only level 1, but it had saved his life against the jaguarkin the first time. When activated, it converted his Warrior’s Resolve into a temporary shield that could absorb massive amounts of damage. The problem was that it drained his Resolve completely, leaving him helpless when the pantherkin attacked.

It wasn’t the same as stamina, but it was something else, and his pool of Resolve wasn’t very large right now.

Don’t use it on the jaguarkin. Save it for the pantherkin.

On the battlefield, he approached the elite pair with a new strategy. He fought the jaguarkin defensively this time, focusing on efficiency rather than speed. His sword found opportunities without overcommitting, picking the creature apart with precise strikes rather than overwhelming combinations.

It took longer, but he killed the jaguarkin with most of his stamina intact.

The pantherkin came for him with murder in its eyes.

Francis met its charge with [ Quick Attack ] , his blade seeking the creature’s throat. The pantherkin twisted away, curved swords coming around in a counter that would have cut through his armor. Francis caught the blow on his shield and [ Riposted ] , driving the creature back.

They fought in a deadly dance, each testing the other’s defenses. The pantherkin was faster than Francis. His regeneration kept Francis in the game as they fought.

[ Regeneration Increased - 11 ]

[ Regeneration has reached Novice Rank ]

Francis felt the change immediately. His healing accelerated, wounds closing faster than before, the golden threads flowing more efficiently. The pantherkin’s next strike opened a gash across his arm, but it sealed within seconds.

That helps.

The pantherkin was still faster, and its curved blades found gaps in Francis’s defense, striking again and again, wearing him down despite his improved regeneration. Blood loss began to affect his movements, slowing his reactions.

The pantherkin saw its opening. Both curved swords came in from opposite angles, a killing combination that Francis couldn’t fully block. His shield caught one blade, but the other was heading straight for his neck.

Blood-Forged Aegis activated as the blade met skin.

Francis felt his Warrior’s Resolve drain completely as a barrier of crimson energy materialized around him. The pantherkin’s blade struck the barrier and stopped dead, the force of the blow absorbed completely. The creature’s eyes went wide with shock.

Francis didn’t waste the moment. His sword came up in a Power Strike that took the pantherkin through the chest, the blade punching out through its back. The creature staggered, curved swords falling from its fingers.

He twisted the blade and pulled it free. The Pantherkin fell.

[ Power Strike Increased - 63 ]

[ Dual Wield Increased - 54 ]

[ Riposte Increased - 47 ]

[ Battle Sense Increased - 22 ]

Francis stood over the bodies of both elite beastkins, breathing hard, covered in blood, both his and theirs. His regeneration worked to close the worst of his wounds while he processed what had just happened.

Both of them… In a single loop!

He’d done it. Not cleanly, or easily, but he’d killed both elite opponents without dying. He could use these two as training partners. Everything still pointed to the one in the north not seeing what took place here in the south. That meant he had opponents he could train against and get stronger. All without letting his enemy know what was happening.

Francis took his sword and chopped off its head.

When he finished, he had two trophies wrapped in cloth.

***

General Stenson stared at the two heads with an expression Francis couldn’t quite read. King Baxter had risen from his chair. Queen Auri was watching Francis with open fascination. Priscilla just looked thoughtful.

“Both of them,” Stenson said quietly. “You killed both elite beastkins.”

“In a single engagement,” Francis confirmed. “It took me multiple attempts to figure out the right approach, but I managed it.”

Silence held the tent. Francis knew what they were thinking. Multiple deaths was nothing to him, just another set of loops, but to them it represented something almost incomprehensible. The ability to fail, to die, and to come back knowing exactly what went wrong.

“What now?” Stenson asked. “You’ve proven this ‘observer’s’ reach doesn’t extend here. You’ve killed a few of our elite threats. What’s your next move?”

Francis had been thinking about that during the journey back. “I want to stay. Keep fighting in the south.”

“Why?” Priscilla asked. “If the elites are dead—”

“They’re not dead,” Francis cut in. “Not permanently. Don’t forget there are still at least four more out there. When I reset, they come back too. Everything resets.” He gestured at the heads on the table. “If I die today, those two will be alive again, and I can fight them again. They’re perfect training, deadly enough to push me, but predictable enough that I can learn from each fight.”

Understanding dawned on Stenson’s face. “You want to use them to get stronger.”

“Exactly. Every loop, I’ll push a little harder. Get a little faster. My Quick Attack is close to Elite rank, and my Flurry is climbing. You said there’s something that happens when they both get high enough.”

“Blade Tempest,” Stenson said slowly. “I… guess I mentioned it before.”

“Right.” Francis smiled. “I want to unlock it. And I want to explore more of your enemy’s territory, find other elite opponents, and learn their patterns too. The more I know, the stronger I become.”

King Baxter leaned forward. “You’re telling us that you’ll fight and die on our behalf, over and over, gaining strength each time. And in exchange?”

He wanted to sigh, having answered this question countless times. The truth was the easiest answer was this one.

“Equipment. Support. Information.” Francis met the king’s gaze. “And when I’m strong enough, when I’ve pushed my skills as high as they can go, I’ll take that strength back to the north and use it against whatever’s been countering me there.”

“An alliance,” Queen Auri said. “You help us, we help you.”

“Something like that.”

King Baxter was quiet for a moment, then nodded. “Very well. You’ll have whatever equipment you need, access to our battlefield, and any intelligence we gather about elite threats. In return, you keep killing our enemies.” His expression was grim but satisfied. “We don’t lose anything when you die, but neither do our enemies. It’s a good arrangement.”

Francis inclined his head. “Then we have a deal.”

***

Francis stood outside the command tent, looking at the distant battlefield where smoke still rose from the day’s fighting. His armor was battered, but his mind was clear.

The jaguarkin and pantherkin were dead in this loop, but they’d be back the next time he died. They were perfect training partners, deadly and predictable. He could grind against them for as long as he needed, pushing his skills higher and higher until something clicked.

Quick Attack to Elite… Flurry to Advanced… Then Blade Tempest.

Beyond that, there were other elite beastkin in the Southern Kingdom’s enemy forces. Stenson had mentioned them in passing over the loops. A massive bearkin that fought with twin hammers, a serpentkin whose venom could kill in seconds, and others that Francis hadn’t yet encountered. Each one would be a new challenge, a new opportunity to grow.

Eventually, he’d have to go back to the north. He had to face whatever was watching him there, adapting to his tactics. But not yet. Not until he was ready.

Chapter 52

The sound of the morning bell rang.

“It’s earlier than usual,” Michael grunted.

Francis was already out of bed. The jaguarkin and pantherkin were dead in his mind, their patterns memorized, their weaknesses catalogued. He’d killed them both in a single loop. Now it was time to find new challenges.

“Where are you going?” Michael asked, as Francis dressed with mechanical efficiency.

“Out,” Francis replied.

He was through the door before his brother could respond.

***

“Our scouts have reported an elite rhinokin near the siege beasts,” King Baxter said slowly. “A massive creature, heavily armored, carries a hammer the size of a man. It guards those giant beasts they mount their catapults on. We’ve lost too many troops trying to get close enough to damage the siege equipment the first few times that we never attempted it again.” He shook his head. “If you’re looking for a challenge, that one will provide it.”

Francis had seen that rhinokin before. In the loop where King Baxter had led the final charge, he’d watched the king kill it at great cost to himself.

Francis nodded. “Then that’s where I’m going.”

***

Jaguarkin and pantherkin first. Then the rhinokin.

He’d use the pair as a warm-up, push his Quick Attack and Flurry a little higher, then move deeper into enemy territory to find the real challenge.

The jaguarkin and pantherkin died in under ten minutes.

Francis didn’t even take a serious wound. He knew their patterns so intimately now that fighting them felt like sparring against predictable training partners. The jaguarkin’s overhead strikes, the pantherkin’s flanking maneuvers, and the coordination between them. Once he had found a way to win, they weren’t much of a threat.

He killed the jaguarkin with a thrust through its throat, then caught the pantherkin’s desperate charge on his shield and drove his blade through its chest. Two elite beastkin, dead in the time it would take most soldiers to finish breakfast.

[ Quick Attack Increased - 56 ]

[ Flurry Increased - 33 ]

Good. But not enough.

Francis cleaned his blade and kept moving. The siege beasts were farther ahead, and he had a rhinokin to find.

***

The deeper Francis pushed into enemy territory, the thicker the resistance became. Wolfkin packs harried his flanks. Tigerkin warriors challenged him in ones and twos. A group of regular rhinokins tried to pin him in.

He killed them all.

His sword was unstoppable. Francis used Quick Attack to close the distance before enemies could react, and Flurry overwhelmed their defenses with rapid strikes.

Then he saw the siege beasts.

It had been a while since he had last seen them, and he once again remembered that they were enormous. Each was easily fifty feet tall, with gray, leathery skin and massive spiked trunks. Catapults and ballistae were mounted on their backs, crews of beastkins swarming over the equipment, loading ammunition, adjusting trajectories. Spikes jutted downward from their legs, designed to prevent exactly what Francis intended to do.

And standing guard at the base of the nearest beast was the elite rhinokin.

Francis stopped moving.

The creature was massive, easily fifteen feet tall, nearly twice the size of some of the regular rhinokin he’d killed on his way here. Its hide was covered in thick plates of natural armor that looked harder than steel, and in its hands it held a hammer that must have weighed as much as Francis did. The head of the hammer was the size of a barrel, reinforced with metal bands.

That’s what King Baxter killed in that final loop.

The rhinokin saw him. Its eyes, small and dark in that massive head, fixed on Francis.

It raised its hammer and bellowed a challenge that shook the ground.

Francis charged.

[ Quick Attack ] carried him across the distance in a blur, his sword driving toward a gap in the creature’s armor near its knee. The rhinokin’s hammer came around in a sweep that would have crushed him into paste, but Francis ducked under it, feeling the wind of its passage, and drove his blade home.

The sword bounced off.

Not deflected, bounced. The natural armor plating was so thick that his blade couldn’t penetrate it, even with a full thrust behind it. Francis barely had time to process that information before the rhinokin’s backswing caught him in the chest.

The impact sent him flying. His plate armor crumpled inward, ribs cracking, and he hit the ground hard enough to drive the air from his lungs. Pain exploded through his body as his regeneration addressed the catastrophic damage.

The rhinokin didn’t give him time to recover. It crossed the distance between them, its hammer raised for a killing blow.

Francis rolled. The hammer cratered the ground where he’d been lying, sending up a spray of dirt and stone. He kept rolling as the rhinokin swung again and again, each impact close enough that he felt the shockwaves through his body.

His regeneration worked frantically, trying to knit bone and repair organs. He got his feet under him and retreated, creating distance, and buying time to heal.

The rhinokin pursued. It was relentless, its hammer swinging in patterns that Francis couldn’t predict, and couldn’t read. He’d spent hundreds of deaths learning the jaguarkin and pantherkin, but he didn’t know this creature at all.

He caught a glancing blow on his shield and the force-redirecting enchantment flared, but even redirected, the impact drove him to his knees. His left arm went numb from the shoulder down.

It’s too strong… I can’t block it directly.

Francis tried to circle, tried to find an opening, but the rhinokin tracked him. It didn’t overextend or leave gaps. Every swing was measured, controlled, and designed to herd him toward the massive legs of the siege beast, where he’d have no room to maneuver.

Francis went for the eyes. Jumping into the air, he used Quick Attack, Francis’s sword thrusting at the creature’s face, the one part that wasn’t covered in armor plating.

The rhinokin tilted its head and took the blade on its horn. The impact jarred Francis’s arm, and before he could recover, a massive hand closed around his sword arm and squeezed.

Bones shattered, and Francis’s forearm was crushed, his sword falling to the ground. The rhinokin lifted him up by his ruined arm, holding him like a doll. It snorted once and brought its hammer around.

The last thing Francis saw was the barrel-sized head of that hammer filling his vision.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

“It’s earlier than usual,” Michael grunted.

Francis lay still for a moment, processing what had just happened. The rhinokin was in a different class than the jaguarkin and pantherkin. It was stronger, more durable, and smarter than he had expected. His sword couldn’t penetrate its armor. His shield couldn’t fully absorb its blows. It was also fast enough that he couldn’t simply avoid it forever.

I need to find weak points… Joints, maybe. Its eyes and under the arms… But all those require me to get close…

He dressed and headed south again.

***

Francis killed the jaguarkin and pantherkin in eight minutes this time, then pushed toward the siege beasts. He had a theory about the rhinokin’s armor, specifically, about the gaps where the plates met at the joints.

The creature bellowed its challenge as he approached. Francis studied it more carefully this time, noting how the armor plates overlapped at the shoulders, elbows, and knees. There were gaps there, small ones, but at least there was a weak point.

He didn’t charge directly. Instead, he circled, staying at the edge of the rhinokin’s range, forcing it to turn to track him. The creature was patient, but Francis was more patient. He’d died thousands of times learning his enemies. He could spend a few minutes studying this one.

When the rhinokin finally committed to an attack, Francis was ready. He dodged the hammer sweep and dashed in low, his sword driving toward the gap at the creature’s knee joint.

The blade sank in maybe an inch, two if he was lucky. But it was the first wound he’d managed to inflict damage. The rhinokin roared as Francis drew blood.

There! That’s how I hurt it.

But the rhinokin adapted. It stopped turning to track him, instead backing toward the massive legs of the siege beast to protect its flanks. When Francis tried to circle, it anticipated the movement and cut him off with hammer swings that forced him to retreat.

Francis went for the knee joint again. The rhinokin adapted, shifting its weight, closing the gap with its armor plates, causing Francis’s blade to scrape across hardened hide. The backswing caught him before he could disengage.

He managed to get his shield up this time. The force-redirecting enchantment absorbed most of the blow, but “most” still meant his arm went numb and his feet left the ground. He hit hard, rolled, and came up to find the rhinokin already closing the distance.

The fight lasted another two minutes. Francis scored one more wound, a shallow cut on the creature’s shoulder, right before the hammer caught him in the hip and shattered his pelvis. He went down and didn’t get up.

The rhinokin stood over him for a moment, studying him. Then it raised its hammer.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

Francis once more ignored Michael. He was too busy cataloguing what he’d learned. The rhinokin could be wounded at the joints, but it adapted quickly once it understood his tactics. He needed to vary his attacks, keep it guessing, hit different weak points so it couldn’t protect them all.

The jaguarkin and pantherkin died in seven minutes.

[ Flurry Increased - 34 ]

Francis reached the siege beasts and found the rhinokin waiting. This time, he didn’t circle. He charged directly, feinted at the knee, and went for the elbow instead.

His blade found the gap and sank deep. The rhinokin’s arm spasmed, its grip on the hammer faltering for just a moment. Francis twisted the blade and pulled it free, then dove away from the retaliatory swing.

The fight became a brutal exchange. Francis darted in and out, targeting joints, landing small wounds on the creature while it tried to crush him with that massive hammer. Francis’s regeneration worked constantly, healing the damage he took when blocking those attacks.. He absorbed a glancing blow to the shoulder that dislocated it, and a strike to the thigh that cracked the bone, but he kept fighting, kept learning.

[ Pain Resistance Increased - 68 ]

[ Strong Bones Increased - 65 ]

The rhinokin was bleeding from half a dozen wounds now, its movements slowing as damage accumulated. Francis saw his opening, a moment when the creature’s weight shifted to its wounded leg, and committed everything to one attack.

[ Quick Attack ]

[ Power Strike ]

He drove his sword into the gap at the rhinokin’s hip joint and pushed with everything he had.

The blade sank to the hilt.

The rhinokin screamed, a sound of genuine agony that Francis had never heard from it before. It collapsed onto its wounded leg, hammer dropping from its grip, and Francis pulled his blade free to strike again.

He never got the chance. The rhinokin’s hand shot out and caught him around the torso, lifting him off the ground. Even wounded, it was still impossibly strong. Its grip tightened, and Francis felt his ribs crack, felt his armor crumple inward.

The rhinokin pulled him close, those dark eyes boring into his. Then it squeezed.

Francis’s world went red, then black.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

“It’s earlier than usual,” Michael grunted.

Francis stared at the ceiling, thinking. He was getting better at wounding it. Perhaps with one more wound, maybe two, the rhinokin would be killable. But the creature had enough strength left to take him with it, even with a sword buried in its hip.

I need to finish it faster. I can’t let it grab me.

He was close. A few more attempts, a few more deaths, and he’d have the rhinokin’s patterns memorized like he had the jaguarkin and pantherkin. Then he could move on to the next challenge.

Francis knew that there were other elite beastkin in the Southern Kingdom’s enemy forces. He’d heard about a serpentkin with deadly venom, bearkin archers that operated in pairs near the siege beasts, and the magical lizardkin that had killed him during that final battle.

Each one would be a new puzzle to solve. Each one would push his skills higher.

Francis got out of bed and started dressing.

***

With each death, Francis learned more. He learned that the rhinokin favored its right side when attacking. It would also sacrifice its left arm to protect its throat. Francis learned that if he wounded its legs badly enough, it would drop to all fours and charge like a bull.

On the fifth attempt, he finally managed to kill it.

The fight lasted nearly twenty minutes, an eternity compared to the jaguarkin and pantherkin, but Francis emerged victorious. His armor was destroyed, his body covered in wounds that his regeneration was struggling to close, but the rhinokin lay dead at his feet.

[ Quick Attack Increased - 57 ]

[ Power Strike Increased - 64 ]

[ Guarded Stance Increased - 45 ]

[ Life Core Channeling Increased - 45 ]

Francis stood over the creature’s carcass, breathing hard, and allowed himself a moment of satisfaction. He remembered watching King Baxter fight this thing in a previous loop. The king had barely survived the encounter. Now Francis had done it too. Sure he had to die multiple times, but he’d done it.

More to go.

He collected a trophy, the creature’s horn, too distinctive to be mistaken for anything else, and began the trek back to the command tent. The war council would want to see proof of what he’d accomplished.

And then he’d ask them what their scouts knew about the other elite threats.

***

General Stenson turned the horn over in his hands, studying it. “This is from the elite rhinokin. The one that guards their siege beasts.”

“It took me five attempts,” Francis said. “That thing hits harder than anything I’ve fought.”

“Five deaths to kill one of their most dangerous creatures.” Stenson set the horn down. “That’s remarkable.”

“It’s progress.” Francis looked at the king. “What else have your scouts reported?”

King Baxter exchanged a glance with Stenson. “There’s been reports of a serpentkin in their eastern ranks. Our scouts say it’s venomous. The soldiers who’ve encountered it don’t survive long enough to give detailed reports. Fast, too. Faster than anything that size has a right to be.”

“I’ll find it.”

“And there’s the lizardkin caster,” Priscilla added quietly. “The one that’s been devastating our front lines with magic. We’ve lost thousands of soldiers to its spells.”

Francis nodded slowly. It had simply killed him during the final battle in a previous loop. Magic required different tactics, different preparation. He’d need to think carefully about how to approach it.

“One at a time,” he said. “I’ll work through them all.”

“And your skills?” Stenson asked. “You mentioned Quick Attack and Flurry.”

“I’m getting closer. Quick Attack is at 57, Flurry at 34. Still a ways from the merge, but I’m making progress.”

“Keep pushing,” Stenson said. “Blade Tempest will change everything.”

Francis intended to.

***

Francis stood at the edge of the encampment, looking toward enemy territory. Somewhere out there, the serpentkin waited, as did the bearkin archers, and the lizardkin caster.

Each one would require multiple deaths to learn. They would push his skills higher. And when he’d killed them all, when he’d mastered every elite beastkin the Southern Kingdom had to offer, he’d take that knowledge back to the north.

Chapter 53

With the rhinokin’s fighting patterns now locked in his memory alongside the jaguarkin and pantherkin, it was time to hunt something new.

The journey south, the guards, the demonstration, the war council, all of it passed in a blur of familiar motions. Francis collected his equipment and asked the question he’d been planning since he killed the rhinokin.

“The serpentkin in the eastern ranks,” Francis said. “Where exactly is it?”

Stenson pointed to a spot on the map. “Our scouts report it near the forest edge, where the terrain gets swampy. Stays in the water mostly. The few soldiers who’ve encountered it and survived described scales like metal, fangs that drip venom, and a tail that moves like a whip.”

“How many have died to it?”

“Over a hundred,” King Baxter said. “We stopped sending patrols to that area. Any information you can gather and give us for when you’re done doing these loops will be invaluable.”

Francis nodded. “That’s the plan.”

***

The eastern battlefield was different. Where the main lines were open grassland, this area was marsh and mud, with stands of twisted trees and pools of stagnant water. The air smelled wrong, thick with rot and something that made Francis’s nose burn.

Regular beastkin challenged him as he pushed deeper. Wolfkins emerged from the undergrowth. Tigerkins tried to use the terrain to their advantage. Francis cut them down with barely any effort.

Then the water ahead erupted in a shower of scales and liquid.

The serpentkin was massive. Twenty feet of coiled muscle covered in dark green scales that gleamed like polished metal. Its head was triangular, with yellow eyes tracking Francis. Fangs as long as daggers dripped with venom that sizzled when it hit the water.

Francis raised his shield and charged.

The serpentkin struck. Its head whipped forward, its open mouth and fangs aimed at Francis’s upper body. He caught the strike on his shield, but the force drove him back, his boots sliding in the mud.

Before he could recover, the tail came around from his blind side. It struck him like a battering ram, immediately wrapping around his legs and yanking him off his feet. Francis hit the ground hard, mud spraying, and the serpentkin was already coiling around him.

Scales pressed against his armor, tightening. Francis felt his ribs creak under the pressure. He tried to bring his sword around, but the serpentkin’s body had pinned his arm.

The fangs came for his face. Francis twisted his head, feeling one fang scrape across his cheek, and then fire exploded through his body.

Venom.

The pain was immediate and absolute. Francis’s vision blurred, and his muscles began to spasm. His regeneration tried to work, but the venom spread faster than his healing could counter.

The serpentkin squeezed, and Francis’s world went dark.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

Francis considered what he’d just learned. The serpentkin was a constrictor, using its body to pin opponents before delivering venom. It fought in water and mud where footing was treacherous. The venom worked too fast for his Regeneration or his Poison Resistance to counter at their current levels.

I can’t let it wrap around me. I need to stay mobile somehow.

He went through the familiar sequence and headed east again.

This time, when the serpentkin erupted from the water, Francis didn’t charge. He circled, keeping his distance, watching how it moved. The creature was built for ambush, for striking from concealment. In open combat, it had to commit fully to each attack.

The serpentkin finally lunged. Francis sidestepped, his sword coming around in a [ Power Strike ] aimed at the creature’s neck. The blade struck scales and was deflected. Not even making a scratch.

It does have scales like metal. Stenson wasn’t exaggerating.

The tail whipped at his legs again. Francis jumped, but the serpentkin somehow anticipated his movements. Its body coiled mid-strike, wrapping around him in the air. They hit the water together, and Francis found himself pinned again, his armor grinding against scales.

This time, he saw the fangs coming. He got his shield between them and his face, and venom sprayed across the metal. As it dripped off the edges of his protective barrier and onto his armor, the liquid touched his skin, causing it to burn.

The serpentkin’s coils tightened, and Francis felt something give in his chest. Even with Warrior’s Resolve trying to fill him with power, none of his limbs worked. The power of the constricting crushed him. Darkness came again.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

The scales are too hard. I need to find weak points. Maybe its eyes or inside the mouth.

Francis went through the routine faster this time, his mind focused on the problem. The serpentkin’s body was armor. He needed to find the vulnerable spots.

When the creature emerged from the water, Francis was ready. He let it commit to a strike, then used Quick Attack to close the distance before it could coil. His sword drove toward one of its yellow eyes.

The serpentkin’s head snapped back, the eye closing behind a transparent membrane just before Francis’s blade arrived. The sword scraped across the protective layer but didn’t penetrate.

Then the mouth opened wide, fangs spreading, and venom sprayed like thrown water. Francis got his shield up, but drops found his sword arm. The pain was instant and debilitating.

His grip weakened, and the sword fell from his fingers.

The serpentkin struck while he was disarmed, fangs sinking into his shoulder. Francis felt the venom pump directly into his bloodstream, his body shutting down in seconds.

***

Three more deaths. Three more loops of trying to find the serpentkin’s weakness.

Francis learned that the creature’s underside had softer scales, but getting to them meant letting it wrap around him. He also found out that it could spray venom like a weapon, not just inject it with bites. Francis knew that it was cautious, intelligent, and incredibly patient.

He tried targeting its jaw hinges, but his sword just bounced off.

The elite serpentkin  never committed fully to an attack unless Francis was out of position. Anytime it came at him it was always able to dodge or twist, making it impossible to pin down.

He tried using the environment, luring it into shallow water where it couldn’t maneuver as well. It refused to follow and sprayed acid at him when close enough.

Every attempt taught him something new, but none of it was enough.

[ Poison Resistance Increased - 46 ]

[ Pain Resistance Increased - 69 ]

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

Francis lay in bed, thinking. The serpentkin’s scales were too hard. The membrane over its eyes protected them. It could spray venom to disable him. Its coils could crush him even if he avoided the fangs.

But there was one moment, just one, when it was vulnerable. When its mouth opened wide to strike, when the fangs spread, there was soft tissue inside. The roof of the mouth, the throat.

I’ll have to let it think it’s winning and then let it commit.

Francis headed east with a new plan.

When the serpentkin emerged from the water, Francis raised his shield and stood his ground. Once again, he didn’t charge or didn’t circle. He just waited.

The creature studied him for a few seconds, its yellow eyes calculating something. Then it struck.

Francis blocked the first attack with his shield. The second, he dodged. The third, he took on his armor, letting the fangs scrape across his shoulder plate. He was giving ground, allowing the serpentkin to think it was winning, drawing it in to commit fully.

The tail wrapped around his legs. Francis let it. The coils began to climb, wrapping around his waist. He didn’t fight it.

The serpentkin’s head reared back, mouth opening wide for the killing strike. Fangs spread. Francis could see straight down its throat.

Now.

[ Quick Attack ]

[ Power Strike ]

[ Flurry ]

Francis drove his sword up into the open mouth, through the soft palate, and into the serpentkin’s brain.

The creature’s entire body went rigid. The coils tightened reflexively, crushing Francis’s ribs, but then the serpentkin began to fall, its body going limp.

Francis pulled his sword free and staggered back, his regeneration already working on his crushed chest. He’d done it. Finally.

[ Quick Attack Increased - 58 ]

[ Power Strike Increased - 65 ]

[ Flurry Increased - 35 ]

[ Battle Sense Increased - 23 ]

It took him a little bit of time to free himself from the coils, but eventually Francis stood over the serpentkin’s carcass, breathing hard. His regeneration healed the injuries the serpentkin had inflicted. He had defeated another elite beastkin. Each one taught him something new. Each one pushed his skills higher.

That almost felt too easy… but then again, I’m not sure most people are willing to let something try and crush or swallow them in order to go for the kill.

***

“The serpentkin,” Stenson said, looking at the fang Francis had brought back. The thing was as long as a dagger, still dripping venom. “You actually killed it.”

“Took me more attempts than the rhinokin,” Francis admitted. “Its scales are harder than steel. I had to let it basically try to eat me and then go through the mouth.”

King Baxter studied the fang with something like awe. “We lost good men to that creature. And you killed it by pretending to be food.”

He shrugged. “Then there’s one threat left worth the name,” Francis said. “The lizardkin caster. I’ve died to it before, a flash of scales and a beam of light, then nothing. I never got close enough to learn where it hides.”

Priscilla nodded grimly. “Well behind their lines, deep in the forest where our scouts can’t reach. It’s the most dangerous thing in their army. The magic it uses isn’t like anything we’ve seen.”

Francis bobbed his head slowly. He’d died to that lizardkin in a previous loop. He hadn’t gotten a good look at it, just a flash of scales, a beam of light, and then death.

“Where?”

“Forest to the north of their main lines,” Stenson said. “We don’t go near it for a lot of reasons, one being we’ve never pushed that deep. The other is that it would require us to pull all of our casters forward to try and stop the spells it assaults us with.”

“I’ll find it,” Francis said.

“Be careful,” Priscilla warned. “Magic like that bypasses physical defense. Your armor won’t help you.”

“My regeneration might.”

“Maybe,” the mage replied. “Or maybe not. Either way I guess we’ll find out.”

***

The forest was different from the swamp. It was darker. The trees here were massive, the canopies blocking out the sun. Undergrowth tangled everything, and the air felt heavy, oppressive.

Francis pushed through the regular beastkin, cutting them down as he moved deeper. Wolfkins. Tigerkins. Even a few rhinokins. None of them slowed him significantly.

Then the forest opened into a clearing, and Francis saw it.

The lizardkin was enormous.

Why are all of these so huge?

This one was easily twenty feet tall, walking upright on thick legs. Its scales were a deep purple that seemed to shimmer with inner light. But what caught Francis’s attention was the staff it held, carved from black wood and topped with a crystal that pulsed with power.

It’s similar to the one I faced in the woods where I got the parasite from.

The creature saw him and raised the staff.

“You… shouldn’t be here! How are you—” it called out.

Francis started to charge, not wanting to have a discussion, but he was too slow. The crystal flared, and a beam of pure white light erupted from it.

The beam hit him before he could react. Francis felt his chest explode, felt the light burn through armor and flesh like they were paper. He looked down and saw a hole the size of his fist going completely through his torso.

His regeneration tried to activate, golden threads flooding the wound, but there was too much damage. Francis fell to his knees, then forward onto his face.

That’s what killed me before. That’s what killed King Baxter.

The world went dark.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

The lizardkin caster was going to be different from everything he’d fought before. The jaguarkin and pantherkin were melee fighters. The rhinokin was a tank. The serpentkin was an ambusher. But the lizardkin? That was pure magic, delivered from range, with enough power to kill him before his regeneration could even activate.

He’d need a new approach.

Chapter 54

Physical skills won’t help me against that spell. I’ll need to close that distance and find a way to survive the beam first.

He thought about his Magic Resistance skill. It had saved him from lesser spells before, helped him endure magical attacks that would have killed other warriors. But a beam that could punch through plate armor and flesh like paper? He wasn’t sure any amount of resistance would be enough.

Still, there was only one way to find out.

Francis dressed and headed south.

***

The routine passed quickly. Guards, demonstration, war council, equipment. Francis collected his armor and sword, then headed for the forest where the lizardkin waited.

He cut through the regular beastkins without slowing, his mind focused on what lay ahead. The jaguarkin and pantherkin fell to his blade as he pushed deeper into enemy territory. The rhinokin he avoided entirely, circling wide around the siege beasts. He wasn’t here to grind against enemies he’d already mastered.

The forest swallowed him, and darkness pressed in from all sides, the massive trees blocking out the sun. Francis moved carefully, his sword ready, senses straining for any sign of the lizardkin.

The clearing appeared ahead, and there it stood. Twenty feet of purple scales and magical power, the staff already rising as it sensed his approach.

“A human?” the lizardkin hissed, surprise in its voice. “How did you get this deep?”

Francis charged without answering. He activated Quick Attack, closing the distance as fast as his body could move.

The crystal flared, and the beam came at him.

This time, Francis was ready for it. He threw himself to the side, rolling across the grass as white light scorched the air where he’d been standing, dissolving trees and more. Heat washed over him, and he came up running, angling toward the lizardkin’s side.

The creature turned, its staff tracking him. Another beam erupted from the crystal.

Francis dove again, but this one clipped his shoulder. Pain exploded through his arm as the magical energy burned through his armor and into his flesh. His regeneration activated immediately, golden threads flooding the wound, but the damage was severe.

[ Magic Resistance Increased - 56 ]

He kept running, kept moving, knowing that standing still was another death sentence. The lizardkin was already preparing another beam, the crystal pulsing with gathered power. Francis sprinted toward it, eating up the distance with every stride.

“Stay back!” the lizardkin roared. The staff swept in an arc, and a wave of force slammed into Francis like a physical wall.

He flew backward, his feet leaving the ground, and crashed into a tree hard enough to crack the trunk. His vision swam. Before he could recover, another beam came.

This time it caught him in the chest.

Francis looked down at the hole in his torso, watched his regeneration struggle uselessly against damage too severe to heal, and felt the familiar darkness closing in.

It has more than just the beam. Some kind of force wave, too. I need to account for both.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

Francis went through the routine again. And again. And again.

Each loop taught him something new about the lizardkin. It could fire the beam rapidly, but each shot required a moment of concentration. The force wave was defensive, used when he got too close. And it could speak, which meant it could be distracted.

On his fourth attempt, Francis tried talking as he approached.

“What’s your name?” he called out, circling slowly at the edge of the clearing.

The lizardkin’s eyes narrowed. “You dare speak to me as if we were equals?” Its grip tightened on the staff. “I am Thessarak, Wielder of the Burning Light. And you are about to die.”

“I’m Francis Lancaster.” He kept moving, looking for angles. “Why guard this forest?”

“To stop fools like you.” Thessarak’s staff began to glow. “Enough talk. Die, bag of flesh.”

The beam came, but Francis was already moving, having used the conversation to close some of the distance. He dodged the first beam, rolled under the second, and came up with his sword driving toward Thessarak’s chest.

The force wave hit him point-blank.

Francis’s body screamed as magical energy slammed into him, but this time he didn’t fly backward. His Magic Resistance flared, absorbing some of the impact, and his feet dug furrows in the dirt as he fought to hold his ground.

[ Magic Resistance Increased - 57 ]

He staggered, but he didn’t fall. His sword was still in his hand. Thessarak’s eyes widened in surprise.

“What—”

[ Quick Attack ]

Francis lunged. His blade caught Thessarak’s arm, opening a deep wound in the purple scales. The lizardkin shrieked and stumbled back, swinging its staff wildly.

The beam caught Francis on the side. Not a direct hit, but enough to burn through armor and char the flesh beneath. His regeneration surged, flooding the wound even as he pressed the attack.

[ Flurry ]

Three rapid strikes found their target. Thessarak’s other arm. Its torso. Its leg. The lizardkin was bleeding now, its concentration broken, its spells coming slower and weaker.

[ Flurry Increased - 36 ]

But the creature wasn’t finished, he found out. It raised its staff with both hands, the crystal blazing with light brighter than anything Francis had seen before.

“BURN!”

The magic that erupted from it wasn’t a lance. It was a torrent, a river of white fire that consumed everything in its path. Francis tried to dodge, but there was nowhere to go. The light swallowed him whole.

The pain was beyond anything he’d ever experienced. Every nerve in his body screamed as magical fire burned through armor, flesh, and bone. His regeneration tried to activate, but there was nothing left to regenerate.

Darkness came again.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

It has a desperation attack or a finisher. When it’s wounded badly enough maybe or feels the threat is too great, it releases everything at once. I need to finish it before it can do that.

Francis went through the routine, his mind working through the problem. Thessarak was dangerous at range, but vulnerable up close. The force wave could push him back, but his Magic Resistance was getting strong enough to endure it. The key was closing the distance fast enough to kill the lizardkin before it could unleash that final attack.

Quick Attack. Flurry. Speed and volume of strikes. That was the answer.

He pushed through the forest, cutting down beastkin, and entered the clearing.

“Another human soldier?” Thessarak hissed. “Your kind never learns.”

“I learn plenty,” Francis replied, raising his sword. “Let’s see what you’ve got.”

He charged.

[ Quick Attack ]

The world blurred as Francis crossed the clearing. Thessarak’s first beam missed wide, the lizardkin was caught off guard by his speed. The second beam came closer, scorching the air beside Francis’s head, but he didn’t slow.

The force wave hit him when he was three strides away. Francis felt his momentum die, felt the magical energy trying to hurl him backward, but he pushed through it. His boots tore furrows in the dirt. His muscles screamed. His Magic Resistance blazed.

And then he was through.

[ Quick Attack ]

[ Flurry ]

His sword became a blur of steel. He struck at Thessarak’s arms, its torso, its legs, anywhere he could reach. The lizardkin tried to bring its staff around, tried to create distance, but Francis stayed close, inside its guard, where the beam couldn’t track him.

[ Quick Attack Increased - 59 ]

Blood sprayed across the clearing. Thessarak shrieked, its concentration shattered, its spells failing before they could form. Francis pressed harder, his blade finding gaps in the creature’s scales, opening wound after wound.

Then Thessarak’s eyes began to glow.

The desperation attack. It’s going to—

[ Quick Attack ]

[ Power Strike ]

[ Flurry ]

Francis jumped upward with all his strength and drove his sword through Thessarak’s throat before the thought could finish.

The lizardkin’s eyes went wide. The glow faded. Its massive body swayed, then collapsed, nearly crushing Francis beneath it as it fell.

[ Flurry Increased - 37 ]

[ Magic Feedback Increased - 25 ]

Francis stood over the carcass, breathing hard, his body covered in burns and cuts that his regeneration was slowly closing. He’d done it. He’d killed the lizardkin caster.

But the skill gains weren’t enough. Quick Attack was at 59, and Flurry at 37. He needed more.

He was going to kill himself so that Thessarak would be alive again. And Francis would kill it again. And again. As many times as it took.

***

The loops blurred together.

Francis killed Thessarak. Died to Thessarak. Killed it again. Each loop, he pushed his Quick Attack and Flurry harder, using them constantly, feeling the skills grow stronger with every fight.

He learned to read the timing of the beams, to predict when Thessarak would use the force wave, to recognize the moment before the desperation attack. The lizardkin was a puzzle, and Francis was solving it piece by piece.

Each loop, Thessarak said the same things. “How did you get this deep?” or “Your kind never learns” or “I am Thessarak, Wielder of the Burning Light.” The creature seemed confused at Francis’s power, yet the fact it couldn’t remember their fights was important. Every encounter was the first in Thessarak’s mind.

But for Francis, every encounter was built on the last. He learned its patterns, its weaknesses, its tells. Where Thessarak saw a new opponent each time, Francis saw a training dummy that reset itself over and over. Even better was the knowledge that whatever learned from Francis’s deaths in the north, wasn’t learning from them here.

“You’re strong for a human,” Thessarak observed in one loop, blocking Francis’s strikes with its staff. “But not strong enough.”

“We’ll see,” Francis replied, and drove his blade through the creature’s chest.

[ Quick Attack Increased - 60 ]

[ Flurry Increased - 38 ]

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

Francis could feel it now. Something was building inside him, a pressure in his skills that hadn’t been there before. Quick Attack and Flurry were approaching a threshold, their energies beginning to resonate with each other in ways he didn’t fully understand.

Stenson’s words echoed in his memory. “Push them high enough, and something clicks.”

He was close. He could feel it.

Francis went through the routine one more time. Guards. Council. Equipment. Forest. He cut through everything in his path, his sword moving with a speed and precision that surprised even him.

Thessarak was waiting in the clearing, staff already raised.

“A human warrior,” the lizardkin said, studying Francis with calculating eyes. “You carry yourself like one who has seen battle.”

“I’ve seen plenty,” Francis said.

“Then you should know how this ends.” Thessarak’s grip tightened on its staff. “All like you who challenge me, die.”

“Not today,” Francis replied, smiling. He charged.

The beam came. Francis was already dodging, his body moving before his mind had consciously processed the attack. He’d seen it so many times now that avoiding it felt almost automatic.

[ Quick Attack ]

He crossed the clearing in a heartbeat. The force wave hit him, but his Magic Resistance absorbed most of the impact. He barely slowed.

[ Flurry ]

His sword moved through the air, cutting, slashing, stabbing. Thessarak tried to retreat, tried to create distance, but Francis was relentless. Every time the lizardkin moved, Francis was there, his blade finding flesh.

“What are you?” Thessarak gasped, blood pouring from a dozen wounds.

“Someone who doesn’t give up.”

[ Quick Attack ]

[ Flurry ]

The skills blurred together, speed and volume of strikes becoming one seamless assault. Francis felt something shift inside him, felt the two abilities beginning to merge, their energies combining into something new.

[ Quick Attack Increased - 61 ]

[ Quick Attack has reached Elite Rank ]

Power flooded through him. Francis’s sword moved faster, struck harder, each attack flowing into the next without pause or hesitation. Thessarak screamed, its body being carved apart by a storm of steel.

[ Flurry ]

The sound of the morning bell rang.

[ Quick Attack ]

[ Flurry ]

[ Flurry ]

Over and over Francis killed it and allowed himself to die. He was lost in the moment, a hunger for what was right there within his grasp. Francis had forgotten how great it felt to pursue skills like this and to see their growth.

The sound of the morning bell rang.

[ Flurry ]

The attacks came so fast that Francis lost count. His arm was a blur, his sword a silver streak that carved through scales and flesh and bone. The skill was climbing, climbing, climbing—

[ Flurry Increased - 39 ]

The sound of the morning bell rang.

[ Flurry Increased - 40 ]

The sound of the morning bell rang.

[ Flurry Increased - 41 ]

[ Flurry has reached Advanced Rank ]

And then something inside Francis broke open.

[ Threshold Reached ]

[ Quick Attack (Elite) + Flurry (Advanced) ]

[ Skill Synergy Detected ]

[ New Skill Acquired: Blade Tempest (Rare) - 1 Basic ]

The world seemed to slow. Francis felt power unlike anything he’d experienced surge through his body, through his sword arm, through the blade itself. Quick Attack and Flurry weren’t separate skills anymore. They were one, combined into something greater than either had been alone.

[ Blade Tempest ]

Francis moved.

He became a whirlwind. His body moved in a blur, dashing forward and around Thessarak in a spiral pattern, his sword striking from every angle. One hit. Two. Three. Each successful strike extended the duration of the skill, kept the momentum going, and kept the storm alive.

The lizardkin tried to track him, tried to bring its staff around, but Francis was everywhere at once. Four hits. Five. Six. His blade carved through purple scales again and again, the whirlwind dash carrying him in arcs and spirals that made defense impossible.

Three seconds. That’s how long Blade Tempest lasted at its maximum duration. Three seconds of Francis moving like a storm made flesh, his sword finding Thessarak from angles the creature couldn’t possibly defend against.

When the skill ended, Francis stood behind the lizardkin, breathing hard. Thessarak swayed, its body carved open from half a dozen strikes delivered in the span of a heartbeat. Then it collapsed.

Francis stood in the center of the clearing, surrounded by the remnants of what had once been Thessarak, Wielder of the Burning Light. His sword dripped with blood. His arm ached from the intensity of the attack. His regeneration was working on a dozen small wounds he didn’t even remember receiving.

But none of that mattered.

He had done it. He had reached the threshold Stenson had spoken of. He had unlocked something new.

Blade Tempest.

Francis looked at his sword, at the blood dripping from its edge, and felt a grim smile cross his face.

Let’s see the observer counter this.

***

Francis smiled, having returned to the general’s tent and brought back the lizardkin’s weapon.

“You killed the lizardkin caster,” Stenson said, studying the crystal Francis had brought back. The thing still pulsed with faint light, though its power was fading. “The one that’s been destroying our front lines for months.”

“I killed it,” Francis confirmed. “And I unlocked something in the process.”

Stenson’s eyes sharpened. “The merge?”

“Blade Tempest.”

[ Blade Tempest (Rare) - 1 Basic ]

[ Unleash a whirlwind dash, striking up to 6 enemies in rapid succession. Each successful hit refreshes the skill’s attack and duration. Maximum duration: 3 seconds. ]

The general set the crystal down and leaned back in his chair. For a long moment, he said nothing. Then, slowly, a smile spread across his weathered face.

“I obviously told you there was something waiting at that threshold.”

“You did,” Francis agreed. “Thank you for pushing me toward it.”

“Don’t thank me yet.” Stenson’s smile faded. “Blade Tempest is powerful, but it’s not invincible. You’ll need to train it, push it higher, learn its limits. And you’re certain that the observer in the north hasn’t adapted yet to what you’ve been doing?”

“Everything I’ve faced here has been as if it were the first time. None of them seemed to remember me or what I could do. The real question now is what to do. Should I just keep grinding or attempt to return to the north and see what I can find out?”

“For a while, I would continue practicing and training it,” Stenson replied. “You’re remarkable, and it appears the gods have granted us a weapon that will perhaps let us finally win the war.”

“Perhaps,” Francis said, keeping himself from frowning at the mention of the gods. “I have a dozen other questions, but for now, I think the other major question I have is why can I learn skills so quickly here? Why did things slow down when I was in the north?”

Stenson rubbed his earlobe between two fingers and frowned. “I wonder why I never mentioned that… your magic. The kind that you can cast is from the north.”

“It is. You saw it. The very healing magic you sent me for, I’m starting to finally get. What about it?”

“You shouldn’t have that… not in the sense that it’s not possible… I mean everything you’re doing is basically  impossible  and yet here you sit before me, possessing skills most men two or three times my age would give anything for. The truth… is that the four kingdoms are different. Each is a variation of the creation of our gods. For the northern gods to grant you their… blessing is very unique. I suppose part of me had hoped… or I must have believed it was possible.”

“So what?” Francis asked. “How does that impact my ability to learn skills at the pace I have here?”

“You’re a Southerner, a Lancaster, a person of our gods,” Stenson replied slowly. “In our land you grow stronger. In the others… not as fast. Each god has a blessing upon their domain. To fight there means that you develop slower than you would here because you’re not a Northerner.”

“Wait,” Francis interrupted, holding up his hand. “The gods somehow can limit how fast one learns skills based upon the kingdom they’re in?”

The general gave a few small nods. “Think about the defensive side of that. You would be hard pressed to grow as strong, and the land isn’t designed for everyone. How cold is it up north?”

“Now? Not bad since I gained the cold resistance,” Francis said with a grin. “Before… it wasn’t pleasant at all.”

“Exactly. Something the gods gifted the barbarians to keep them safe and give them an advantage over other nations who might try to attack and invade. But did your skills start to improve faster after being granted their mark?”

Francis considered that question and realized that they had grown faster to a degree.

“Yes.”

“Which is how it works. You will learn skills you acquire here faster when upon your own soil. When you go north, the skills from there will advance faster.”

“Wait, why didn’t you… or wouldn’t you have told me this in any of those other loops I’ve done?”

Stenson frowned, sitting there silent for a moment before sighing. “I’m guessing it’s because I didn’t want to discourage you. It would appear you enjoy the gaining of skills, and I might have thought you would give up if they didn’t come as fast. Perhaps I knew this conversation would take place at some point if things worked out as I hoped. Regardless, you’re in a rare moment where you can fight here and there, gaining skills at a rate most could never hope for.”

So he lied… or withheld information… not to be mean but because he believed he understood me.

Francis was frustrated at the general but also understood the logic.

“So… I have another question… Can I learn the magic of our people?”

Stenson snorted and nodded. “You can… but the question is will someone teach you.”

“And they wouldn’t because?”

“You learn that in the Spires. For someone to be willing to teach you, you would have to go to the Spires and prove you can touch the source. Then you would have to undergo a rigorous process of learning. If what you say is true, that would only be thirty to forty days before the other side resets everything. Do you want to do that right now?”

Francis rubbed his eyes and leaned back in his chair.

I could see my sister. She might be willing to teach me… but am I willing to endure the Spires? Not that it’s a horrible thing… I just… need to decide what’s more important right now.

“What about Priscilla?” Francis asked. “Would she be willing to teach me?”

Clearing his throat, Stenson shrugged. “You could ask. That would be… unorthodox from what I know. Perhaps. You would have to ask her that yourself, as neither I nor the king could force her to do that.”

Both of them sat in silence for a few moments as Francis considered his choices.

Eventually, the general cleared his throat. “So what do you plan on doing? Stay here? Fight more? Go back to the north?”

“I’ll go back there soon enough. There are still things to learn here, skills to push higher and a conversation I need to have with Priscilla. But the north is where the real fight is. I mean, not that the fight here isn’t just as important. I still need to figure out what or who in the north… the observer , or the parasites, or whatever is controlling the beastkin forces is.” Francis met Stenson’s eyes. “That’s where I need to be.”

“Then make the most of the time you have left here,” Stenson said. “And when you go back, give them hell.”

Francis nodded. “I intend to.”

He left the command tent and walked to the edge of the camp, looking out over the battlefield. Somewhere out there, the jaguarkin and pantherkin were waiting to be killed again. The rhinokin guarded its siege beasts. The serpentkin lurked in its swamp.

And tomorrow, Thessarak would be alive again, ready to die once more.

Francis felt the power of Blade Tempest humming in his muscles, waiting to be unleashed. He had a new weapon now, one forged through countless deaths against the most dangerous enemies the Southern Kingdom had to offer.

The grind had paid off.

But it wasn’t over yet.

Chapter 55

The sound of the morning bell rang.

Francis rose with a purpose. His new skill, Blade Tempest hummed in his chest, waiting to be used, waiting to be pushed higher. Three more skill points in it, maybe four, and then he’d seek out Priscilla.

***

Francis pushed into enemy territory, cutting through regular beastkins until he found his targets. A group of five tigerkin warriors clustered near a supply wagon.

Perfect.

He charged, and as he closed the distance, activated the skill.

[ Blade Tempest ]

Francis became a whirlwind. His body blurred forward, his sword striking the first tigerkin before it could react.

One.

The momentum carried him past, already angling toward the second.

Two.

His blade found the third from an impossible angle.

Three.

Each hit refreshed the skill, extended the duration, and kept the storm alive.

Four. Five.

The last tigerkin tried to run, but Francis’s whirlwind dash closed the distance effortlessly.

Six.

The skill ended, and Francis stood among the dead, breathing hard. Three seconds. Six enemies. The math was simple, but the execution was intoxicating.

[ Blade Tempest Increased - 2 ]

[ Swordsmanship Increased - 78 ]

Finally! It feels like everything is coming together!

Francis cleaned his blade and kept moving. There were more beastkins and more opportunities to use Blade Tempest. All with the chance to push the skill higher.

***

The jaguarkin and pantherkin pair fell in what felt like seconds. Francis opened with Blade Tempest, carving through both elite beastkin before they could coordinate their usual flanking maneuvers. The whirlwind struck the jaguarkin twice, the pantherkin three times, then back to the jaguarkin for the killing blow.

A second activation of the ability only needed five hits before both elites were dead. The skill was terrifying in its efficiency. His body sagged, the drain upon his stamina and everything else far more than any other combination had been in so long.

Note to self… I can’t quite push it more than twice in a row.

[ Blade Tempest Increased - 3 ]

Francis stood over the carcasses, taking a few deep breaths. Blade Tempest was already changing how he fought. The mobility, the speed, the ability to hit multiple targets in rapid succession. It made fights that had once taken minutes end in seconds.

But it wasn’t perfect. Three seconds was a tight window. Six hits maximum. If he faced more than six enemies, or if any of them survived the initial assault, the skill would end, and he’d be vulnerable. Even worse was using it multiple times in a row. The exhaustion he felt within him could leave him unable to defend himself.

I need to push it higher and master the timing. I also need to learn to make every hit count.

***

Thessarak fell to Blade Tempest on the first attempt. Francis activated the skill as he entered the clearing, and the lizardkin caster never got a spell off. Six rapid strikes from impossible angles, each one carving through purple scales, and the Wielder of the Burning Light collapsed without ever understanding what killed it.

[ Blade Tempest Increased - 4 ]

[ Power Strike Increased - 66 ]

Francis looked at the crystal staff lying beside Thessarak’s carcass. He’d died to this creature only a handful of times, just enough to learn the timing of its beams and the reach of its force wave. Now he could kill it in three seconds.

That was enough grinding, it was time to learn magic.

***

Francis found Priscilla in her tent, surrounded by the same luxurious furnishings he remembered from previous loops. The red fabric chair, the dark wood frame with green gems, the scent of incense and magic thick in the air.

She looked up as he entered, blue eyes sharp with calculation.

“Sage Francis,” she said, her tone neutral. “I wondered when you would visit.”

“Priscilla.” Francis sat in the other chair without waiting for permission. “We need to talk.”

“About?” She poured herself a drink, the crystal glass catching the light.

“The Concord. Your bond to the throne. And what I need from you.”

Her hand stilled mid-pour. “That’s… bold. Even for one who has done what you have.”

“I know you were there when it was signed,” Francis continued. “I know you’re bound to protect the king, but not required to fight unless you choose. I know you resent it.”

Priscilla set the bottle down with deliberate care. “You speak of things you shouldn’t know.”

“I speak of things I’ve learned through thousands of deaths.” Francis leaned forward. “I’m not here to judge you. I’m here to ask for your help.”

“Help with what?”

“I need to learn magic. Your magic. Aether Weaving, mana manipulation, whatever you want to call it. The Southern Kingdom’s style.”

Priscilla laughed, though there was no humor in it. “That takes years of training at the Spires. Decades to master. You can’t just—”

“I already know Life Core Channeling from the north,” Francis interrupted. “I can sense magical threads. My Magic Resistance is in the Advanced rank. I’m not asking you to make me a master. I’m asking you to teach me how to touch the ambient mana, how to begin learning.”

“And why would I do that?” Priscilla’s eyes narrowed.

“Because the alternative is that I keep dying, keep resetting, keep coming back to this moment until you agree.” Francis held her gaze. “The choice is simple, Priscilla. You can help me become the weapon this kingdom needs to overcome its enemies, or… You can become another obstacle I grind against until you give in.”

The air in the tent grew heavy. Magic threads began to gather around Priscilla, visible even to someone without Francis’s trained eyes.

“You’re threatening me?”

“I’m offering you a choice.” Francis stood slowly. “Go ahead. Attack me. Any spell you want. But know that not only will my Magic Feedback cause you pain, but you’ll also get to experience my newest skill. Blade Tempest.”

Priscilla’s hand moved toward her staff. Francis waited, ready to activate the skill that would let him cross the tent in a whirlwind of steel.

Then Priscilla laughed. A real laugh this time, full of genuine amusement.

“You really do argue well,” she said, the magical threads dissipating. “Very well. I’ll teach you. Not because of your threats, but because…” She paused, studying him. “Because I’m curious. You’ve learned Northern magic. You say you want to learn ours. Why?”

“Because I need every advantage I can get,” Francis replied honestly. “The observer in the north learns from my every move. The only way I stay ahead is by growing stronger, learning more, becoming something it can’t predict.”

Priscilla nodded slowly. “Then sit. And pay attention. I won’t repeat myself.”

***

“Life Core Channeling draws from within,” Priscilla began, her tone shifting to that of a teacher. “Internal energy, lifeforce, whatever you want to call it. Aether Weaving is the opposite. We draw from the world around us.”

She held up her hand, and Francis watched as threads of power became visible in the air, gathering around her fingers.

“Mana exists everywhere. In the air, the earth, the water. It flows through everything, invisible to most. Mages learn to sense it, gather it, shape it into spells.”

“I can already see threads,” Francis said. “From learning Magic Resistance.”

“Defensive sensing,” Priscilla corrected. “You see threads when they’re weaponized, when they’re attacking you. That’s different from sensing ambient mana. Hostile magic screams its presence. Ambient mana whispers.”

She gestured for him to close his eyes.

“Reach out with that sensing ability. But instead of looking for threats, look for the background. The subtle energy that’s always present but never noticed.”

Francis closed his eyes and focused. He’d spent months learning to sense magical threads, to feel when spells were being cast near him. Now he tried to do the opposite, to sense the magic that wasn’t trying to hurt him.

At first, there was nothing. Then, slowly, he began to feel it. A subtle pressure in the air, like humidity before a storm. Not threatening, just… present.

“Good,” Priscilla said quietly. “You feel it. Now try to see it. Not with your eyes. With whatever sense you use to detect hostile magic.”

Francis pushed his Magic Resistance skill, but this time he wasn’t using it to defend. He was using it to observe. To understand.

Threads appeared in his mind’s eye. Not the thick, aggressive cords of hostile spells, but thin wisps of energy floating through the air like motes of dust in sunlight. Thousands of them. Everywhere.

“I see them,” Francis breathed.

“That’s the first step,” Priscilla said. “Now comes the hard part. Reaching out and touching one.”

Francis extended his awareness toward the nearest thread. It drifted away, slipping through his mental grasp like smoke.

“They don’t want to be held,” Priscilla explained. “Ambient mana is free, flowing, constantly in motion. You have to convince it to come to you, to let you shape it. That takes willpower and intent.”

Francis tried again. This time, instead of grabbing, he focused on his intent. He wanted the mana. Needed it. Called to it.

The thread hesitated. Then, slowly, it drifted toward him.

Francis’s eyes snapped open. The thread was there, visible even without closing his eyes, hovering near his outstretched hand.

“Now hold it,” Priscilla instructed. “Don’t let it slip away.”

Francis focused on the thread, wrapping his will around it. It felt different from Life Core energy. Where his internal magic was warm and alive, this was cool and neutral. Not hostile, just… other.

The thread began to fade, slipping away despite his efforts.

“Again,” Priscilla said. “You’re close. Your Magic stat is higher than I expected, and your experience with Life Core gives you an advantage. Try again.”

Francis called another thread. This one came faster, responding to his intent. He wrapped his will around it, held it, refused to let it go.

It stayed.

“There,” Priscilla said with satisfaction. “You have it. Now shape it. Push your intent into it. Make it do what you want.”

Francis focused on the thread he held. He wanted it to glow. Nothing complex, just… light.

The thread pulsed, and a faint luminescence appeared around his hand.

[ New Skill Acquired: Aether Manipulation (Rare) - 1 Basic ]

[ Aether Manipulation: Draw ambient mana from the environment and shape it through focused will. The foundation of Southern Kingdom magic. ]

Francis stared at his glowing hand, barely believing it. He’d done it. He’d learned the basics of Southern magic. He had learned a magic that took most years and sometimes a decade in moments.

What would Trina think if she saw me right now?

Priscilla smiled, and for once, it looked genuine.

“You learn fast,” she said. “Faster than anyone I’ve taught. But this is just the beginning. Aether Manipulation at Basic rank is barely magic at all. You can hold a thread, maybe shape it into light or warmth. Actual spells? That takes months of practice.”

“I know,” Francis replied. “But it’s a start. And in my situation, a start is all I need.”

“What will you do now?” Priscilla asked. “Continue grinding here? Or return to the north?”

“Return,” Francis said. “I’ve gained what I came for. Blade Tempest, Aether Manipulation, and stronger skills across the board. It’s time to see if the observer can adapt to this.”

Priscilla nodded slowly. “Then I wish you luck, Sage Francis. And…” She hesitated. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For reminding me what it feels like to teach,” she said quietly. “It’s been a long time since I had a student who wanted to learn, rather than one who was forced to study.”

Francis stood and gave her a small bow. “Then maybe next loop, I’ll come back and learn more.”

“I’d like that,” Priscilla replied, the same genuine smile still present.

***

Francis stood at the edge of the encampment, looking north toward the barbarian lands. Somewhere up there, the observer waited. It had been learning, adapting, and preparing counters to everything Francis could do.

But Francis had changed. Blade Tempest gave him mobility and multi-target damage he’d never had before. Aether Manipulation opened an entirely new avenue of power. His skills were higher, his understanding deeper than when he had left.

Let’s see if you saw this coming.

Chapter 56

The sound of the morning bell rang.

Francis was already moving before Michael could complain about the early hour.

His mind churned with questions about the observer, about whether it had learned anything during his time in the south, and about what would be waiting for him when he reached the battlefield.

Only one way to find out.

***

The portal deposited Francis in the ice building, and Kerhi was there, on her assigned duty time. Her blue eyes looked him over, taking in the full plate armor, the shield strapped to his arm, the sword at his hip.

“You come dressed for war,” she said, one eyebrow rising. “Most Southerners arrive shivering in their thin clothes, begging for furs.”

“I’m not like most Southerners,” Francis replied.

Kerhi stepped closer, her head tilting slightly as she studied him. That familiar look of confusion crossed her face, the same one he’d seen dozens of times before. She could sense something about him, something that clearly didn’t make sense to her conscious mind.

“There is something…” She paused, frowning. “You feel like one of us. Like you belong here. But that should not be possible.”

Francis said nothing. He knew what she was sensing, the mark on his chest that the gods had given him, the blessing that made him one of their people. But explaining that would take time he didn’t have.

There’s so much I wish I could tell you. So much we’ve shared that you don’t remember.

“I have letters for Warchief Glitvall,” Francis said instead, pulling the sealed parchments from his pack. “And information he’ll want to hear.”

Kerhi’s eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, that confusion still present. Then she nodded and turned. “Come. I will take you to him.”

They walked through the camp, and Francis noticed the stares that followed him. Barbarians stopped what they were doing to watch the Southerner in full plate armor pass by. Some looked curious, others dismissive. A few warriors laughed and made comments he couldn’t quite hear.

“Your armor is impressive,” Kerhi said without looking back. “But it will not save you from what waits on the battlefield. Our enemies do not care how much metal you wear.”

“I know,” Francis replied.

Kerhi stopped and turned, her blue eyes sharp. “You speak strangely. Like a man who knows or has seen more than he should.”

“Maybe I have.”

She studied him for another few seconds, then shook her head and continued walking. “Glitvall will decide what to make of you. It is not my place.”

They passed the blacksmith section, where massive barbarians pounded hammers against metal. Steam hissed as hot blades were plunged into water. One smith looked up and called out something that made nearby warriors laugh, but Kerhi silenced them with a look.

Finally, they reached Glitvall’s tent. Kerhi held the flap open and gestured for Francis to enter.

“Thank you,” Francis said as he passed her.

“Do not thank me yet,” she replied. “You have not faced what waits for you.”

***

Glitvall’s tent was warm even though the fire was barely burning. Francis’s ability to resist the cold now stood out after being in the south for a hundred deaths or so. Francis finished explaining what he’d learned in the south.

The warchief sat in his massive chair, fingers intertwined against his chest. Greythorn stood nearby, her pale eyes fixed on Francis with an intensity that made his skin prickle.

“So,” Glitvall said slowly, “you went south, killed their elite beastkin over and over, and came back with a new combat skill.”

“Blade Tempest,” Francis confirmed. “A whirlwind dash, up to six strikes in a single burst. Every hit that lands keeps the storm alive, but only for three seconds, six strikes at the most. Miss, and it ends early.”

“Show,” Greythorn commanded.

Francis stood and drew his sword. He activated the skill at half power, letting them see the way his body blurred, the way the blade traced patterns in the air that would have been impossible with normal movement.

When he stopped, Glitvall was grinning. “That’s impressive. Very impressive.”

“There’s more,” Francis said. “I also learned something from their mage. The beginning of their magic.”

Greythorn’s eyes sharpened. “Southern magic? Aether?”

“Aether Manipulation. Just the basics, but I can touch the ambient mana now, and slowly start to shape it.” Francis held up his hand and concentrated, calling a thread of ambient energy to him. It came slowly, reluctantly, but it came. A faint glow appeared around his fingers.

Greythorn moved closer, studying the light with narrowed eyes. “Interesting. You have Life Core. Now Aether. Two magics, two sources.”

“Is that a problem?” Francis asked.

“Problem? No.” Greythorn circled him slowly. “Opportunity, perhaps. Life Core draws from within. Aether draws from without. Different rivers, different sources. Most never learn both. Those who do…” She paused, her expression unreadable. “Old stories speak of few who master many magics. Say they unlock what others cannot. I know not. Path only exists for those strong enough to walk it.”

“You’re saying there might be something waiting if I learn more types of magic?”

“Saying stories exist. Truth in them? Unknown.” Greythorn returned to her position near the fire. “But learning two is hard. Using both at same time? Harder still. Mind pulls in different directions. Like drinking two cups at once. Most spill both.”

Francis nodded. It was something to explore later, when he had time to practice.

“For now,” Glitvall said, leaning forward, “the question is what happens when you go back out there. I don’t often send scouts to watch their movements because nothing has changed in all these months. Yet the way you speak and the story you tell us means that is has, but only because of what you do.”

“Then either it didn’t notice I was gone, or it’s waiting to see what I do next,” Francis replied. “Or perhaps it has been doing something during the time I was in the south and eventually stopped, sensing I wasn’t here.”

“Only one way to find out,” Glitvall echoed Francis’s earlier thought. “Go. Fight. See what you learn.”

***

The lynxkins died easily.

Francis cut through pack after pack of them, his blade cutting their flesh with ease. They came at him in groups of four and five, their white fur barely visible against the snow until they were almost on top of him.

His shield caught claws that got too close, the force-redirecting enchantment sending the energy back into the attacking lynxkins. His sword finished what his defense started, cutting through fur and flesh like a butcher.

One pack tried to flank him, four of them circling while a fifth attacked from the front. Francis let the frontal attacker commit, caught its claws on his shield, then spun and drove his sword through the skull of the one trying to take him from behind. The remaining three hesitated, and that hesitation cost them their lives.

[ Battle Sense Increased - 27 ]

Another pack emerged from behind an ice formation, these ones larger than the others. Francis didn’t wait for them to attack. He charged, shield leading, and crashed into the first Lynxkin with enough force to send it sprawling. His sword took the second across the throat before it could react, and the third died trying to flee.

Francis cleaned his blade on the pelt of one of his enemies and kept moving. The lynxkins were fodder now, barely worth the effort of fighting them. But they served a purpose, warming him up for what lay ahead.

***

The ursaloths were waiting in their usual position, the massive bear-like creatures forming a line across the frozen battlefield. Francis approached them carefully, watching for any sign that they’d adapted to new tactics.

They hadn’t.

The first one came at him with its stone hammer, the same pattern he’d seen hundreds of times. Francis deflected the strike with his shield, felt the enchantment absorb and redirect the force, then drove his sword into the creature’s throat. It fell with a gurgling roar.

The second ursaloth was larger, carrying a stone axe that it swung in wide arcs. Francis ducked under the first swing, blocked the second with his shield, and activated Quick Attack to close the distance. His blade found the gap between the creature’s ribs, and he twisted, opening a wound that wouldn’t close.

[ Quick Attack Increased - 63 ]

The third and fourth ursaloths attacked together, trying to overwhelm him with coordinated strikes. Francis used his shield to keep one at bay while his sword dealt with the other. It was a brutal dance, trading blows back and forth across the ice, but Francis had done this dance before. He knew every step.

When both lay dead at his feet, Francis paused to catch his breath. His armor was dented in places, his shield arm aching from the impacts, but he was alive and the ursaloths weren’t.

They had used the same patterns, and timing. There was no apparent adaptation or learning.

The observer appears to not know about my time in the south. It doesn’t seem to know about Blade Tempest or Aether Manipulation either.

Francis pushed deeper into enemy territory, past the ursaloth line, past the positions he’d held before. He wanted to see what was waiting beyond, wanted to test whether the observer had prepared anything new.

That’s when he saw it.

A shape moving through the snow, larger than any lynxkin, covered in dark brown fur with lighter stripes. Francis’s Battle Sense screamed warnings about his foe.

The elite wolverkin.

But something was wrong. The creature wasn’t positioned like it was waiting for him. It was running toward him from deeper in enemy territory, as if it had been somewhere else and was only now arriving.

It wasn’t expecting me here. It’s reacting, not anticipating.

The wolverkin closed the distance, sending up ice and snow as it ran. Francis raised his shield and braced, planting his feet in the ice.

[ Guarded Stance ]

The impact drove him backward, his boots creating grooves in the ice. Even with the enchantment redirecting force, his arm ached from absorbing the blow. The wolverkin pressed its advantage immediately, claws raking across his shield, teeth snapping toward his helm.

It was fast. Brutally, impossibly fast. Each strike carried enough force to dent plate armor.

[ Iron Wall ]

Francis activated his defensive skill and weathered a flurry of blows. His shield caught claw strikes, and he was grateful for the reinforced equipment. His plate held against impacts that sent shockwaves through his body. The wolverkin was relentless, finding the gaps in his defense, claws scraping across joints where the armor was weakest.

Blood ran from cuts at his elbow and knee where the creature’s claws had found flesh.

He fought back, his blade catching its fur and causing small cuts. At no point did the elite seem to react any different than it had the first few times they had fought.

It doesn’t know about Blade Tempest. That’s my advantage.

Francis waited for an opening. The wolverkin drew back for a massive overhead strike, claws raised, and Francis activated his newest skill.

[ Blade Tempest ]

Francis became a whirlwind of metal.

He blurred forward and around the wolverkin, his sword striking from angles the creature couldn’t defend. One hit to its right side, cutting deep through fur and muscle. Two to its back, opening wounds that sprayed blood across the ice. Three to its left flank, his blade carving through ribs.

The wolverkin roared in shock and pain. It tried to turn, trying to track Francis’s movement, but he was everywhere at once.

The skill ended, and Francis stood behind the wolverkin, breathing hard, shield raised and sword dripping blood. The creature shook, its body bleeding from a half dozen strikes.

But it didn’t fall.

The wounds were already closing. Francis had expected this. He’d seen the wolverkin’s regeneration before, and knew it wasn’t as fast as his own. Even then it could heal from wounds like these in time.

Worse was the berserker rage he knew was coming.

Francis recognized the shift, the way the wolverkin’s muscles bulged as foam gathered at its mouth. The creature was entering its berserker state, trading whatever defense it had for pure, overwhelming offense.

[ Guarded Stance ]

Francis got his shield up just in time. The wolverkin’s strike hit like a battering ram, crumpling the edge of his shield and driving him to one knee. The second strike caught his pauldron and tore it free, exposing his shoulder. The third raked across his breastplate, leaving deep gouges in the metal.

[ Regeneration ]

Golden threads flooded the wounds at his shoulder and the places where claws had found gaps, pulling flesh together, but the wolverkin wasn’t giving him time to recover. It pressed its attack, each strike landing before the previous wound could close.

[ Warrior’s Resolve ]

Power surged through Francis as his combat skill converted the damage into strength. Every wound the wolverkin inflicted made him faster, stronger, and more dangerous. He pushed back against the creature, his sword finding flesh again and again.

The fight became a war of attrition. Francis’s damaged shield caught blow after blow, barely holding together. His armor was dented and torn, blood running from a dozen wounds. But the wolverkin was bleeding too, its regeneration struggling to keep up with the damage Francis was inflicting between its attacks.

Minutes passed. The ice beneath them turned red with blood from both. Francis felt his stamina draining, felt the exhaustion creeping into his limbs, but Warrior’s Resolve kept feeding him power from every wound he took.

One more Blade Tempest… I have enough for one more…

The energy was there, built up from the damage he’d taken, from the minutes of brutal combat. Francis gathered what remained of his strength.

[ Blade Tempest ]

The second activation carved another six wounds into the wolverkin’s body. Francis targeted the creature’s joints this time, trying to cripple its mobility. His sword cut through tendons in its leg, opened its shoulder to the bone, sliced across its face, and blinded one eye.

[ Blade Tempest Increased - 5 ]

The wolverkin staggered, its regeneration finally overwhelmed by the accumulated damage, but Francis was struggling too. His shield arm hung limp, the shield itself barely holding together. His plate armor was nothing more then scraps. Blood ran freely from wounds his regeneration couldn’t close fast enough.

The wolverkin lunged, and Francis met it head-on. They crashed together, claws and steel trading blows in a final desperate exchange. Francis dropped what remained of his ruined shield and gripped his sword with both hands.

Warrior’s Resolve roared inside him, all the pain and damage converting into one last surge of power as his life began to end.

[ Blood-Forged Aegis ]

[ Blade Tempest ]

[ Power Strike ]

He poured everything into the assault, trading his Resolve for one final attack. His sword found the wolverkin’s throat on the first strike, severed tendons in its remaining good arm on the second, and drove deep into its chest on the third. Every attack was precise, aimed at vital points.

The wolverkin collapsed, its body finally giving out under the accumulated damage.

Francis stood over it, swaying on his feet. His armor was ruined, his shield destroyed, his body covered in wounds that his regeneration was barely keeping closed.

And then the wolverkin moved.

One final attack, something that he hadn’t expected, an ability perhaps like his. Claws that Francis didn’t have the strength to dodge drove through the gap in his ruined breastplate, punching into his chest.

Francis looked down at the claws buried in his chest, then at the wolverkin’s face. The creature was dead, its eyes already glazing over, but its final strike had been true.

[ Power Strike Increased - 67 ]

Darkness crept in at the edges of Francis’s vision. He fell to his knees, the wolverkin’s body collapsing beside him.

It didn’t know about Blade Tempest… It wasn’t prepared for me… That means the observer doesn’t have information about the South.

Francis’s body gave out, and he collapsed onto the ice. As darkness claimed him, one final thought crossed his mind.

If the observer doesn’t know about the south, then maybe I need to push deeper into the north. Find out what it knows, find out where it’s watching from.

Then the world went black.

Chapter 57

The sound of the morning bell rang.

Francis made the journey north with purpose, his mind still processing everything from the previous loop. The wolverkin fight played through his memory in detail.

By the time he reached Glitvall’s tent, he’d organized his thoughts into something useful.

The warchief and Greythorn listened as Francis laid out what had happened, from his arrival in the north to the mutual kill with the wolverkin. When he finished, Glitvall leaned forward, his massive frame making the chair creak.

“Tell me more about this wolverkin,” the warchief said. “How did it move? How did it fight?”

Francis considered the question. “It was faster than the ursaloths and the other beasts here. It closed the distance like a charging wolf, but with more control. When it attacked, it didn’t commit to single strikes. It came in combinations, claws from multiple angles, always pressing, never giving me room to breathe.”

“Weapons?”

“Just claws and teeth. But the claws were like daggers, but sharp enough to punch through plate armor at the joints. It knew where to hit, too. It went for the gaps in my defense”

Glitvall nodded slowly. “We’ve lost warriors to wolverkin before. Not elite ones, but their lesser cousins. They’re relentless. Once they start fighting, they don’t stop until something’s dead.”

“This one had regeneration,” Francis added. “It isn’t as fast as mine, but it was good enough that the wounds I inflicted started closing within seconds. I carved it open with Blade Tempest, six deep strikes, and watched the cuts start knitting back together before I could follow up.”

Greythorn spoke for the first time. “Regeneration in beast. Rare. Means stronger connection to lifeforce. Like our shamans, but twisted. Corrupted.”

“There’s more,” Francis said. “When I hurt it badly enough, something changed. Its muscles bulged, foam gathered at its mouth, and it got even faster. Like it was burning through whatever reserves it had for one final push.”

“Berserker state,” Glitvall said grimly. “Some of our warriors can enter something similar, but it takes years of training and the right bloodline. If this creature could do it naturally…”

“It made killing it almost impossible,” Francis confirmed. “I needed three activations of Blade Tempest to put it down. Even then, its final strike took me with it.”

“But you kill it,” Greythorn observed. “Blade Tempest worked. Creature had no answer for skill it never seen.”

“That’s the important part,” Francis agreed. “It didn’t know about Blade Tempest. It didn’t adapt to it during the fight, or change its approach when it realized what I could do. It just kept coming the same way, over and over, until one of us stopped moving.”

“And its approach,” Glitvall said. “You mentioned it came running from deeper in enemy territory. Not waiting in ambush.”

“Right. It was reacting to my presence, not anticipating it. Like something had sent it to deal with me, but only after I’d already pushed past the ursaloths.”

The warchief exchanged a look with Greythorn. “That matches what we’ve suspected. The elite beasts don’t patrol. They wait somewhere deeper, and only emerge when something triggers a response.”

“Which means whatever is controlling them has limits,” Francis said. “It can’t watch everything at once. It didn’t know I was coming until I was already past the first defensive line.”

Greythorn tilted her head. “What you do now? Same fight again?”

“That’s exactly what I want to try,” Francis replied. “If I go back out there and fight the wolverkin again, will it behave the same way? I want to see if it uses the same approach and same attacks. I’m assuming it will use its berserker again, or will something be different?”

“You want to see if patterns hold,” Glitvall said.

“If they do, it means the enemy isn’t learning from these encounters. At least not quickly. That gives me room to experiment, to push further, to find a weakness I can exploit.”

“And if patterns change?” Greythorn asked.

“Then I’ll need to figure out how fast they’re adapting and what’s driving the changes.” Francis stood. “Either way, I’ll learn something useful.”

Glitvall rose from his chair and clasped Francis’s forearm in the warrior’s grip. “Go and fight. Die if you must, but know I am grateful that you continue to come and fight for us.”

Francis returned the grip. “I’m one of you now. I’ll always fight for the north.”

***

When the last ursaloth collapsed, Francis pushed deeper into enemy territory again.

The wolverkin came from the same direction as before. Running, not waiting. Its dark fur stood out against the snow as it closed the distance.

It’s the same approach… The same timing… Let’s see if everything else holds too.

This time, Francis tried something different. He fought defensively, keeping his shield high, blocking more than he attacked. If he could minimize the damage he took, maybe he could kill the wolverkin without needing Warrior’s Resolve to fuel multiple Blade Tempests.

It didn’t work.

The wolverkin was too fast, and too aggressive. Every block Francis made was followed by two more attacks he couldn’t fully stop. His shield held against the initial assault, but his stamina drained faster than his wounds accumulated. Without the damage feeding Warrior’s Resolve, he didn’t have the power reserves he needed.

[ Blade Tempest ]

He activated the skill when he saw an opening, once again inflicting six wounds into the creature’s body. The wolverkin staggered, and then the berserker rage came.

It launched itself at Francis. His shield buckled under the assault. His armor dented and tore. Blood ran from multiple wounds at his elbow, his knee, his shoulder. Warrior’s Resolve began giving him power, but he had spent too much time playing defense.

[ Blade Tempest ]

The second activation came minutes later, born from exhaustion rather than power. Once again he landed six more attacks, but they weren’t enough. The wolverkin’s regeneration was keeping pace with the limited damage from this fight, and Francis didn’t have the energy for a third activation.

Claws found his throat before he could recover.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

Francis pushed north again. Lynxkins fell beneath his blade. Ursaloths died to strikes they couldn’t counter. The path to the wolverkin was becoming routine, each enemy a stepping stone rather than a challenge.

The wolverkin came once again from the same direction, at the same time, with the same snarling aggression. It moved exactly as it had in the previous two loops.

This time, Francis didn’t try to avoid all the damage.

He let the wolverkin’s claws find him, let its strikes connect where they wouldn’t be immediately fatal. His shoulder, thigh, and across his back, where the armor was thickest. Every wound fed Warrior’s Resolve, converting those wounds into power, building the reserves he needed.

It was a brutal calculation. Take enough damage to fuel four Blade Tempests, but not so much that he died before he could use them.

Warrior’s Resolve activated, and power surged through Francis as the skill converted his wounds into strength. He felt the energy building, felt the moment when he had enough.

[ Blade Tempest ]

The first activation carved through the wolverkin’s defenses. Six wounds opened across its body, deep and bloody.

The creature’s regeneration began healing while its berserker rage triggered. It came at Francis, and he let it.

Claws tore through his pauldron and into his shoulder. Teeth snapped at his helm, denting the metal and rattling his skull. A massive blow crushed the edge of his shield and sent pain lancing up his arm.

[ Blade Tempest ]

Six more wounds. The wolverkin staggered but continued the assault.

More damage meant more pain. That then became power. Francis felt his ribs crack under a blow that got past his guard. Blood ran freely from a dozen wounds, his regeneration struggling to keep pace with the onslaught.

[ Blade Tempest ]

The third activation targeted joints and tendons. The wolverkin’s movements slowed as critical areas were severed, but it kept fighting, kept regenerating, and kept trying to kill him.

Francis dropped his ruined shield and gripped his sword with both hands. Warrior’s Resolve roared inside him, every wound he’d taken converting into one final surge of power.

[ Blood-Forged Aegis ]

[ Blade Tempest ]

The fourth activation ended it. Francis’s sword found the wolverkin’s throat, its spine, its heart. The creature collapsed, finally dead.

Its final strike, launched as it died, drove its claws through the ruined remains of his breastplate and into his chest. He had let it. He always let it. Killing the wolverkin any other way would have changed the variables, and the whole point was to keep them identical, the same fight run loop after loop, watching for the smallest deviation. There had been none.

Francis looked down at the wound, feeling the blood running hot against his cold skin.

It’s the same result.,. It fought exactly the same way, every attack, every movement. The observer doesn’t know…

The world went black.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

Francis made the journey north one more time. He went straight to Glitvall’s tent instead of heading for the battlefield.

“The pattern holds,” he stated after sharing everything. “Each time I’ve fought the wolverkin it’s used the same approach. It hasn’t changed between loops.”

Glitvall’s lips pressed together as he gave a slow nod. “So the enemy isn’t adapting to your tactics. At least not yet.”

“Not from these fights. But that might change if I push further.” Francis moved to the crude map on Glitvall’s table. “I’ve been fighting the same enemies in the same positions. The lynxkins here, the ursaloths here, the wolverkin responding from somewhere deeper. I’ve never gone past the wolverkin’s position. Never seen what’s beyond it.”

“You want to scout,” Greythorn said. “See what waits farther in.”

“If there’s something controlling these beasts, directing them, it has to be somewhere. The wolverkin came running from that direction.” Francis tapped a spot on the map beyond the marked enemy positions. “Whatever sent it is back there. I want to find it.”

“Dangerous,” Glitvall said. “If you push too deep and die, will you lose the element of surprise?”

“I may lose that if I keep doing this same fight over and over,” Francis replied. “Eventually whatever is directing them must realize I’m dying to the wolverkin. If I can survive long enough to see something useful…”

The warchief studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “Go. But be careful. The beasts you know are dangerous enough. Whatever lies beyond them will be worse.”

Francis clasped his forearm. “I’ll find out what’s back there. One way or another.”

***

The wolverkin died to four Blade Tempests, the same as before.

But this time, Francis didn’t let the creature’s death blow land. He’d run the fight identical a dozen times now, down to that final claw, watching for any sign the thing had changed. It never had. The test was finished, and there was no reason left to die proving it. He twisted at the last moment, taking the claws across his side instead of through his chest. The wound was deep and painful, but not fatal.

[ Regeneration ]

Golden threads flooded the wound, knitting flesh back together as Francis stood over the wolverkin’s carcass. He was battered, bleeding from a dozen wounds, and his armor was basically worthless. But he was alive.

He didn’t have long. His regeneration would keep him moving for a while, but he’d taken too much damage to sustain another prolonged fight. If he encountered another elite, he’d probably die.

Then I’d better not fight. I need to scout, not kill.

Francis moved deeper into enemy territory, staying low, using ice formations and snowdrifts for cover. He avoided the lynxkin packs that prowled the area, circling wide around ursaloth positions, keeping to the edges where the enemy presence was thinner.

The terrain changed as he pushed further north. The flat ice fields gave way to jagged formations, pressure ridges where massive ice plates had collided and thrust upward. Crevasses split the ground, some shallow enough to jump, others deep enough to swallow a man whole.

Francis climbed one of the pressure ridges, ignoring the pain in his side, and looked out across the frozen landscape.

What he saw took away his breath.

The enemy forces weren’t scattered randomly across the ice. They were arranged in concentric rings, each layer denser than the last, all oriented toward a central point, maybe two miles away. Lynxkin prowled the outer edges. Ursaloths held the middle ground. Deeper in, Francis could see larger shapes moving, creatures he didn’t recognize from this distance.

At the center of it all, barely visible through the blowing snow, was something that didn’t belong on a frozen battlefield.

A structure. Some kind of dark stone rising from the ice, angular and deliberate in a way that nature never produced. It was too far away to make out the details, but Francis could see that it was large, perhaps the size of a small fortress, and that there was movement around its base.

That’s where they’re coming from. That’s where whatever is controlling them waits.

Francis committed the image to memory, noting landmarks, distances, and the gaps in the enemy’s defensive rings. Then he descended from the pressure ridge and began working his way around the perimeter, looking for weaknesses, alternate approaches, anything that might help him reach that structure eventually.

***

The Frost Serpentkin appeared without warning.

One moment, Francis was moving between ice formations, the next, a shape erupted from the snow ahead of him. Ice-blue scales gleamed in the pale light, four arms already weaving patterns in the air, and a serpentine lower body coiled beneath a humanoid torso.

Another elite!

Like the wolverkin, it wasn’t waiting in ambush. It was reacting, responding to his presence, coming from the direction of that distant structure.

Cold erupted around Francis as the creature’s magic took hold. The temperature dropped so fast that his breath turned to ice crystals before it left his mouth. His remaining pieces of armor grew cold enough to burn through his underlayer, and frost began forming on his exposed skin.

His Magic Resistance skill pushed back against the magical cold, but the Frost Serpentkin was powerful. Francis felt his movements slowing, his muscles struggling against the chill seeping into his bones.

The creature launched forward, gliding across the ice with grace. Two of its arms held curved daggers of solid ice, while the other two continued weaving spells. It was beautiful and terrifying, ten feet of coiled muscle and magic moving with the intent to kill.

Francis raised his sword and met its charge.

Steel rang against ice as he parried the first dagger strike. The second came from an impossible angle, the serpent’s flexible body allowing attacks that no human could match. Francis twisted aside, feeling the blade slice across his already-damaged armor, finding flesh, and opening a new line of cold pain.

[ Quick Attack ]

He lunged forward, trying to get inside the creature’s reach. His sword found scales, cutting a shallow line across the serpent’s side. Green blood welled from the wound, steaming in the frozen air.

The serpent’s tail whipped around, catching Francis in the ribs and sending him sliding across the ice. Before he could recover, a wave of frost magic washed over him, and he felt his left arm go numb from shoulder to fingertips.

[ Magic Feedback ]

The serpent shrieked as a portion of its own magic rebounded into it. The creature recoiled, yellow eyes widening with surprise and pain, its spell-weaving momentarily disrupted.

Francis used the opening to close the distance.

[ Power Strike ]

His sword carved deep into the serpent’s torso, shattering scales and spraying green blood across the ice. The creature’s four arms lashed out in response, daggers and claws seeking his flesh from every direction.

Francis took a dagger through his already-wounded shoulder. Claws raked across his back that would have been crippling without his armor. The pain was distant, filtered through Pain Resistance and the cold that had numbed half his body.

Warrior’s Resolve was active again, churning and sending power surging through him. He ripped his sword free and struck again, driving the blade into the serpent’s side, then pulling it out and slashing across the creature’s chest.

The serpent tried to retreat, its lower body pushing it backward across the ice. Francis didn’t let it escape.

[ Blade Tempest ]

[ Power Strike ]

Francis became a whirlwind of death. Six strikes, each one finding flesh, carving through scale. The serpent’s ice daggers shattered against his blade. Its spell-weaving arms went limp as tendons were severed. Its coiled body unraveled as wound after wound opened across its length.

The creature collapsed, sliding across the ice in a trail of green blood. Its yellow eyes dimmed, and its four arms fell still.

Francis stood over it, breathing hard, his body screaming with pain from the wounds. His left arm was still mostly numb from the frost magic. Blood ran from the dagger wound in his shoulder and the claw marks across his back. His armor was basically worthless.

But he was alive.

[ Magic Resistance Increased - 58 ]

Francis looked down at his wounds, at the dead serpent, then toward the distant structure barely visible through the blowing snow.

He was alive.

Slowly, as his mind cleared from the haze of combat, he realized that might be a problem.

Francis stared at the Frost Serpentkin’s carcass, his thoughts muddied from exhaustion and pain.

He could walk away. His regeneration was working. In less than an hour, he’d be fully functional again. He could make it back to the barbarian camp, report what he’d found.

But if he walked away, the serpent’s body would stay here.

Francis looked at the wounds he’d inflicted. Deep cuts from his sword. The distinctive pattern of Blade Tempest’s six rapid strikes. Evidence of skills and techniques the enemy had never encountered before.

Eventually, something would find this body. A patrol, a scout, one of those larger shapes he’d seen moving in the deeper defensive rings. They would examine the wounds, study the patterns, and report back to whatever was coordinating them from that dark structure.

And then the enemy would know about Blade Tempest.

Francis sat down in the snow, his sword resting across his knees. The magical chill was seeping out of him now, the adrenaline of combat fading, leaving nothing but exhaustion and the weight of what he knew he needed to do.

The wolverkin fights had been mutual kills. Two bodies, no survivors, no way for the enemy to know what had happened except that Francis had most likely died. The observer, whatever it was, would have learned nothing because he didn’t return to the camp like he had in all those other loops. That had been the mistake he hadn’t realized till now.

This was different. Francis was alive. If he left, the observer would eventually have a body to study, wounds to analyze, and patterns to decode.

Unless I don’t give them time to do that.

He could deny the enemy that information. His death would reset the loop.

Francis stared at his sword, watching the green blood slowly freeze on its blade.

Not this time. You learn nothing from this.

He stood, ready to do what he needed to do. He wouldn’t make this mistake again and give his foe a way to learn about him.

I’ll reach that structure and kill whatever is inside it… And then Michael will live.

Chapter 58

The sound of the morning bell rang.

He dressed quickly and headed north, his mind already working through what came next. He’d found the structure, seen the concentric rings of defense surrounding it, killed two different elite beastkin without giving the observer any information to learn from. Now he needed to figure out how to reach that dark stone fortress at the center of it all.

***

Glitvall’s tent was warm as always, the fire crackling in its pit as Francis spread a rough sketch across the warchief’s table. He’d drawn it from memory during the journey north, marking everything he could remember from his view atop the pressure ridge.

“This is what I saw,” Francis said, tapping the center of the sketch. “A structure. Dark stone, angular, maybe the size of a small fortress. Everything else radiates out from it in rings.”

Glitvall leaned over the table, his massive frame casting shadows across the crude map. “You’re certain about the positioning?”

“As certain as I can be from two miles out in a snow filled area. The outer ring is lynxkins, spread thin but covering a lot of ground. Middle ring is ursaloths, denser, more disciplined. And deeper in…” Francis shook his head. “I saw larger shapes moving, but I couldn’t identify them from that distance.”

Greythorn studied the sketch with narrowed eyes. “Concentric defense. Classic formation. Outer ring detects, middle ring delays, inner ring destroys.”

“The elites aren’t stationed in the rings,” Francis added. “They respond when something gets through. The wolverkin came running from the direction of the structure when I pushed past the ursaloths. Same with the Frost Serpentkin when I scouted deeper.”

“Reserves,” Glitvall said grimly. “Held back until needed, then deployed to deal with specific threats.”

“Which means whatever is in that structure knows when something breaches the outer defenses. It has awareness of the battlefield, at least to some degree.”

The warchief straightened, crossing his arms over his chest. “Then how do you plan to reach it? A direct assault through three rings of defenders, with elite reinforcements responding to every breakthrough?”

“I don’t,” Francis replied. “At least not yet. I need to scout the perimeter first, find where the defenses are weakest, identify any gaps in coverage. There might be terrain features I can exploit, timing windows when patrols are thinner, approaches the enemy hasn’t thought to guard.”

“And if there aren’t?” Greythorn asked.

“Then I keep growing stronger until I can punch through anyway.” Francis met her pale eyes. “But I’d rather find a smarter path if one exists.”

Glitvall nodded slowly. “Scouting takes time. Multiple approaches, multiple angles. You’ll probably die many times.”

“I know.” Francis looked at the sketch, at the dark circle he’d drawn at its center. “Every time I kill an elite, I’ll need to die too. Otherwise, the observer could learn from the body, study the wounds, and develop counters.”

The warchief’s eyes narrowed. “That’s a hard way to fight.”

“It’s the only way I can win the war.”

***

The wolverkin died to four Blade Tempests, but Francis was getting stronger.

Francis twisted away from its final strike, taking claws across his hip instead of through his chest. The wound was deep enough to make him stumble, but his regeneration knitted flesh back together as he stood over the creature’s remains.

He didn’t linger. Every moment he spent in enemy territory was a moment something could find him, and he’d taken enough damage that another elite fight would probably kill him before he could win it.

Francis moved east this time, skirting the edge of the ursaloth positions and using the pressure ridges for cover. The terrain grew rougher as he traveled, the ice formations becoming larger and more jagged, creating a maze of frozen walls and hidden crevasses.

Good for hiding. Bad for moving quickly.

He climbed one of the taller ridges and looked toward the structure. From this angle, he could see the eastern edge of the defensive rings more clearly. The lynxkin presence was thinner here, probably because the rough terrain made it harder for anything to approach quickly. But the inner rings looked just as dense as they had from the north.

Movement caught his eye. Something large, moving along the base of an ice cliff maybe half a mile away. Francis squinted through the blowing snow, trying to make out details.

Goat-like. Massive black horns. Weighted chains hanging from its belt.

Ramhorn Vesser. Glitvall warned me about those.

The creature was patrolling the cliff face, moving with a sure-footedness that seemed to defy what was possible. As Francis watched, it leaped across a gap that had to be thirty feet wide, landing on a narrow ledge without breaking stride.

The eastern approach was guarded. Not by normal ground forces, but by creatures that could control the high ground and respond to any threat from above.

Francis memorized the patrol route and descended from the ridge. He needed to check the other approaches before he could make any decisions.

He made it another quarter mile before the Frost Serpentkin found him.

The fight was brutal and fast.

He killed it with two Blade Tempests, but the creature’s final spell caught him full in the chest. Cold, unlike anything he’d felt before, flooded his body, freezing his blood, turning his organs to ice from the inside out.

Francis collapsed beside the serpent’s carcass, two bodies in the snow, no survivor to tell the tale.

The world went black.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

Francis pushed north again, moving through the familiar pattern of lynxkins and ursaloths, killing the wolverkin with four Blade Tempests and surviving its final strike. This time he headed west, toward the frozen shoreline Glitvall had mentioned.

The terrain changed as he approached the coast. The pressure ridges gave way to flatter ice, smoother and more treacherous. In places, the ice was thin enough that Francis could see dark water moving beneath it, and he had to test each step before committing his weight.

The lynxkin presence was heavier here, packs of the white-furred creatures prowling the ice in overlapping patterns. Francis had to move carefully, timing his advances to slip through gaps in their coverage, freezing in place when patrols passed too close.

He reached a point where he could see the western edge of the defensive rings. The structure was visible in the distance, that dark angular shape rising from the ice. From this angle, Francis could make out more details: walls of black stone, what might have been a gate or entrance facing south, and movement on the ramparts that suggested guards or sentries.

But between him and the structure, the defensive rings were even denser than they’d been to the north or east. Ursaloths formed solid lines instead of scattered positions, and Francis could see what looked like shield walls of Frost Serpentkin filling the gaps between them.

And at the water’s edge, massive shapes moved through the shallows.

A walruskin.

Huge tusked creatures with bodies like walls of blubber, carrying tridents and barbed nets. They patrolled the boundary between ice and water, cutting off any approach from the frozen sea.

The western approach is worse than the eastern side. More defenders, less cover, and those walruskins would drag me under the ice before I could fight back.

Francis was about to withdraw when something caught his attention. A gap in the ursaloth lines, maybe fifty yards wide, where the defensive ring seemed thinner than everywhere else. He couldn’t see what was behind it from this angle, but the gap was there, a potential weakness in the otherwise solid formation.

He needed a closer look.

Francis moved toward the gap, staying low, using every bit of cover the terrain offered. He was almost close enough to see what lay beyond when the ice beneath him cracked.

It wasn’t a natural break. Something had struck it from below.

Francis threw himself backward as a walruskin erupted through the ice, its massive body launching upward with surprising speed. Tusks as long as swords swept toward him, and a barbed net unfurled in the creature’s other hand.

[ Quick Attack ]

Francis dodged the tusks and slashed at the net, cutting through several of the barbed cords before they could wrap around him. But the walruskin was already pressing its advantage, its bulk forcing Francis back toward the broken ice and the dark water beneath.

He couldn’t fight this thing on its terms. The walruskin was built for this terrain, comfortable in water and on ice alike. Francis was neither.

[ Blade Tempest ]

Francis became a whirlwind of steel, striking the walruskin six times in seconds. His sword carved through blubber and muscle, opening wounds that bled dark blood onto the ice. The creature roared in pain and lashed out with its trident, catching Francis across the chest and sending him sprawling.

He hit the ice hard and felt it crack beneath him. Cold water rushed up through the break, soaking his legs, dragging at his armor.

The walruskin charged, tusks aimed at his chest.

[ Power Strike ]

Francis drove his sword upward as the creature bore down on him, using its own momentum against it. The blade punched through the walruskin’s throat and out the back of its neck. The creature’s weight slammed into Francis, driving him through the broken ice and into the freezing water below.

The cold was absolute. Francis felt his body seizing, his muscles locking up, his lungs burning for air that wasn’t there. The walruskin’s carcass was sinking, dragging him down, and his armor was too heavy to swim in, even if he could move.

Darkness closed in, and Francis let it come.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

Francis pushed north, killed the wolverkin, and this time continued straight ahead instead of veering east or west. The most direct path to the structure. The one the enemy would expect.

The terrain beyond the wolverkin’s position was different from the flanks. Flatter, more open, with fewer pressure ridges and more exposed ground. Francis could see threats coming from farther away, which gave him more time to react, but it also meant he had less cover to work with.

The defensive rings ahead were thinner than he’d expected. The lynxkin patrols had wider gaps between them, and the ursaloth positions were spread across more ground with less overlap.

They’re not expecting a direct assault from this direction. Why?

Francis climbed a low rise and looked toward the structure. From here, he could see the entrance more clearly, a gate or opening in the wall facing him. Movement around it suggested guards, but fewer than he would have expected for such an obvious weak point.

Then he saw why the defenses were thinner.

Between his position and the structure, maybe a mile ahead, the ground dropped into a massive crevasse. It stretched east to west as far as Francis could see, a jagged tear in the ice that had to be a hundred feet deep and at least fifty feet wide at its narrowest point.

A natural barrier. No army could cross that gap, and any individual who tried would be an easy target for defenders on the far side.

But natural barriers had limits.

Francis moved along the edge of the crevasse, staying low, looking for any place where the gap might narrow or where the walls might offer handholds for climbing. The wind howled up from the depths, carrying cold that cut through even his enhanced resistance, but he kept moving.

After almost an hour of searching, he found it.

A bridge. Not a constructed one, but a natural formation where a massive slab of ice had fallen across the crevasse, creating a span maybe twenty feet wide. It looked stable, though Francis couldn’t be certain without testing it.

More importantly, the bridge was hidden from view by the surrounding terrain. Ice formations on both sides blocked the sight lines from the structure, creating a blind spot in the enemy’s defenses.

This is it. This is how I get across.

Francis committed the location to memory, noting landmarks, distances, and the angle of approach that would keep him hidden from the guards on the structure’s walls. He was about to withdraw when movement on the far side of the bridge caught his attention.

Something was patrolling the area. Something big.

Francis pressed himself against the ice and watched as the creature came into view. It was unlike anything he’d seen before, a massive four-legged beast covered in white fur so thick it looked like armor. Its head was broad and flat, with small eyes and a mouth full of teeth that looked designed for crushing bone. Chains hung from a harness around its body, and a rider sat atop its back, a figure wrapped in dark furs that obscured any identifying features.

The beast paused at the far end of the bridge, its head swinging back and forth as if scenting the air. Francis held his breath, not daring to move.

After a long moment, the creature turned and continued its patrol, disappearing behind an ice formation.

Francis exhaled slowly. The bridge was guarded, but only by a single patrol. If he could learn its timing and identify its coverage gaps, he might be able to cross without being detected.

He waited, watching, counting the seconds until the patrol returned. When it did, he noted its route, its speed, the pattern of its movements. Then he waited for it to pass again, confirming that the pattern held.

Four minutes between passes. That was his window.

Francis was about to withdraw when his Battle Sense screamed a warning. He threw himself sideways just as claws raked through the space where his head had been.

Another Frost Serpentkin had found him. This one had approached from downwind, using the howling gusts from the crevasse to mask its movement.

Francis rolled to his feet and drew his sword in one motion. The serpent was already casting, frost magic gathering around its four hands, the temperature dropping so fast that ice crystals formed on Francis’s armor.

He didn’t have time for a prolonged fight. The patrol would hear the combat and come running, and Francis couldn’t fight a Frost Serpentkin and that mounted beast at the same time.

[ Blade Tempest ]

[ Power Strike ]

Francis poured everything into the attack, not holding back, not trying to conserve energy. Six strikes in three seconds, each one aimed at vital points. The serpent tried to defend, its ice daggers coming up to block, but Francis was too fast, too committed.

His sword found the serpent’s throat on the third strike and didn’t stop until the sixth had carved through its spine.

The creature collapsed, and Francis stood over it, breathing hard, his body screaming with exhaustion. He’d pushed himself to the limit, used everything he had to end the fight quickly.

And now he was alive, standing over an elite’s carcass, with a patrol that would return in less than three minutes. He could toss the remains into the ravine and hope no one found it. But something might smell the blood. It might learn he was here.

He knew what he had to do.

Francis looked at the dead serpent, then at his sword, then toward the distant structure. He’d found the path. He knew where the bridge was, knew the patrol timing, and knew how to approach without being seen.

All of that knowledge was safely stored in his memory. Nothing could take it from him.

I found the path. Next time, I’ll cross it.

The world went black.

Chapter 59

The sound of the morning bell rang.

Francis made the journey north with a clarity of purpose he hadn’t felt in weeks. He knew where the bridge was, the patrol timing, and how to cross.

Now he needed to find out what waited on the other side.

Glitvall and Greythorn listened as Francis updated them on his scouting, his rough sketch now marked with new details: the crevasse running east to west, the hidden ice bridge, the four-minute patrol window.

“A natural bridge,” Glitvall said, studying the markings. “Hidden from the structure’s sight lines. That’s good fortune.”

“Or deliberate neglect,” Greythorn countered. “They know bridge exists. Perhaps want someone to use it.”

Francis had considered that possibility. “Maybe. But the patrol suggests they’re at least trying to guard it. If it were a trap, why bother with the mounted beast?”

“To look guarded,” the shaman replied. “To make crossing victory instead of jaws.”

“Either way, I need to cross it,” Francis said. “I can’t learn what’s in that structure by staring at it. Besides, the eastern and western approaches are worse. Ramhorn Vessers control the cliffs to the east. Walruskins and dense formations to the west. The bridge is the best option I’ve found.”

Glitvall leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight. “What do you expect to find on the other side?”

“More defenses. Probably denser than what I’ve faced so far. The outer rings are meant to detect and delay. Whatever guards the structure itself will be meant to destroy.” Francis met the warchief’s eyes. “I’ll likely die. Multiple times. But each death will teach me something new about what I’m facing.”

“And each death where you kill an elite…” Greythorn began.

“I’ll make sure the observer learns nothing from it,” Francis finished.

***

The wolverkin still required four Blade Tempests to kill. He felt if things improved a bit more with the skill and he could get stronger, three might be a possibility in a few dozen deaths or more.

Francis twisted away from its final strike, survived, and pushed straight north toward the crevasse. He moved quickly, using the terrain he’d memorized from previous loops, avoiding lynxkin patrols and skirting ursaloth positions with practiced efficiency.

The crevasse appeared ahead of him, that massive tear in the ice stretching east to west as far as he could see. Wind howled up from its depths, helping to provide some noise cover.

Francis followed the edge toward the bridge, staying low, keeping the ice formations between himself and any potential observers. When he reached the hidden span, he pressed himself against the frozen wall and waited.

The patrol came. The massive white-furred beast and its hide-wrapped rider passed the far end of the bridge, paused to scent the air, then continued on its route. Francis counted the seconds as it disappeared behind an ice formation.

Francis moved.

The bridge was solid beneath his feet, the massive ice slab holding his weight without so much as a creak. He crossed quickly but carefully, aware that a single slip would send him tumbling into the crevasse’s depths. Twenty feet of open span, exposed to anyone who might be watching, his heart pounding in his chest despite all the deaths he’d already experienced.

He reached the far side and pressed himself into the shadow of an ice formation, breathing hard.

He was across. For the first time, he stood on the structure’s side of the crevasse.

The terrain here was different. Smoother, more deliberate, as if someone had shaped the ice rather than letting nature take its course. Pathways wound between formations that looked almost like walls, creating corridors and chokepoints that would funnel any attacker into killing zones.

Killing zones… Someone laid all this out to funnel an attacker and bleed him. You don’t build that around nothing. There’s something here worth dying to protect.

Francis moved deeper, following one of the corridors toward the structure. The winding passages opened up for a second and he could see it more clearly now, maybe half a mile away. The dark stone walls rose perhaps forty feet high, angular and imposing against the grey sky. The gate he’d spotted from the other side of the crevasse was visible from here, a massive iron-banded door set into the wall, flanked by what looked like guard posts.

Movement could be seen on the walls. Figures patrolling the ramparts, too distant to identify clearly, but present. Watching.

Francis kept to the shadows, using the ice corridors for cover as he worked his way closer. The silence was oppressive, broken only by the wind and the crunch of snow beneath his boots. No lynxkins prowled these paths. No ursaloths held defensive positions.

That should have been reassuring. Instead, it made his Battle Sense prickle with warning.

The outer rings had plenty of defenders. Why is this area so empty?

He got his answer a moment later.

The voice came from somewhere ahead, echoing off the ice walls in a way that made it impossible to pinpoint.

“Help! Please, someone help me!”

Francis froze. The voice was human, female, desperate with pain and fear. Every instinct told him to rush toward it, to help whoever was calling out.

Every instinct except the one that remembered Glitvall’s warning.

They mimic voices. Human voices. We’ve lost men who followed calls for help, only to find three Reavers waiting in ambush.

Francis drew his sword slowly, making as little noise as possible. He pressed his back against the ice wall and scanned the corridor ahead, looking for any sign of movement.

“Please! I’m hurt! I can’t move!” The voice came again, closer this time, or maybe just bouncing differently off the walls.

Then he saw it. A flicker of black against the white ice, maybe thirty yards ahead where the corridor curved. Then another, higher up, perched on top of one of the ice walls. Francis finally spotted a third, on the opposite side.

Three of them. Just like Glitvall had said.

Frost Reavers or also known as ravenkin. Black feathers that seemed to absorb the pale light, humanoid bodies with wings folded against their backs, and eyes like chips of obsidian that reflected nothing. Each one carried a curved dagger in one hand and had a bow slung across its back.

They hadn’t seen him yet. They were watching the corridor ahead, waiting for their prey to come running toward the fake cries for help.

Francis had a choice. He could try to slip past them, find another route to the structure. Or he could fight, test their capabilities, and learn their patterns for future loops.

He chose to fight.

[ Quick Attack ]

Francis burst from cover, closing the distance to the nearest Reaver before any of them could react. His sword found the creature’s chest, punching through feathers and flesh with a wet crunch. The Reaver shrieked, a sound nothing like the human voice it had been mimicking, and crumpled to the ground.

The other two reacted instantly. Bows came up, arrows nocked and drawn in a motion so fast it surprised him. Francis dove sideways as two arrows flew through the space where he’d been standing, the shafts shattering against the ice wall behind him.

The Reavers didn’t stay at range. They dropped from their perches and closed on Francis from two directions, curved daggers gleaming in their hands. Their movements were coordinated and practiced, each covering the other’s blind spots as they attacked.

Francis parried the first dagger strike and ducked under the second, his sword coming around in a wide arc that forced both Reavers to leap backward. They were fast, faster than the lynxkin, and they fought with a coordination that the pack hunters lacked.

One of them began casting. Francis felt the temperature drop as frost magic gathered around the Reaver’s free hand, ice crystals forming in the air.

The spell struck, but Francis shrugged off a good portion of the cold, feeling his Magic Resist ability negating it. Even better was the casting Reaver shrieking as its own magic dealt pain to it, Francis’s Magic Feedback slowing it down. The distraction was all Francis needed.

[ Blade Tempest ]

Six strikes moved faster than his opponent could seem to comprehend or defend against. The stunned Reaver took four of them, its body jerking with each impact, black feathers flying as Francis’s sword carved through its defenses. The remaining Reaver tried to use the opening to strike at Francis’s back, but his Battle Sense screamed a warning, and he spun, catching the curved dagger on his blade and driving his shoulder into the creature’s chest.

The Reaver stumbled backward, wings flaring for balance, and Francis was on it before it could recover. A Power Strike took its head from its shoulders.

The three Reavers were dead faster than he had imagined it could happen. Francis stood among the bodies, breathing hard, his sword dripping with dark blood that looked almost purple in the pale light.

[ Battle Sense Increased - 28 ]

[ Magic Feedback Increased - 26 ]

He was alive, but the bodies around him were a problem.

Francis looked toward the structure, then back at the dead Reavers. These weren’t elites, just standard defenders, but the wounds he’d inflicted still told a story. Blade Tempest’s distinctive pattern of rapid strikes. The clean decapitation of a Power Strike.

He could leave them and let the wounds tell their story. He could be thorough, carve them past recognition, hide the signature of Blade Tempest and the clean line of a Power Strike. But standing over them, Francis saw the flaw in both. A patrol of defenders dead at all was the message. The watcher didn’t need to read his technique in the wounds. It only needed to notice that something had reached this deep and killed, and the only thing that kept reaching this deep, loop after loop, was him.

Francis decided to push forward. He needed to see more of the inner defenses, get closer to the structure. He could always die later if necessary.

***

The corridors led him closer to the structure, winding between ice formations that grew taller and more deliberate as he advanced. Twice more he encountered Frost Reavers, and each time he killed them, learning their patterns and adapting to their tactics.

They always fought in threes. Each time they used the voice mimicry. There was always at least one caster among them who would hang back and provide magical support while the other two engaged in melee.

By the time Francis reached the edge of the ice corridors, he’d killed nine of them, and his armor was marked with a dozen new gouges from their curved daggers. None of the wounds they had inflicted were serious, but they added up, and his regeneration was burning through his magical reserves.

The structure loomed ahead, maybe two hundred yards away across an open expanse of flat ice. There was no cover, no corridors to hide in. Just a killing field between him and the gate.

Francis studied the approach, noting the guard posts flanking the gate, the figures moving on the ramparts, and the way the ice had been smoothed to remove any possible cover. Anyone crossing that open ground would be exposed to arrows, magic, and whatever else the defenders chose to throw at them.

He couldn’t cross that. Not alone and not without preparation.

But he could observe and prepare for future attempts.

Francis found a position where he could watch the gate without being seen, pressing himself into a crevice between two ice formations. From here, he could see the guards more clearly.

These were larger than Reavers, bulkier, covered in pale grey fur that blended with the ice and snow. They stood upright on two legs, but their proportions were wrong, arms too long, shoulders too broad, heads that were more wolf than human. Each one carried a massive weapon, axes, and hammers that looked like they could crush armor with a single blow.

Some kind of wolfkin variant? No, too big. Too… deliberate.

Francis counted eight of them visible on the walls and flanking the gate. There could be more inside, more waiting in reserve, the way the elites had been positioned in the outer rings.

Movement at the gate drew his attention. The massive iron-banded doors were swinging open, pushed by guards on either side. Something was coming out.

Francis pressed deeper into his hiding spot and watched.

The creature that emerged from the structure was unlike anything he’d seen in the north. It walked on two legs like the gate guards, but it was taller, broader, and wrapped in dark robes that covered most of its body. What flesh was visible was pale blue, almost the color of glacier ice, and its eyes glowed with a cold white light that was visible even from two hundred yards away.

It wasn’t a beastkin. It was something else entirely.

The robed figure raised one hand, and Francis felt the temperature drop even from his distant position. Magic gathered around its fingers, visible threads of power that pulsed with cold light. It gestured toward the ice corridors, toward the area where Francis had killed the Reavers, and the magic surged outward in a wave that made the air itself crystallize.

Francis’s Magic Resistance skill pushed back against the wave of cold, but he felt it testing him, probing his defenses. The robed figure paused, its glowing eyes sweeping across the ice field, searching.

It seemed to know something was wrong. The Reavers were dead, and whatever detection magic it had just cast had found something alive that shouldn’t be there.

Francis held perfectly still, barely breathing, praying that his hiding spot was deep enough to conceal him from those glowing eyes.

The figure’s gaze swept past his position, paused, then moved on. It made a gesture, and six of the gate guards moved out onto the ice field, spreading into a search pattern.

They’re looking for me. What kind of creature is this that has that kind of power?

Francis had maybe two minutes before they reached the ice corridors, maybe three before they found the Reaver bodies and started a systematic search. He could try to slip past them, work his way back to the bridge. Or he could fight, test these new enemies, learn what they could do.

There were six of them and that robed figure watching from the gate, more than likely ready to add its magic to the fight if needed.

The numbers were bad. The terrain was worse. Francis was already wounded from the Reaver fights, his stamina not yet fully recovered. Even his life core was low.

Time to die.

Francis drew his sword and stepped out of his hiding spot.

The gate guards saw him immediately. Six massive heads turned in his direction, six sets of eyes locked onto his position, and six weapons came up in unison.

They didn’t charge blindly. They spread out, forming a semicircle that would cut off his retreat, moving with the coordinated precision of trained soldiers rather than pack hunters.

Intelligent and disciplined. This is going to hurt.

Francis didn’t wait for them to complete their encirclement. He charged the nearest guard, closing the distance before the formation could solidify.

[ Quick Attack ]

His sword found the gap between the guard’s arm and torso, slicing deep into flesh. The creature snarled, a sound like grinding ice, and swung its massive hammer in a blow that would have crushed Francis’s skull if it had connected. He ducked under the swing and drove his blade deeper, twisting, searching for something vital.

The guard’s free hand caught Francis by the shoulder and hurled him backward. He hit the ice hard, rolling, coming up just in time to dodge an axe swing from a second guard that had closed the distance while he was engaged with the first.

[ Power Strike ]

Francis put everything into the blow, his sword carving through the second guard’s knee in a spray of blood and bone. The creature collapsed with a howl, but the others were already on him, weapons swinging from every direction.

A hammer caught him in the ribs, cracking armor and bone alike. An axe opened a gash across his back that made his regeneration surge. A clawed hand raked across his face, barely missing his eyes.

Warrior’s Resolve roared inside him, feeding him power, but there was too much damage coming too fast. Francis fought with everything he had, his sword finding flesh again and again, but for every wound he inflicted, he took three in return.

[ Blade Tempest ]

[ Power Strike ]

Six strikes lashed out, stronger than usual, and the drain on his remaining stamina was more than Francis had anticipated. One guard fell, its throat torn open. Another staggered back with wounds across its chest and arms. But the remaining four pressed their attack, and Francis felt his strength failing.

Cold erupted around him as the robed figure at the gate joined the fight. Ice formed on his armor, his skin, his sword. His movements slowed, his muscles screaming against the magical cold that was trying to freeze him solid.

His Magic Resistance skill pushed back, but the robed figure was powerful, far more powerful than the Frost Serpentkin or the Reaver casters. The cold seeped through his defenses, numbing his limbs and slowing his reactions.

A hammer blow caught him square in the chest and sent him flying. Francis hit the ice and couldn’t get up, his body too beaten, frozen, and spent.

The remaining guards closed in, weapons raised for the killing blow.

Francis looked past them, toward the structure, and the robed figure that was already turning back toward the gate. He’d learned what he needed to learn. The inner defenses, the gate guards, the caster who commanded them. All of it was stored in his memory, safe from the death that was about to claim him.

Axes and hammers fell, and the world went black.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

Francis lay in bed for a moment, thinking about everything he’d learned. The bridge crossing and the ice corridors. The Frost Reavers and their voice mimicry. The gate guards with their coordinated tactics. Out of all that, Francis remembered the robed figure with magic powerful enough to overwhelm his resistance.

It was a lot of information and a lot of new threats to account for.

But it was also progress. He’d made it further than ever before, seen the structure up close, and identified the enemies that guarded it. Each death brought him closer to understanding what he was facing.

Francis sat up and looked across the room at Michael as he was getting dressed. His brother was unaware of the war being fought in timelines that would never exist for him.

I’m getting closer… I’ll find whatever is in that structure, and I’ll kill it… And then you’ll be safe.

Francis dressed and headed north, already planning his next attempt. The same route, but faster. Kill the wolverkin, cross the bridge, clear the Reavers. Get to the killing field outside the gate and figure out how to cross it without being overwhelmed.

The robed figure was the key. That much was clear. It had detected him with magic, coordinated the guards’ response, and its power had been the decisive factor in the fight. If Francis could find a way to deal with it, the gate guards would be manageable.

If.

Francis smiled grimly as he walked. He’d died over five thousand times to reach this point. What was one more death, or a hundred more, if it meant finding a way through?

The structure and the observer were waiting, and Francis Lancaster was coming for them.

Chapter 60

Glitvall’s tent was warm as always, the fire crackling in its pit. He’d reached the point where it was time to share the new information he’d gathered.

“There’s a robed figure,” Francis said. “Inside the structure, or maybe just outside it. Pale blue skin, eyes that glowed with white light. When it raised its hand, I felt the temperature drop from two hundred yards away. And when it cast its spell…” He paused, searching for the right words. “It wasn’t like the Frost Serpentkin. It wasn’t like the Reaver casters. This was something else entirely.”

Greythorn leaned forward slightly. “Describe magic. Not effect. Not what it did. The magic itself, as you perceived it.”

Francis thought back to the moment, trying to recall every detail. “Threads of power. I could see them, actually see them, like streams of light gathering around the creature’s fingers. They pulsed with cold, with that white-blue glow that matched its eyes. And then they surged outward, spreading across the entire area in a wave.”

“Wave spread how?” the shaman asked. “Even, in all directions? Focused toward you? Moving fast or slow?”

“Even, I think. It expanded outward from where the figure stood, like ripples in water when you drop a stone.” Francis closed his eyes, remembering. “It moved at a walking pace, maybe a bit faster. Not rushing, not slow. Deliberate. And when it reached me…”

“When it reached you?”

“It felt like it was searching. Testing. The cold washed over everything, but when it touched me, it lingered. Like it was probing my defenses, trying to find something.” Francis opened his eyes. “Then the figure looked right at me. Even though I was hidden, and I hadn’t moved or made a sound. It knew I was out there.”

Greythorn nodded slowly, her expression thoughtful. “Detection magic. Powerful, old kind. I’ve heard but never seen. Creature not looking for enemies directly. Not looking for movement, sound, or heat. Looking for anything resists. Anything with magic of own.”

Understanding dawned on Francis. “My Magic Resistance. When I pushed back against the cold, when I tried to protect myself from the spell, it felt me pushing.”

“Yes.” The shaman’s pale eyes seemed to glow in the firelight. “Your resistance is strong, stronger than most I have known. Strength leaves mark. Like footprint in fresh snow, like handprint on frosted window. The harder you push against creature’s magic, the clearer you become to senses.”

“Then how do I hide from it?” Francis asked. “I can’t just lower my resistance. Without it, the cold would freeze me solid before I could take ten steps.”

“Perhaps you cannot hide,” Greythorn said. “Perhaps that not the answer you seek.” She held up a hand before Francis could respond. “Think. This creature casts detection spell. The spell sweeps across area, finds anything with magical resistance, reveals location. Casting spell requires power and focus. Question is, does it cast spell always, constantly maintaining effect? Or it cast at intervals, sweeping to check for intruders?”

Francis hadn’t considered that. He’d assumed the detection was constant, an ever-present awareness that covered the entire area around the structure. But if it was periodic, if there were gaps between sweeps…

“If there’s a window between sweeps,” he said slowly, “I might be able to move through the area without being detected. Get closer to the structure before the next sweep reveals my position.”

“Might,” Greythorn agreed. “You need to know timing. Need to know pattern, how long between, how long last, whether pattern changes when something detected.” She fixed him with that unsettling gaze. “You need to know what creature can do. Detection one thing. Combat magic another. A creature with power to freeze you solid from far away not simple guard.”

Glitvall spoke up from his chair, his deep voice rumbling through the tent. “She’s right. In my experience, power like that is never given to common soldiers, no matter how skilled. If this creature guards the structure, it does so because something inside is worth protecting with that level of strength.”

“Which means the structure itself might not be my real target,” Francis said, following their logic. “There’s something inside. Something important enough to warrant a guardian that powerful.”

Greythorn nodded once. “When you closer, look for more than threats. Look how creature moves, how acts when not fighting, and how commands others. Does it patrol? Does it remain one place? Does it protect specific location in structure?” She paused. “Powerful guarding not protecting walls or gates. It protecting something special. Find what it protects. That is your target.”

Francis absorbed her words, turning them over in his mind. He’d been so focused on reaching the structure, on getting past the defenses and inside the walls, that he hadn’t thought much about what he’d find there. A command center, he’d assumed. A place where the enemy coordinated their forces. But if there was something more, something worth the robed figure’s protection…

“I’ll learn the pattern,” he said, standing. “Find the gaps in the detection sweeps. And I’ll look for whatever they’re protecting inside.”

Greythorn nodded once, something that might have been approval flickering across her ancient features. “Good. Now go die until you understand.”

Despite the weight of what lay ahead, Francis almost smiled. “That’s the plan.”

***

He killed the wolverkin, and twisted away from its final strike, minimizing the damage that was done to his hip. From there he pushed straight north toward the crevasse. He crossed the bridge during the patrol’s window and entered the ice corridors at a dead run.

If speed were the answer, he’d find out now.

The first group of Reavers tried their voice mimicry trick. Francis ignored it and charged straight at them, his sword already moving. Three of them, just like always, were positioned in their usual ambush formation.

[ Quick Attack ]

He killed the first before it could react, his blade punching through its chest in a spray of dark blood. The other two reacted instantly, dropping from their perches and closing with curved daggers, but Francis was already moving, already striking.

[ Blade Tempest ]

Six strikes carved through both Reavers in a whirlwind of steel. Francis didn’t pause to confirm the kills, just kept running, pushing deeper into the corridors as fast as his legs could carry him.

He’d barely made it past the first set of ice walls when the detection wave washed over him.

The cold was different from the ambient chill of the battlefield. It was probing, searching, testing his defenses with an intelligence that made Francis’s skin crawl. His Magic Resistance flared automatically, pushing back against the intrusion, and he felt the moment when the spell found him.

Francis kept running, hoping to reach the gate before they could cut him off. He encountered another group of Reavers and cut through them without slowing, leaving bodies in his wake as he pushed toward the structure.

The guards intercepted before he could even get close to the gate. They moved faster than he’d expected, their massive bodies covering ground with a loping stride that ate up the distance between them. Francis met them with his sword raised, knowing this wasn’t a fight he could win but determined to learn what he could before he died.

[ Power Strike ]

His blade carved through the first guard’s defenses, opening a deep wound across its chest. The creature staggered but didn’t fall, its massive hammer coming around in a counterstrike that Francis barely dodged. A second guard attacked from his left, an axe blow that he caught on his sword but couldn’t fully deflect. The impact sent him stumbling, his arm going numb from the force.

Cold erupted around him as the robed figure joined the fight from a distance. Ice formed on his armor, his sword, his skin. Francis felt his movements slowing, his body struggling against the magical cold that was trying to freeze him in place.

He killed one more guard with a desperate Blade Tempest, then died to a hammer blow that crushed his chest while he was struggling against the ice that held him.

The world went black.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

Francis tried a different approach. After killing the wolverkin and crossing the bridge, he moved into the ice corridors slowly, carefully, using every bit of cover the terrain offered. When he detected the Reavers ahead, he didn’t engage. Instead, he circled around them, slipping through gaps in their coverage, leaving them alive and unaware of his passage.

He didn’t fight and thus didn’t leave any bodies. There was nothing to suggest an intruder had passed through.

He moved like a ghost through the frozen maze, his footsteps careful and quiet, his breathing controlled. The corridors wound deeper into the structure, and Francis followed them patiently, checking each corner before advancing, freezing whenever he heard movement ahead.

He made it further than before. Past the first set of Reaver ambush points, past the second, into territory he hadn’t explored in previous loops. The structure was visible now, maybe three hundred yards away, its dark stone walls rising against the grey sky. This was another area of open space around the main structure.

The detection wave swept through the area.

Francis felt it coming, felt the cold pressure building in the air around him. He pressed himself into a crevice between two ice formations and held perfectly still, hoping that if he didn’t resist, the spell wouldn’t find him.

It didn’t work.

The magic washed over him and found his resistance anyway. Not because he was pushing back, but because it was there, a constant part of him that he couldn’t simply turn off. The spell tested it, probed it, and revealed his location to the robed figure as clearly as if he’d been standing in the open waving a flag.

It’s not detecting the Reaver deaths. It’s not detecting combat or noise or movement. It’s detecting ME. My magic, my resistance, something about me specifically that I can’t hide.

Guards poured out of the gate and began sweeping toward his position. The robed figure’s magic was already reaching for him, slowing his movements with waves of cold that sapped his strength and speed.

A guard appeared ahead of him, while two more right behind the first. Francis fought, killing one and wounding another, but the robed figure’s magic pinned him in place long enough for a hammer blow to find the back of his skull.

The world went black.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

This time, Francis didn’t push immediately toward the structure after crossing the bridge. He found a deep crevice in the ice, wedged himself inside where he couldn’t be easily seen, and waited.

The detection wave came. He felt it wash over him. His resistance flared against it, the probing cold testing his defenses and revealing his location. The robed figure would know he was here now, somewhere in the ice corridors, an intruder who didn’t belong.

But Francis didn’t move. He pressed himself deeper into the crevice, made his body as small as possible, and started counting.

Guards came searching. Francis heard them long before he saw them, their heavy footsteps crunching through snow and ice as they moved through the corridors. They were methodical, checking hiding spots, looking behind ice formations, moving in a pattern that would eventually cover the entire area.

One passed within ten feet of his position. Francis held his breath, not daring to move, watching through a gap in the ice as the massive creature stalked past. He could smell the animal musk of its fur, see the frost forming on its grey pelt, and hear the soft growl of its breathing.

It didn’t find him. The crevice was too deep, too dark, and the guard wasn’t looking carefully enough. It moved on, and Francis kept counting.

Minutes passed. The guards eventually seemed to give up their search, returning toward the gate in ones and twos. Francis stayed hidden, still counting, watching the distant structure for any sign of the robed figure.

Another detection wave swept through the area.

Francis noted the count. Roughly eight minutes since the first one. Eight minutes between sweeps.

The guards came searching again. This time they were more thorough, checking spots they’d missed before, looking into crevices and behind formations with greater care. Francis had to move, slipping from one hiding place to another as they passed, using every bit of stealth he’d developed to stay ahead of their search pattern.

He waited for the third sweep, counting carefully. Eight minutes again. The pattern held.

The fourth sweep found him. A guard spotted his movement as he shifted between crevices, and its howl brought the others running. Francis drew his sword and fought, knowing he’d learned what he needed to learn, not caring about survival now that he had the timing.

He killed two guards before the robed figure’s magic froze him in place. An axe blow ended his loop moments later.

But he’d confirmed what he needed to. There were eight minutes between sweeps. That was his window.

The world went black.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

Francis moved with purpose now, knowing exactly what he needed to do. He killed the wolverkin, crossed the bridge, and immediately found a hiding spot to wait for the first detection sweep.

When the wave washed over him, he started his count and began moving immediately. Eight minutes. That was how long he had before the next sweep revealed his position again.

He pushed through the ice corridors as fast as he could while still maintaining some stealth. The Reavers were a problem, their ambush positions blocking the direct route to the structure. Francis avoided the first group entirely, circling around their position through a narrow gap in the ice walls. The second group spotted him, and he killed them quickly, three precise strikes that left all three dead before they could raise an alarm.

Six minutes was gone. He was at the edge of the ice corridors now, looking out across the killing field toward the gate. Two hundred yards of open ground, no cover, guards watching from the walls.

Two minutes until the next sweep.

Francis studied the approach, his mind racing through possibilities. The guards would see him the moment he stepped onto the open ice. They’d raise the alarm, and the robed figure might respond even before the next detection sweep.

Unless he was already inside by then.

He had one minute until the sweep.

Francis made his decision. He burst from cover and sprinted toward the gate, abandoning stealth entirely in favor of pure speed. The guards on the walls spotted him immediately, shouting in their growling language, raising bows and nocking arrows.

He was fast. Clearly faster than they expected, faster than a normal human had any right to be. The distance closed rapidly, his legs pumping, his arms driving, every point of Agility and Endurance he’d earned powering him across the ice.

Arrows hissed past him. One caught his shoulder, punching through armor and flesh, sending a spike of pain down his arm. Another grazed his thigh, opening a shallow cut that bled freely. Francis ignored the wounds and kept running.

He made it to the gate, already within striking distance of the guards who moved to block his path.

[ Blade Tempest ]

Six strikes carved through the first two guards in a spray of blood and fur. Francis shouldered past their falling bodies and through the gate, not slowing, or looking back.

He was inside.

The interior of the structure was nothing like Francis had expected.

He’d imagined a fortress, walls and corridors of dark stone arranged for military efficiency. Barracks for the guards, armories for their weapons, strategic points designed to repel invaders who made it past the outer defenses.

Instead, he found himself in something that looked almost like a temple.

The walls rose high overhead, twenty feet at least, carved with symbols he didn’t recognize. They weren’t random decorations or simple patterns. These were deliberate, meaningful, and arranged in sequences that repeated and varied across the stone surfaces. Some looked almost like writing, others like diagrams or maps. All of them pulsed with a faint cold light that seemed to come from within the stone itself.

Crystals hung from the ceiling at regular intervals, providing illumination that filled the space with that same blue-white glow he’d seen in the robed figure’s eyes. The light was steady, unwavering, casting shadows that made the carved symbols seem to move when Francis shifted his gaze.

The air was frigid, colder even than the battlefield outside. Francis’s breath misted before him with every exhale, and he could feel the cold seeping through his armor, through his clothes, settling into his bones despite his resistance. This wasn’t a natural cold. This was something else, something that permeated the very stones of this place.

A central corridor stretched ahead, wide enough for four men to walk abreast, flanked by smaller passages that branched off into darkness. Francis could hear movement echoing from somewhere deeper within, footsteps and voices that didn’t sound human. The guards would be coming, alerted by the commotion at the gate. He didn’t have much time.

The robed figure’s magic was building behind him. Francis could feel it gathering, a pressure against his senses that warned of imminent attack. The creature was preparing something, channeling power for a spell that would be far worse than the detection sweeps.

He ran.

The central corridor led deeper into the structure, the symbols on the walls growing more intricate, more densely packed as he progressed. Francis passed chambers on either side, catching glimpses through open doorways as he ran.

One room held supplies: crates and barrels stacked against the walls, their contents unknown but clearly organized. Another held weapons: racks of axes and hammers like the guards carried, plus stranger things that Francis didn’t recognize. A third room was filled with what looked like armor stands, empty now but clearly designed to hold equipment for many more guards than he’d seen outside.

Then he passed a larger chamber, and what he saw made him slow despite the danger.

A massive table dominated the room, covered with maps and markers that reminded Francis of Stenson’s war planning sessions back in the Southern Kingdom. But these maps showed territory he didn’t recognize, vast stretches of land marked with symbols and notations in a language he couldn’t read. Figures were gathered around the table, smaller than the gate guards, hunched and hooded, pointing at different locations and conversing in low growls.

Command center. This is where they coordinate the war. Not just this battlefield, but… all of it?

Cold erupted behind him as the robed figure’s magic finally struck. Ice formed on his armor, his skin, and his sword, trying to slow his movements and freeze him in place. Francis’s Magic Resistance pushed back desperately, buying him precious seconds, and he kept running.

The corridor opened into a larger, circular chamber with a high, domed ceiling covered in more of those glowing symbols. A raised platform stood at the center, empty but clearly significant, its surface marked with a complex pattern that pulsed with cold light. More guards waited here, six of them arranged around the platform, their weapons ready.

And beyond them, at the back of the chamber, Francis saw a door unlike any of the others he’d passed.

It was sealed with chains. Heavy iron chains wrapped around its frame multiple times, crossing and recrossing in a pattern that left no part of the door unbound. Locks secured the chains at regular intervals, and each lock pulsed with magical energy that Francis could feel even from across the room. Whatever was behind that door, they didn’t want anyone getting in.

That’s it. That’s what they’re protecting. That’s what Greythorn told me to find.

The guards charged. Francis met them with everything he had left, his sword carving through the first one’s defenses. His body moved on instinct honed through thousands of deaths, dodging, striking, parrying, moving constantly to avoid being surrounded.

But he was already wounded from the arrows, already slowed by the robed figure’s magic building against his resistance. The guards were fresh, strong, and coordinated.

[ Blade Tempest ]

Six strikes killed two more guards and wounded a third, buying Francis a moment of breathing room. He used it to glance back at the chained door, memorizing its location, its appearance, the pattern of the locks and chains.

Then the robed figure entered the chamber.

Its magic washed over Francis in a wave of absolute cold, and this time his resistance couldn’t hold it back. He felt his limbs freeze, his movements stop, his body becoming a statue of ice and flesh. The remaining guards approached with weapons raised, but they waited for a command from the robed figure instead of striking immediately.

The creature studied him with those glowing eyes, its head tilted slightly to one side, curious. Then it spoke, a sound like cracking ice and grinding stone, words in a language Francis didn’t understand.

One of the guards responded in the same language, gesturing toward Francis with its hammer. The robed figure made a dismissive gesture, and the guards’ weapons fell.

The last thing Francis saw before the world went black was the chained door, its locks pulsing with cold light, hiding whatever secret lay beyond.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

Francis lay in bed, eyes closed, processing everything he’d seen and learned.

The structure wasn’t just a fortress. It was a command center, but also something more. A temple, maybe, or a place of power. The symbols on the walls, the crystals providing light, the cold that permeated the very stones. This was a place built for a purpose beyond simple military operations.

And at its heart, behind chains and magical locks, something waited. Something important enough to warrant the robed figure’s protection, important enough to be hidden even from the guards who served there.

Greythorn’s words echoed in his mind:

Find what it protects. That is your real target.

Francis had found the door. Now he needed to find what was behind it.

He sat up and looked across the room at Michael, who was getting dressed for another day of training he wouldn’t remember. Another day in a loop that would reset if Francis died, erasing everything except the memories Francis carried with him.

Eight-minute intervals between detection sweeps… The gate can be breached if I time the crossing right… The interior has guards plus there’s that map room with the hooded figures… And the chained door at the back.

The robed figure was still the biggest obstacle. Its magic had frozen him solid even with his resistance, and tracked him despite his stealth. If he wanted to reach that door, he’d have to find a way past that creature first.

Or find a way to kill it.

Francis dressed and headed north, already planning his next attempt. It would take more loops to learn about the structure’s defenses and the creature that guarded them.

Then there was the chained door waited at the heart of the enemy’s stronghold, hiding whatever secret the beastkins considered worth protecting above all else.

And Francis intended to open it.

Chapter 61

Francis didn’t stop at Glitvall’s tent this time. He knew the timing, knew the route, knew the cost of entry. The chained door waited at the heart of the structure, and whatever secret it hid was worth more than any tactical discussion could offer.

He made the journey north with his mind fixed on that door. The heavy iron chains, the magical locks pulsing with cold light, the way even the guards seemed to give it a wide berth. Something was behind those chains. Something the enemy considered worth protecting above all else.

Francis intended to find out what.

***

He killed the wolverkin and crossed the bridge, timing his movements to the detection sweeps he’d memorized. The ice corridors passed in a blur of combat and careful navigation, Reavers dying to quick strikes when he couldn’t avoid them.

Then came the killing field.

Two hundred yards of open ice, no cover, guards watching from the walls. Francis had learned there was no clean way across. Every attempt meant arrows, meant alerting the defenders, meant the robed figure knowing he was coming. The only question was how much damage he’d take before reaching the gate.

He waited at the edge of the ice corridors, counting. The detection sweep would come soon, and when it did, the robed figure would be focused on the magic, its attention turned inward. The guards on the walls would feel it too, that wave of cold washing over them. That was his chance, a moment of distraction.

The sweep came. Francis felt it test his resistance, and the robed figure’s awareness brush against him. He was already running, sprinting across the open ground while the guards were still orienting to the magic.

He made it a hundred yards before the first arrows flew. One caught his shoulder, another his thigh. Francis ignored the pain and kept running, closing the distance as more shafts hissed past him. A third arrow punched through his side, scraping against ribs, and he felt his regeneration surge in response.

[ Blade Tempest ]

He hit the gate guards at full speed, six strikes carving through the two who moved to block him. Francis shouldered past their falling bodies and through the gate, arrows still chasing him as he plunged into the structure’s interior.

The temple-like corridors blurred past as he ran. He’d memorized the route now, knew exactly which turns to take, which chambers to pass. The circular room with the chained door was straight ahead.

Six guards waited inside, arranged around the raised platform at the room’s center. Francis didn’t slow. He crashed into their formation with his sword already moving, using momentum and aggression to compensate for his wounds.

[ Power Strike ]

The blow carved through one guard’s defenses and opened a path toward the door. Francis took a hammer blow to his already-wounded side as he pushed through, felt something crack inside him, and kept moving.

The chained door loomed ahead. Francis grabbed the nearest chain and pulled with all his strength.

Nothing happened. The chain didn’t budge, didn’t even flex under his grip. Francis drew his sword and swung at the links, putting everything behind the blow.

Steel met iron with a sound like a thunderclap. Sparks flew, cold blue light flared from the chain, and Francis felt the impact reverberate up his arm hard enough to make his teeth ache. When he looked at the chain, it was unmarked. Not a scratch, or a dent.

Magical protection. The chains aren’t just physical barriers.

Cold erupted behind him as the robed figure entered the chamber. Francis tried one more desperate strike against the chains, then turned to face his death.

The creature’s magic washed over him, freezing him in place. Guards closed in, and axes fell.

The world went black.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

Brute force wasn’t going to work. The chains were protected by magic stronger than anything Francis could break through with steel. If he wanted to open that door, he needed to understand how it was meant to be opened.

He made the journey again. Killed the wolverkin, crossed the bridge, cleared the Reavers. When he reached the killing field, he waited for the detection sweep and ran during that moment of distraction, taking arrows as the price of entry.

This time, when he reached the circular chamber, he didn’t go straight for the door. Instead, he fought toward it at an angle, positioning himself where he could see the locks clearly while the guards pressed their attack.

The locks weren’t ordinary mechanisms. They looked like crystalline formations, growths of ice that had formed around key points in the chains. Each one pulsed with cold light, and Francis could feel magic pressing against his resistance even from ten feet away.

There was a depression in the largest formation. A keyhole of sorts, shaped for something specific.

A hammer caught Francis in the back, driving him to his knees. He rolled with the impact, came up swinging, and killed the guard who’d struck him. But the robed figure was already entering the chamber, frost gathering around its hands.

Francis used his last seconds to study the locks, memorizing their arrangement, the pattern of the chains, the way the magic pulsed through the crystalline formations. Then the cold claimed him, and the world went black.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

A keyhole meant a key. Someone had to be able to open that door. Francis needed to find out who and how.

He made the journey faster this time, pushing himself harder, reaching the structure with more of his strength intact. The sprint across the killing field cost him two arrows instead of three.

But instead of heading straight for the circular chamber, Francis turned down a side corridor. He’d seen other rooms during his previous attempts, glimpsed through doorways as he ran. Supplies, weapons, and the map room with the hooded figures. If there was a key, it had to be somewhere in this structure.

He had maybe two minutes max before the robed figure found him. Francis moved quickly, checking chambers, looking for anything that might match the crystalline keyhole he’d memorized.

The map room held hooded figures who scattered at his approach, leaving their charts and markers behind. Francis killed one that moved too slowly and scanned the room. He glanced at maps of territories he didn’t recognize, notations in languages he couldn’t read, but saw no key.

He moved to the next chamber filled with weapons. Racks of axes and hammers, strange implements he didn’t recognize. Once again, there was no key.

The robed figure’s magic was building somewhere behind him. Francis could feel it. He had seconds left.

He pushed into one more chamber and found himself in what looked like someone’s personal quarters. Sparse furnishings, a sleeping pallet, and on a small table beside it, something that sparkled within the soft light.

It was made from crystal. Shaped like a key, made of the same material as the locks on the chained door. It pulsed with that familiar blue-white glow.

Francis grabbed it just as the robed figure’s magic crashed into him from behind. Ice formed on his body, freezing him mid-motion, the crystal key clutched in his fist.

The robed figure entered the chamber, and Francis saw its glowing eyes fix on the key in his hand. Its eyes narrowed to slits.

It raised a hand, and the ice around Francis tightened, crushing, killing him.

The world went black.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

Francis knew where the key was now. But knowing and reaching were different things. The robed figure had responded too quickly, and frozen him before he could escape with the crystal. If he wanted to use that key, he’d have to deal with the guardian first.

Which meant fighting it directly.

He made the journey with his mind focused on the battle ahead. Every previous encounter with the robed figure had been on its terms, with its magic already building, and guards supporting it. This time would be different.

Francis killed the wolverkin and pushed through the ice corridors at a brutal pace. When he reached the killing field, he didn’t wait for the detection sweep. He just ran, accepting the arrows, receiving the damage, trading wounds for speed.

Four arrows hit him before he reached the gate. Francis burst through with blood running down his armor and crashed into the structure’s interior without slowing.

The robed figure was in the circular chamber, same as always, standing before the chained door like a sentinel. Its glowing eyes tracked Francis as he entered, and frost began gathering around its hands.

Francis didn’t give it time to cast. He charged straight at the creature, closing the distance before its magic could fully form.

[ Quick Attack ]

His sword slashed toward the robed figure’s chest. The creature twisted aside with surprising speed, and Francis’s blade only carved through the edge of its robes, opening a shallow cut across its torso. Pale blue blood welled from the wound.

It bleeds. Good.

The robed figure retaliated with a lance of ice that hurtled toward Francis’s chest. He dodged left, felt the projectile frost his armor as it passed, and pressed his attack.

[ Power Strike ]

Francis swung at a guard who had tried to attack from behind, his Battle Sense warning of the strike. It took off the guard’s head, both body and axe falling to the ground.

Spinning, he attacked the caster, using the momentum and his skill again to try to end this fight.

[ Power Strike ]

The blow was meant for the creature’s neck. But the robed figure raised its hand and caught Francis’s sword on a barrier of solid ice that materialized from nothing. The impact jarred his arm, sent vibrations through his whole body, and left his blade embedded in ice that was already spreading toward his hands.

Francis released his sword and dove backward as the ice barrier exploded outward in a spray of razor-sharp fragments. Several sliced through his armor, opening cuts across his chest and arms. His regeneration surged, but the damage slowed him.

The robed figure pressed its advantage. It raised both hands, and the chamber’s temperature plummeted. Ice formed on the floor, the walls, and the ceiling. Francis felt it crawling up his legs, trying to root him in place.

He pushed back with his Magic Resistance, cracking the ice on his legs, and grabbed a fallen guard’s axe from the floor. The fight became a desperate exchange, Francis attacking with the heavy weapon while the robed figure responded with lances of ice, waves of cold, and barriers that Francis had to smash through to reach his enemy.

But he was learning. The creature was powerful, but it was slower than him. When it raised its hands to cast, there was a moment of vulnerability, a window where it couldn’t defend itself.

Another guard came, struck down by the axe its fallen ally had once held.

I need to thank Kerhi for making sure I trained with axes…

Francis watched for that window, waited for the creature to begin another spell, while doing his best to keep the other guards off of him. Finally the moment came, and Francis struck.

The axe bit deep into the robed figure’s shoulder, pale blue blood spraying across Francis’s face. The creature screamed, a sound like cracking glaciers, and its spell dissolved. Francis struck again, driving the wounded creature back toward the wall.

Then the robed figure did something unexpected.

It fell to one knee, and the temperature dropped so fast that Francis’s breath crystallized in his lungs. The creature was drawing power from somewhere, maybe from the structure itself, channeling magic on a scale that made everything before seem like nothing.

The wave of cold that erupted was absolute. Francis’s resistance shattered against it like glass. Ice formed on his skin, his blood, his heart. He felt everything freeze, everything stop.

His last sight was the robed figure rising to its feet, wounded but alive, its glowing eyes fixed on him.

The world went black.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

The robed figure was powerful, so much stronger than anything he’d fought before. Its magic could overwhelm his resistance if it drew enough power from the structure. But it was also slower than him, vulnerable when casting, and when he’d wounded it badly enough, it had resorted to that desperate channeling technique.

He couldn’t kill it. Not yet. But he didn’t need to kill it. He just needed to get past it, to reach the door and whatever lay beyond.

And when it channeled, when it drew power from the structure itself, maybe other things drew power too. The locks on the door. The magical protection on the chains.

It was a gamble. But Francis had died enough times to know that a gamble was sometimes the only path forward.

He dressed and headed north.

The journey was faster now, his path optimized through dozens of attempts. He killed what he needed to, avoided what he could, and reached the structure with most of his strength intact. The sprint across the killing field cost him three arrows, but he’d learned to angle his approach to protect his vitals.

Francis burst into the structure and made straight for the circular chamber. The robed figure was waiting, same as always, frost gathering around its hands.

This time, Francis knew exactly what to do.

[ Blade Tempest ]

Six strikes crashed against the robed figure’s hastily formed ice barrier. Cracks spiderwebbed across its surface. Francis followed with a Power Strike that shattered the barrier entirely and sent the creature stumbling backward.

He pressed the attack relentlessly, not giving the robed figure time to recover. His sword found flesh twice, carving wounds across its chest and arm. Pale blue blood splattered across the floor.

The creature was wounded now, badly wounded, its movements becoming desperate. Francis saw the moment when it realized it couldn’t win this exchange, saw it begin to fall to one knee.

The channeling technique.

It was going to draw power from the structure.

Francis didn’t try to stop it. Instead, he turned and ran for the chained door.

Guards moved to intercept him, but Francis had the momentum. He killed the first with a Quick Attack, dodged the second’s hammer, and shouldered past the third hard enough to send it sprawling.

The chained door was right there, those crystalline locks pulsing magic. Francis watched as the robed figure channeled, drawing power from the structure, and the locks flickered. Their light dimmed. The chains didn’t fall away, but they loosened, just slightly, just enough that there was a gap between them and the door frame.

He didn’t hesitate. Francis drove his shoulder against the door, forcing himself through the gap in the chains. Metal scraped against armor, links caught on his sword belt and tore it away, but he was through, stumbling into the darkness beyond.

The chamber on the other side was smaller than he’d expected. A single room, maybe twenty feet across, with walls of dark stone that seemed to absorb the faint light filtering through from behind him. The air was different here, colder, heavier, filled with a pressure that made Francis’s ears ache.

And in the center of the room, seated on a throne of black ice, was something that made Francis stop in his tracks.

It had been a beastkin once. Francis could see that, in its basic shape, the humanoid form, the suggestion of fur beneath the robes it wore. But whatever it was now, it had gone far beyond anything natural.

Its skin was grey and withered, pulled tight over bones that seemed too prominent, too sharp. Its eyes were milky white, filmed over with something that looked like cataracts but pulsed with an inner light. Its hands were skeletal, fingers too long, joints bent at angles that shouldn’t have been possible.

And it was decaying. Francis could see it, and smell it. The rot was slowly consuming this creature from within. Patches of fur had fallen away, revealing grey flesh beneath. One ear was missing entirely. The corner of its mouth was gone, revealing black, crumbling teeth.

What is this thing? It’s dying. It looks like it’s been dying for a long time. But it’s still here, sitting on that throne, being protected by everything outside.

The creature’s head turned toward Francis, those milky eyes focusing on him with an intelligence that belied its decayed state. Its mouth moved, dry and cracking, speaking words in a language Francis didn’t understand.

Then it switched to the common tongue.

“Another one,” it said, its voice like dead leaves scraping stone. “Another one who should not be. We felt you. All of us. Every reset, every death that was not death. We felt you.”

Francis raised his sword, but his arms felt heavy, his movements sluggish. The pressure in the room was increasing, pressing against him from all sides.

“You killed our brother in the south,” the creature continued. “Took what was his. Made it yours.” Those milky eyes seemed to see right through him. “Now you come for me. For what I carry.”

The creature rose from its throne, and Francis saw how frail it truly was. Its body was failing, barely held together by whatever power sustained it. Each movement seemed to cost it something vital.

“But you are too late,” it said. “Too slow. The guardian draws power, and I draw with it. This loop ends now.”

Cold erupted from the creature, cold beyond anything Francis had felt before. This wasn’t frost, ice, or winter. This was the cold of the void, the absence of all heat, all life, all existence.

Francis tried to move, tried to strike, tried to do something. But his body was already frozen, already dying.

The last thing he saw was the decayed creature settling back onto its throne, those milky eyes watching him with something that might have been satisfaction.

The world went black.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

Francis sat up in bed, his heart pounding, his mind racing with what he’d seen and heard.

The creature behind the door. The decayed beastkin on the throne of black ice. It had spoken to him. Even worse, it knew about him, and had felt every reset and death across the timelines.

We felt you. All of us.

All of us. There were more of them. More creatures like the one he’d killed in the south, more things that could feel the loops, that could remember across timelines.

You killed our brother in the south. Took what was his. Made it yours.

Brother. The thing Francis had killed and absorbed. It had been one of them. Part of a network. That must mean there were creatures spread across the different kingdoms, feeling every reset and coordinating their responses.

That was how they’d been adapting to him. That was how they’d known to send elites designed to counter his tactics. The thing on the throne had felt every one of his deaths, had known something was wrong when no reports came from the south, and had begun preparing for an enemy it didn’t yet understand.

And now it knew exactly what he was.

Francis looked across the room at Michael, getting dressed, still unaware of the war being fought across timelines.

That thing is what I need to kill. That’s how I end this.

Smiling, he sat up. For once in so long Francis felt like he might have a clue how to win.

Chapter 62

He’d seen the creature on the throne, heard its words, and felt its power. Now he needed to kill it. Whatever that thing was, whatever network it belonged to, ending it would cripple the enemy’s ability to adapt to him.

At least, that was his theory.

He killed the wolverkin and crossed the bridge, moving through the ice corridors with the efficiency of someone who’d made this journey dozens of times. The Reavers died to quick strikes, their ambush positions memorized, their attack patterns predicted before they could execute them.

Then he reached the killing field, and everything changed.

The walls were different. Not in their construction, but in how they were manned. Where before there had been eight guards visible on the ramparts, now there were at least twenty. They stood in overlapping positions, bows ready, their attention fixed on the ice corridors with an intensity Francis hadn’t seen before.

And on the wall above the gate, standing motionless with frost swirling around its hands, was the robed figure.

It wasn’t inside the structure waiting for intruders. It was outside, watching, its glowing eyes sweeping the killing field like a predator scanning for prey.

It warned them. The creature on the throne told them I was coming, and they changed everything.

Francis waited at the edge of the ice corridors, watching, counting guards, tracking patrol patterns. The detection sweep came and went, but this time the guards didn’t seem distracted by it. They’d been trained, or warned, or both. The moment of vulnerability he’d exploited before was gone.

He could retreat. Go back to Glitvall’s camp, explain what he’d found, and try to formulate a new plan with their combined wisdom. But that would take time, and the creature on the throne would use that time to prepare even more defenses. Every loop Francis wasted was a loop the enemy could use to fortify, to adapt, to make the next attempt even harder.

No. He had to push forward. Had to find a way through, no matter the cost.

Francis drew his sword and ran.

The arrows came faster this time, more of them, better aimed. Francis felt the first one punch through his shoulder before he’d made it fifty yards. The second took him in the thigh, the third in his side. He stumbled, caught himself, and kept running.

A fourth arrow caught him in the back, and he felt something vital tear inside him. His regeneration surged, working frantically to repair the damage, but there was too much, too fast. Blood filled his mouth, and his vision started to blur at the edges.

He made it a hundred and fifty yards before the robed figure struck.

The creature didn’t wait for him to reach the gate. It raised its hands from its position on the wall, and a wave of devastating cold rolled across the killing field. Francis felt it slam into him like a physical force, felt his movements slow, his wounded body failing against the magical assault.

He fell to his knees fifty yards from the gate, his sword slipping from fingers that had gone numb. The cold was absolute, worse than anything he’d felt inside the structure, and his resistance crumbled against it like sand against a tide.

Through dimming vision, Francis saw the robed figure watching him from the wall. Its glowing eyes held no triumph, no satisfaction. Just a cold assessment, like a craftsman examining a problem that needed to be solved.

More arrows fell, but Francis barely felt them. The cold had already claimed him, and was already shutting down his body one system at a time. He tried to rise, tried to push forward through sheer will, but his legs wouldn’t respond.

The world went black.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

Francis thought about his failure. The robed figure on the wall changed everything. Before, he’d been able to reach the gate by timing his approach to the detection sweeps, using that moment of distraction to close the distance. Now the creature was positioned specifically to intercept him, to strike before he could reach cover.

He couldn’t cross the killing field while the robed figure was watching. Which meant he needed to find another way, or he needed to draw it away from its position.

Francis dressed and headed north, a new plan forming in his mind.

He killed the wolverkin and crossed the bridge, but this time he didn’t head straight for the killing field. Instead, he circled east, following the edge of the crevasse, looking for any other approach to the structure.

There wasn’t one. The crevasse wrapped around the structure’s position like a natural moat, and the only crossing was the bridge he’d already found. Any other approach would require climbing down into the crevasse and back up again, which would take hours and leave him completely exposed.

But his scouting wasn’t entirely wasted. From his position on the eastern edge of the crevasse, Francis could see the structure from a different angle. He could see the robed figure on the wall, still watching the killing field. But he could also see something else.

Francis spotted messengers. They were small, fast beastkin running between the structure and positions further north. They moved with urgency, carrying pouches that probably held written reports or orders. Some were coming, some were going, a constant flow of communication that never seemed to stop.

The structure wasn’t just a fortress; it was a communication hub, coordinating activity across the entire northern battlefield.

And all of it flows through that creature on the throne. It’s not just protected by the defenses. It’s directing them. It sees what I do, learns from my attacks, and adjusts everything accordingly.

Francis watched for nearly an hour, counting messengers, tracking their routes, and noting the pattern of activity. The robed figure never moved from its position on the wall, never seemed to rest or shift its attention. It was a sentinel, dedicated entirely to preventing another breach.

But sentinels could be distracted.

Francis retreated from his observation point and circled back toward the ice corridors. He found a group of Reavers he’d avoided on his way in and attacked them deliberately, making as much noise as possible, letting one escape to raise an alarm.

Then he ran back toward the killing field, timing his arrival to coincide with the response to his distraction.

It almost worked. The robed figure’s attention shifted toward the commotion in the ice corridors, and Francis sprinted across the open ground while it was looking the wrong way. He made it farther than before, close enough to see the individual guards on the walls.

Then the robed figure turned back, and its magic caught him thirty yards from the gate.

The cold slammed into him like a hammer, freezing his legs mid-stride. Francis fell, rolled, tried to crawl the remaining distance. But the magic was relentless, spreading up his body, claiming him inch by inch.

He died within sight of the gate, his frozen hand stretched toward it in a final, futile gesture.

The world went black.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

The distraction had bought him extra distance, but not enough. Francis needed more time, a longer window when the robed figure wasn’t watching the killing field. He needed to understand how the creature operated, what commands it followed, what might pull it away from its sentinel position.

Which meant observing rather than attacking.

He made the journey north and crossed the bridge, but instead of pushing toward the structure, he found a hidden position overlooking the killing field and settled in to watch. The detection sweeps would find him eventually, but he had eight minutes between them. Eight minutes to learn.

The robed figure maintained its position on the wall, motionless except for the slow sweep of its glowing eyes. Guards moved around it, changing positions, rotating through patrol routes, but the creature itself never shifted.

Until a messenger arrived.

The small beastkin came running from the north, moving with desperate speed. It reached the gate and spoke briefly with the guards there, gesturing urgently toward something beyond Francis’s line of sight. One of the guards relayed the message to the robed figure on the wall.

The creature’s attention shifted. For the first time since Francis had started watching, it turned away from the killing field, looking north toward whatever crisis the messenger had reported.

Then it moved.

The robed figure descended from the wall and walked into the structure, disappearing through the gate. The guards remained at their posts, still watching, still dangerous, but the magical threat was gone.

Francis didn’t hesitate. He burst from cover and sprinted across the killing field.

Arrows flew, but fewer than before, and less accurately. The guards on the walls were good, but they weren’t the robed figure. Francis took two arrows crossing the open ground, neither in a vital spot, and hit the gate at full speed.

[ Blade Tempest ]

Six strikes carved through the guards at the entrance, and Francis plunged into the structure’s interior. He raced to the side entrance and moved till he found the room with the key he had seen on the small table. The hope that had been present vanished: The crystal key was gone.

It’s taken it…

Frustrated that he had missed his one chance, Francis ran back to the familiar corridors, heading for the circular chamber, expecting to find the robed figure there.

It wasn’t there. The chamber held only guards, eight of them now instead of six, positioned in a defensive formation around the chained door. The robed figure was somewhere else in the structure, dealing with whatever crisis had drawn it away.

Francis attacked.

The fight was brutal, desperate, and short. Francis killed three guards with his initial assault, wounded two more, and forced his way toward the chained door through sheer aggression. But without the robed figure channeling and weakening the locks, the chains held firm. He couldn’t squeeze through, couldn’t find any gap in their magical protection.

The remaining guards rallied, and reinforcements arrived from elsewhere in the structure. Francis fought them off for nearly a minute, but the numbers were too great, and his wounds were slowing him down.

Then the robed figure returned.

It entered the chamber with frost already swirling around its hands, its glowing eyes fixed on Francis with unmistakable anger. The creature raised both arms, and the temperature in the room plummeted.

Francis turned to face it, knowing what was coming. The cold washed over him, absolute and overwhelming, and his resistance crumbled.

The world went black.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

Francis had learned something important. The robed figure could be drawn away from its position if something urgent demanded its attention. And when it was gone, the defenses were still dangerous but not insurmountable. Even worse, there would be no key.

The problem was the chained door. Without the robed figure channeling power from the structure, the locks stayed sealed, yet its presence meant facing magic that could freeze him solid in seconds. He needed it at the door when the channeling happened, and getting there meant fighting through guards while its power was at its peak. That was a contradiction and an impossible requirement.

Unless there was another way to make it channel.

Francis thought about his previous fight with the robed figure, the one where he’d wounded it badly enough to force that desperate technique. It had channeled because it was losing, because Francis had pushed it to the edge of defeat and it needed more power to survive.

What if he could make that happen faster? What if he could hurt it so badly, so quickly, that it had to channel immediately?

He’d need to catch it off guard. Need to hit it with everything he had before it could raise its defenses. One overwhelming assault, enough damage to force the channeling, then a desperate sprint for the door while the locks were weakened.

It was a terrible plan. A plan that relied on everything going perfectly, with no margin for error.

Smiling, Francis headed north.

He moved through the ice corridors with purpose, killing every Reaver in his path, not caring about stealth or conservation. By the time he reached the killing field, his skills had been activated multiple times, and he’d found a better weapon among the fallen: an axe with a heavier blade, better suited for the kind of damage he needed to inflict.

The robed figure was back on the wall, watching. Francis waited for the detection sweep, let it wash over him, then ran the moment the magic faded.

He moved around the walls, pressing his back to it while looking for a spot that might work. After a minute Francis found a section with enough handholds in the rough stone. Ignoring the cold, he climbed upward, scrambling over the edge and staying low. There was enough room up here for about three men to walk side by side and most of the creatures were looking inward at the killing area.

Staying below the lip he sprinted toward the closest beast.

[ Quick Attack ]

Darting forward the axe came down on the beast’s neck, pulling it down to the walkway and was relieved of its head after a second strike.

Francis saw the walkway he needed to get to and the two guards between him and the caster. None had spotted him yet and with about seventy yards to reach his real target, he called upon the power of his Life Core and empowered his muscles.

Like an arrow, Francis flew across the walkway.

[ Power Strike ]

The axe cut the closest guard in half, sending the pieces falling below.

An arrow came toward him as he continued on at the last guard, twisting to take the projectile in his shoulder and not his chest.

Cold began to form around him, but Francis was committed.

[ Power Strike ]

The second guard fell off the wall, leaving just twenty yards between him and the mage. He felt the cold slam into him, his legs starting to slow, but pushed through it with everything his resistance and Life Core could give. The ice formed on his armor but didn’t stop him. His movements became sluggish but didn’t freeze entirely.

He wasn’t fast enough to outrun the magic, but he was tough enough to survive it.

Another arrow punched through his flesh as he crossed the remaining distance. Francis ignored the pain, and everything except the creature standing before him.

[ Power Strike ]

The axe caught the creature across the chest, biting deep into pale blue flesh. The robed figure screamed and staggered backward, dark blood spraying across the rampart. Francis didn’t let up. He swung again, and again, each blow carving more damage into the creature’s body.

The robed figure fell to one knee, and Francis saw it begin to channel.

He rolled over the wall, landing on his feet next to the gate.

[ Blade Tempest ]

The guards were cut down as the axe tore through their flesh. Not hesitating, Francis sprinted through the corridors, crashing past guards who tried to stop him, taking wounds he didn’t have time to avoid.

He burst into the circular chamber just as the robed figure’s channeling peaked. The locks on the chained door flickered, their light dimming as power was drawn away from them.

Francis threw himself at the door.

The chains were loose, looser than before. He squeezed through the gap, metal scraping against his already-wounded body, and tumbled into the darkness beyond.

The creature on the throne was waiting for him.

“Again,” it said, those milky eyes fixing on him. “You learn quickly, for one of your kind… But not quickly enough.”

Cold erupted from the throne, and Francis felt his body begin to freeze. He tried to push forward, to close the distance and strike before the power claimed him, but his legs wouldn’t respond. The void-cold spread through him, shutting down everything it touched.

“You will return,” the creature said as the darkness closed in. “Each time, I will be ready.”

The world went black.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

Francis tried again.

He refined his approach, climbing the wall faster, finding better handholds, learning exactly where to place his feet to gain the maximum speed. The robed figure’s reaction times were consistent, predictable if you knew what to look for. Francis learned to read the gathering of frost around its hands, learned to strike in that half-second before the magic fully formed.

The creature channeled, the locks weakened, and Francis made it through the door. But the thing on the throne was always waiting, always ready. Its milky eyes tracked him the moment he entered, and the void-cold erupted before he could close the distance.

He died with his sword raised, frozen mid-swing, close enough to see the patterns in the creature’s withered skin.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

Francis tried a different angle. Instead of going straight for the creature on the throne, he threw himself sideways the moment he entered the inner chamber, trying to avoid the initial blast of cold. It almost worked. He managed three steps before the power caught him, and managed to get his sword arm moving before it froze.

It wasn’t enough. The creature watched him die with those milky eyes again.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

Francis pushed harder. He found ways to shave seconds off his approach, to hit the robed figure faster, to reach the door sooner. Each loop taught him something new, some small optimization that let him get a little further, a little closer to actually striking the creature on the throne.

But the creature was learning too. It began preparing its power before Francis entered. It gathered the void-cold so it could strike the instant he appeared. The advantage Francis gained through practice, the creature matched through adaptation.

They were locked in a contest of wills, each death a move in a game that seemed to have no end.

The sound of the morning bell rang.

Francis lost count of how many times he’d made the journey north. The path was automatic now, his body moving through the motions without conscious thought. Kill the wolverkin. Cross the bridge. Clear the Reavers. Scale the wall. Wound the robed figure. Sprint for the door.

Die to the creature on the throne.

Repeat.

Each death drained something from him. Not physically, but mentally, emotionally. The endless cycle of violence and failure wore at him like water against stone, eroding his certainty, making him question whether this fight could ever be won.

He thought about Michael, waking up each morning without knowing that his brother had already died a dozen times that day. He thought about Stenson and Priscilla, about Glitvall and Greythorn, about everyone who was counting on him to find a way through this impossible war. They would never know the cost of victory, would never understand how many deaths it took to achieve a single step forward.

Maybe that was better. Maybe some prices were too high to share.

But Francis had faced despair before. He’d watched Michael fall again and again, had felt the weight of infinite failure pressing down on him until he thought he would break. And he hadn’t broken. He’d found a way through, had discovered the path that led to victory.

He would find a way through this too.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

Francis tried something new.

Instead of going straight through the door the moment the locks weakened, he paused. Just for a second, just long enough to let the robed figure’s channeling reach its peak. The creature was drawing power from the structure, from the locks, from everything around it.

Including, maybe, from the thing it was protecting.

Francis burst through the door and immediately threw himself to the side, rolling across the cold stone floor. The blast of void-cold erupted from the throne, but it was weaker than before, slower. The creature on the throne had felt the drain too, had lost some of its power to its own guardian’s desperate channeling.

For the first time, Francis closed the distance.

He crossed the twenty feet between the door and the throne in a heartbeat, his legs pumping, his arms driving him forward with every ounce of strength he possessed. The creature tried to rise from its throne, tried to bring more of its terrible power to bear, but it was weakened, drained, slower than it had been in every previous encounter.

Francis was not slow. Francis was not weakened. He’d spent countless loops preparing for this exact moment.

His blade struck home.

The sword carved into the creature’s chest, biting through decayed flesh and withered bone. Dark blood, almost black, sprayed across Francis’s armor. The thing on the throne screamed, a sound that seemed to echo across dimensions, carrying pain and rage and something that might have been fear.

Francis pulled his sword free and swung again, putting everything into the blow. If he could kill this thing, end it before it could recover—

“No,” the creature said, and the word carried power.

The world went black.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

Francis sat up in bed, his heart racing, his mind ablaze with what had just happened.

He’d hit it. He’d actually wounded the creature on the throne, had felt his sword slice through its flesh, had seen its blood. It was dark, thick, and wrong. It had sprayed across the chamber. The thing wasn’t invincible. It could be hurt. He could make it bleed.

That meant it could also be killed.

But it had reset the loop before he could finish the job. It had spoken a single word, just one syllable of power, and the world had ended. Francis had woken up in his bed with the morning bell still ringing in his ears and the memory of that blade cutting into decayed flesh still fresh in his mind.

It can reset at will. It doesn’t have to die to trigger the loop. It just has to choose to end things.

That was a problem. A massive problem. Francis had assumed he’d need to kill the creature to end its threat, but if it could reset the timeline whenever it wanted, killing it wouldn’t matter. It would just undo its own death and start over.

Unless…

Unless the reset had a cost. The creature had been weakened already, drained by the robed figure’s channeling. When it had reset, and spoken that word and ended the loop, Francis had seen something in its milky eyes.

Fear.

The thing was afraid of him. It was afraid of what he might do if he got close enough, and if he had enough time. It had reset not because it wanted to, but because it had to. Letting Francis continue his attack would have meant something worse than starting over.

Francis looked across the room at Michael, almost ready for another day of training, still innocent of the war being waged across timelines.

It’s afraid. It can reset, but it doesn’t want to. There’s a cost, or a limit, or something that makes each reset worse for it.

He thought about what the creature had said in their first encounter. “You killed our brother in the south. Took what was his.” It knew about the parasite Francis had absorbed, knew that he’d done more than just kill the southern creature. He’d taken something from it, had made its power his own.

Maybe that was what it feared. Not death itself, but absorption. Not ending, but being consumed. The creature had seen what Francis could do, had felt its brother die permanently rather than simply resetting, and it was terrified that the same fate awaited it.

Good.

Fear made enemies make mistakes.

He might be able to kill it for real. The creature on the throne was waiting for him, and Francis intended to give it something to fear.

Chapter 63

The sound of the morning bell rang.

Francis lay still for a moment, letting the familiar weight of reset settle over him. How many times had he heard that bell now? How many deaths had it taken to reach this point?

He pulled up his status, something he hadn’t done in what felt like forever. The numbers that greeted him told the story of his journey better than words ever could.

[ Status ]

Francis Lancaster

Age 17

Strength: 57

Endurance: 59

Agility: 58

Wisdom: 35

Perception: 46

Magic: 39

Skills

Swordsmanship (Common) - 79 Master

Shield Use (Common) - 68 Elite

Tracking (Uncommon) - 21 Novice

Stealth (Uncommon) - 34 Proficient

Traps (Uncommon) - 3 Basic

Rock Throwing (Common) - 7 Basic

Mental Resist (Uncommon) - 47 Advanced

Blood of the Undying (Unknown) - 100+ Sage

Fast Learner (Epic) - 1 Basic (Locked)

Mace (Common) - 11 Novice

Horseback Riding (Common) - 11 Novice

Horse Handling (Uncommon) - 6 Basic

Pain Resistance (Uncommon) - 69 Elite

Poison Resistance (Rare) - 51 Advanced

Power Strike (Rare) - 71 Elite

Brawling (Uncommon) - 41 Advanced

Strong Bones (Rare) - 68 Elite

Magic Resistance (Rare) - 60 Advanced

Magic Feedback (Legendary) - 26 Proficient

Guarded Stance (Uncommon) - 48 Advanced

Riposte (Rare) - 51 Advanced

Thick Skin (Rare) - 43 Advanced

Night Vision (Epic) - 39 Proficient

Iron Wall (Rare) - 39 Proficient

Dual Wield (Rare) - 56 Advanced

Battle Sense (Epic) - 33 Proficient

Warrior’s Resolve (Legendary) - 15 Novice

Blacksmithing (Common) - 37 Proficient

Metal Working (Common) - 37 Proficient

Cold Resistance (Uncommon - Racial)

Life Core Channeling (Rare) - 48 Advanced

Axe (Common) - 42  Advanced

Regeneration (Rare) - 18 Novice

Blade Tempest (Rare) - 8 Basic

Aether Manipulation (Rare) - 3 Basic

The numbers were impressive, he supposed. After his first death, back when he’d first woken up in this new way of life, Francis would have been amazed by statistics like these.

Strength at fifty-seven, Endurance at fifty-nine, and Magic at thirty-nine.

So many of these had been increased even more through sheer exposure to the robed figure’s relentless assaults. His Swordsmanship had reached seventy-nine, just one point shy of what Stenson had called the threshold of true mastery.

And that’s not even a grand master skill… How long is it going to take to reach 86 in Swordsmanship?

Yet none of it had been enough to kill the creature on the throne.

The creature was afraid of him. He’d seen it in those milky eyes, had felt it in the desperate speed of its resets. It wasn’t confident anymore, wasn’t treating him like a minor inconvenience. Every time Francis got close, every time his blade found flesh, the thing on the throne grew more desperate.

Today, Francis intended to kill it so fast it couldn’t speak that word of power. So fast it couldn’t think, couldn’t react, couldn’t do anything except die.

He got dressed and headed north.

***

The path was automatic now. Kill the wolverkin with two Blade Tempests, the massive creature falling before it could even connect its first swing. Cross the bridge at a dead sprint, boots finding purchase on ice that would have sent him tumbling months ago. Clear the Reavers with efficient, economical strikes that conserved his energy for what lay ahead, their mimicked voices dying in their throats as his sword found flesh.

His hands found the familiar handholds, his feet pushed off the stones he’d memorized through countless attempts. Francis scaled the wall faster than he ever had before, his body moving with a precision that came only from endless repetition.

The robed figure turned toward him, frost beginning to gather around its hands.

Francis was already swinging.

[ Power Strike ]

The blow caught the robed figure across the chest before it could fully react, cutting deep into pale blue flesh. The creature screamed and staggered, and Francis was already moving, dropping from the wall and sprinting for the structure’s interior.

Behind him, the robed figure fell to one knee and began to channel. Francis felt the temperature plummet as he ran, felt the power being drawn from the structure, from the locks, from everything around him.

Good.

That was exactly what he needed.

He burst into the circular chamber and threw himself at the chained door without slowing. The locks flickered, weakened by the channeling, and Francis squeezed through the gap, his constant death cycle letting him do this almost with his eyes closed. Metal scraped against his armor, but he barely noticed.

The creature on the throne was waiting, but it was weakened too. Francis could see it in the slower gathering of void-cold around its withered hands. He could feel it in the diminished pressure against his senses.

He crossed the distance in a heartbeat, his sword already moving.

[ Quick Attack ]

The blade carved into the creature’s shoulder, and Francis followed with a second strike, then a third. Dark blood sprayed across the chamber as he hacked at the thing on the throne, trying to end it before it could react.

The creature’s mouth opened, those crumbling black teeth parting to form a word.

“N—”

The world went black.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

Francis sat up, his mind already working through what had happened. The creature had barely started to speak before the reset triggered. It was fast, faster than he’d anticipated, but it still needed that word to focus its power. The syllable had been forming on its lips when reality ended.

What if it couldn’t speak at all?

He made the journey north with a new plan forming. Same approach, but this time, when he reached the throne room, his first strike wouldn’t be aimed at the creature’s chest or its heart.

It would be aimed at its throat.

The journey passed in a blur of violence. Wolverkin, bridge, Reavers, wall. Francis executed each step to perfection, conserving his energy, focusing his mind on the strike that would matter most.

He wounded the robed figure and sprinted for the door, feeling the channeling build behind him. The locks flickered, the chains loosened, and Francis squeezed through into the darkness beyond.

The creature on the throne looked up as he entered, those milky eyes tracking his movement. Its mouth began to open.

Francis was faster.

[ Quick Attack ]

The blade sliced through the creature’s neck, not deep enough to decapitate but deep enough to sever something vital. Dark blood fountained from the wound, and the thing on the throne clutched at its ruined throat with skeletal hands.

It tried to speak. Francis could see the effort, could see its mouth working, could see the desperation in those milky eyes. But all that came out was a wet gurgle, blood bubbling from the wound, words dying before they could form.

Francis raised his sword for the killing blow, triumph surging through him.

Then he felt it. A pressure building in the room, in the air, in reality itself. The creature couldn’t speak, but its power was gathering anyway, slower and less focused but still building toward the same inevitable conclusion.

Francis swung, trying to end it before the reset could trigger.

The world went black.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

“Fuck!” he called out.

“Yeah, I feel that,” Michael groaned. “It’s earlier than usual.”

Francis lay in bed, struggling with what he’d learned. The word helped the creature focus its power, but it wasn’t strictly necessary. Given enough time, the reset would trigger anyway. The creature’s ability wasn’t bound to speech. It was bound to will, to intention, to some deeper connection with the power that sustained it.

Francis’s own body had been destroyed and torn apart, and the loop restored him each time to this same moment. The creature might be the same way. Destroying its body wouldn’t be enough.

But he had a thought which felt might work even if he hadn’t tested it yet.

If I can destroy its mind before it can form the intention to reset, perhaps the parasite won’t be able to reset. I’ll need to find a way to overwhelm it with so much damage that it can’t think, can’t focus, can’t do anything except die.

He headed north, but this time he took a detour through the ice corridors. He’d seen weapons among the fallen Reavers, heavy things meant for creatures larger and stronger than humans. Francis found what he was looking for in the third group he killed: a massive war hammer, its head as large as a man’s torso, its haft nearly as tall as he was. The weight was staggering, but his strength made it manageable.

It was unwieldy, awkward, completely unsuited to his fighting style. But it would do the job he needed it to do.

Francis made his approach with the hammer slung across his back, using his sword for the robed figure, saving the heavy weapon for the creature on the throne. The familiar sequence played out: wall, strike, channeling, door. When he burst through the chained door, he dropped his sword and swung the hammer in a massive overhead arc.

[ Power Strike ]

The blow caught the creature square in the chest with a sound like thunder. Bones shattered, decayed flesh pulped, and the thing that had been sitting in regal stillness was driven backward off its throne to slam against the wall. It crumpled to the floor, broken and twitching, barely recognizable as something that had once been alive.

Francis didn’t stop. He raised the hammer and brought it down again, and again, and again. Each blow destroyed more of the creature’s body, reducing more of its physical form to paste and fragments. He smashed its chest, its arms, its legs. He crushed its skull, scattered its teeth across the stone floor, and obliterated everything that had once been recognizable as a living thing.

And still, somehow, he felt the power building.

The creature’s body was destroyed, completely destroyed, nothing but scattered remains and dark blood pooling on the floor. But the reset was coming anyway. Francis could feel it in the air, in the pressure against his senses, in the wrongness that was spreading through reality.

The world went black.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

“Mother fucking, hell!”

“Yeah… It’s earlier than usual,” Michael said. “Not sure it’s early enough for that kind of tirade. Still, let’s get ready. I don’t want to get in trouble.”

Francis stared at the ceiling, his mind racing.

He’d destroyed the creature’s body completely. There hadn’t been enough left to identify it as having once been alive. Scattered bones, pulped flesh, dark blood spreading across the floor. Yet the reset had still triggered, still pulled the world back to this moment, and undone everything Francis had accomplished.

Physical destruction isn’t enough. The body doesn’t matter. Something else is triggering the reset, something that survives even when the flesh is gone.

He thought about his own resets, about what happened when he died. His body was destroyed too, often completely, but he always woke up whole and healthy. The reset didn’t just turn back time. It restored him, rebuilt him, brought him back from nothing. His Blood of the Undying skill, locked at Sage rank, was the source of that power.

Maybe the creature worked the same way. Maybe destroying its body just triggered its version of the reset, just as dying triggered Francis’s. Maybe they were mirror images of each other, bound by the same rules, trapped in the same eternal cycle.

If that were true, then killing it would never work. Every death would just reset the loop, and Francis would wake up in this bed with the morning bell ringing, and nothing would have changed. They could fight forever, dying and resetting and dying again, and neither of them would ever truly win.

But he had to try one more time. Had to confirm what he suspected, had to see it for himself. Had to know with absolute certainty that killing wasn’t the answer.

Francis dressed and headed north one more time.

He made the journey north, every movement optimized through hundreds of repetitions. The Wolverkin died without Francis consciously registering the fight. The Reavers fell to efficient strikes that cost him nothing. The wall climb was smooth and practiced, the strike against the robed figure perfectly timed, the sprint to the door executed with flawless efficiency.

When Francis burst through the chained door, he didn’t swing wildly or attack in a frenzy. He approached the throne his sword held ready, his mind focused on a single goal. This time, he would kill it cleanly. Precisely. He would watch it die and see what happened next.

The creature looked up at him with those milky eyes, and Francis saw the fear there. Real fear, deep and primal, the terror of something that knew it was about to die.

“You cannot—” it began.

Francis drove his sword through its heart.

The blade punched through decayed flesh and withered bone, through whatever passed for vital organs in this ancient thing, and emerged from its back to scrape against the throne of black ice. The creature’s mouth opened in a silent scream, those milky eyes going wide with shock and pain.

Francis twisted the blade, then pulled it free and struck again. And again. Each blow was precise, deliberate, aimed at something vital. He carved the creature apart, watching the light fade from its eyes, watching the power drain from its withered form.

The creature slumped on its throne, dark blood pouring from a dozen wounds. For a moment it hung there, suspended between life and death, those milky eyes staring at Francis with something that might have been disbelief. Then it slid from the throne and crumpled to the floor, landing in a heap of withered limbs and tattered robes.

Dark blood pooled beneath it, spreading across the cold stone in an ever-widening circle. Its chest was still. Its eyes were empty. The pressure that had filled the room, that oppressive weight of ancient power, was gone.

It was dead. Really, truly dead. Francis had killed it.

He stood over the corpse, breathing hard, his sword dripping with blood so dark it was almost black. The throne room was silent, the only sound his own ragged breathing echoing off the walls of dark stone. He waited for something to happen. For the void-cold to erupt one last time, for the creature to rise again, for the reset to trigger.

Nothing happened. The creature lay still, as dead as anything Francis had ever killed.

Francis let out a breath he had been holding . His heart was pounding, his hands were shaking slightly, but he felt a surge of triumph rising in his chest. It was done. After countless deaths, after endless loops, after all the suffering and failure and grinding repetition, he’d finally—

The world went black.

***

The sound of the morning bell rang.

Francis sat up in bed, his heart pounding.

He’d killed it. He’d watched it die, had seen the light fade from its eyes, had felt the pressure dissipate from the room. The creature had been dead, completely dead, for several seconds before the reset triggered. He’d stood over its corpse, had begun to believe that it was finally over.

And it hadn’t mattered.

The loop had reset anyway the same way it undid Francis’s deaths. Killing it accomplished nothing because death wasn’t the end for things like them. Death was just the trigger that started everything over.

Francis sat in the darkness of the early morning, staring at nothing, his mind working through the implications. Michael was stirring across the room, beginning his morning routine, completely unaware of the revelation that had just shattered everything Francis thought he knew.

When he died, he reset. When the creature died, it reset. They were the same, bound by the same rules, trapped in the same cycle. Killing each other would accomplish nothing because they would both just come back, again and again, forever. An endless war with no possible victory, no possible conclusion, just death after death after death.

Except that couldn’t be right. Francis had killed one of these things before. In the south, in that desperate battle that had started everything, he’d killed the creature that had been casting fear upon his army. That death had been permanent. The southern creature hadn’t reset. It had stayed dead.

What did I do differently?

He closed his eyes, trying to remember. The battle had been chaos, a desperate fight for survival against something far more powerful than him. He’d been wounded, dying, pushed beyond anything he’d ever experienced. His body had been failing, his mind had been fading, and he’d acted on pure instinct.

And then…

Francis remembered tearing the creature’s chest open. He remembered his own body being damaged and wounds gaping. There had been that purple mass inside the creature, in that decaying flesh. Francis could now feel the sensation of that parasite writhing and twisting around his body, attacking him and his mind.

He’d pulled at it, trying to stop it, but that hadn’t done anything as it pierced his skin. When he had, it had wanted to take him over, had tried to make him its new host. There had been a battle, not physical but mental, a contest of wills fought in some space beyond the physical world. The parasite had been strong, ancient, desperate to survive. It stole his memories of his brother. Somehow, it knew Michael was an anchor for him.

Yet Francis had won. He’d bent it to his will, had made it his own, had absorbed its power instead of letting it absorb him.

That was the difference. That was why the southern creature had stayed dead. Francis hadn’t just killed its body. He’d taken the thing that made it immortal, the thing that triggered its resets, and he’d claimed it for himself. His Blood of the Undying skill, the power that let him reset when he died, had come from that absorption.

That’s why it’s afraid of me. Not because I can kill it, but because I can take what it has. I can end it permanently, as I did its brother in the south.

Francis looked across the room at Michael, now fully dressed and heading for the door. The answer had been there all along, hidden in the memory of that first desperate battle. He didn’t need to kill the creature on the throne.

He needed to absorb it.

***

Francis dressed slowly, his mind still working through the problem.

I need to absorb it.

It sounded simple enough when he put it in those terms, but the reality was far more complicated. He barely remembered what he’d done in that first battle, barely remembered the instincts that had driven him as he fought for his life. It hadn’t been a technique or a skill or something he could practice and perfect. It had been desperation, pure and raw, the last resort of a dying man who had nothing left to lose.

Could he replicate it? Could he do it deliberately, consciously, with the creature fighting back every step of the way? The thing on the throne knew what he was now, knew what he’d done to its brother in the south. It would be ready for him. Even worse, it would probably be expecting that kind of attack.

He remembered the mental battle that had followed the physical one, the parasite trying to take him over, trying to make him its new host. It had been like drowning in ice water, like being pulled down into darkness by hands he couldn’t see. He’d fought it off somehow, imposed his will on the thing, and had bent it to his purpose instead of letting it bend him to its own.

But that had been close. Closer than he liked to remember. The parasite had been strong and desperate. He’d only won because it had been weakened. After all, the battle that came before had drained it, because Francis had caught it at its most vulnerable moment.

The creature on the throne would fight too. It would resist, would try to take him over, would do everything in its power to avoid being consumed. And unlike the first time, Francis wouldn’t have the advantage of surprise. The thing had told him as much. It knew he’d killed the brother in the south and taken what was his, and it had felt every reset since. It had spent who knew how many loops preparing for exactly this confrontation.

That was why it was so afraid. Not of death, which it could undo with a thought, but of consumption. Of being taken, absorbed, and ended permanently. Of losing not just its life but its very existence, its power, its place in whatever network these creatures had built.

Francis finished dressing and headed for the door. He knew what he needed to do now. Reach the throne room. Defeat the creature, or at least weaken it enough to attempt the absorption. Tear open its chest. Reach inside. Take the parasite.

And win the mental battle that followed.

Four steps, each one harder than the last. Four steps that would determine not just this battle but the entire war. If he failed, if the creature took him over instead, then everything he’d fought for would be lost. The parasites would have another host, another puppet, another weapon to use against the people Francis was trying to protect.

Simple enough to describe but probably the hardest thing he’d ever attempted.

Yet Francis had died over five thousand times to reach this point. He’d fought through impossible odds, and grown stronger than any human had a right to be. He had become something that even ancient creatures of power feared. His stats told part of the story. His skills told another. The real measure of who he was, of what he’d become, couldn’t be captured in numbers or ranks.

He was the one who didn’t stop. The one who kept fighting when anyone else would have given up. The one who died and died and died, and got up every single time to try again.

He could do this. He would do this.

The creature on the throne was waiting, and Francis intended to consume it.

Chapter 64

Francis ran south through the morning light, his boots pounding against the dirt road, his breath coming in a steady rhythm.

The Southern Kingdom stretched out around him, green hills and farmland that felt almost foreign after so long in the frozen north.

The journey from the barracks to the main army encampment usually took most of a day at a normal jog for him. Francis wasn’t moving at a normal pace. His enhanced stats let him maintain a speed that would have killed an ordinary man, eating up the miles while his mind worked through the problem that had driven him out of bed.

He knew how to end the Northern looper. Absorption, not killing. Take the parasite the way he’d taken its brother in the south. Simple enough in theory.

But what happens after?

When he’d absorbed the Southern parasite, he woke up days before that fight, in his barracks where Phillip had trained them. It seemed weird and strange in some ways that it had reset his life a few days before that moment, but he had not given it much thought until now. Everything before that moment had become fixed, unchangeable, locked into a single timeline that he could no longer alter.

If he absorbed the Northern looper now, would the same thing happen? Would his loop point shift to that moment of absorption, locking in everything that came before? Would it be a few days before he absorbed it?

And if it does, what gets locked in? The Southern Kingdom is still at war, and Michael is still in danger. What happens to everyone I’ve come to know here? Stenson is still fighting a battle he can’t win. All of that becomes permanent and unchangeable because I threw away my ability to reset to this point.

Francis pushed harder, his legs burning, his lungs working. The physical exertion helped him think, gave him something to focus on besides the endless spiral of questions.

But they just kept coming.

What if he could use this strategically? Win the Southern battle first, secure the kingdom, and make sure everything was in place. Then go north and absorb the looper. Whatever state the world was in at that moment would become permanent. That victory locked in forever.

That made sense. It felt right, but there were holes in the logic, gaps he couldn’t quite see past.

What if the absorption didn’t work the same way twice? What if the Northern parasite was different somehow, older, stronger, with rules he didn’t understand? What if absorbing it shifted his loop point to somewhere unexpected, some moment he couldn’t predict or control?

And there was another question, one that had been nagging at him since he’d first started thinking about this.

What happened to the Southern looper’s territory after he absorbed it?

The beastkin armies in the south were still fighting, still coordinated, still dangerous. If the southern looper was gone, truly gone, then who was directing its armies now? They were still coordinated, still dangerous, which meant someone had taken up the slack. Old standing orders might carry them awhile, but not indefinitely. More likely one of the others, the looper in the east or the one in the west, had reached across to steady the line, stretching itself thinner to cover a gap that shouldn’t exist. And a looper stretched thin, attention divided across a continent, was a looper that might miss things. It was worth remembering.

Francis didn’t know. He didn’t know enough about how any of this worked. The parasites, the network, the rules that governed their power. He’d been stumbling through blind, learning by dying, figuring things out one painful death at a time.

That approach had worked so far, but this was different. This was a decision that couldn’t be undone, a choice that would lock in consequences he might not be able to foresee. If he got this wrong, if he absorbed the Northern looper at the wrong moment or in the wrong way, he might lose everything.

I need help. I need people smarter than me to think through this, to see the angles I’m missing, to ask the questions I haven’t thought to ask.

Stenson. Priscilla. The king and queen. They’d believed him when he’d told them about the loops, had trusted him when he’d asked them to stake everything on his word. They’d helped him plan and strategize and find paths through impossible situations.

He needed them now more than ever.

***

The army encampment spread across the valley, tents and cookfires and the constant movement of soldiers preparing for war. Francis slowed as he approached, his breathing evening out, his heart rate settling back toward normal.

Guards stopped him at the perimeter, their spears crossing to block his path.

“State your business,” the lead guard demanded.

Francis had learned that demonstrations worked better than explanations. He drew his knife before the guards could react and drove it into his own forearm. The blade went deep, and blood immediately began flowing down his wrist.

The guards recoiled, hands tightening on their weapons. One of them started forward, probably thinking Francis had lost his mind.

“Watch,” Francis said calmly.

Golden threads of energy became visible around the wound. His Life Core Channeling manifested as visible light, and the guards’ eyes went wide as they watched flesh begin to knit back together. The bleeding slowed, then stopped. Within seconds, only blood-stained skin remained where a crippling injury had been.

“I need to speak with General Stenson,” Francis said, wiping the blood from his arm. “Tell him ‘apples under a hat.’ He’ll know what it means.”

The guards exchanged glances. The lead guard’s face had gone pale, but he nodded to one of his men. “Get the general. Now.”

The messenger returned within fifteen minutes, his expression a mixture of confusion and urgency. “General Stenson will see you. Immediately.”

***

Stenson’s face was like stone as Francis entered the command tent.

The general stood behind a field table covered with maps and reports, his experienced eyes studying Francis with an intensity that would have made a lesser man flinch. The code phrase had gotten Francis through the door, but now came the harder part, earning trust that had taken months to build in other loops.

“Apples under a hat,” Stenson said slowly. “That phrase is known to very few people. How did you come by it?”

“Vella told me,” Francis replied. “In another timeline. One where we’d known each other for a month, where you trusted me enough to share things you don’t share with anyone.”

“Another timeline.” Stenson’s expression didn’t change. “That’s quite a claim.”

“I know it sounds impossible. But I can prove it.” Francis met the general’s gaze steadily. “I have an ability that lets me reset time when I die. I’ve lived through this war thousands of times, dying and coming back, learning and growing stronger with each death. I know things I shouldn’t know because I’ve seen them happen, over and over.”

“The guards said you stabbed yourself. Said the wound healed in seconds.”

“It did. That’s part of what I am now.” Francis paused. “General, I need to speak with the full council. King Baxter, Queen Auri, Priscilla, and you. What I have to tell them will change how we fight this war. It might be the only way we can actually win.”

Stenson was quiet for a long moment, his fingers drumming on the table.

“You’re asking me to arrange a meeting with the king based on a code phrase and a healing trick.”

“I’m asking you to trust your instincts,” Francis said. “You’ve survived this long because you know how to read people, how to judge whether someone is telling the truth. Look at me. Listen to what I’m saying. Am I lying?”

Another moment of silence passed, then Stenson reached for his coat.

“The king is at the forward command post. We’ll go together. You can make your case to him directly.” He fixed Francis with a hard stare. “But if this turns out to be some kind of trick, some enemy deception, I’ll kill you myself. Understood?”

“Understood,” Francis said. “And thank you.”

“Don’t thank me yet. Convince the king, the queen, and Priscilla. Then we’ll see if thanks are warranted.”

***

The command tent at the forward post felt smaller with five people in it.

Francis had given this speech before. He knew exactly which words to use, which demonstrations to perform, which details would convince them and which would only confuse.

“Speak,” King Baxter said simply.

Francis took a breath and told them everything. His ability to reset upon death. The thousands of loops he’d lived through. Learning enemy patterns through repetition, dying until he understood how to win.

“He speaks the truth,” Queen Auri said quietly. “Every word of it.”

“Even if what he says is true,” Stenson said, “proof would help.”

Francis didn’t hesitate. He drew his knife and drove it through his own thigh. The pain was intense, familiar, and he let it show on his face as he pulled the blade free.

Blood poured from the wound.

“Watch,” Francis said.

Golden threads became visible around the wound, his Life Core energy made manifest. Within seconds, only blood-stained skin remained where a crippling injury had been.

“Life Core Channeling at an advanced level,” Priscilla breathed. “Combined with regeneration I’ve never seen before. That shouldn’t be possible for someone your age. That level of ability takes decades to develop.”

“Or thousands of deaths,” Francis replied as he had before.

“There’s something else,” Priscilla said, her eyes narrowing as she studied him. Her hands moved in a complex gesture, and Francis felt magic wash over him, probing, examining. “There’s something else… something he shouldn’t have.”

Queen Auri stepped closer, her magical senses reaching out. Her expression shifted from curiosity to surprise to something that might have been recognition.

“I feel it,” she said quietly. “He also has the ability to draw upon our magic.” She circled Francis slowly, her eyes unfocused as she examined him with senses beyond the physical. “This… isn’t possible. For someone to have the ability to draw upon two different magic systems…”

“That’s what I need to tell you about,” Francis said. “Why I can reset and that there are others like me.”

***

Francis placed his hand on the map spread across the table, pointing to the northern territories.

“There’s a structure here, hidden in the ice fields beyond the main barbarian territories. It took me dozens of deaths to find it, and dozens more to breach its defenses. And at its heart, there’s something that shouldn’t exist.”

He took a breath, making sure he had everyone’s full attention.

“A beastkin. But not like any beastkin we’ve fought. This one is ancient, decaying, barely alive. Its skin is grey and withered. Its eyes are milky white, but they see everything. It sits on a throne of black ice, and it has the same power I do. It can reset time.”

The room went silent.

“I’ve killed it,” Francis continued. “Multiple times. I found ways to breach the defenses, to reach the inner chamber, to strike it down. I put my sword through its heart and watched the light fade from its eyes. And every single time, I woke up in my bed with the morning bell ringing, and nothing had changed.”

“So killing it accomplishes nothing,” Stenson said.

“Killing it accomplishes nothing,” Francis agreed. “But there’s another way. The creature I killed in the south, the one that started all of this for me, I didn’t just kill it. I absorbed it. I took the parasite that gave it power and made it my own.”

He tapped his chest. “That’s where my ability comes from. Not from some innate gift or blessing. From a parasite I took from a dying creature, and I believe I can do the same thing to the one in the north.”

“There are more of them?” Queen Auri asked.

“Yes. The northern creature spoke to me before it reset. It said ‘we felt you’ and ‘you killed our brother.’ There’s a network of them, I believe, spread across the kingdoms, coordinating the beastkin armies.”

“That explains so much,” Stenson said quietly. “How they always seem to know our plans. How they adapt so quickly. They’re not just reacting to our movements. They’re resetting time until they find the approach that works.”

“Exactly,” Francis said. “Every time one of them dies, they reset and try again. Every time I die, I reset and try again. We’ve been fighting the same battles over and over, and neither side has been able to break through because we keep undoing each other’s victories.”

“Then why haven’t you absorbed it already?” King Baxter asked. “If you can reach the creature, if you know how to absorb it, why are we having this meeting instead of celebrating a victory?”

This was the heart of everything. The reason Francis had run all this way instead of just going back north and finishing what he’d started.

“Because of what happens when I absorb it,” he said. “When I took the southern parasite, I woke up days before that fight, and that became my new anchor. Everything before that moment became fixed, unchangeable.”

He let that sink in.

“If I absorb the northern creature now, the same thing may or may not happen. My loop point could shift to that moment, or somewhere near it. Everything before, everything happening here in the south, will become permanent. Whatever state this kingdom is in when I absorb that parasite is the state it will stay in forever.”

Queen Auri understood first. “If you absorb it while we’re still at war…”

“The war continues,” Francis finished. “I lose my ability to reset back to this point. I can’t try different strategies, or find the path to victory. Whatever happens in the south after that moment is out of my hands.”

“So you need to win here first,” King Baxter said, following the logic. “Secure the Southern Kingdom, end the threat, make sure everything is in place. Then go north and absorb the looper.”

“That’s exactly right,” Francis said. “But I’m not certain the rules will be the same. The northern parasite is older, stronger. The absorption might work differently. My loop point might shift to somewhere I don’t expect.”

“Which is why you need us,” Priscilla said. “To help think through the possibilities. The risks. The ways this could go wrong.”

“Yes.” Francis looked around the room. “I’ve been figuring this out alone for too long, dying and trying again, learning through failure. But this decision can’t be undone. If I get it wrong, I might not get another chance to fix it.”

“There’s another consideration,” Queen Auri said. “When you absorb the northern looper, the others will know. You said they can sense each other. Two of their network, gone. They’ll understand you’re a threat.”

“They’ll hunt you,” Stenson added.

“Probably,” Francis agreed. “But that’s a problem for after. Right now, we focus on what’s in front of us. Win the south. Absorb the north. Deal with the consequences as they come.”

King Baxter leaned forward. “What do you need from us to win the southern battle?”

Francis pulled the map closer. “I know their positions, their numbers, their elite units. I’ve fought this war thousands of times. Give me access to your tactical planning, and I can show you how to win decisively. Rout the beastkin forces completely.”

“And after we win here?” Priscilla asked. “How quickly do you need to get north?”

“As fast as possible. The northern looper can reset whenever it wants, but I think it costs something. Each reset drains it. If we move fast enough, we might reach it before it decides the cost is worth paying.”

“And if it resets before you can absorb it?”

“Then I wake up back here, and we start over,” Francis said. “The southern victory would be undone. I’d have to win it again before attempting the north again.”

“Then speed is essential,” King Baxter said. “We win here as quickly as possible, get you north as quickly as possible. Minimize the window where the enemy can undo our work.”

Baxter stood, looking around at his council. “I’ve heard impossible things today. Magic that shouldn’t exist, creatures that control time, a war being fought across realities we can’t perceive.” He fixed his gaze on Francis. “But I’ve also heard the only plan that might actually end this. Stenson, work with this young man. Give him whatever he needs. Priscilla, research everything you can about these parasites, this absorption process, their potential gods, anything you can. If there’s a way to improve his chances, find it.”

“And the battle plan?” Stenson asked.

“We start tonight,” the king said. “If this soldier knows as much as he claims, we have a lot of planning to do. And not much time to do it.”

***

The planning session stretched into the night.

Francis explained everything he knew. The northern defenses, the structure hidden in the ice fields, the corridors filled with Reavers that mimicked human voices to lure victims to their deaths, the killing field with its two hundred yards of open ground. The robed figure with its devastating magic that could freeze a man solid in seconds. The chained door and the throne of black ice.

He walked them through the southern beastkin positions, the elite units, the commanders who mattered, and the ones who didn’t. He showed them which attacks would succeed and which would fail, which feints would work and which would be seen through.

Maps were marked, strategies were debated, timelines were proposed and revised. Stenson asked hard questions about troop movements and supply lines. Priscilla probed for magical weaknesses. King Baxter challenged every assumption, tested every conclusion.

Queen Auri said little, but her presence was felt. When she did speak, it was to ask about the parasites themselves, their nature, their origins, what they wanted. Francis couldn’t answer most of her questions, but her curiosity suggested she was more concerned about how to help him survive the absorption that was to come.

By the time they finished, dawn was beginning to lighten the eastern sky. Francis was exhausted, his voice hoarse from hours of explanation, but beneath the fatigue, he felt something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

He felt hope. Not the desperate kind of hope where someone is grasping at straws, but the solid, grounded hope of someone with a plan. A real plan, built with the help of people who understood the stakes, designed to achieve a victory that would actually stick.

They believed him. Despite everything, despite the impossibility of what he’d told them, they believed him. They’d seen the proof in his healing, felt the parasite with their magical senses, and recognized the truth in his knowledge of things he shouldn’t know.

And now they were going to help him end this war.

Chapter 65

Francis woke to the sound of movement outside the tent.

He’d slept for maybe three hours, curled up in a bed that was not as nice as some of the ones he had been given in the earlier loops after proving he was a sage. He had passed out quickly after the planning session finally ended. His body was a little stiff from the run south and the hours of talking, but his mind was already alert, already working through the problems that had followed him into his dreams.

Sunlight filtered through the canvas walls.

Is it mid-morning… maybe later?

Francis sat up and rubbed his eyes, trying to remember the last time he’d slept so little and felt so awake.

A messenger appeared at the tent flap. “The council has reconvened, sir. They’re asking for you.”

Francis nodded and reached for his boots. “Tell them I’m on my way.”

* * *

The command tent looked different in the daylight.

Maps still covered the main table, but new documents had been added overnight. Priscilla stood near the entrance with a stack of old texts and scrolls, dark circles under her eyes suggesting she hadn’t slept at all. King Baxter sat at the head of the table, looking fresher than anyone had a right to after a night like the one they’d had. Queen Auri was beside him, her green eyes sharp and focused. Stenson had taken his usual position beside Baxter, waiting.

“Good, you’re here,” Baxter said as Francis entered. “Priscilla has been busy.”

The court mage stepped forward, setting her stack of documents on the table. “I opened a portal to the Spires the moment we broke last night,” she said. “The keeper of the restricted vaults didn’t want to let me in, not at that hour and not for this, and I had to pull rank and remind him whose authority I carry before he relented. Even then he watched me like I’d come to rob the place.” She tapped the top scroll. “I didn’t have time to read a tenth of what’s down there. But I pulled everything that touched on what Francis described, and even the little I’ve skimmed is enough to worry me. Not exact matches. Close enough.”

“What kind of references?” Francis asked, moving closer.

“Stories, mostly. Legends from before the great war between the four kingdoms.” Priscilla unrolled one of the scrolls, revealing faded text and strange diagrams. “There are accounts of creatures that couldn’t be killed. Entities that would fall in battle and rise again, unchanged, as if the fight had never happened. The old texts call them ‘the Undying’ or ‘the Eternal Ones.’”

She pointed to one of the diagrams, a crude drawing of a figure surrounded by concentric circles. “This one describes a battle against an Undying, though describes is generous. It’s stitched together from fragments. The army that fought it never remembered fighting. Every time the creature fell, the world twisted, and they woke believing the battle hadn’t started yet. Only two sages held on to anything at all, scraps, half-images, the same wrongness repeating loop after loop. They spent years comparing the slivers each of them kept until they finally understood what was being done to them. What you’re holding came down from that.” She spread her hands. “How much is true and how much is a guess two frightened old men pieced together ten thousand years ago, no one can say. Take it as a warning, not a history.”

“That matches what Francis can do,” Stenson said. “Reset when killed, come back unchanged.”

“It does.” Priscilla’s expression was troubled. “But the texts also describe something else. The Undying didn’t just reset themselves. They could reset everything around them. Entire battles, undone. Armies that had won, suddenly back where they started. The old kings and queens wrote about fighting the same wars over and over, never understanding why their victories never seemed to stick. If it hadn’t been for those two sages, no one would have known anything had happened at all.”

“How did they eventually defeat them?” King Baxter asked. “If they truly couldn’t be killed…”

“The texts don’t say clearly,” Priscilla admitted. “Some accounts end abruptly, as if the author died or gave up. Others speak of ‘binding’ the Undying, trapping them in places where they couldn’t cause harm. There were no other details given.”

“So nothing about absorption,” Francis said quietly. “Like what I did to the southern one.”

“Perhaps. The texts are vague on the details. But if the pattern holds, then what you did wasn’t unprecedented. It’s just been so long that everyone forgot it was possible.”

The room went quiet as the implications sank in.

“That’s what we’ve been experiencing,” Queen Auri said softly. “The beastkins always seem prepared. Always seem to know our plans. Because they’ve already seen them fail and adjusted.”

“Exactly,” Francis said. “The loopers reset when they die, and everyone else forgets. They learn from each attempt, adapt their strategies, and try again. We never remember the battles we’ve already lost.”

“And this matches what the creature told you,” Priscilla said, drawing another fragment forward. “You said it told you we felt you, all of us. The texts describe exactly that. A thread between the Undying that carries the fact of a reset across the whole continent. Not the details. Just that one of them has died and come back.”

Francis nodded. He’d known it since the throne room. It was something else to see it written down ten thousand years before he was born.

“One looper per kingdom,” Stenson said, working through the logic. “If the pattern holds, that’s four of them. One in the south, which Francis absorbed. One in the north, which he’s found. And two more, in the east and west.”

“Four points of control,” King Baxter said. “Four creatures coordinating the beastkin armies across the entire continent. That explains why we’ve never been able to gain a decisive advantage. Every time we push forward, they reset and counter.”

“But they can’t see everything,” Francis said. “The northern looper knew I was causing resets, but it didn’t know where or how. It took them a long time to figure out that I was in the north, and even longer to start placing elite bosses to counter my tactics. If they could see exactly what was happening, they would have countered me immediately.”

“So the network gives them awareness, but not details,” Priscilla summarized. “They know a reset happened. They don’t know what caused it or what the person who reset learned from dying.”

“That’s their weakness,” Francis said. “They have to communicate the old-fashioned way for anything specific. Messengers, reports, coordination. I’ve seen the messenger system in the north. Beastkin runners carrying information between the structure and the front lines. That takes time. And if their messenger network is disrupted…”

“They lose their advantage,” Stenson finished. “They can feel the resets, but they can’t act on them quickly. There’s a delay between knowing something happened and understanding what it means.”

“Which is why they were confused by me,” Francis added. “Constant resets coming from someone who wasn’t part of their network. Someone who wasn’t sending them reports or following their protocols. They knew something was wrong, but they had no way to investigate without sending physical messengers.”

“This explains something that’s been bothering me,” he continued. “When I first arrived in the north, I died constantly. Dozens of times in the first few days, learning the terrain, the enemies, the patterns. The northern looper would have felt every one of those resets, happening right in its own territory.”

“Resets in their own northern ground,” Queen Auri said, her green eyes thoughtful, “and their brother in the south gone silent at the very same time. Two wrongs at once, and nothing to tie them together.”

“Exactly. Their brother in the south was gone. I’d absorbed him. Suddenly there’s a new looper causing resets, but he’s not communicating through their network, not sending messengers, not following their patterns.” Francis shook his head. “They knew something was wrong, but they didn’t know what. I was an anomaly in their system.”

“Imagine their confusion,” Priscilla said, a hint of wonder in her voice. “However long this network has held, and the texts make it older than any kingdom standing, it has always worked the same way. Four of them, one to a kingdom, each a thread the others can feel. Then one thread goes silent, and something they can’t name starts resetting in its place, never reporting, never following the pattern.”

“That’s why it took so long for them to adapt to you,” she continued. “They had to figure out who you were, where you were operating, what you were trying to accomplish. All without the direct communication they normally rely on.”

“And by the time they did,” Stenson added, “Francis had already learned enough to breach their defenses. He found the northern looper before they could stop him.”

“They must have been terrified,” Queen Auri said quietly. “Their brother in the south died exposed, caught before any of them knew such a thing was even possible. Now the survivors know. They’ve pulled deeper into their strongholds, the way the northern one did. And still it wasn’t enough to keep Francis out.”

“But now they know,” Francis said grimly. “The northern looper has seen me. It knows what I am, what I can do. It knows I can absorb them, not just kill them. If it communicates that to the others…”

“Then the eastern and western loopers will be prepared for you,” King Baxter finished. “They’ll know to watch for a human looper, one who absorbs rather than just kills. They’ll strengthen their defenses, hide themselves deeper.”

“Or they’ll come for me first,” Francis said. “Try to eliminate the threat before I can reach them.”

“Which is why we need to move fast,” Stenson said. “Win here, absorb the northern looper, and deal with the others before they can fully prepare. Every day we delay is a day they use to plan against us.”

Queen Auri had been quiet for a while, her fingers tapping slowly on the table. When she spoke, her voice carried the weight of someone working through a difficult problem.

“There’s something we haven’t addressed,” she said. “The parasites themselves. Francis absorbed the southern one and gained its power. The northern creature is a host for another parasite. But where did these things come from? What are they?”

“The old texts don’t say,” Priscilla admitted. “They describe the Undying as if they’ve always existed, or as if their origins are too ancient to remember.”

“There’s something else,” the queen continued. “Francis said the northern creature looked ancient and decaying. Barely alive. If these parasites grant a kind of immortality through resetting, why would the host rot at all?”

Francis hadn’t thought about that. He remembered the creature on the throne, its grey withered skin, its milky eyes, the missing ear and the crumbling teeth, a body that looked like it had been dying for a very long time. And yet it still reset, still came back, still continued its endless cycle.

“Maybe the resets don’t heal everything,” he said slowly. “Maybe the power has a cost. Every death, every reset, it takes a little more from the body that carries it. The creature wasn’t sick. It was old. It had been resetting so long that the parasite had nearly hollowed it out from the inside.”

“If that’s true,” Queen Auri said, “then the parasites aren’t perfect. The power has a price, and the price is the host. They decay. Slowly, across however many years they last, but they decay.”

“A slow death stretched thin across a lifetime that won’t end,” Priscilla murmured. “That’s horrifying.”

Francis went very still, because a colder thought had landed on the heels of the first.

“Then they’re not all the same,” he said. “The one I found was ancient. Decayed almost to nothing. That’s the only reason I could break its body at all, and even then breaking it wasn’t enough.” He looked up. “But a looper that hasn’t been at this as long wouldn’t be like that. It would be whole. Strong. Maybe stronger than anything I’ve ever faced.”

The room understood his meaning before he finished.

“The east and the west,” Stenson said grimly.

“If they’re younger than the northern one,” Francis said, “then I killed the weakest of the four. The dying one. The others will be in their prime.”

“It also explains why the northern looper feared you,” Stenson said. “Not just because you can absorb it. Because absorption might be the only true death these creatures can find. The only end to the rot.”

“Or the worst fate imaginable,” Queen Auri countered. “To be consumed by another, to have everything you are taken and used by someone else.”

Francis felt a chill run down his spine. He’d thought of the parasite as a tool, a source of power. He hadn’t considered that he might be carrying something that would, given enough deaths, hollow him out the same way it had hollowed out the thing on the throne.

Is that what’s waiting for me? An eternity of resetting, watching everyone I care about die over and over, while my own body slowly falls apart? Will I end up like that thing on the throne, ancient and rotting and unable to stop?

He pushed the thought aside. That was a problem for another loop, if it was a problem at all. He was young in this, by the measure of the things he was hunting. He had time to learn the cost before it ever came due.

Right now, he had a war to win.

“There’s one more thing,” Priscilla said, pulling out another scroll. “I found references to the gods in connection with the Undying. Nothing definitive, but hints that the parasites might be connected to divine power somehow.”

“Connected how?” King Baxter asked.

“The texts are unclear. Some suggest the parasites are gifts from the gods, tools given to favored servants. Others suggest they’re the opposite, entities that exist in opposition to divine power.” Priscilla shook her head. “I need more time to research. But if there is a connection, it might explain why the priestess reacted so strongly when she encountered Francis.”

Francis remembered that moment when the priestess had killed him, recognizing something in him that she considered an abomination. At the time, he hadn’t understood why. Now, he wondered if she had sensed the parasite, and known what he was carrying without understanding exactly what it meant.

“The gods stay out of mortal affairs,” Stenson said. “They have since the Great War. If the parasites are connected to them somehow, that could change.”

“Or it could mean the gods are already involved,” Queen Auri said quietly. “Just not in ways we can see.”

The room fell silent as everyone considered the implications. Gods, parasites, loopers who could reset reality itself. The war they were fighting was larger than any of them had imagined.

“Let’s focus on what we can control,” King Baxter said, his voice cutting through the contemplative silence. “We understand the enemy better now. Four loopers coordinating across the continent. A network that shares awareness but not details. Hosts that decay with age but can’t truly die unless absorbed. And the oldest of them, the one most worn down, already dead by Francis’s hand.”

“Which leaves the strong ones,” Stenson added. “And Francis is the only one who can absorb them. That makes him the most valuable and the most vulnerable piece on the board.”

“We need to think about what happens after the northern absorption,” Priscilla said. “The eastern and western loopers will feel it. If two of their network suddenly vanish, they’ll know Francis is coming for them eventually.”

“They’ll either run or dig in,” Francis said. “Hide themselves deeper, protect themselves better. Make it harder for me to reach them.”

“Or they’ll attack,” Queen Auri said. “Coordinate their forces against the Southern and Northern Kingdoms specifically, trying to overwhelm us before Francis can reach them. If they can kill him before he absorbs another parasite…”

“They can’t kill me permanently,” Francis reminded her. “I just reset.”

“But they can slow you down,” Stenson said. “They can make every step of your journey harder. Fill the path with elite bosses designed specifically to counter your abilities. Force you to die a thousand times just to cross a single battlefield.”

“They’ve already started doing that,” Francis stated. “The elite bosses in the north weren’t random. They were placed specifically to counter my tactics. The olverkin to match my regeneration. The lynxkin to counter my Battle Sense. Each one designed to kill me in ways I couldn’t easily overcome.”

“Then we assume they’ll do more of the same,” King Baxter said. “After you absorb the northern looper, every step toward the east or west will be contested. Every battle will be harder than the last. And the things waiting at the end of those roads won’t be dying old husks. They’ll be the strongest of their kind.”

“Either way, absorbing the northern looper changes everything,” Stenson said. “We need to be ready for retaliation. Not just here, but across all the kingdoms.”

“One step at a time,” King Baxter said firmly. “First, we win here. Decisively. Then Francis goes north and absorbs the looper. Whatever comes after, we’ll face it with the southern war behind us instead of ahead.”

“So we’re agreed,” Francis said, looking around the room. “Win the southern battle. Race north through the portal. Absorb the looper before it can reset. And prepare for whatever the eastern and western loopers throw at us afterward.”

“That’s the plan,” King Baxter confirmed. “Simple to state, harder to execute. But you’ve given us something we haven’t had in a long time, Francis. Understanding. We know what we’re fighting now. We know why our victories never stuck. And we know how to make this one permanent.”

“Stenson will work with you on the tactical details,” the king continued. “Troop positioning, timing, which elite units to prioritize. You know where the beastkins are strong and where they’re weak. We’ll use that knowledge.”

“Priscilla will continue researching the parasites and the gods,” Queen Auri added. “Looking for anything that might help with the absorption. If there are risks we haven’t considered, we need to know about them before you attempt it.”

“And the queen and I will prepare the kingdom for what comes next,” King Baxter said. “If the eastern and western loopers retaliate, we need to be ready. That means reinforcing our borders, stockpiling supplies, and making sure our people can weather whatever storm is coming.”

Francis nodded, feeling the weight of their trust settling onto his shoulders. These people had every reason to dismiss him as a madman or a liar. Instead, they’d listened, believed, and committed their kingdom to a plan that depended entirely on him.

He thought about all the loops he’d lived through, all the deaths he’d suffered, all the times he’d watched these same people die because he couldn’t save them. In those loops, they’d never known what they were really fighting. They’d gone to their graves confused, wondering why victory always seemed to slip away.

This time would be different. This time, they understood, and could fight back with full knowledge of what they faced.

He wouldn’t fail them.

“When do we start?” he asked.

Stenson pushed himself off the tent pole he’d been leaning against. “Now. The beastkin won’t wait while we talk. Come on, I’ll show you the current positions, and you can tell me everything you know about breaking them.”

Francis followed the general out of the tent, leaving the others to their own preparations. The sun was high now, the army camp bustling with activity, soldiers training and preparing for a battle they didn’t know was part of something much larger.

Somewhere in the frozen north, the creature on the throne was waiting.

And now, finally, Francis understood exactly what he was fighting. Not just beastkins, or a war between kingdoms. He was fighting something older than the kingdoms themselves, a line of creatures that had been unmaking reality and remaking it for longer than anyone alive could remember, each one passing the power on as it rotted away. He had killed the oldest and weakest of them. He needed to kill the one in the north and then two more waited in the east and the west, young and whole and strong.

But they’d never faced someone like him before. Someone who could take their power and turn it against them. Someone who refused to stop, no matter how many times he died.

Chapter 66

Stenson’s command tent felt lived-in.

Maps covered every surface, some pinned to the canvas walls, others spread across tables and weighted down with stones and empty cups. Notes in the general’s cramped handwriting filled the margins, tracking troop movements and supply lines and a dozen other details that kept an army functioning. This was where the real work happened, away from the politics and ceremony of the royal tent.

Francis stood across the main table from Stenson, studying a large map of the southern front. He’d seen similar maps in other loops, had memorized the terrain and the enemy positions through countless deaths. But this was the first time he’d looked at it with someone who actually understood what they were planning.

“Before we talk tactics,” Stenson said, “I need to understand the timeline. Your loop point is the morning bell here in the south, two days before this battle. If you die, you wake there, that same morning, and everything from then until now is undone.”

“That’s right,” Francis said. “Two days. Enough to march back up to the line, no more.”

“That’s right.”

“And if you absorb the northern looper, your loop point shifts then everything before becomes fixed.”

“That’s what happened with the southern one,” Francis confirmed. “My loop point moved to a few days before the absorption. I don’t know exactly why it was a few days before instead of the moment itself, but that’s how it worked.”

Stenson leaned over the map, his fingers tracing the distance between the southern front and the portal to the north. “So if you absorb the northern looper while we’re still fighting here, the war becomes permanent. Whatever state we’re in at that moment is locked in forever.”

“Which is why we need to win decisively before I go north,” Francis said. “Not just push them back. We need to break their army completely, make sure there’s no threat remaining when my loop point shifts.”

“How long do we have?” Stenson asked. “After we win here, how quickly do you need to reach the northern looper?”

“As fast as possible,” Francis said. “The northern creature can reset whenever it wants. Every moment I delay is a moment it might decide to undo everything.”

“But it hasn’t reset yet,” Stenson pointed out. “You’ve killed it multiple times, and it’s reset each time. But right now, in this loop, it’s still waiting. Why?”

Francis had thought about that. “I think resetting costs it something. Energy, or lifeforce, or something I don’t understand. The creature on the throne looked ancient, decaying. Maybe each reset drains it a little more. It won’t reset unless it feels genuinely threatened.”

“So as long as you’re here in the south, fighting our war, it feels safe,” Stenson said slowly. “But the moment you start moving north…”

“It might panic. Reset before I can reach it.” Francis shook his head. “Which means I need to move fast once I start. Win here, get to the portal, get through, and reach the structure before it realizes what’s happening.”

“The portal,” Francis said. “How quickly can we open it?”

“Priscilla and the other mages can have it ready within hours of the battle ending,” Stenson replied. “Not before. Holding a portal open bleeds them dry, and I need every mage we have throwing power at the beastkins until the last one falls. The moment we’ve won, they’ll raise it, and even then it won’t hold long. They’ll be spent. The hard part was never opening the portal. It’s keeping it stable long enough for someone to cross. How many are you wanting to take?”

“Just me,” Francis said. “Maybe a small escort to get through the initial defenses, but for the final approach to the structure, I need to go alone. The defenses are designed to kill groups. They’re actually easier to navigate solo.”

Stenson frowned. “You’re going to assault an ancient fortress, fight through whatever guards it, and absorb a creature old enough to be rotting on its own throne. Alone.”

“I’ve done it before,” Francis reminded him. “Multiple times. I know the layout, the defenses, the patterns. I know where the traps are and how to avoid them. Having more people with me just means more variables, more ways for things to go wrong.”

“And if you fail?”

“Then I reset and we try again.” Francis met the general’s eyes. “That’s the advantage I have. Failure isn’t permanent for me. It’s just another lesson.”

“All right,” Stenson said, pulling the southern map closer. “Let’s talk about winning here first. What do you know about their positions?”

Francis leaned over the map and began pointing out locations. “Their main force is here, in the valley. About fifteen thousand beastkins, mostly infantry with some rhinokins as calvary support. They’ve got siege beasts in the rear, those massive grey-skinned creatures with catapults mounted on their backs.”

“We know about the siege beasts,” Stenson said grimly. “Lost a lot of good soldiers to those things.”

“The key is taking them out early,” Francis said. “In loops where we focused on the infantry first, the siege beasts tore through our lines. But in loops where we sent fast strike teams, we did better. They’re dangerous without direction, but they’re not coordinated. They become a problem for both sides instead of just ours.”

“How do we reach the controllers?” Stenson asked. “They’re on top of the beasts, fifty feet in the air.”

“Archers can reach them if they know to aim for the pandakins specifically. The bearkin archers up there provide cover, but if you time it right, there’s a window between volleys. Three or four well-placed shots can take down a controller.” Francis traced the positioning on the map. “Once the controller falls, the beast goes berserk for about two minutes, then it just stands there, confused. Either way, it stops being a threat. I’d say we could use mages, but we’ll need them to help keep our troops safe.”

Stenson nodded slowly, making a note on the map. “Strike teams for the controllers. Dedicated archer units targeting the pandakins. What else?”

“The elite units.” Francis pointed to several locations on the map. “This is where it gets complicated. There’s an elite tigerkin on their eastern flank. Dual swordsman, incredibly fast, formally trained.”

Stenson’s expression didn’t change, but his jaw tightened. Francis knew why. In previous loops, the tigerkin had killed the general. It had taken his arm first, then finished him.

“I’ve told you before, he’s killed you more than once,” Francis confirmed. “Which is why you need to avoid him this time. Let someone else handle him, or better yet, let me weaken him before anyone engages.”

“You want me to run from a fight?”

“I want you alive at the end of this battle.” Francis met the general’s eyes. “You’re too important to lose to pride. There are other threats that need your attention.”

Stenson was silent for a long moment, then nodded once. “Go on.”

“On the western flank, there’s an elite jaguarkin and an elite pantherkin working together. The jaguarkin is power and discipline, fights with claws until he gets frustrated, then draws his swords. The pantherkin is an assassin, waits for you to commit somewhere else, then strikes from your blind spot.”

Francis tapped the map. “But King Baxter can handle them. I’ve seen him fight, and he’s one of the few people who can take both of them at once. If we put him against that pair, he’ll win.”

“And the elite rhinokin? The one that guards the siege beasts?”

“Baxter killed that one before too, in another loop. Cost him dearly, but he did it.” Francis shook his head. “But we’re not going to make him fight both battles. I’ll handle the Rhinokin after I deal with the bigger threat.”

“Which is?”

Francis pointed to the forest behind the enemy lines. “The lizardkin mage. That thing has killed me more times than I can count. It’s also killed King Baxter. And it’s the one that casts their death spell.”

Stenson went still. “The death spell. That’s the one you talk about that looks like a black sheet that killed ten thousand of our men in a single moment.”

“That’s the one. In loops where we didn’t stop it, the lizardkin cast that spell once our troops pushed too far forward. Wiped out entire formations. The only reason any of us survived was because I knew it was coming and had the horns sound retreat early.” Francis’s voice was grim. “If we want to win this battle decisively, I need to kill that lizardkin before it can cast. That means going deep into enemy territory, past their front lines, into the forest where it hides.”

“Alone?”

“I’m the only one who can survive its beam attacks. My Magic Resistance is high enough to take a hit and keep moving. Anyone else would die before they got close.” Francis traced his planned route on the map. “I’ll push through the edge where the terrain is rough, circle around to the forest, and kill the lizardkin. Once it’s dead, their magical support collapses. No death spell, no devastating beam attacks on our formations.”

“And after the lizardkin?”

“Then I go after the rhinokin. Take out their heavy hitter near the siege beasts. Between losing their mage and their strongest elite, their command structure will be in chaos.” Francis looked up at Stenson. “That’s when we push. Hit them hard while they’re reeling. Baxter takes the jaguarkin and pantherkin. You coordinate the main assault. And we break them.”

Stenson studied the map for a long moment, his tactical mind working through the possibilities. “You’re putting yourself against their two most dangerous threats. Back to back.”

“I’ve killed both of them before. Multiple times.” Francis’s voice was steady. “I know their patterns, their weaknesses, their tells. The lizardkin dies if you get close enough to hit it. The rhinokin is slow once you wound its legs. Neither of them is invincible. They just require the right approach.”

“And if you die?”

“Then I reset, and we try again, like I said. But I don’t plan to die.” Francis allowed himself a small smile. “I’ve gotten very good at not dying.”

“Assuming we win here,” Stenson said, “what happens next?”

“The moment the battle is over, we open the portal. I go through with whatever escort you can spare. We move fast, don’t stop for anything, and reach the barbarian territories within a day.”

“The barbarians,” Stenson said carefully. “You mentioned knowing people there.”

“Warchief Glitvall,” Francis confirmed. “Your letter to him has helped every time. Their jarl is a woman named Keara… She’s a bit harder, but Glitvall has always handled her. In this loop, they won’t know me, but I can earn their trust quickly enough.”

“And from there?”

“The structure is hidden in the ice fields. The approach is the dangerous part. Then the structure itself, filled with Reavers that mimic human voices to lure victims into ambushes.”

“Reavers,” Stenson repeated. “We’ve heard stories. It’s been ages since we’ve seen one.”

“They’re real,” Francis said flatly. “And they’re worse than the stories. But I know how to avoid them now. The structure has patterns, rhythms. If you know when to move and when to hide, you can get through.”

“And at the center?”

“The throne room. The creature. And whatever guards it’s kept close.” Francis paused. “Last time I fought through, there was a robed figure with devastating ice magic. It could freeze me solid in seconds. That’s the last obstacle before the looper itself.”

“You make it sound almost routine,” Stenson said.

“It’s not routine. It’s memorized.” Francis met the general’s eyes. “I’ve died in that structure more times than I want to admit. Every death taught me something. Now I know the path. I just have to walk it one more time.”

“Tell me about the absorption,” Stenson said. “What actually happens?”

Francis was quiet for a moment, trying to find words for something he barely understood himself.

“When I killed the southern creature, something changed. I felt the parasite leaving its body, searching for a new host. It tried to take me, to make me into what the creature had been. There was a… battle, I suppose. Not physical… mental. The parasite wanted control, and I had to fight to keep myself.”

“And you won.”

“I won. But it wasn’t easy. The parasite was old, powerful. It had memories, experiences, and apparently thousands of years of existence. It tried to overwhelm me with all of that, to drown me in its history until I forgot who I was.”

“What stopped it?”

Francis thought about that. “I’m not sure. Stubbornness, maybe. I refused to let go of myself and my memories. It stole some of them… most of them that I know are gone are about my brother Michael and me. I refused to let it take any more, and I wouldn’t become what it wanted me to be. Eventually, it gave up trying to control me and settled for… something else, I suppose. It’s still in there, somewhere. I can feel it sometimes. But it’s like it has gone silent.”

“And if the northern parasite is stronger?” Stenson asked quietly. “Older? More experienced at this kind of battle?”

“Then I’ll have to be stronger too.” Francis’s voice was steady, but he felt the weight of uncertainty beneath the words. “The southern parasite was my first. I didn’t know what I was doing. This time, I’ll be ready. I’ll know what to expect.”

“And if you lose?”

“If I lose the mental battle… I would assume that the parasite takes control of me. I become like the creature on the throne, a host for something ancient and hungry.” Francis paused. “But I don’t think that means I stop resetting. If anything, the parasite would want to keep that power. It would just be using it for its own purposes instead of mine.”

“So worst case, we’d have you as an enemy,” Stenson said. “With all your knowledge of our defenses, our tactics, our plans.”

“Worst case, yes.” Francis held the general’s gaze. “That’s why I need to win. Not just for myself, and not just for Michael. It’s for everyone… For every person out there who’ll never even know they were in danger.”

***

The planning continued for another hour, working through contingencies, backup plans, and the thousand small details that could mean the difference between victory and defeat. By the time they finished, the sun had moved past its peak and was beginning its slow descent toward the horizon.

Stenson leaned back from the table, stretching muscles that had been tense for too long. For a moment, he looked less like a general and more like what he was, an old soldier who had seen too many battles and buried too many friends.

“You said you left your brother training when you took off here,” he said. “Michael, yes?”

Francis nodded, surprised by the shift in topic. “He’s with the garrison in the east. Learning to fight… or he was. They’ll be headed this way now.”

“Does he know? About any of this?”

“No.” Francis’s voice was quiet. “He doesn’t know anything this loop. I’ve told him about it many times. We’ve even had a few breaks, choosing to not fight until we were forced to. That was your idea actually. But right now… to him, I’m just his younger brother who took off and forced Phillip to let me go.”

“You’ve never told him about this before leaving?”

“I’ve told him in other loops.” Francis stared at the map without seeing it. “I felt it would be safer this time if he didn’t know.”

“Safer for him, or easier for you?”

The question hit harder than Francis expected. He opened his mouth to respond, then closed it again. Stenson had a way of cutting to the heart of things that Francis preferred not to examine too closely.

“Both,” he admitted finally. “Every time I tell him, I have to watch his face change. Watch him realize what I’ve been through, what I’m still going through. The pity is almost worse than the fear.”

Stenson was quiet for a long moment. When he spoke, his voice was softer than Francis had ever heard it.

“I had a brother once. Younger, like yours. He died in a battle I could have prevented if I’d been faster, stronger, smarter.” The general’s eyes were distant, looking at something far away and long ago. “I’ve spent decades wondering what I could have done differently. It never gets easier. The what-ifs never stop.”

“The difference is, I can actually do something different,” Francis said. “Every loop, I get another chance. I can save him. I have saved him hundreds of times. But he never remembers being saved, and I never forget watching him die.”

“That sounds like a special kind of hell.”

“It is.” Francis looked up at Stenson. “But it’s also hope. Because one day, I’ll get it right. One day, the victory will stick. A moment will come and I’ll save everyone, and it won’t reset. That’s what I’m fighting for. Not power, or glory. Just the chance to finally stop dying.”

“And what happens after?” Stenson asked. “If you win, if you absorb all the loopers, if the war ends. What do you do then?”

Francis blinked. It was a question he’d never really let himself consider. The end had always seemed so far away, so theoretical. What came after had never felt real enough to plan for.

“I don’t know,” he said honestly. “I’ve spent so long fighting to survive that I’ve never thought about what surviving actually looks like.”

Stenson nodded slowly. “Then let’s make sure this is the loop where you get to find out.”

***

They reviewed the plan one final time before Francis left the tent.

Tomorrow, the army would begin moving into position. The day after, they would attack. Francis would push through the enemy lines to kill the lizardkin mage before it could cast the death spell, then circle back to deal with the elite rhinokin while King Baxter engaged the jaguarkin and pantherkin pair.

If everything went according to plan, the battle would be over within a day. The beastkin army would be broken, their commanders dead, their elite units destroyed. The Southern Kingdom would be safe.

And then Francis would take the portal to the north and try to mobilize an army there.

He stepped out of Stenson’s tent into the sunlight, feeling the weight of what was coming settle onto his shoulders. This wasn’t just another loop, another attempt, another lesson learned through failure. This was the real thing. The plan that would either save everything or condemn him to start over once again.

Michael and the rest of his old squad were most likely spending one more night before starting the journey here. His brother was unaware of the war Francis was about to win for him.

Chapter 67

The army camp transformed overnight.

What had been an organized but static encampment became a living thing, tens of thousands of soldiers moving with purpose as they prepared for what was coming. Tents were struck and supplies were loaded onto wagons. Weapons were sharpened and armor was checked and rechecked. The sound of hammers rang from the smithies as last-minute repairs were made, and the smell of oil and metal lingered in the morning air.

Francis moved through it all, helping where he could, pointing out things that needed adjustment based on knowledge no one else possessed. The archer teams needed to be positioned farther forward than Stenson had originally planned. The cavalry would need to swing wider on the eastern flank to avoid the rough terrain. Small changes, details that wouldn’t seem important until they were the difference between victory and defeat.

Most of the soldiers didn’t know who he was. A few recognized him from the council meetings, whispered to each other about the young sage who had appeared from nowhere with impossible knowledge. Francis ignored the stares and the murmurs. He’d earned stranger reactions in other loops.

By midday, he found himself with the archer units, walking them through what they would face.

“The pandakin controllers are your priority,” Francis said, addressing a group of about thirty archers. “They’re the ones steering the siege beasts. Without them, those creatures are just confused animals.”

“How do we tell them apart from the others up there?” one of the archers asked. A weathered man with scars on his hands and the look of someone who’d seen too many battles.

“White faces, black circles around the eyes, black bodies. They’ll be near the front of the beast, holding the reins. The bearkin archers are gray, and they’re positioned near the legs, providing cover fire.” Francis picked up a practice bow from the rack nearby. “The bearkin fire in volleys. There’s a gap between each one, about four seconds. That’s your window.”

“Four seconds isn’t much time,” another archer said doubtfully.

“It’s enough if you’re ready for it. Count the volleys. When the last arrow lands, you have four seconds before the next one. Draw, aim, release. Don’t hesitate. Three or four good hits will take down a controller. Once they fall, the beast goes wild for about two minutes, then it just stops. Either way, it’s out of the fight.”

The weathered archer studied Francis with new respect. “How do you know all of this?”

“It’s a long story,” Francis said quietly. “Trust the timing. Trust your aim. And don’t let those siege beasts reach our lines.”

He spent another hour with the archer teams, drilling them on the timing, having them practice the rapid draw-aim-release sequence until it became muscle memory. Then he moved on to the cavalry units, explaining the terrain on the eastern flank, the rocks and uneven ground that would slow a charge if they weren’t careful.

“I know the horses have magical shoes that will help flatten the ground,” Francis said. “But you’re still better off if you know what you’re running into.”

The soldiers listened. A few wore their doubt openly at first, arms folded, trading the kind of look that asked who this young sage was to tell them how to fight. But Francis had a way of describing things that made it clear he’d been there, had seen it happen, had watched good soldiers die because they didn’t know what he was telling them now.

By the time the sun was directly overhead, Francis had briefed four different units. His voice was hoarse, but the knowledge he needed to share had been given. Tomorrow, when the battle started, these soldiers would know what to watch for. They’d have a chance.

***

The commotion started near the edge of camp.

Francis was helping adjust the positioning of a supply wagon when he heard the shouts. New arrivals, someone said. Reinforcements from the eastern garrison. He didn’t think much of it at first, his mind still on the battle plan, on the thousand things that could go wrong tomorrow.

Then he heard his name.

“Francis! FRANCIS!”

The voice cut through the noise of the camp like a blade aimed for his neck. Francis turned, and his heart stopped.

Michael was pushing through the crowd, his face red with exertion and something else. Anger, or fear. He was still wearing travel-stained clothes, dust coating his armor, and he looked like he hadn’t slept in days.

He shouldn’t be here. They shouldn’t have arrived for at least another day. Phillip was supposed to keep them back, keep them safe…

But Phillip hadn’t listened. Of course he hadn’t. The old soldier had probably pushed them through the night, ignoring Francis’s instructions completely, determined to get his recruits to the front before the battle started. Francis had told him to take his time, to delay, to keep Michael away from the worst of the fighting. But Phillip was career military. When war called, he answered, and he expected his men to do the same.

Francis felt a flash of anger, then pushed it aside. What was done was done. Michael was here, and Francis would have to deal with it.

His brother reached him and grabbed his shoulders, fingers digging in hard enough to bruise. “What the hell are you doing here? They said you’re planning something. They said you’re going to fight tomorrow. Alone. Against their strongest…”

“Michael…”

“Don’t ‘Michael’ me!” His brother’s voice cracked. “I had to hear from strangers that my little brother is planning to charge into an army by himself. That you’ve been meeting with the king and the general like you’re some kind of… some kind of…”

“I am,” Francis said quietly. “Some kind of something. That’s exactly what I am.”

Michael’s grip loosened slightly, confusion replacing some of the anger. “What does that mean? And when the hell did you get so big?”

Francis looked around at the soldiers nearby, all of them pretending not to watch. This wasn’t a conversation for an audience.

“Come with me,” he said. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

***

They found a quiet spot behind one of the supply tents, away from the bustle of the camp. Francis leaned against a stack of crates and looked at his brother, really looked at him.

Michael had always been the protector. His half brother who took the beatings so Francis wouldn’t have to, and saved his life as a kid.

It made what Francis had to tell him so much harder.

“There’s not a lot of time,” Francis said. “And I can’t go into all of it. But you deserve to know some of it, at least.”

“Then tell me.”

Francis took a breath. “I have an ability. When I die, I come back. Time resets to a fixed point, and I wake up with all my memories intact. Everyone else forgets everything that happened.”

Michael stared at him. “That’s… that’s not possible.”

“I know it sounds impossible. But it’s true.” Francis held his brother’s gaze. “Look at me. Look at my body. I’ve lived through this war thousands of times, Michael. I’ve died thousands of times. And every time I come back, I learn something new, get a little stronger, figure out one more piece of the puzzle.”

His brother’s face went pale. The anger drained away, replaced by something else. Horror, or perhaps grief.

“Thousands…” Michael’s voice was barely a whisper. “You’ve died… why?”

“Because I love you, and all I want to do is keep you safe. I’ve seen you die… hundreds of times, and I can’t bear the thought of a place without you. Besides… one day I need to prove to you I actually understand women.”

His brother coughed, blinking a few times, tears starting to form. “You’ve done this… for me? How… how many times have you died? How many times have I died?”

“I stopped counting a long time ago.” Francis’s voice was steady, but something cracked beneath the surface. “It doesn’t matter how many times. What matters is that I finally know how to win. I know how to end this war, how to keep you safe, and make sure this victory sticks.”

Michael was silent for a long moment. His hands were shaking. When he spoke, his voice was raw.

“All those times… all those deaths… You went through that for me?”

“For you. For everyone.” Francis swallowed hard. “But mostly for you. You’re the only family I have left, Michael. Well… besides Mom and our sister… But you’re the only thing that matters. I’d die a thousand more times if that’s what it took to keep you safe.”

“Why didn’t you tell me before you left?” Michael asked finally. “Why did you just… disappear?”

“Because I didn’t want to talk about it if I failed.” Francis looked away, unable to meet his brother’s eyes. “If this doesn’t work, if I die tomorrow and everything resets, you won’t remember any of this. You won’t remember me leaving, or this conversation, or anything that’s happened. It’ll just be another morning, another day, and I’ll have to figure out how to do it better next time.”

“And if you succeed?”

“Then this is the last time. The war ends. We win, and I never have to watch you die again.”

Michael made a sound that might have been a laugh or a sob. “You’ve watched me die.”

“More times than I can bear to remember.” Francis’s voice broke on the last word. “Every time I couldn’t save you. Every time I was too slow, or too weak, or made the wrong choice. I remember it all, Michael. Every single time. The way you looked when… when…”

He couldn’t finish. The words stuck in his throat, choked by memories he’d tried not to think about. Michael dying in his arms. Michael falling to a beastkin’s claws. Michael crushed beneath the feet of their enemies. Each death burned into his mind, permanent and inescapable.

His brother stepped forward and pulled him into a hug. It was fierce and desperate, the kind of embrace that said everything words couldn’t. Francis felt something break inside him, some wall he’d built to keep himself functional, and he held on like Michael was the only solid thing in a world that kept resetting around him.

“I love you,” Michael said into his shoulder, his voice thick with emotion. “You stupid, brave, impossible… little brother. I love you.”

“I love you too.” Francis held on tight, memorizing the moment, burning it into his mind where the resets couldn’t touch it. “That’s why I have to do this. That’s why I can’t stop until it’s over.”

“Then you come back,” Michael said. “You do whatever you have to do, you kill whatever you have to kill, and you come back. You don’t get to leave me alone in this world, you hear me? Understand?”

“I understand.”

They stood like that for a long time, two brothers holding each other in the shadow of war, knowing that tomorrow would change everything. The camp moved around them, soldiers preparing for battle, but in that moment none of it mattered. There was only this. Only them.

Finally, Michael pulled back. His eyes were red, but his jaw was set with determination.

“Go save the world, Francis,” he said. “I’ll be waiting when you’re done.”

***

The final council meeting took place as the sun began to set.

Francis stood across from them all, the weight of their expectations pressing down on him.

“The army is in position,” Stenson reported. “Archer teams have been briefed on the pandakin targets. Strike units are ready to move on Francis’s signal. The men are as prepared as they can be.”

“And the portal?” King Baxter asked.

“Ready to open within two hours of victory,” Priscilla confirmed. “The mages have been preparing since this morning. We can hold it stable long enough for Francis and his escort to get through.”

“Then it comes down to tomorrow.” The king turned his red eyes to Francis. “You’re certain about the lizardkin mage? About going in alone?”

“I’m the only one who can survive its attacks long enough to kill it,” Francis said. “Anyone else would die before they got close. And if that thing casts the death spell…”

“Ten thousand men,” Stenson said quietly. “That would cost us…”

“It won’t cost us anything this time,” Francis said. “Because I’m going to kill it before it can cast. Then the rhinokin. After that we push, and break them.”

King Baxter studied him for a few seconds, those red eyes weighing and measuring. Then he nodded.

“The jaguarkin and pantherkin are mine,” the king said. “I’ve been wanting to test myself against something worthy. It’s been too long since I’ve had a real fight.”

“They’re dangerous together,” Francis warned. “The pantherkin will strike from your blind spot while you’re focused on the jaguarkin.”

“Then I won’t have a blind spot.” Baxter smiled, and it was the smile of a predator anticipating the hunt. “Let them come.”

***

The camp grew quiet as darkness fell.

Francis sat outside his tent, watching the stars emerge one by one. Somewhere in the camp, Michael was sleeping, finally convinced to rest after Francis promised he would do the same. It had been a lie, of course. Sleep wasn’t coming tonight.

He thought about all the loops that had led to this moment. The deaths, the failures, the small victories that had taught him what he needed to know. Every time he’d watched Michael fall. Every time he’d felt his own life slip away, only to wake up and do it all again.

In the early days, he’d kept count. Marked each death like a tally, trying to quantify the impossible. But somewhere along the way, the numbers had stopped mattering. What mattered was the knowledge gained, the skills earned, the understanding of how to finally make it all stop.

Tomorrow would be different. It had to be.

The lizardkin mage would die before it could cast its spell. The rhinokin would fall. King Baxter would crush the jaguarkin and pantherkin. And then Francis would run north, faster than he’d ever run before, racing against a creature that could undo everything with a thought.

So many things could go wrong. There were too many ways this could fail. The lizardkin might sense him coming and prepare a different attack. The rhinokin might prove stronger than it had in previous loops. The northern looper might panic and reset before Francis could even reach the portal.

But Francis had been failing for so long, and each failure had taught him something. Now he knew the path. Now he was ready.

He looked toward the tent where Michael slept, a shadow among shadows. His brother had taken the truth better than Francis had expected. No accusations of lying, no demands for proof. Just acceptance, and grief, and that fierce protective love that had defined their relationship since they were children.

He thought of Michael’s words before he’d stepped through the portal:  You come home.

Francis closed his eyes and waited for dawn.

***

The morning came too quickly.

Francis rose before the sun, armor already laid out, weapons checked and rechecked. He dressed in silence, each piece of equipment familiar from countless battles, countless deaths. The weight of the plate armor settled onto his shoulders like an old friend.

Michael was waiting outside his tent.

His brother looked like he hadn’t slept either. Dark circles under his eyes, jaw tight with tension, hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. But he didn’t try to stop Francis. Didn’t argue or plead, or demand to come along.

He just stood there, watching his little brother prepare for war.

“You come back,” Michael said. It wasn’t a request. “Whatever happens out there, you come back to me.”

“I will,” Francis said. “One way or another, I always do.”

He pulled his brother into one last embrace, holding on for a moment longer than necessary. Then he stepped back, met Michael’s eyes, and nodded once.

“Stay safe,” Francis said. “Stay back from the fighting. Watch for me.”

“I’ll be watching,” Michael promised. “Every moment.”

Francis turned and walked toward the front lines, where the army was forming up for the assault. He could feel Michael’s eyes on his back, watching him go, and he forced himself not to look back.

Ahead of him, the enemy army waited. The siege beasts loomed against the morning sky. Somewhere in the forest beyond, the lizardkin mage was preparing its spells.

Francis drew his sword and kept walking.

The battle for the Southern Kingdom was about to begin.

Chapter 68

The war horns sounded at dawn.

Francis felt the sound in his bones, a low rumble that built into a roar as thousands of voices joined it. All around him, soldiers surged forward, a tide of steel and flesh crashing toward the enemy lines. The ground shook with the thunder of cavalry charges on the flanks, and somewhere behind him, mages began their chants, weaving spells that would shape the battlefield.

But Francis wasn’t moving with the army. He was moving through it, cutting sideways across the formation, heading for the eastern edge where the terrain turned rough and rocky. The main assault was a distraction, a hammer blow meant to draw the enemy’s attention while Francis slipped past their lines.

The lizardkin mage was waiting in the forest behind their army, and if Francis didn’t kill it before it could cast, ten thousand men would die in a single moment.

Not this time.

He reached the edge of the formation and broke into a run, leaving the organized ranks behind. The rocky ground rose beneath his feet, and Francis used the uneven terrain to his advantage, staying low, moving fast, angling toward a gap in the enemy lines he’d memorized through dozens of deaths.

The first beastkin saw him coming too late.

[ Quick Attack ]

Francis’s sword took the wolfkin across the throat before it could raise its weapon. He didn’t slow, didn’t stop to watch it fall. Two more wolfkin turned at the sound, but Francis was already past them, his blade opening one from shoulder to hip while his momentum carried him beyond the other’s desperate swing.

A tigerkin stepped into his path, larger than the wolfkin, its sword already swinging. Francis met the blow with his own blade, felt the impact shudder up his arm, and twisted, letting the tigerkin’s strength carry it past him. His sword found the gap between its shoulder plates and sank deep.

The creature roared and spun, claws raking toward Francis’s face. He ducked, felt the wind of the strike pass over his head, and drove his blade up through the tigerkin’s jaw.

Three more, then four. The beastkins were starting to notice him now, turning from the main battle to face this single human cutting through their rear lines. Francis didn’t care. Every second he spent fighting here was a second the lizardkin had to prepare its spell.

He ran.

His sword became a blur of steel, cutting down anything that got in his way. A wolfkin lunged and died. A bearkin swung a massive hammer and missed, and Francis took its leg out from under it as he passed. Two catkins tried to flank him, moving with the coordinated precision of hunters, and Francis killed them both in the span of a heartbeat.

The skill sang through him, his arm moving faster than thought, each strike flowing into the next without pause. Bodies fell in his wake, and the beastkin started to pull back, their animal instincts clearly recognizing a predator more dangerous than themselves.

A rhinokin charged from his left, smaller than the elite but still massive, its horn lowered for a killing blow. Francis didn’t try to meet it head-on. He angled his run, timing his movement to the thundering hoofbeats, and at the last moment dove forward, rolling beneath the creature’s horn and coming up on its other side.

[ Quick Attack ]

His sword found the gap behind its front leg, and the rhinokin crashed to the ground with a bellow of pain.

[ Quick Attack Increased - 64 ]

The notification flashed across his vision, and Francis felt the familiar surge of power that came with advancement. His movements became fractionally faster, his reactions sharper. Every skill increase was another edge, another advantage in the endless war he’d been fighting.

The forest loomed ahead, dark and massive. Francis sprinted for the treeline, his lungs burning, his muscles screaming. Behind him, the sounds of battle raged on, the clash of steel and the screams of the dying filling the morning air. Somewhere in that chaos, King Baxter was carving his way toward the Jaguarkin and Pantherkin. Somewhere, General Stenson was coordinating the main push. Somewhere, Michael was watching, waiting for him to return.

Francis couldn’t let any of them down.

He hit the treeline at full speed and kept running.

The forest swallowed him whole.

The canopy above was so thick that the morning light barely penetrated, leaving Francis moving through a world of shadows and ancient trees. Undergrowth tangled everything, roots rising from the ground like grasping fingers, and the air felt heavy with old magic.

Francis knew this path. He’d learned every root that could trip him, every branch that could slow him down. Now he moved through the forest like he’d been born here, ducking and weaving, his feet finding solid ground by instinct.

The clearing was ahead. He could feel it, a wrongness in the air, a pressure that built with every step. The lizardkin’s magic seeped into the forest around it like poison into water.

Francis slowed, his breath coming in controlled gasps. He checked his grip on his sword, rolled his shoulders, and felt the familiar weight of his armor settling into place. His regeneration hummed beneath his skin, ready to heal whatever damage was about to come.

Because damage was definitely coming.

He stepped into the clearing.

Thessarak, Wielder of the Burning Light, was waiting for him.

Twenty feet of purple scales and coiled muscle, the lizardkin stood in the center of the clearing with its staff already raised. The crystal at its tip pulsed with gathered power, casting shadows that moved wrong, that seemed to reach toward Francis like hungry things.

“A human?” the creature hissed, surprise in its voice. “How did you get this deep?”

Francis didn’t answer. He charged.

[ Quick Attack ]

The world blurred as he crossed the clearing. Thessarak’s eyes widened, the staff swinging around, and the crystal flared with blinding light.

The beam came.

Francis was already moving, his body shifting before his mind had consciously processed the attack. He’d died to it more often than he wanted to recall. He knew its speed, its trajectory, the exact moment Thessarak’s muscles tensed before the spell released.

The white light scorched the air where he’d been standing, dissolving a tree behind him into ash. Heat washed over Francis’s side, close enough to singe his armor, but he didn’t slow.

A second beam came. Francis dove, rolling across the grass, coming up with his sword already swinging. The beam passed over his head, so close he could smell his hair burning.

Three strides, two, then one.

Thessarak’s staff swept in an arc, and a wave of force slammed into Francis like a physical wall. His momentum died, his feet leaving furrows in the dirt as the magical energy tried to hurl him backward.

Francis felt his Magic Resistance skill push back and felt it absorb the worst of the impact. His boots dug into the ground. His muscles screamed. The force tried to drive him away, but Francis didn’t let it.

Thessarak’s eyes went wide with shock.

“What—”

Francis lunged.

His sword became a storm of steel. He struck at Thessarak’s arms, its torso, its legs, anywhere he could reach. The lizardkin tried to bring its staff around, tried to create distance, but Francis stayed close, inside its guard, where the beam couldn’t track him.

Blood sprayed across the clearing. Purple scales shattered under the force of his blows. Thessarak shrieked, its concentration broken, its spells failing before they could form.

“What are you?” the creature gasped, blood pouring from a dozen wounds.

“Someone who doesn’t give up.”

[ Blade Tempest ]

Power surged through Francis’s body, through his sword arm, through the blade itself. The Lizardkin tried to track him, tried to bring its staff around, but Francis was everywhere at once.

Thessarak’s eyes began to glow, that desperate light Francis had learned to recognize. The desperation attack. The final spell that would consume everything in a torrent of white fire.

Francis didn’t give it the chance.

[ Blade Tempest ]

[ Power Strike ]

He drove his sword through Thessarak’s throat before the spell could release. The blade punched through scales and flesh and bone, sinking to the hilt. The glow in the creature’s eyes flickered, faded, died.

Thessarak, Wielder of the Burning Light, collapsed.

[ Blade Tempest Increased - 9 ]

Francis stood over the carcass, breathing hard. His regeneration was already working, fixing the minor injuries he had sustained from the heat.

But he didn’t have time to rest. The death spell would never come now, yet the battle was still raging, and there was still an elite rhinokin that needed to die.

Francis pulled his sword free, flicked the blood from the blade, and ran.

The battlefield had transformed while Francis was in the forest.

He emerged from the treeline to see chaos spreading through the enemy lines. The siege beasts, those massive grey-skinned creatures with catapults mounted on their backs, were in disarray. Two of them had gone berserk, thrashing wildly, trampling beastkin beneath their enormous feet. A third stood motionless, confused, its pandakin controller lying dead with arrows sprouting from its chest.

The archers. They listened.

Francis felt a surge of fierce pride. Those soldiers had trusted his instructions, had counted the volleys and found their windows, and now the siege beasts that should have been tearing through human formations were instead causing havoc among their own forces.

But one siege beast still had its controller. And standing in front of it, hammer raised, was the elite rhinokin.

It saw him coming.

The rhinokin’s small eyes fixed on Francis, and it charged.

The ground shook.

Francis had fought the rhinokin before, had learned through death after death how to survive its charges. The creature was devastatingly powerful, its strength beyond anything a human body could match, but it was also predictable. It relied on that strength, on the sheer overwhelming force of its attacks, and it had never learned to adapt.

Francis didn’t try to block the charge. He waited until the last possible moment, until the horn was close enough to touch, and then he moved.

[ Quick Attack ]

He spun to the side, his sword coming around in a vicious arc aimed at the rhinokin’s front leg. The blade bit deep, finding the gap between armor plates, and the creature stumbled, its charge thrown off balance.

[ Power Strike ]

Francis drove his sword into the same leg, twisting, widening the wound. Blood sprayed across his armor, hot and thick, and the rhinokin bellowed with rage and pain.

The hammer came around in a sweeping blow that would have crushed Francis into paste. He dove under it, felt the wind of its passage ruffle his hair, and came up slashing. His blade found the Rhinokin’s other front leg, opening a gash that made the creature stagger.

The legs… Always the legs. Take away its mobility, and it becomes just a big target.

The rhinokin tried to turn, tried to bring its hammer around for another swing, but its wounded legs betrayed it. It stumbled, and Francis was there, his sword finding flesh again and again.

[ Flurry ]

Five rapid strikes, each one targeting the joints, the gaps in the armor, the places where the creature’s hide was thinnest. The rhinokin screamed, a sound like grinding boulders, and swung its hammer in a desperate arc.

This time, Francis wasn’t quite fast enough.

The edge of the hammer caught his shoulder, and he felt something break. Pain exploded through his body as he was hurled sideways, his armor crumpling under the impact. He hit the ground hard, rolled, and forced himself back to his feet through sheer will.

His legendary skill Warrior’s Resolve pulsed through him, flooding his broken body with strength. His shoulder screamed in protest, but his arm still worked, his sword still moved. His regeneration was already working on the damage, golden threads knitting bone and muscle back together. The pain didn’t disappear, but it became manageable, something he could push through rather than something that controlled him.

[ Warrior’s Resolve Increased - 16 ]

Another skill increase in the middle of combat. Francis didn’t focus on it, knowing that every point mattered. Each advancement brought him closer to the warrior he needed to be to end this war once and for all.

The rhinokin was limping toward him, both front legs wounded but still functional. Blood poured from half a dozen wounds, but the creature’s eyes burned with fury. It raised its hammer for an overhead blow that would drive Francis into the earth.

Francis charged.

Not away from the hammer, but toward it. Toward the Rhinokin. The creature’s eyes widened in surprise as Francis closed the distance, sliding beneath the descending hammer, coming up inside its guard.

[ Blade Tempest ]

Francis became a whirlwind of steel. He circled the rhinokin’s legs, his sword striking from every angle, each blow finding the wounds he’d already opened and making them worse. Six strikes later, the rhinokin’s front legs gave out.

The massive creature crashed to its knees, its hammer falling from its grip, and Francis didn’t hesitate. He ran up the creature’s armored back, his boots finding purchase on the scarred plates, and reached its neck.

[ Power Strike ]

His sword drove down through the gap between the rhinokin’s helm and its shoulder armor, sinking deep into its neck. The creature shuddered, a great tremor that ran through its entire body, and then it went still.

[ Power Strike Increased - 72 ]

Francis stood on the rhinokin’s back, breathing hard, his shoulder still burning despite his regeneration’s efforts. Around him, the battlefield raged on, but the tide was turning. The siege beasts were in chaos, their controllers dead or dying. The lizardkin mage was gone, its death spell forever uncast. And now the rhinokin that had been guarding their heavy hitters was just another carcass.

He jumped down from the creature’s back and looked toward the western flank.

Time to see how King Baxter was doing.

***

It appeared that he was doing just fine.

Francis reached the western flank in time to see the king finish his battle. Baxter stood in the center of a ring of bodies, his armor splashed with blood that wasn’t his own. The elite jaguarkin lay at his feet, its chest caved in by what must have been a devastating blow. The elite pantherkin was sprawled a few yards away, its skull crushed, its assassin’s blades still clutched in lifeless hands.

The king turned at Francis’s approach, and his red eyes gleamed with satisfaction. There was blood on his gauntlets, on his chest plate, dripping from the massive sword he carried. But his movements were steady, his breathing controlled. This was a warrior in his element.

“The pantherkin tried to flank me,” Baxter said, gesturing at the carcass. “Twice. It didn’t work either time.”

“I told you they’d try that.”

“You did.” The king’s smile widened, showing teeth that looked almost predatory. “And I listened. When the jaguarkin committed to its attack, I felt the pantherkin move. Didn’t even have to see it. Just turned and struck.” He gestured at the crushed skull. “One blow. That’s all it took.”

“The lizardkin?”

“Dead. The rhinokin too.”

Baxter nodded, looking out over the battlefield. “Then it’s over. Look at them.”

Francis looked. The beastkin army was breaking. Without their elite units, their siege beasts, or the devastating magic that should have swept through human formations, they had nothing left. The organized army that had threatened the Southern Kingdom was dissolving into a panicked mob.

“General Stenson is coordinating the push,” Baxter said. “We’ll have them routed within the hour.”

Francis felt a weight lift from his shoulder. For so long, this battle had been a wall he couldn’t get past, a puzzle he couldn’t solve. Every loop, something had gone wrong. The death spell. The siege beasts. The elite units. It was always another obstacle Francis had struggled with to overcome.

But not this time. This time, everything had worked.

This time, they were winning.

***

The battle ended before noon.

By the time the sun reached its peak, the beastkin army had scattered. Over ten thousand of their enemy lay dead on the field, their bodies forming grotesque patterns across the churned earth. Thousands more had fled into the wilderness, leaderless and broken. The siege beasts stood motionless, their controllers dead, their purpose forgotten. What had been an unstoppable force just hours ago was now nothing but carcasses and chaos.

Francis walked through the aftermath, stepping over bodies, his sword still in his hand. His armor was dented and scorched in places, stained with blood both his own and others. His regeneration had closed his wounds, leaving only aches and bruises that would fade soon enough.

The cost had been high. Human soldiers lay among the beastkin dead, their faces frozen in expressions of determination or fear or simple surprise. Men who had followed orders, who had trusted their commanders, who had believed they were fighting for something worth dying for. Francis tried not to look at their faces, tried not to wonder how many of them he could have saved if he’d been faster, stronger, smarter.

You can’t save everyone. You never could. All you can do is save as many as possible and make their sacrifice count.

Soldiers cheered as he passed. Word had spread, somehow, about what he’d done. The young sage who had killed the lizardkin mage. The warrior who had brought down the elite rhinokin. Francis ignored the cheers, the reaching hands and the shouted questions. He was looking for someone.

He found Michael at the edge of the battlefield, exactly where Francis had told him to stay.

His brother’s face was pale, his eyes wide with a mixture of relief and something Francis couldn’t quite name. He’d watched, just as he’d promised. He’d seen everything.

“You did it,” Michael said, his voice barely above a whisper. “You actually did it.”

Francis nodded. “I told you I would.”

“You’re a hero… to the army… to everyone.”

His brother was quiet for a long moment. Then he stepped forward and pulled Francis into an embrace, armor and blood and all.

“You’re insane,” Michael said into his shoulder. “You know that, right? Absolutely, completely insane.”

“Probably,” Francis agreed. “But I’m not done yet.”

Michael pulled back, confusion in his eyes. “What do you mean? The battle’s over. We won.”

“This battle is over.” Francis looked north, toward a horizon he couldn’t see but could feel, pressing against his awareness like a weight. “But the war isn’t. There’s something in the north I need to deal with. Something that could undo all of this if I don’t stop it.”

“The northern looper you mentioned,” Michael said slowly.

Francis nodded. “Soon. Not today, though.” He saw the surprise on Michael’s face and almost smiled. “The mages emptied themselves winning us this battle. Priscilla can’t tear a gateway to another kingdom on fumes without it folding up on whoever’s standing in it. She needs a day, at least, to recover. Besides if what I’ve tested is right, the thing up north only wakes when it feels hunted. As long as we sit here tending our wounded, it goes on believing it’s safe.”

Michael was quiet a moment. “So you actually rest. For once in your life.”

“For once,” Francis agreed.

“Good.” Michael’s jaw worked, and when he spoke again his voice had gone rough. “Then when you do go, you come back. When it’s done, when it’s really done, you come back here.”

“I will,” Francis said.

“You’d better. Because if you don’t, I’ll find a way to drag you back myself, just so I can kill you for making me worry.”

Francis laughed, a real laugh that felt strange after so long. “I’ll hold you to that.”

***

Priscilla had spent herself to the marrow winning the battle, and the other mages were no better off. She can’t tear a gateway to another kingdom on fumes without it folding up on itself and taking whoever stood inside it along into the dark between. A day, she told him. Maybe more, before she had the strength to try.

Francis hated the delay less than he expected to. With no options he could do nothing but wait. The army had so much to take care of now that the battle had been won. So for the first time in longer than he could remember, he let himself stop.

He and Michael were given an officer’s tent, soft linens, and a proper bed, the kind of comfort the kingdom handed to men it wanted to thank. That night the South celebrated. Fires and songs, wineskins passed hand to hand, soldiers who had marched in expecting to die toasting the simple fact that they hadn’t. Francis sat among them a while, then slept harder than he had in a hundred lifetimes.

A gong woke him the next morning, marking the change of the watch. For a moment he only lay there in the tan light coming through the canvas, listening to the camp wake around him, to Michael snoring in the next cot, to the smell of bread and cooking meat drifting in under the flap. A kingdom that was safe, going on with its morning as though the world had always meant to let it.

He held on to the feeling. Some part of him, for reasons he couldn’t name, wanted to remember exactly how this particular morning felt.

The mages recovered through the day. As the light began to slant gold toward evening, Priscilla sent word that she was ready.

The portal opened at dusk.

Francis stood before it, his armor repaired, his wounds long since closed by his regeneration. The swirling gateway dominated the clearing where the mages had gathered, a tear in reality that showed glimpses of another world beyond. The Northern Kingdom, waiting for him.

Priscilla and the other mages held it stable, their faces drawn with concentration. A day’s rest had given her back enough to open the way, though the strain of it was already gathering at the corners of her eyes. She wouldn’t be able to hold it long.

General Stenson stood nearby. The old soldier’s face was pale, but his eyes were sharp, his posture straight. He had to have been injured somehow, yet even wounded, he refused to show weakness.

“The escort is ready. Twenty of my best men.”

“I told you, I need to do this alone.”

“They’ll get you through the initial territory,” Stenson said firmly. “After that, you can send them back. But I’m not letting you walk into this moment without a sign of my commitment to you and what you’ve done.”

Francis considered arguing, then decided against it.

“Fine,” he said. “But if Warchief Glitvall says they stay back, they stay behind.”

Stenson nodded. “Understood.” He extended his hand. “Good luck, Francis. For what it’s worth, I believe you can do this.”

Francis shook the offered hand. “I’ve done it before. I just need to do it one more time.”

He turned to the portal. The swirling energy cast strange shadows across his face, and beyond it, Francis could see hints of a frozen landscape, of snow and ice and a cold that cut to the bone.

The northern looper was waiting. Ancient and afraid and running out of time.

Francis stepped through the portal.

The race for the north had begun.

Chapter 69

The cold hit them the moment they stepped through.

Francis emerged into the building of ice, the familiar walls of blue and white rising around him. The portal’s swirling energy cast strange shadows across the frozen surfaces before it collapsed behind the last of the escort soldiers, leaving them in sudden, profound silence.

“Gods above,” one of the soldiers gasped, his breath misting in the frigid air. “How do people live here?”

The twenty men Stenson had sent were already pulling their heavy cloaks tighter around their armor, the metal plates conducting the cold straight through to their bones. Frost was already forming on their exposed skin, and more than one man was shivering violently despite the layers of fur and wool they’d been given before departing.

Francis felt the cold, but it didn’t touch him. Not really. His body had adapted after receiving the mark from the barbarians’ gods. Combined with his stats, the temperature was merely uncomfortable rather than debilitating. He stood in the center of the building while the escort soldiers huddled together for warmth, and he felt almost nothing.

“Stay close,” he said. “We’re inside the barbarian war camp. They’ll know we’re here within moments.”

As if summoned by his words, the heavy fur flap that served as a door was thrown aside. A massive barbarian woman stepped through, easily eight feet tall, with pale blue eyes that swept across the group of southern soldiers with obvious suspicion. Her hand rested on the axe at her hip.

“Southerners,” she said, the word carrying a weight of distrust. “Twenty armed men appearing from nowhere. Explain yourselves, or I will assume you are enemies.”

Francis stepped forward, past the shivering soldiers, and met her gaze. “I need to see Warchief Glitvall. Immediately.”

The woman’s eyes narrowed. “You do not make demands here, little man. You—”

She stopped. Her nostrils flared, and Francis saw her expression shift from hostility to confusion to something that might have been shock. Her hand dropped from her axe.

“You carry the bond,” she said slowly. “How does a Southerner carry the bond of our people?”

Francis pulled power from his core, letting the golden threads become visible around his hands for just a moment. The lifeforce magic that the barbarians had taught him, the power that marked him as one of their own even if he didn’t look like it.

The woman took a step back, her eyes widening. Behind her, Francis could see other barbarians gathering, drawn by the commotion. Warriors with axes and spears, shamans with painted faces, all of them staring at the small Southern man who somehow wielded their sacred magic.

“Warchief Glitvall,” Francis repeated. “Now. Please. Time is something we do not have.”

The heavy fur flap was thrown open and Kerhi stepped through.

She glanced at him and then at the soldiers with him.

“Southerners,” she said. “Explain yourselves or I will assume you are enemies.”

“I do not have the time for that now, Kerhi.” Her eyes widened and Francis nodded, smiling. “Yes, I know your name and much more. Now take me to Glitvall. We can talk later.”

They drew stares as they moved through the camp.

The twenty southern soldiers followed behind, their armor clanking with each step, their breath misting in great clouds as they struggled to keep pace. Barbarians lined the paths between tents and buildings, watching the procession with expressions that ranged from curiosity to open hostility.

“A Southerner with the bond,” someone muttered as they passed. “Impossible.”

“He is too small to be one of us,” another voice said. “It must be a trick.”

A group of warriors stepped into their path, blocking the way forward. Their leader was a scarred man with a braided beard and eyes like chips of ice.

“I don’t care what magic he carries,” the warrior said, his hand on his weapon. “No Southerner walks through our camp like he owns it. Not without answering for why he’s brought armed men into our home.”

Francis stopped. He could feel the tension building, could see other barbarians moving closer, surrounding them. His escort soldiers shifted nervously, hands moving toward their weapons.

No time for this. Every moment wasted is a moment the northern looper might decide to reset.

Francis pulled from his core again, but this time he didn’t just let the threads become visible. He pushed power outward, letting it radiate from his body in a wave that washed over the gathered barbarians. It wasn’t an attack, wasn’t even a threat. It was simply a demonstration of what lived inside him.

The scarred warrior stumbled backward as if struck. His eyes went wide, and Francis saw the recognition in them. The understanding that this small man wasn’t just carrying a trace of their magic. He was saturated with it, his core blazing with a power that most barbarians spent their entire lives trying to develop.

“What… what are you?” the warrior breathed.

“Someone who doesn’t have time to explain,” Francis said. “Now either help me reach the warchief, or get out of my way.”

The warriors parted. Francis walked through them without looking back.

***

The warchief’s meeting tent was exactly as Francis remembered it.

Covered in mammoth hides, framed by massive bones, with Glitvall’s banners snapping in the cold wind outside. The wolf skull split by an axe, etched in red on faded cloth. Six guards stood on each side of the entrance, their snow-wolves lounging beside them with silver eyes that tracked Francis’s approach.

The wolves didn’t move to block him. That was a good sign.

“Wait here,” Francis told his escort. “This part, I need to do alone.”

The escort captain, a grizzled man named Harwick, looked like he wanted to argue. But something in Francis’s expression stopped him. He nodded once and began organizing the soldiers into a defensive formation, their cloaked figures huddling against the bitter cold.

Francis pushed through the tent flap and stepped inside.

The warmth hit him first, the fire burning in the central pit filling the space with heat and the smell of pine smoke. Then came the awareness of the people gathered within.

Glitvall sat in his carved chair, massive and imposing, his weathered face unreadable. To his left sat Jarl Keara, her features twisted into an expression of suspicion. Around them stood half a dozen clan leaders, warriors and elders whose names Francis had learned over countless loops but who looked at him now with no recognition whatsoever.

And standing near the fire, her white hair seeming to glow in the flickering light, was High Shaman Greythorn.

Her pale eyes fixed on Francis the moment he entered, and he saw her painted face tighten. She could sense what he carried, even if she didn’t know how he’d come to carry it.

“A Southerner,” Keara said, her voice dripping with contempt. “Walking into our council uninvited. Give me one reason why I shouldn’t have your corpse thrown into the snow.”

“I have a letter,” Francis said, pulling the sealed document from inside his armor. “From General Stenson of the Southern Kingdom. He vouches for me and explains why I’m here.”

Glitvall held out his hand, and Francis crossed the tent to place the letter in it. The warchief broke the seal and read in silence, his expression shifting from curiosity to surprise to something that might have been respect.

“Stenson speaks highly of you,” Glitvall said finally. “He says you are responsible for the Southern Kingdom’s victory over the beastkin army. That you possess knowledge no one should have, and power that cannot be explained.” He looked up from the letter, those dark eyes studying Francis. “He also says you carry our bond. That you have been trained in our ways.”

“I have,” Francis said. “Though you don’t remember teaching me.”

The tent went silent. Every eye was fixed on him now, and Francis could feel the weight of their attention like a physical pressure.

“Explain,” Glitvall said. It wasn’t a request.

Francis took a breath. “What I’m about to tell you will sound impossible. But every word of it is true.”

***

He told them everything. Other shamans had come, among them Kerhi, all seemingly eager to hear what was being said.

The loops. The deaths. The thousands of times he’d lived through this war, learning and growing and failing and trying again. He told them about the Southern parasite, about the absorption, about how his loop point had shifted. He told them about the structure in the ice fields, about the Reavers and the robed figure and the creature on the throne.

He told them that there was a looper in the north, an ancient thing that had been manipulating this war from the beginning, and that it could reset everything with a thought if it felt threatened.

“You’re saying you’ve died thousands of times,” one of the clan leaders said, disbelief heavy in his voice. “And each time, you come back? You remember everything, but we remember nothing?”

“That’s exactly what I’m saying.”

“Prove it,” Keara demanded. “Anyone can tell a tale. Prove you know things you shouldn’t.”

Francis looked at the jarl, remembering all the times they’d had this conversation, all the different ways he’d earned her trust. “Your left leg still bothers you in the cold. An old wound from a Frost Serpentkin. You never speak of it because you consider it a sign of weakness, but Glitvall knows. He was there when it happened.”

Keara’s face went pale. Her hand moved unconsciously toward her thigh.

“And you, warchief,” Francis continued, turning to Glitvall. “You test every visitor who enters your tent. Those who know to kneel earn your respect. Those who don’t are considered ignorant. The wolves outside are trained to block anyone the gods have marked as unworthy, which is why you watched to see if they would let me pass.”

Glitvall’s expression didn’t change, but Francis saw the slight nod, the acceptance that these weren’t things a stranger could know.

The clan leaders listened in stunned silence. Keara’s expression had shifted from contempt to skepticism to something that might have been fear. Glitvall’s face remained unreadable, but his eyes never left Francis’s face.

It was Greythorn who spoke first.

“Come here,” she said, beckoning Francis toward the fire. “Let me see what you carry.”

Francis approached, and the high shaman reached out with gnarled fingers, pressing her hand against his chest. He felt her power probe inward, felt it touch his core and recoil in surprise.

The sensation was familiar. Greythorn had examined him before, in other loops, once he’d earned the right to her attention. She had always found his core, his strength, the gods’ mark on him. But she had never found this. The second presence had always lain too deep and too still to sense. Now, this close to the structure and the thing that waited inside it, the parasite had begun to stir, as though it knew its own kind was near.

“Two,” she breathed, her pale eyes widening. “Two cores. One that is yours, one that is… other. Ancient. Hungry.” She pulled her hand back as if burned. “There is something inside you, Southerner. Something that should not exist.”

The other shamans in the tent shifted uneasily. Even Kerhi, standing by the altar, took a half step back.

“The parasite I absorbed,” Francis confirmed. “From the Southern looper. It tried to take control of me, to make me into what the creature had been. I fought it. I won.” He paused. “Mostly.”

“Mostly?” Keara demanded.

“It’s still in there. Quiet, for now. But I can feel it sometimes, waiting.” Francis met the jarl’s eyes. “That’s why I need to do this quickly. The longer I wait, the more likely the northern looper is to realize what’s happening and reset everything.”

Glitvall leaned forward in his chair. “You said the northern creature can reset whenever it wants. What’s to stop it from resetting right now, undoing your Southern victory?”

“I think resetting costs it something,” Francis said. “Energy, or lifeforce, or something I don’t fully understand. The creature on the throne looked ancient, decaying. I think each reset drains it a little more. I think it won’t reset unless it feels genuinely threatened.”

“Right now it feels safe,” Greythorn said slowly. “Because you here, in tent, talking. Not approaching its lair.”

“Exactly. But the moment I start moving toward the structure, the moment it realizes what I’m planning…”

“It might panic,” Glitvall finished. “Reset before you can reach it.”

Francis nodded. “Which is why every moment matters. Which is why I came here directly instead of wasting time.”

“Then we attack immediately,” Keara said, rising from her seat. “Gather the warriors, march on the structure, and kill this thing before it can—”

“Wait.” Francis held up his hand, a sudden thought freezing him in place. “Wait. I need to think about this.”

The tent fell silent as Francis worked through the problem, his mind racing.

When he’d absorbed the Southern parasite, his loop point had shifted. Not to the moment of absorption, but to a few days before it. He’d never understood exactly why, but the pattern was clear. The new loop point was set before the absorption, locking in everything that had come before.

If I absorb the northern looper right now, my loop point shifts back a few days. That could put me back before the Southern battle. Everything we won today could be undone.

“What is it?” Glitvall asked, seeing the expression on Francis’s face.

“The timing,” Francis said slowly. “When I absorbed the Southern parasite, my loop point shifted to a few days before the absorption happened. If the same thing happens here…”

He looked up at the gathered leaders, seeing understanding dawn on some faces, confusion on others.

“If I absorb the northern looper today, my new loop point might be before the Southern battle. Which means if I die after that, everything we won today gets reset. The victory in the south becomes meaningless.”

“Then what do you propose?” Keara demanded. “We cannot simply wait forever. You said yourself the northern creature might reset at any moment.”

“I might be off a little bit on the urgency,” Francis said. “I’ve treated every moment as though it might reset. I think it only acts when it feels hunted. As long as we don’t march on it and it believes it’s safe behind those walls, it has no reason to spend the power a reset costs it. So we don’t wait forever. We wait three days. Maybe four. Long enough that what I believe is my loop point shifts, it lands after the Southern victory, so no matter what happens, the war in the south stays won.” He looked around the tent. “The speed only matters once we move. The moment we start for the structure, we don’t stop, because that’s when it panics. But until then, the time is ours to use.”

“What about us? Does our battle not matter?” Keara asked.

“It does,” Francis replied. “But I cannot in good conscience let those who died days ago be for naught. I’ll be here, ready to help you defeat the enemy before you, but I can only do this one step at a time.”

She grunted but didn’t reply.

“Three days,” Glitvall repeated. “And in those three days, we prepare?”

“Yes. Gather your warriors. Plan the assault. Make sure we’re ready to move fast and hit hard.” Francis looked around the tent. “Because when we do move, we can’t hesitate. We go straight for the structure, straight for the creature, and we don’t stop until it’s dead and absorbed.”

The clan leaders exchanged glances. Keara’s jaw was tight, but she didn’t argue. Even she could clearly see the logic in what Francis was saying.

“There is another matter,” Glitvall said. “You speak of going to the structure alone. Of facing this creature by yourself.”

“I have to. The defenses are easier to navigate solo. More people means more variables, more ways for things to go wrong.”

“No.” The warchief’s voice was firm. “If this is the battle that decides the fate of our people, then our people will fight in it. You are not doing this alone.”

“He’s right,” Keara said, surprising Francis. “We have lost too many to this war, watched too many die fighting creatures we don’t understand. If there is a chance to end it, to truly end it, then we will be there. All of us.”

Francis wanted to argue. He knew the structure, knew the defenses, knew exactly how to navigate them alone. But he also saw the determination in their eyes, the pride that wouldn’t let them stand aside while someone else fought their war for them.

“Fine,” he said finally. “But we do it my way. I lead. I make the calls. And when we reach the inner sanctum, when we face the creature itself, you stay back and let me handle the absorption.”

Glitvall smiled, and it was the smile of a warrior who had just been given permission to fight. “Agreed.”

***

The council dispersed to begin preparations, but Greythorn lingered.

“Walk with me,” she said to Francis. “Things to discuss away from warriors.”

They left the tent and moved through the camp, the high shaman’s presence parting the crowds like water around a stone. Francis followed, noting how the barbarians who had looked at him with suspicion now watched with something closer to awe. Word had spread about the Southerner with the bond, the small man who had made their warriors step aside with nothing but a display of power.

They reached the shaman section of the camp, where the air felt heavy with old magic and the scent of burning herbs. Steam rose from fire pits, and painted faces watched from the shadows of tents adorned with bones and charms.

Greythorn’s tent was the largest, flanked by massive tusks carved with glowing runes. She pushed through the flap and gestured for Francis to follow.

Inside, the blue-green flames cast everything in an otherworldly light.

Francis’s attention was drawn to the figure standing near the altar.

Kerhi stood there, her eyes studying him.

She looked at him without recognition, without any hint of the connection they’d shared in other loops. To her, he was just a Southerner, a stranger who had somehow walked into her world carrying power he shouldn’t possess.

It hurt more than Francis had expected.

“This is Kerhi,” Greythorn said. “One of my most promising shamans. She will be joining the assault on the structure.”

“It’s good to meet you again,” Francis said, and the words tasted like ash in his mouth. He’d held this woman, comforted her, been comforted by her. She’d told him he would figure it out, that he always did. And now she looked at him like he was a curiosity, nothing more.

This is the cost of the loops. Everyone you love, everyone you care about, they forget. And you remember everything.

“The creature inside you,” Greythorn said, drawing Francis’s attention back. “The parasite you absorbed. I must examine it. If you take another into yourself, I need to understand what you carry.”

“Will it help with the absorption?”

“Perhaps. Or perhaps it will simply satisfy my curiosity.” The high shaman’s pale eyes gleamed. “Either way, you will submit to my examination. You owe me, Southerner who carries bond but gives no memory of teaching.”

Francis almost smiled. Even without her remembering him, Greythorn was exactly as he remembered her. Demanding, sharp, and utterly certain of her own authority.

“I’ll submit to your examination,” he agreed. “We have three days before we move. Pick one of them, and you can see whatever you need to see.”

Greythorn studied him for a long moment, then nodded. “The second day. Before you do something that cannot be undone.”

“The second day,” Francis agreed.

***

That night, Francis stood at the edge of the camp, looking out across the frozen battlefield toward the ice walls in the distance.

Somewhere beyond those walls, past the killing fields and the Reaver-filled corridors, the creature on the throne was waiting. Old beyond reckoning, Francis guessed, and rotting, clinging to a power that had long since begun to consume it from the inside. If it knew he was coming, it gave no sign. Not yet.

The cold wind cut across the open ground, carrying with it the smell of smoke, ice, and distant death. Behind Francis, the camp was alive with activity. Warriors were sharpening weapons, shamans were preparing rituals, and clan leaders were arguing about formations and tactics. The entire barbarian army was mobilizing for a battle they didn’t fully understand against an enemy they had never faced.

Three days.

In three days, Francis would lead them against the structure. They would fight through the defenses together, clear the path to the inner sanctum, and then Francis would face the northern looper alone.

He would kill it. He would absorb it. And if he was lucky, his loop point would shift, locking in the Southern victory, locking in everything he’d fought and died for.

Or the creature would sense him coming and reset everything, and Francis would wake up in the Southern barracks with all of this to do over again.

Either way, the next few days would decide everything.

Francis thought of Michael, safe in the Southern Kingdom, watching the army celebrate a victory he didn’t fully understand. His brother had accepted the truth of Francis’s ability with a grace that still surprised him, had embraced him, and told him to come back. Michael was waiting for him, believing in him, trusting that his little brother could do the impossible.

He thought of Stenson, planning the next phase of the war, trusting Francis to handle the north. The general had shaken his hand before Francis stepped through the portal, had looked at him with something like pride. After everything they’d been through, all the conversations Stenson wouldn’t remember, the old soldier had still found a way to believe in him.

He thought of Kerhi, looking at him without recognition, without any memory of what they’d shared. In hundreds of loops she’d been his anchor, the one person who understood him better than anyone in this frozen land. This loop he’d been in too much of a hurry to be anything to her but a strange Southerner with impossible knowledge. He’d bulled through the council, won them with cold facts instead of trust, and earned a wary, grudging acceptance that looked nothing like what they’d once had.

And in three days, he meant to make all of it permanent.

The thought stopped made him pause.

Whatever state things are in when I absorb that creature, that’s the state they stay in. Forever. The south. The war. Kerhi.

He stared at the ice walls without seeing them.

I’m about to carve this exact moment into stone. A loop where she barely knows my name. A loop where I rushed past every face that ever mattered to me.

He had spent a thousand lifetimes losing these people to the resets and building them back from nothing, aching for a day it might finally hold. Now that day was here, and he’d nearly locked in the worst version of it because he was in a hurry.

No.

He didn’t have to. That was the one mercy buried in the curse. Time. He could die. He could go back, win the south again, as many times as it took, and come north and do it right.  Sit with Kerhi until she felt the bond she always came to feel. Earn the clan’s trust the way it should be earned, not at sword-point with a list of secrets. He could take as many loops as he needed until this place and these people were everything he wanted them to be.

And only then, when the loop he was living was one worth keeping forever, would he let it become permanent.

Three days isn’t a countdown,  he realized. It’s the first time the clock has ever been on my side.

He turned back toward the camp, and for the first time in longer than he could remember, the weight in his chest felt less like grief and more like something close to hope.

Chapter 70

The war council began before dawn.

Francis stood before a table covered in rough sketches and maps, the gathered clan leaders and warriors watching him with expressions that ranged from skepticism to cautious interest. Glitvall sat at the head of the table, his massive arms crossed, while Keara paced near the tent’s entrance like a caged predator.

“The structure has three defensive rings,” Francis said, pointing to his sketches. “The outer ring is patrolled by Reavers. They’re fast, they’re vicious, and they hunt in packs. But they’re predictable. They follow set routes, and there are gaps in their coverage if you know where to look.”

“How do you know this?” one of the clan leaders asked.

“I’ve told you before. I’ve died to them dozens of times,” Francis replied simply. “Each death taught me something new about their patterns.”

The tent went quiet. It was one thing to hear about Francis’s ability in abstract terms, and clearly quite another to hear him speak so casually about his own deaths.

“The second ring is the killing field,” Francis continued. “Two hundred yards of open ground with no cover. That’s where the robed guardian operates. It casts detection magic that sweeps the open ground, reading every living thing that sets foot on it. I’m not sure what it reads exactly. It would be warmth, breath, the beat of a heart, the weight of a body pressing the snow. The moment it touches you, it knows an intruder is present.”

“Then how do we cross it?” Keara demanded.

“We don’t sneak across. We charge.” Francis looked around the tent. “The detection spell takes time to cast. If we move fast enough, if we hit hard enough, we can reach the gate before the guardian can respond effectively. It’s powerful, but it’s also arrogant. It doesn’t expect anyone to be foolish enough to charge directly at it.”

“And the third ring?” Glitvall asked.

“The gate guards. They’re the biggest threat after the guardian itself. Massive creatures, heavily armored, stationed at the entrance to the inner sanctum. They don’t move, don’t react, until something tries to pass through the gate. Then they attack with everything they have.”

Francis spent the next hour detailing everything he knew about the structure’s defenses. The timing of the Reaver patrols. The range of the guardian’s magic. The weak points in the gate guards’ armor. Information that had cost him so many deaths to learn, now being shared with warriors who would remember none of it if things went wrong.

But hopefully this time they won’t forget… This time, it counts.

***

The afternoon was spent on the training grounds.

Francis worked with the strike teams Glitvall had assembled, showing them what to expect from the Reavers. He demonstrated their attack patterns, their preferred angles of approach, the way they would try to circle around and strike from behind.

“They’re fast,” he told the warriors, “but they commit fully to their attacks. Once a Reaver starts its charge, it can’t change direction easily. Use that. Sidestep at the last moment, then strike while it’s recovering.”

A scarred warrior named Torvak stepped forward to spar with Francis, testing the techniques against a live opponent. The barbarian was skilled, his axe moving with the fluid grace that came from years of combat, but Francis had fought Reavers so many times that his body moved on instinct.

He sidestepped Torvak’s charge, spun, and brought his practice sword to rest against the warrior’s neck before the man could recover.

“Like that,” Francis said, stepping back. “The Reavers are faster than any of you, but the principle is the same. Don’t try to match their speed. Use their momentum against them.”

Torvak rubbed his neck, respect replacing the skepticism that had been in his eyes. “You move like you were born fighting these things.”

“In a way, I was,” Francis replied. “Again. All of you this time.”

By the time the sun began to set, the warriors were exhausted but better prepared. They understood what they would face, understood the timing and the tactics that would give them the best chance of survival. It wasn’t enough, not really, but it was more than Francis had ever been able to give them before.

***

That evening, Glitvall summoned Francis to his tent.

The warchief sat alone by the fire, a cup of something steaming in his massive hands. He gestured for Francis to sit, and they remained in silence for a long moment, the crackling flames filling the space between them.

“You say you know things about me,” Glitvall said finally. “Things I’ve shared with you in these other loops you speak of.”

“I do.”

“Tell me.” The warchief’s dark eyes met Francis’s. “Tell me what I’ve shared with you that I haven’t shared with anyone else.”

Francis considered the request carefully. There was so much he knew about Glitvall, so many conversations they’d had across the loops. But one stood out above all the others.

“Your wife,” Francis said softly. “I know what she means to you. A shield in battle, a blanket on a cold night. The thing that keeps you standing when everything else tells you to fall. And I know what your gods would offer you, because I have heard them offer it before.”

Glitvall’s grip tightened on his cup, his knuckles going white. “Offer me what?”

“When your shamans open the way and your gods speak through Greythorn, this is what they say to you. That your wife is proud of the man she married. That if you help drive the enemy from your lands, the two of you will be given a place together on the day you join her, a reunion beyond what most warriors dare hope for.” Francis held his gaze. “I have stood in this tent and heard those words spoken over you. I tell you now not as a promise already made, but so you’ll know what waits if we see this through.”

The warchief was silent for a long time. When he spoke, his voice was rough with emotion. “I have never spoken to anyone about her. Not even the other clan leaders. She is… a private thing. And what you have just told me is a hope I could never have imagined. That is not something I imagine I could have brought myself to speak of.”

“And I tell you because I want you to understand,” Francis said. “The love I carry for my brother is the same love you carry for her. You once told me you’d carry me through every trial yourself if you could, because helping me succeed meant everything to you. I believe you’d say it again.”

Glitvall set his cup down and stared into the fire. “And did I? Help you, in these other loops?”

“More than you know,” Francis said. “You trained me. Pushed me harder than I thought I could endure. You made me one of your people, put me through the ritual that gave me the bond I carry. Every time I’ve come north, you’ve believed in me even when you had no reason to.”

“Because of that promise.”

“Because of love,” Francis corrected. “The promise gave you hope, but love is what drove you. Love for your wife, love for your people. That’s what makes you the leader you are.”

Glitvall was quiet for another long moment. Then he reached out and clasped Francis’s shoulder, his grip firm but gentle.

“You carry a heavy burden, Francis Lancaster. Heavier than most warriors ever face. But you do not carry it alone.” His dark eyes gleamed in the firelight. “We march together, and when this is over, when the creature on the throne is dead and your loop point has shifted… I will remember this conversation. I will remember the man who told me about my own heart.”

Even though Francis knew it wouldn’t most likely work that way, he smiled.

Unless something magical happens, this conversation and the battle plans might not be part of my new starting point. Still… if it is…

“That’s all I’ve ever wanted,” Francis said. “For someone to remember.”

***

The second day brought Greythorn’s examination.

Francis entered the high shaman’s tent at midday, finding her waiting by the blue-green flames. The carved idols seemed to watch him as he crossed the space, their stone eyes tracking his movement with an awareness that felt far too real.

“Sit,” Greythorn commanded, gesturing to the wooden seat across from her. “Remove your shirt. I must see what you carry.”

Francis obeyed, settling onto the seat and pulling his shirt over his head. His attention was fixed on the High Shaman as she approached, her pale eyes glowing faintly in the flickering light.

Greythorn pressed both hands against his chest, and Francis felt her power probe inward. It was an invasive sensation, like fingers reaching through his skin to touch something that should have been untouchable. He gritted his teeth and endured it.

“There it is again,” she murmured, her eyes distant. “In the council I felt only its shape. Now I feel what it is.” Her brow furrowed. “Ancient. Hungry. It sleeps, and even sleeping it dreams of power.”

“The one I took from the Southern looper,” Francis said. “I told the council as much.”

“Yes.” Greythorn’s hands moved across his chest, probing different areas. “Tried to take you. To make you what it was. How you resist?”

“I don’t know,” Francis admitted. “When I killed the Southern looper, the parasite tried to flood into me. I fought it. Pushed it back. Forced it into a corner of my mind where it couldn’t control me.”

“And it stays there? It does not escape?”

“I’ve barely felt it at all,” Francis said. “Since I took it, it’s been still. Sleeping, like you say. This close to its own kind is the first time it’s stirred enough for anyone to find it.”

Greythorn pulled her hands back and fixed him with a piercing stare. “If you absorb another, you will have three cores. Three entities fighting for control of one body. Do you understand?”

“It means the fight will be harder.”

“It means you may lose,” Greythorn corrected sharply. “Each parasite you take makes you stronger, yes. But also makes you less you. The more you carry, the harder it becomes to remember who you are.” She leaned forward, her pale eyes boring into his. “I have seen what happens when warriors lose themselves to power. They become monsters. Is that what you want?”

“No,” Francis said firmly. “I’ll stay myself. I have to. There are people counting on me.”

“People you love,” Greythorn said. “Your brother. Others. You fight for them.”

“Yes.”

The high shaman studied him for a while, then nodded slowly. “That may be enough. Love is powerful anchor. It has held warriors when nothing else could.” She sat back in her seat. “Be warned, Francis Lancaster. You have told us yourself what waits on that throne. It will be stronger than the one you carry, the one you took from a creature far younger. More cunning. More desperate to live. If you are not ready, it will consume you from inside.”

“I’ll be ready,” Francis said. “I don’t have a choice.”

Greythorn nodded slowly, then reached into the folds of her robes and withdrew a small vial filled with dark liquid.

“Drink this before you face the creature,” she said. “It will strengthen mental defenses. Not much, but perhaps enough to help.”

Francis took the vial, feeling the cold weight of it in his palm. “What is it?”

“Something old. Something powerful. Made from herbs that grow in deepest ice caves, mixed with blood of those who have faced death and returned.” Her pale eyes met his. “It will not make fight easy. But may keep you from losing yourself.”

“Thank you,” Francis said, tucking the vial carefully into his armor. “For everything.”

“Do not thank me yet,” Greythorn replied. “Thank me when you survive. If you survive.” But there was something in her voice that might have been hope.

***

He found Kerhi at the edge of camp that evening, practicing with her axes in the fading light.

Francis watched from a distance, remembering all the times they’d trained together, all the conversations they’d shared, all the moments of connection that she couldn’t remember.

When she finally noticed him, her expression was guarded. “Southerner. Do you need something?”

“I’m just watching,” Francis said. “You’re skilled. The way you transition between strikes, the way you use your momentum, it’s impressive.”

Kerhi’s eyes narrowed slightly. “You speak like you understand my technique.”

“I have,” Francis admitted. “In other loops. You taught me a lot about how to fight.”

She was quiet for a moment, then lowered her axes. “This is strange for me. You look at me as if you know me. It’s… unsettling.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” Francis stepped closer, but maintained a respectful distance. “I don’t expect you to feel what you felt in those other timelines. That wouldn’t be fair to you. But I wanted you to know that in those loops, you were important to me. You understood what I was going through in a way that most people couldn’t.”

She studied him for a few seconds, her blue eyes searching his face for something Francis couldn’t name. “You care about me. I can see it by how you look at me. It’s not the way most men look.”

“I care about the person you are,” Francis said. “Not what you can do for me. Not how strong you are. Just… you.”

Kerhi was silent for a long time. Then she did something that surprised him. She sat down on a nearby log and gestured for him to join her.

“Tell me,” she said. “Tell me about these other loops. Tell me who I was to you.”

Francis sat beside her and began to talk. He told her about their first meeting, about how she’d ripped out his heart and he’d stabbed her in the back. He told her about the conversations they’d shared, the training sessions, the moments of connection that had grown between them over dozens of loops.

He told her about the night she’d kissed him, fierce and demanding, carrying all the intensity she brought to combat. About the words she’d spoken: “Then we make most of the time we have. Every loop, every moment. We make it count.”

When he finished, Kerhi was quiet. The last light of day had faded, leaving them in the blue shadows of the northern dusk.

“That sounds like something I would say,” she admitted finally. “Making the most of the time we have. That’s how I try to live.”

“I know,” Francis said. “That’s one of the things I love about you.”

She looked at him sharply, and Francis realized what he’d said.

“I’m sorry,” he said quickly. “That was—”

“No.” Kerhi held up a hand. “Don’t apologize. It’s… it’s strange, but it doesn’t feel wrong.” She shook her head slowly. “I don’t know you, Francis. Not yet. But I think I could. I think, given time, I could be the person you remember.”

“Maybe when this is over,” Francis said, “we can start again. Build something new, rather than trying to recreate what was.”

Kerhi considered this, then nodded. “I would like that.” She stood, picking up her axes. “But first, we have a battle to fight. From what you’ve told everyone, it’s going to be the hardest fight any of us have ever faced.”

“It will be,” Francis agreed. “But we’ll win. We have to.”

“Then let’s make sure we’re both alive to start over.” Kerhi smiled, and for a moment, Francis saw a hint of the woman he remembered. “I’ll see you at dawn, Southerner.”

She walked away into the darkness, and Francis watched her go, his heart aching with a mixture of hope and longing.

Not like this..

If things go how I hope, she’ll finally remember.

***

The third day passed in a blur of final preparations.

Francis checked and rechecked his equipment, his weapons, his armor. He reviewed the battle plan with Glitvall and the clan leaders one last time, ensuring everyone understood their roles. He walked through the camp, watching warriors sharpen axes and shamans prepare rituals, feeling the tension that hung over everything like a storm about to break.

By evening, there was nothing left to do but wait.

Francis found himself at the edge of camp again, looking out toward the ice walls in the distance. Somewhere beyond them, the structure waited. The creature on the throne, ancient and decaying, clung to the power it had held for so long.

Does it know we’re coming? Has it sensed something wrong?

He’d waited three days, gambling that the buffer would be enough to lock in the Southern victory. If he was wrong, if his loop point shifted to before the battle, everything they’d won would be undone.

But if he’d waited too long, if the northern looper had sensed danger and decided to reset, he would have woken in the Southern barracks already, all of this erased.

The fact that he was still here, in this moment, meant the creature hadn’t reset.

Tomorrow, everything changes.

Footsteps crunched in the snow behind him. Francis turned to find Glitvall approaching, the warchief’s massive form silhouetted against the camp’s fires.

“Couldn’t sleep either?” Glitvall asked, coming to stand beside him.

“No,” Francis admitted. “Too much to think about.”

“The weight of what’s coming,” Glitvall said. “I know that weight. I’ve carried it before every major battle of my life.” He looked out toward the ice walls. “But this one feels different. This one feels… final.”

“It is,” Francis said. “For me, at least. If we succeed, my loop point shifts. Everything that happens after becomes permanent. No more resets, no more second chances.”

“That’s a heavy thing,” Glitvall said. “To know that every choice you make will last forever.”

“It’s also a relief,” Francis replied. “I’ve spent so long knowing that nothing I do matters. That everyone I help will forget me, that every victory will be erased. To finally have something that sticks…” He shook his head. “It’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

They stood in silence for a while, two warriors on the eve of battle, watching the darkness that held their enemy.

“My wife is waiting for me,” Glitvall said softly. “Beyond the veil, in the place our gods have promised. When I die, I will go to her, and we will have the life that was stolen from us.”

“You’ll see her again,” Francis said. “I’m sure of it.”

“As am I.” Glitvall clasped Francis’s shoulder. “But not yet. Not until this war is won. Not until my people are safe.” He smiled, and it was the smile of a warrior who had found his purpose. “Tomorrow, we fight, and when it’s done, we will both have what we’ve been fighting for.”

“Tomorrow,” Francis agreed.

Glitvall nodded and walked back toward the camp, leaving Francis alone with the darkness.

***

The first light of dawn began to creep across the sky, painting the ice fields in shades of pink and gold. Outside, Francis could hear the camp stirring, warriors preparing for the march, shamans finishing their rituals.

He stood, checked his weapons one final time, and stepped out of his tent.

The barbarian army was assembled and waiting. Thousands of warriors in furs and leather, axes and swords gleaming in the early light. At their head stood Glitvall, massive and imposing, with Keara and the other clan leaders beside him. Greythorn and the shamans formed a circle near the center of the formation, their painted faces serene despite what was coming.

And there, near the front, was Kerhi. She caught Francis’s eye and nodded once, her expression fierce and determined.

Francis walked to the head of the army, taking his place beside Glitvall. The warchief looked down at him and smiled.

“Ready?”

Francis looked out toward the ice walls, the structure that waited beyond, and the creature that had been manipulating this war from the beginning. He thought of all the deaths it had taken to reach this moment. All the failed attempts, all the lessons learned through pain and loss and endless repetition.

He thought of Michael’s words before he’d stepped through the portal: “You come back to me.”

He thought of Kerhi’s promise: “Let’s make sure we’re both alive to start over.”

He thought of Glitvall’s hope: “When it’s done, we will both have what we’ve been fighting for.”

“Ready,” he said.

Glitvall raised his axe, and the army began to march.

Chapter 71

The army marched across the frozen wasteland in silence.

Francis walked at the front with Glitvall, their boots crunching through the snow in a steady rhythm. Behind them, close to a thousand barbarian warriors followed in disciplined columns, their axes and swords glinting in the pale morning light. The shamans moved near the center of the formation, their painted faces serene despite the tension that hung over everything like a storm about to break.

The ice walls rose in the distance, marking the entrance to the corridors that led to the structure. Francis had fought through those corridors dozens of times, died in them more often than he could count. But he’d always been alone. Today was different.

Today, he had an army at his back.

“How much farther to the corridors?” Keara asked, her voice low.

“Another mile, maybe less,” Francis replied. “That’s where the Reavers patrol. They hunt in groups of three, using voice mimicry to—”

He stopped. Something was wrong.

The horizon ahead wasn’t empty anymore.

A dark line had appeared across the frozen plains, stretching from one edge of the visible world to the other. As Francis watched, the line grew thicker, resolved into shapes, into figures, into an army.

“Gods preserve us,” Glitvall breathed.

The beastkins had come to meet them.

They filled the frozen waste like a tide of fur, steel, and hatred.

Francis saw goatkins in the front ranks, their curved horns gleaming, their hooves pawing at the ice as they waited to charge. Behind them stood massive walruskins, their tusked faces expressionless, wielding clubs and hammers that could crush a man’s skull with a single blow. Serpentkins slithered between the larger creatures, their four arms clutching daggers and short swords, frost magic already gathering around their fingers.

And there were more, so many more. Boarkins with their bristled hides and savage tusks. Hyenakins, whose cackling laughter echoed across the frozen ground. Creatures Francis had never seen before, twisted amalgamations of beast and humanoid that defied easy categorization.

Two thousand of them, at least. Maybe more.

“They knew we were coming,” Keara said, her voice tight. “They were waiting for us.”

Francis nodded slowly, his mind racing. In all his loops, in all his deaths, the beastkins had never massed like this. They’d relied on the corridors, on ambush tactics, on picking off attackers one by one. This was something new. Something different.

The robed guardian. It’s been watching me die, learning my patterns. And now it’s adapted.

“This changes nothing,” Francis said, ensuring his voice carried confidence. “We knew we’d have to fight through them. We just do it here instead of in the corridors.”

“Easy for you to say,” Keara snapped. “You come back when you die. My warriors don’t.”

“Keara.” Glitvall’s voice was a warning rumble. He stepped forward, his massive frame silhouetted against the grey sky, and turned to address the army. “Warriors of the north! Before you stands the enemy that has plagued our lands, killed our people, driven us from our homes!”

His voice carried across the frozen ground, reaching every ear, stirring something primal in every heart.

“They think their numbers will break us! They think we will flee at the sight of their horde!” Glitvall raised his axe, the blade catching what little light pierced the clouds. “They are wrong ! We are the warriors of the north! We do not flee! We do not surrender! Today, we show these creatures what happens when they threaten our lands!”

A roar went up from the barbarian ranks, a thousand plus voices crying out in defiance, lifting their axes high. The shamans began their chants, golden light building around their hands.

Across the frozen waste, the beastkin army surged forward.

“CHARGE!” Glitvall bellowed, and the barbarians answered.

The two armies met in a thunderclap of steel and fury.

Hundreds of yards of frozen ground disappeared in heartbeats as both forces raced toward each other. Francis could feel the ice shaking beneath his boots, could hear the roar of two thousand voices raised in battle cries, could see the wall of enemies rushing to meet them.

Then the lines collided, and the world dissolved into chaos.

Francis hit the enemy line at a sprint, his sword already moving. A goatkin lunged at him with a spear, and he knocked the weapon aside and opened its throat in a single motion. Another took its place, then another, and suddenly he was surrounded by a sea of horns and hooves and bleating war cries.

[ Blade Tempest ]

Six strikes slashed out, each one finding flesh. Bodies fell around him, and Francis pushed forward through the gap he’d created. Behind him, barbarian warriors poured into the breach, their axes rising and falling in brutal rhythm.

The chaos was absolute. There was no formation anymore, no tactics, just a churning mass of bodies and weapons and blood. Barbarians fought back-to-back against swarms of goatkins. Walruskins waded through the melee, their massive clubs crushing anyone who came within reach. The serpentkins hung back, hurling frost magic that froze warriors where they stood.

A boarkin crashed into Francis from the side, its tusks gouging into his armor. He twisted away from the worst of the impact and drove his sword into the creature’s eye socket. It squealed and thrashed, nearly ripping the blade from Francis’s grip, and he had to plant a boot on its skull to wrench the weapon free.

Blood sprayed across his face, hot and copper-tasting. Francis spat and kept fighting.

A hyenakin pack descended on a group of barbarians nearby, their cackling laughter cutting through the din of battle. Francis saw one warrior go down with his throat torn out, saw another lose an arm to snapping jaws, saw a third buried beneath a pile of spotted fur and gnashing teeth.

He couldn’t help them. There were too many enemies between him and the dying warriors, too many threats demanding his immediate attention. All he could do was kill the goatkin in front of him and hope someone else reached them in time.

No one did.

Francis saw a walruskin bring its club down on a barbarian woman, the impact so powerful it drove her body into the frozen ground. He changed direction, charging toward the creature with his sword raised.

[ Quick Attack ]

His blade found the gap between the walruskin’s arm and torso, cutting deep. The creature bellowed, a sound like a horn mixed with a scream, and swung its club in a devastating arc. Francis was already moving, ducking under the blow and striking again.

Five rapid strikes, each one finding the same weak point. The walruskin staggered, blood pouring from wounds across its side, and Francis finished it with a Power Strike through the throat. The creature toppled like a felled tree, crushing a Goatkin beneath its massive body as it fell.

[ Quick Attack Increased - 65 ]

The notification flashed across his vision, and Francis felt the familiar surge of power. He didn’t pause to acknowledge it, just kept moving, kept fighting, and kept killing.

A serpentkin slithered toward him through the press of bodies, its four arms weaving frost magic. Ice crystals formed in the air around it, the temperature dropping with every gesture. Francis felt his Magic Resistance push back against the cold, but the creature was strong. Stronger than most.

It hurled a spear of ice at his chest, and Francis deflected it with his shield, shattering it into a thousand glittering fragments. Another spear followed, then another, the serpentkin pressing its advantage with relentless magical assault.

Francis closed the distance between them, each step a battle against the freezing cold that tried to slow his movements. The serpentkin’s eyes widened as it realized he wasn’t stopping, and it abandoned its magic in favor of the daggers clutched in its lower hands.

You’re too slow.

Francis’s sword pierced through its chest before it could strike, and the creature collapsed with a hissing cry that faded to silence.

Glitvall fought nearby, the warchief a whirlwind of destruction. His axe carved through everything in its path, goatkins and boarkins alike falling before his fury. A walruskin twice his size swung a hammer at his head, and Glitvall caught the blow on his axe haft, muscles straining, then twisted the weapon aside and buried his blade in the creature’s skull.

“TO ME!” he roared, his voice somehow carrying over the din of battle. “TO ME, WARRIORS OF THE NORTH!”

Keara answered his call, her axe flashing as she cut a path toward the warchief. She moved like a predator, each strike precise and deadly, each step calculated. A hyenakin tried to flank her, its cackling laughter cut short as her blade opened its belly. A serpentkin raised its hands to cast, and Keara’s thrown dagger took it in the eye before the spell could form.

Warriors rallied around them, forming a wedge that drove deep into the enemy formation. They fought as a unit, shields overlapping, weapons rising and falling in coordinated rhythm. When a walruskin broke through the line, three warriors hit it simultaneously, their axes finding the gaps Francis had taught them to target.

And Kerhi…

Francis caught glimpses of her through the press of bodies. She fought like something out of legend, her axes spinning in patterns that left death in their wake. The battle fury was on her now, the hunger that scared even her own people, but she channeled it into something terrifying and beautiful.

Three goatkin attacked her at once, and she killed them all in the space of a heartbeat. A boarkin charged her with its tusks lowered, and she sidestepped at the last moment, her axes carving twin lines across its flanks as it passed. The creature stumbled, blood pouring from its wounds, and Kerhi finished it with a spinning strike that took its head from its shoulders.

A walruskin swung its club at her head, and she ducked under the blow, came up inside its guard, and buried both axes in its chest. She ripped them free in a spray of blood and gore, then spun to face the next enemy, her eyes wild but focused, her movements fluid despite the carnage around her.

She’s magnificent,  Francis thought, even as he cut down another enemy. And she doesn’t even know what we were to each other.

The battle raged across the frozen waste, two armies tearing each other apart in a frenzy of violence. Bodies piled on the ice, barbarian and beastkin alike, the snow turning red beneath their feet. Warriors screamed and died. Creatures howled and fell. And still the fighting continued, wave after bloody wave, neither side willing to break, neither side willing to yield.

Francis lost track of how many he killed. A goatkin here. A hyenakin there. A serpentkin that tried to freeze him solid, its magic shattering against his resistance before his sword found its heart. Each death blurred into the next, each kill just another step forward, another yard gained toward the ice walls in the distance.

Keep moving… I can’t stop and mourn… Not yet.

***

The barbarians were winning, but the cost was terrible.

Francis saw Torvak, the scarred warrior who had sparred with him during training, fighting three goatkins at once. The barbarian used the techniques Francis had taught him, letting one enemy’s charge carry it past before striking, but there were too many. A spear found his side, then another his back. Torvak went down with steel in his belly, and Francis was too far away to save him.

He saw a shaman fall, her golden light flickering and dying as a walruskin’s club crushed her chest. Saw a young warrior, barely old enough to fight, dragged down by a pack of hyenakins whose cackling laughter turned to wet gurgles as other barbarians cut them apart. Saw the price of this battle written in blood and broken bodies across the frozen ground.

But they were pushing forward. Step by bloody step, yard by bloody yard, the barbarian army was driving the beastkins back toward the ice walls.

“The corridors!” Glitvall shouted, pointing with his blood-drenched axe. “Push for the corridors!”

The ice walls loomed ahead, the gap between them marking the entrance to the frozen maze that led to the structure. The beastkin were falling back toward it, their retreat becoming a rout as the barbarians pressed their advantage.

Francis fought his way to the front of the advance, his sword never stopping. A goatkin tried to block his path and died with its throat opened. A serpentkin raised its hands to cast, and Francis closed the distance before the spell could form, his blade punching through its chest.

He reached the entrance to the corridors just as the last of the beastkin fled inside. The ice walls rose on either side, smooth and alien, carved by magic rather than nature. The passage ahead was dark, narrow, and perfect for an ambush.

“They’ll use the terrain against us,” Francis said as Glitvall and Keara joined him. “The corridors are perfect for defense. They’ll have archers on the walls, casters in the passages, ambush points at every turn.”

“Then we root them out,” Keara said, her sword dripping with blood. “Room by room. Passage by passage. However long it takes.”

Glitvall looked back at the army, counting the survivors. They had lost many, but his jaw was set, his eyes hard with determination.

“We didn’t come this far to stop now,” the warchief said. “Forward. Into the corridors. And may the gods watch over us all.”

The army advanced into the frozen maze.

***

The corridors were a nightmare.

Arrows rained from above as Reavers perched on the ice walls, their black feathers blending with the shadows. Warriors fell with shafts in their throats, their chests, their eyes. The barbarians raised shields and pushed forward, but there was no cover in the narrow passages, no way to escape the deadly rain.

“Archers!” Keara screamed. “Take them down!”

Barbarian bowmen returned fire, their arrows seeking the dark shapes on the walls. Reavers tumbled from their perches, shrieking as they fell, but more took their places. The air filled with the whistle of shafts and the screams of the dying.

Francis pushed forward through the chaos, his Battle Sense screaming warnings as arrows sought his flesh. He dodged one shaft, deflected another with his sword, and felt a third bounce off his armor.

The passage narrowed ahead, forcing the army to compress into a tighter formation. Perfect for defense. Perfect for slaughter.

Goatkins waited at the chokepoint, their shields locked together, their spears bristling outward like the quills of some massive porcupine. Behind them, serpentkin casters prepared their magic, frost gathering around their fingers.

“Break that line!” Glitvall roared. “Break it, or we die here!”

Francis reached the shield wall first. A spear thrust toward his face, and he knocked it aside, then drove his sword over the top of the shield and into the goatkin’s skull. The creature fell, creating a gap, and Francis threw himself into it.

[ Blade Tempest ]

Six strikes struck, each one finding flesh. Goatkin screamed and fell around him, their formation shattering. Barbarians poured through the breach, axes rising and falling, turning the chokepoint into a slaughterhouse.

The serpentkin unleashed their magic. Frost swept through the passage, freezing warriors where they stood. A man beside Francis stopped mid-swing, ice crawling up his body, his face locked in an expression of shock as the cold claimed him. Another warrior shattered when a comrade accidentally struck her frozen form, her body breaking apart like dropped glass.

Francis’s Magic Resistance pushed back against the frost, keeping him moving when others froze. He charged the serpentkin casters, his sword carving through their ranks before they could cast again. One fell with its throat opened. Another collapsed with his blade through its chest. A third tried to flee and died with steel in its back.

A voice echoed from somewhere ahead, human and desperate: “Help! Please, someone help me!”

Francis ignored it. He knew that voice. Had heard it in a dozen loops, always leading to the same ambush, the same death. The Reavers and their mimicry.

“Don’t listen to it!” he shouted. “It’s a trap! They mimic voices to lure you in!”

But the warning came too late for some. A group of warriors broke formation, charging toward the sound, and the Reavers were waiting. They dropped from the walls in a wave of black feathers and curved daggers, and the screaming started.

Francis fought his way toward them, his sword carving through any Reaver that got in his way. He reached the ambush site just in time to see the last warrior fall, three Reavers standing over the bodies with blood dripping from their blades.

[ Blade Tempest ]

The Reavers died without knowing what hit them, their bodies crumpling to the ice beside the warriors they’d killed.

Francis looked down at the dead barbarians. Young faces. Brave faces. Faces that would never see home again because they’d tried to help someone who didn’t exist.

Make it count. Make all of their deaths count.

The army pushed deeper into the corridors, fighting for every step. The passages twisted and turned, branching off in directions that led to dead ends and ambush points. Reavers attacked from above, from the sides, from hidden crevices that seemed to appear out of nowhere. Serpentkins lurked at intersections, their frost magic turning warriors to ice before blades could find them.

Every corner held death. Every shadow concealed an enemy. The barbarians paid for each yard of progress in blood, their numbers dwindling with every ambush, every trap, every desperate battle in the frozen dark.

A massive walruskin blocked one passage, too large to move around, too strong to push through. It killed three warriors before Glitvall reached it, the warchief’s axe finding its throat, then its skull. But by the time the creature fell, five more barbarians lay dead around it.

Glitvall led from the front, his axe never stopping. He took a Reaver’s head, then spun to block a serpentkin’s ice spear, then charged forward to crush a goatkin that had been trying to flank the column. Blood covered his armor, most of it not his own, but Francis could see wounds beneath the gore. Cuts across his arms. A gash on his forehead that sent blood streaming down his face. A deep wound in his side that should have dropped him but somehow didn’t.

“Keep moving!” the warchief roared. “Don’t let them pin us down!”

Keara fought beside him, her axe a blur of steel. She killed with the cold efficiency of someone who had sent many to their grave, each strike precise and deadly, wasting no movement. A Reaver dropped from above, and she caught it on her weapon without even looking up, letting its own weight drive the steel through its chest. A serpentkin tried to freeze her, and she pushed through the magic by sheer force of will, her axe taking its head before it could finish the spell.

The shamans moved through the column, their golden light healing wounds and countering the serpentkin’s frost magic. Greythorn was at their center, her voice raised in a constant chant, her power flowing out to touch every warrior within reach. But even she was flagging, her face drawn with exhaustion, her light dimming with every spell she cast.

And Kerhi stayed close to Greythorn, her axes carving a protective circle around the high shaman. Three Reavers tried to reach Greythorn at once, and Kerhi killed them all before they could get within striking distance. A serpentkin raised its hands to cast at the shamans, and one of Kerhi’s axes took it in the throat, thrown with deadly accuracy.

She caught Francis’s eye as she retrieved her weapon.

“Keep up, Southerner,” she called out, a fierce grin on her blood-spattered face. “The fighting’s not done yet.”

Francis smiled despite everything, despite the death and the blood and the endless fighting. “Wouldn’t dream of falling behind.”

They fought through the corridors for what felt like hours.

The beastkins threw everything they had at the barbarian advance. Wave after wave of Reavers. Serpentkin casters whose frost magic turned the air itself to ice. Goatkin shock troops that charged in disciplined formations, their horns lowered, their hooves thundering on the frozen ground. Walruskins that blocked entire passages with their massive bodies, requiring a dozen warriors to bring them down.

The barbarians met them all and broke through, leaving bodies in their wake, but each victory cost them. Warriors fell. Shamans exhausted their power and collapsed. The column grew shorter with every clash, the survivors bloodied and battered but still pressing forward.

Francis lost count of how many he’d killed. His arms burned with fatigue; his sword felt like it weighed a hundred pounds, but he couldn’t stop. Wouldn’t stop. Every dead beastkin was another step toward the structure, toward the creature on the throne, toward the end of this nightmare.

A Reaver dropped from above, its daggers seeking his throat. Francis caught it on his sword and threw it aside, then drove his blade through its chest before it could rise. Another came at him from the left, and he killed it without looking, his Battle Sense guiding his blade to the right spot.

His body moved on instinct now, honed by numerous deaths in these very corridors. He knew where the ambushes would come from, how the enemies would attack, and the exact moment to dodge and the angle to strike. All those loops, all those failures, all that pain and death had led to this.

[ Power Strike Increased - 73 ]

The notification flashed across his vision as he cut down another serpentkin, and Francis felt the surge of power flow through him. Stronger. Faster. Deadlier. But it wasn’t enough. It was never enough.

Not when warriors kept dying around him. Not when he could hear their screams echoing off the ice walls. Not when he could see their bodies littering the frozen ground behind them.

Then, finally, the corridors opened up.

They emerged onto the killing field, two hundred yards of open ground stretching before them. And at the far end, rising from the frozen earth like a monument to something ancient and terrible, stood the structure.

Dark stone walls climbed toward a grey sky, covered in symbols that pulsed with cold light. Guard posts flanked a massive gate, and figures moved on the ramparts. The whole thing radiated wrongness, a sense of power that made Francis’s skin crawl even from this distance.

But it wasn’t the structure that made his blood run cold.

It was what stood before it.

The remaining beastkins had formed a defensive line across the killing field. Gate guards, dozens of them, their pale grey fur bristling, their massive weapons ready. Serpentkin casters wove frost magic between them. And floating above them all, robes billowing in a wind that touched nothing else, was the creature Francis had been dreading.

The guardian.

Pale blue skin. Eyes that glowed with cold white light. Magic already gathering around its fingers in visible spirals of frost. It looked down at the battered remnants of the barbarian army with burning eyes.

It’s been waiting for us. This whole time, it’s been herding us here, bleeding us in the corridors, weakening us for this final stand.

Francis looked back at his own forces. Maybe half of what they’d started with. The shamans were exhausted, Greythorn was barely upright. Glitvall was wounded in a dozen places, his armor more red than its original color. Keara’s arm was bleeding freely from a wound she hadn’t had time to heal. Kerhi had frost burns across her face and arms from close encounters with serpentkin magic.

They were battered, broken, and barely holding together.

And they still had to cross two hundred yards of open ground, break through that defensive line, and reach the gate.

“One more push,” Francis said, his voice hoarse from shouting orders and breathing frozen air. “One more fight. That’s all that stands between us and the end of this.”

“Look at us,” Keara said quietly. “Look at what’s left. You’re asking us to charge into that?”

“I’m asking you to finish what we started.” Francis met her eyes. “Every warrior who died getting us this far did it so we could reach that structure. So we could kill what’s inside. If we turn back now, they died for nothing.”

Glitvall nodded slowly, blood dripping from the gash on his forehead. “He’s right. We’ve come too far to stop now.” He raised his voice, letting it carry to every warrior who could still stand. “One more charge! One more fight! For everyone we’ve lost! For everyone who’s counting on us! FOR THE NORTH!”

“FOR THE NORTH!” the survivors roared back, their voices raw but defiant.

And they charged.

The guardian struck first.

Cold erupted across the killing field, a wave of magical frost that swept toward the charging barbarians like a living thing. The air itself seemed to freeze, ice crystals forming out of nothing, the temperature plummeting so fast that Francis could feel his breath solidifying in his lungs.

His Magic Resistance flared, pushing back against the killing cold, but around him warriors stumbled and fell as the magic sapped their strength. A man beside him collapsed mid-stride, his legs frozen beneath him. A woman screamed as ice climbed up her arms, her axe falling from fingers that could no longer grip.

“Shamans!” Francis screamed. “Counter it!”

Greythorn’s voice rose in a chant, the other shamans joining her despite their exhaustion. Golden light spread through the barbarian ranks, fighting against the frost, keeping warriors on their feet. But the robed figure was stronger than anything they’d faced, and the shamans were already drained from hours of fighting in the corridors.

For a moment, the two magics warred across the battlefield, frost and life, cold and warmth, death and survival. The air crackled with power, and Francis could feel the pressure building around him like a storm about to break.

Then the guardian raised both hands, and the shamans’ resistance shattered.

Ice exploded from the ground in massive spikes, impaling warriors who couldn’t dodge in time. A man running beside Francis was skewered through the chest, his scream cut short as the cold froze his lungs. Two more died ahead of him, their bodies lifted off the ground by pillars of ice that erupted beneath their feet. A fourth was impaled through the back, the spike emerging from his chest in a spray of frozen blood.

“KEEP MOVING!” Francis roared. “DON’T STOP!”

The barbarians hit the defensive line like a breaking wave. Gate guards met them with hammers and axes, the impact of the collision sending bodies flying. The melee became a slaughter, warriors and beastkin dying by the dozens as the two forces tore into each other.

A gate guard swung its hammer at Francis’s head, and he ducked under the blow, drove his blade through its knee, then finished it with a strike to the throat as it fell. Another took its place immediately, and he killed that one too, barely pausing between strikes. A third came at him from the side, and his Battle Sense screamed warning just in time for him to twist away from a blow that would have crushed his skull.

The serpentkin casters behind the gate guards unleashed their magic, frost sweeping through the barbarian ranks. Warriors froze mid-swing. Axes fell from nerveless fingers. The cold claimed lives by the dozen, turning the charge into a desperate struggle for survival.

Francis fought through the chaos, his sword carving a path toward the robed figure. That was the key. Kill the commander, break their magic, end this nightmare. Everything else was secondary.

The guardian saw him coming.

Its glowing eyes fixed on Francis, and it stiffened. Recognition. Almost as if it knew him.

The observer… it told it about me.

A beam of white light lanced down toward him, the same killing magic that had slaughtered so many warriors. Francis dove sideways, felt the cold of the beam pass inches from his face, and came up running.

The creature fired again, and again. Each beam came closer, each one forcing Francis to dodge at the last possible moment. It was learning, adapting, anticipating his movements with frightening speed.

A beam caught him across the shoulder, and Francis felt the cold bite deep. His left arm went numb, ice forming across his armor, his flesh, creeping toward his heart. He gritted his teeth and kept moving, using his right hand to cut down a gate guard that got in his way.

Almost there. Just a little farther.

The robed figure raised both hands, power gathering for a spell that would end him. Francis could see the magic building, could feel the deadly cold that was about to be unleashed, could sense that this was it, this was the killing blow that would freeze him solid and leave his army leaderless on this frozen field.

He wasn’t going to make it.

Then Kerhi’s axes buried themselves in the robed figure’s back.

She had come up from below, climbing the frozen bodies of the dead to reach the floating creature. Her axes dug deep with a sound like cracking ice, and the spell building in its hands shattered into fragments of cold light.

The creature screamed, a sound like a glacier cracking, and spun to face her. Frost magic erupted from its hands, catching Kerhi full in the chest. Francis saw ice forming across her armor, her skin, her face, saw her axes slip from fingers that were freezing solid.

But she didn’t fall.

Golden light blazed around her as her own power surged, lifeforce magic fighting against the killing cold. The battle fury that had driven her through hours of combat now fueled her resistance, her will to survive burning hot enough to push back against the frost.

She took a step forward. Then another. Ice cracking and re-forming on her body with every movement, steam rising from her skin where the two magics warred, she advanced on the guardian with nothing but her fists and her fury.

The creature’s eyes widened with something that might have been fear. It poured more power into its attack, the beam of white light intensifying until Francis could barely look at it. But Kerhi kept coming. Step by agonizing step, she pushed through the magic that should have killed her.

Francis reached them.

[ Quick Attack ]

His sword found the guardian’s side, cutting through fabric and flesh. The creature’s concentration shattered, and its beam flickered and died. It turned toward Francis, one hand raised to cast, but he was already striking again.

[ Flurry ]

Five rapid strikes, each one finding flesh. Pale blue blood sprayed across the ice as the robed figure staggered backward, its magic failing, its power bleeding away with every wound.

[ Power Strike ]

Francis drove his sword through the creature’s chest. The blade punched through robes and ribs and whatever passed for a heart in this thing. The guardian’s eyes went wide, then dark. Its body went limp, the glow fading from its flesh.

Francis pulled his sword free and let the creature fall.

The killing cold that had been pressing against the army disappeared. The shamans’ golden light blazed brighter, no longer fighting against the guardian’s magic. Warriors who had been struggling against the cold surged forward with renewed strength.

Kerhi collapsed to her knees, steam rising from her body as the ice melted. Francis caught her before she could fall further, lowering her gently to the ground.

“Kerhi. Kerhi, stay with me.”

Her eyes fluttered open, glazed with pain but still fierce. “Did we… did we get it?”

“We got it,” Francis said. “It’s dead. You killed it.”

“Good.” She managed a weak smile. “Then we’re not… not done yet. Keep going. I’ll… I’ll catch up.”

Greythorn appeared beside them, her hands glowing with what little healing magic she had left. “I have her. Go. Finish this.”

Francis hesitated, looking down at Kerhi’s frost-burned face. Then he nodded, rose to his feet, and turned back to the battle.

Without the guardian’s magic, the remaining gate guards didn’t last long.

The barbarians fell on them with the fury of warriors who had lost brothers and sisters, friends and lovers. Glitvall killed three of them himself, his axe rising and falling over and over, drawing blood each time. Keara and her warriors cut down four more, their coordinated attacks exploiting every weakness.

In minutes, the defenders were dead. The gate stood open, its massive doors swinging in a wind that no longer carried any magical chill.

Francis stood at the threshold, looking into the darkness beyond. The structure’s interior stretched before him, corridors leading deeper into whatever secrets this place held. Somewhere in there, behind chains and locks, the creature on the throne was waiting.

He turned to survey the killing field. Bodies lay everywhere, the snow stained red as far as he could see. Beastkin and barbarian alike, twisted together in death, the price of victory written in blood and grief.

Glitvall approached, his armor more red than its original color. The warchief moved like a man carrying a weight almost too heavy to bear.

“How many?” Francis asked.

“Over half,” Glitvall said quietly. “Maybe more. We started with close to eighteen hundred. We have maybe six hundred still able to fight.” He paused, his dark eyes meeting Francis’s. “But we made it. We’re at the gate.”

Over half. Over eight hundred warriors who had followed him into this frozen hell, and died to the plan he’d made.

Make it count. Make all of their deaths count.

“Kerhi?” Francis asked.

“Alive. Greythorn is with her.” Glitvall’s expression softened slightly. “That was the bravest thing I’ve ever seen. Walking through that beam. She should be dead.”

“She’s too stubborn to die,” Francis said softly. “That’s what she told me once. In another loop.”

He turned back to the open gate, to the darkness that waited beyond. The outer defenses were broken. The guardian was dead. The beastkin army was destroyed. But the real fight was still ahead.

Somewhere in there, ancient and decaying, the creature on the throne was waiting.

Waiting to be absorbed.

“The creature we came to kill is in there,” Francis said. “Behind a door sealed with chains and magical locks. That’s our target. That’s what ends this war.”

“Then we go,” Glitvall said. “Before whatever’s inside realizes its army has been destroyed.”

Francis reached into his armor and pulled out the vial Greythorn had given him. The dark liquid inside seemed to pulse with its own inner light.

Drink this before you face the creature. It will strengthen your mental defenses.

Not yet. He would need it at full strength when he faced the looper and killed it, when he absorbed it.

He tucked the vial back into his armor and drew his sword.

“Let’s finish this,” he said.

Francis took a breath, steadied himself, and stepped through the gate. The darkness of the structure swallowed him whole, and behind him, the surviving barbarians followed.

Almost there. Just a little further, then this ends.

Chapter 72

The darkness of the structure swallowed them whole.

Francis led the way, his sword drawn, his senses straining against the oppressive silence. Behind him, the surviving barbarians filed through the gate in a ragged column, their weapons ready, their faces filled with exhaustion and grief.

The interior of the structure was exactly as Francis remembered it. Walls of dark stone rose on either side, covered in symbols that pulsed with faint blue light. The air carried a scent that Francis had come to associate with death and failure. The smell of ancient ice and something else, something wrong.

“This way,” Francis said, gesturing toward a branching corridor.

Glitvall gave him a long look but said nothing. There was nothing left to question. Francis had told them he’d walked these corridors more times than he could count, and every word of it had proven true.

They moved through the corridors in near silence, the only sounds the shuffle of boots on stone and the occasional groan of a wounded warrior being helped along by their comrades. Greythorn walked near the center of the column, one arm supporting Kerhi, who had insisted on continuing despite the frost burns that covered her arms and face.

“You should rest,” Francis had told her at the gate. “You nearly died out there.”

“So did everyone else,” she’d replied, her voice hoarse but steady. “I’m not staying behind while you finish this.”

He hadn’t argued. He knew that look in her eyes, had seen it before.

The structure felt hollow now, emptied of the defenders who had filled its corridors in previous loops. Francis kept waiting for the ambush that never came. But there was nothing. Just silence and darkness and the weight of ancient stone pressing down from above.

We killed them all outside. Everything they had, every defender, every caster. They threw it all at us and we broke through anyway.

The thought should have brought satisfaction. Instead, Francis felt only the hollow weight of what that victory had cost.

They encountered resistance twice more.

The first time, a handful of Reavers emerged from a side passage, their daggers raised and their eyes wild with something that might have been fear. Francis killed two of them before the barbarians could even react, his sword moving on instinct, finding throats and hearts with mechanical precision. The others fell to Glitvall’s and Keara’s axe moments later.

The second time, a single serpentkin blocked their path, its four arms weaving frost magic in desperate patterns. Francis felt the cold wash over him, felt his Magic Resistance push back against it, and closed the distance before the creature could complete its spell. His sword found its chest, and the magic died with its caster.

“That’s all of them?” Keara asked, looking around at the empty corridors with something like disbelief. “After everything we faced outside, this is what’s left?”

“The guardian committed everything to stopping us before we reached the gate,” Francis said. “It knew that if we got inside, it couldn’t hold us. So it threw its entire army at us and hoped that would be enough.”

“It wasn’t,” Glitvall said quietly.

“No. It wasn’t.”

Glitvall was silent for a few seconds. Then he nodded slowly, something like understanding in his dark eyes. “Then we make it count. For everyone who died getting us here.”

“Yes,” Francis said. “We make it count.”

They reached the circular chamber.

He moved past the raised platform in the center. Instead he was focused at the far end, where the door dominated the entire wall.

Chains wrapped around its surface, dozens of them, each link inscribed with symbols that hurt to look at directly. Locks of ice and metal held the chains in place, and around everything, a shimmer of magic that made the air itself seem to bend and warp.

“This is it,” he said quietly. “The creature on the throne is behind that door.”

The barbarians spread out through the chamber, some taking defensive positions near the entrances while others simply collapsed against the walls, clearly too exhausted to do anything but breathe. The shamans moved toward the door, Greythorn at their head, their eyes fixed on the magical seals that held it shut.

“Every time I got this far, I tried to find a way through,” Francis continued. “I tried to break the chains. The only time I’ve gotten through it was by making that caster drain the magic of this place and yet… it doesn’t feel weakened as it should.”

“But shamans you never had,” Greythorn said, her voice distant as she studied the seals. “Never had anyone who could work magic like this.”

“No. I didn’t.”

Greythorn moved closer to the door, her hands raised, golden light beginning to gather around her fingers. The other shamans joined her, forming a semicircle before the massive barrier, their combined power casting strange shadows across the chamber walls.

“These seals,” she murmured, her eyes narrowing. “Not what I expected.”

“What do you mean?” Glitvall asked.

Greythorn was silent, her hands moving through the air as if tracing invisible patterns. When she spoke again, her voice was troubled. “Made to keep in, not out. Magic, chains, all of it. Facing wrong direction.”

“The wrong direction?” Keara stepped forward, her hand on her axe. “What does that mean?”

“Seals designed to contain, not protect.” Greythorn turned to face them, her expression grave. “Whatever lies behind door, beastkin were not just guarding. They were imprisoning.”

A murmur ran through the gathered warriors. Francis saw fear in some faces, uncertainty in others.

“It doesn’t change anything,” he said, his voice echoing through the chamber. “Whatever’s behind that door, whatever it is, we came here to end it. That’s still the mission. That’s still what we’re going to do.”

“The Southerner is right,” Glitvall said. “We didn’t lose half our army to stop at the last door. Greythorn, can you break the seals?”

The high shaman turned back to the door, studying it for another moment. “Yes. All of us, it will take. Quick it will not be, but can be done.” She paused. “Sure you are? This is path you choose?”

“I’m sure,” Francis said. “Break the seals.”

The shamans worked in silence, their golden light playing across the door’s surface like sunlight on water.

Francis watched from the center of the chamber, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Around him, the surviving warriors waited with the tense stillness of people preparing for a fight they weren’t sure they could win. Glitvall stood nearby, his axe across his knees, his eyes fixed on the door. Keara paced near one of the entrances, unable to stay still. Kerhi sat against a wall, her frost-burned arms wrapped around her knees, her eyes never leaving Francis.

The first chain fell with a sound like shattering glass.

Francis felt it more than heard it, a shift in the pressure that had been building since they entered the chamber. The symbols on the floor flickered, their blue light pulsing faster, and from beyond the door came a sound that made his blood run cold.

A voice. Low and distant, like wind through a cavern of ice. Speaking words he couldn’t quite make out.

“Keep going,” he said, though his voice came out rougher than he intended. “Don’t stop.”

The second chain fell. Then the third. Each one released with that same shattering sound, each one accompanied by another surge of cold from beyond the door. The temperature in the chamber dropped with every seal that broke, frost forming on the walls, on the floor, on the armor of the waiting warriors.

Greythorn’s hands shook with effort, her golden light flickering against the ancient magic of the seals. The other shamans looked pale, drained, their power stretched to the breaking point. But they didn’t stop, couldn’t stop. Not now.

The fourth chain fell. The fifth. The voice from beyond the door grew louder, more distinct, though Francis still couldn’t make out the words. It sounded almost like laughter.

“Almost there,” Greythorn gasped. “One more. Just one more.”

Francis pulled the vial from his armor. The dark liquid inside seemed to pulse with its own inner light, responding to the magic that filled the chamber. Greythorn had told him to drink it before facing the creature, to strengthen his mental defenses against whatever assault it might launch.

Glitvall appeared beside him, his dark eyes fixed on the vial. “What is that?”

“Something to help me survive what comes next.” Francis met the warchief’s gaze. “If this goes wrong, if I fail in there, get everyone out. Don’t try to save me. Just run.”

“Francis—”

“Promise me.” Francis’s voice was hard, leaving no room for argument. “I’ve died in that room more times than I can count. If it happens again, I’ll come back. I’ll try again. But these warriors, your warriors, they only get one life. Don’t waste it trying to save someone who can’t die.”

Glitvall was silent for a moment. Then, slowly, he nodded. “I promise. But don’t make me keep it.”

“I’ll do my best.”

Francis raised the vial to his lips and drank.

The taste was bitter, like ash and iron and something else he couldn’t identify. It burned as it went down, spreading through his chest, his limbs, his mind. He felt it building inside him, not power exactly, but something like armor, like walls being erected around his thoughts, his memories, his sense of self.

The sensation was strange, uncomfortable, but he understood its purpose. The creature on the throne would try to break his mind, and shatter his will

The last chain fell.

The door swung open, and the cold poured out. It wasn’t just temperature, it wasn’t just the absence of heat. It was old. Ancient. The cold of something that had been waiting for centuries, patient and terrible and finally, finally free.

Warriors staggered back, some crying out, others simply collapsing as the cold sapped their strength. Even the shamans faltered, their golden light dimming against the wave of frost that swept through the chamber.

But Francis stood firm. He’d felt this cold before. He had died to it , and this time, he wasn’t going to let it stop him.

He stepped through the door.

It felt different now, knowing that he wasn’t alone, knowing that an army waited just beyond the door .

The chamber stretched out before him, its ceiling lost in shadows so deep they seemed to swallow light itself. Pillars of ice rose at regular intervals, each one carved with the same symbols that covered everything else in this place. And at the far end, raised on a platform of frozen stone, sat the throne.

It was made of ice, or something that looked like ice, twisted and shaped into a seat that seemed more grown than carved. Frost crawled across its surface in patterns that shifted whenever Francis tried to focus on them, and the cold emanating from it was the source of everything, the heart of the frozen hell that had consumed the north.

And on the throne sat the creature he’d tried to kill so many times.

It was the eyes that held Francis’s attention.

Those eyes fixed on Francis as he approached, and he felt the weight of them like a physical pressure against his mind. The mental defenses Greythorn’s vial had built held firm, assisted by his mental resistance, but he could feel the creature probing, testing, searching for weakness.

[ Mental Resist Increased - 49 ]

“So.” The voice was exactly as Francis remembered it, like dead leaves scraping across stone, dry and hollow and ancient. “You’re never going to give up, are you?”

Francis stopped at the base of the platform, his sword raised, his eyes locked on the creature’s burning gaze. “No. Never.”

The creature laughed. It was a terrible sound, dry and hollow, echoing through the chamber like the death rattle of something that had forgotten how to die. “I’ve killed you so many times. Frozen your blood. Watched you die to the cold, and every time, you come back. Every time, you try again.”

“That’s right.”

“Why?” The creature leaned forward on its throne, and Francis could see the madness in those ancient eyes, the desperate hunger that centuries of isolation had carved into whatever remained of its soul. “What do you hope to accomplish? You can’t kill me, can’t stop me. You can’t do anything but die and die and die again.”

“You’re wrong.” Francis took a step forward, then another, and gestured behind him toward the open door. “I have an army at my back. Shamans who broke the seals meant to hold you. Warriors who cut down everything set here to guard you. Whatever this place was, cage or throne, there’s nothing left of it standing between you and me.”

The creature’s eyes flickered toward the door, and for just a moment, Francis saw something in its expression. Not fear, exactly. But uncertainty perhaps.

“It doesn’t matter,” the creature said, but its voice had lost some of its certainty. “None of it matters. I’ve been around longer than you can imagine. I’ve killed challengers far more powerful than you. One army, with their primitive magic, it means nothing.”

“Then why do you sound afraid?”

Cold erupted from the throne, a wave of killing frost that swept across the chamber toward Francis. He felt it slam against his Magic Resistance, felt his defenses strain against the assault, but he didn’t flinch. He didn’t retreat.

“I’m not afraid of anything,” the creature hissed. “I am beyond fear. Beyond death. Beyond everything that constrains mortal flesh. I am eternal.”

“You’re a corpse,” Francis said, his voice flat. “A thing that should have died centuries ago but was too stubborn to accept it. Look at yourself. You’re falling apart. Every loop takes a little more from you, doesn’t it? Every death, every reset, another piece of you crumbles away.”

The creature’s clawed hands tightened on the arms of its throne, and Francis knew he’d struck a nerve. The thing was ancient, powerful beyond anything he’d faced before, but it was also decaying. Dying by inches, stretched across centuries of loops that had worn away at its body and its mind.

“You know nothing,” the creature spat. “Nothing of what I’ve endured. What I’ve sacrificed. What I’ve become.”

“I know you’re afraid,” Francis said. “Afraid that this time will be different. Afraid that I’ve finally found a way to end you.” He raised his sword, the blade catching the cold light that filled the chamber. “And you’re right to be afraid. Because this time, I’m not going to die. This time, I’m going to kill you. And then I’m going to take everything you have.”

The creature stared at him for a moment, those milky eyes pulsing with their inner light. Then, slowly, it rose from its throne.

It was taller than Francis had realized, its twisted body unfolding from the frozen seat like something emerging from a cocoon of ice. Frost crackled around it as it moved, the very air freezing in its presence, and Francis could feel the power rolling off it in waves that made his teeth ache. Each movement seemed to cost it something vital, its decaying form barely held together by whatever power sustained it.

“Then come,” the creature said, its voice dropping to a whisper that somehow filled the entire chamber. “Let us see which of us breaks first.”

Francis tightened his grip on his sword and stepped forward.

This time would be different. This time, he wasn’t alone.

This time, he was going to win.

Chapter 73

The creature rose from its throne, and Francis did something it clearly didn’t expect.

He lowered his sword.

The creature’s milky eyes narrowed, watching as Francis reached up and began unfastening the straps of his armor. The chest plate came loose with a series of clicks, and he let it fall to the frozen ground with a clatter that echoed through the vast chamber.

“What are you doing?” the creature asked, its voice carrying a note of confusion beneath the ancient malice.

Francis didn’t answer. He gripped the cloth beneath his armor and tore it open, exposing his bare chest to the killing cold. Frost immediately began forming on his skin, but he ignored it.

He drew his dagger and, without hesitation, sliced an X across his own chest.

Blood welled up immediately, hot against the frozen air, running down his torso in crimson lines. The pain was sharp, focused, real. Francis welcomed it. Pain meant he was still himself. Pain meant he was still in control.

The creature went still. Then, slowly, it began to laugh.

It was a terrible sound, dry and hollow, but there was something else in it now. Hunger. The creature inhaled deeply, its rotted nostrils flaring, its ruined mouth twisting into something that might have been a smile.

“The smell of fresh meat,” it breathed. “It’s been so long since I’ve tasted something so… alive.”

Francis nodded slowly, stepping closer to the throne. “You know what I am. What I carry inside me. You felt your brother die.”

“I felt him consumed.” The creature’s eyes blazed with that pulsing inner light. “Absorbed by something that should have been nothing more than food.”

“And now I’ve come for you.”

The creature studied him for a moment, those ancient eyes weighing something Francis couldn’t see. Then it raised one skeletal hand and plunged its claws into its own chest.

The sound was wet, horrible, like rotten fruit splitting open. The creature’s decayed flesh parted easily, revealing a hollow cavity where organs should have been. And there, cradled in that emptiness, curled tight around the last of the power that kept the husk upright, was something that made Francis’s blood almost freeze.

The parasite was massive, easily twice the size of the one he’d absorbed in the south. Its purple flesh pulsed with a slow, steady rhythm, and as the creature exposed it to the air, two yellow eyes opened in its center. A mouth formed, no larger than a coin, and it let out a sound that bypassed Francis’s ears entirely and drove straight into his skull.

“At last. Another one who carries our brother.”

The parasite began to unwind from the creature’s chest cavity, purple tendrils extending outward, reaching toward Francis like the limbs of something that had been waiting centuries for this moment. It pointed at him, a spear of violet flesh aimed at his bleeding chest.

“Let us see who is stronger,” the creature said, its voice merging with the sound in Francis’s head until he couldn’t tell where one ended and the other began. “Let us see who wins the real battle.”

The parasite launched itself at him.

It hit him like a spear through the heart.

Francis had braced himself, had prepared for pain, but nothing could have readied him for this. The parasite drove through the wound he’d cut, burrowing into his flesh with a burning cold that made his previous deaths feel like gentle sleep. He felt it moving inside him, tendrils wrapping around muscle and bone, seeking his heart, his spine, his brain.

He fell to his knees, a scream tearing from his throat that didn’t sound human. Purple blood mixed with red on the frozen ground, and Francis could feel the thing spreading through him like poison through veins, like ice through water, like death through life.

And then something else stirred.

Deep in his chest, where the first parasite had made its home, he felt movement. A presence that had been dormant since he’d absorbed it in the south, quiet and contained, suddenly blazed to life.

“Brother.”  The voice was different from the northern one, younger somehow, less corroded by time. “I’ve come.”

“At last.”   The northern parasite’s response echoed through Francis’s skull like thunder in a canyon. “I’m awake.”

“This one is strong.”   The southern brother again, and Francis could feel them reaching for each other inside him, two ancient entities reuniting after centuries apart. “We can rule it together.”

Francis’s vision went white. Then black. Then something else entirely.

He was nowhere.

He wasn’t in the throne room, this structure, or anywhere physical at all. Francis floated in a void of absolute darkness, his body present but meaningless, his senses registering nothing but the two presences that circled him like predators around wounded prey.

They were vast. Francis had known the parasites were powerful, had felt the southern one’s mind when he’d absorbed it, but this was different. Here, in this space between thoughts, he could perceive them fully for the first time.

The northern one was ancient beyond comprehension, its consciousness stretched thin by centuries of looping, riddled with decay and madness, but still terrifyingly strong. The southern one was younger, sharper, but diminished by its absorption, its will bent but not broken.

Together, they were overwhelming.

You cannot win this battle,  the northern one said, its voice echoing from everywhere and nowhere. Others have tried. Stronger than you. Smarter than you. They all became shells for us to wear.

But you don’t have to fight,  the southern one added, its tone almost seductive. Join us instead. See what we can offer.

The void shifted, and suddenly Francis was somewhere else.

He stood on a cliff overlooking a vast plain, but the sky above was wrong, filled with three moons and stars that formed no constellations he recognized. Below him, an army marched, millions strong, creatures he had no names for carrying banners of purple and gold.

This world fell to us in seven cycles,  the northern one whispered. Their gods fled before we could consume them. Cowards, like all gods.

The vision changed. A city of crystal spires, burning. Beings of light and song, screaming as purple tendrils wrapped around them and drained them to husks.

This one took longer, the southern one said. They had power. Real power. But power means nothing against eternity. We waited. We learned. We consumed.

More visions. More worlds. Civilizations that had risen to heights Francis couldn’t imagine, brought low by creatures that couldn’t be killed, couldn’t be stopped, couldn’t be escaped. The parasites showed him the full scope of what they were, what they had done, what they could do.

This is what we offer you, the northern one said, and suddenly the visions changed. Francis saw himself on a throne, not of ice but of gold, armies kneeling before him, power flowing through his veins like fire. Immortality beyond what you have now. Strength beyond anything this world has seen. You could rule not just this kingdom, but all of them. All worlds. Forever.

Francis felt the pull of it. The temptation was real, pressing against his mind like a physical weight. He could have everything. Power. Safety. An end to the endless dying.

All he had to do was surrender.

No.

The word came from somewhere deep inside him, from a place the parasites hadn’t touched. He thought of Michael, alone in the barracks, waiting for a brother who might never come back. He thought of Kerhi, who had walked through magic to save his life. He thought of everyone who was counting on him, of everyone who would die if he failed.

“I didn’t come here to rule. I came here to end you.”

The vision of power shattered like glass, and pain took its place.

It was worse than anything Francis had experienced, worse than being frozen, worse than being torn apart, worse than all his deaths combined. The parasites drove into his mind like needles, a thousand of them, a million, each one seeking something vital and tearing at it.

Then you will be consumed, the northern one snarled, all pretense of seduction gone. Everything you are will be ours. Your body. Your power. Your memories.

Francis felt them reaching for his memories, felt them begin to pull at the threads of who he was. A childhood afternoon vanished, the color draining from it before it disappeared entirely. The taste of his mother’s bread, gone. The sound of his father’s voice, silenced forever.

You are nothing, the southern one hissed. A speck of consciousness in a shell of meat. We have consumed gods. What makes you think you can resist us?

They showed him his deaths. Every one of them played back in excruciating detail. Frozen in the killing field. Torn apart by Reavers. Crushed by the wolverkin. Shattered by the robed figure’s magic. Death after death after death, an endless parade of failure and agony.

This is what you are, the northern one said.  A creature that dies. Over and over. You come back, yes, but you still die. You still fail. You have always failed.

More memories tore away. His first day of training with Phillip. The first time he’d held a real sword. Pieces of himself, ripped out and discarded like pages from a book.

Francis felt himself fragmenting, his sense of self dissolving under the assault. He was losing. He was going to lose. He was going to become another shell, another puppet, another victim of creatures that had been doing this for longer than his world had existed.

And then a memory surfaced that they hadn’t touched yet.

Stenson’s study, late at night, after a brutal training session that had left Francis bruised and bleeding.

The old general had poured two cups of wine and handed one to Francis without a word. They’d sat in silence for a long time, watching the fire burn low in the hearth. Then Stenson had spoken, his voice rough with something Francis hadn’t been able to identify at the time.

“Any smart man would be proud to have you as a son.”

Francis grabbed that memory and held it close, wrapping it around himself like armor. The parasites tore at it, tried to drain its color, tried to silence Stenson’s voice, but Francis wouldn’t let go. He had carried those words through a thousand deaths. He would not lose them now.

Sentiment, the northern one sneered. Weakness. These attachments are chains that bind you to your limitations.

Another memory rose up. The Spires, at sunset, the sky painted in shades of orange and gold that he’d never seen anywhere else. Trina stood beside him, his sister who never showed softness, never displayed affection, never let anyone see past her walls.

But that evening, for just a moment, she had let her guard down. She hadn’t said anything profound, hadn’t offered any words of encouragement or love. She’d just stood there with him, watching him as blood and flesh fell from his shoulders and back. She had been the one to inflict that pain. She had supported his crazy plan to get stronger by letting her burn, freeze and electrocute him. There in that moment, she had done something he could count on one finger. For Trina, that was everything. For Trina, that was “I’m glad you exist.”

Francis held that moment too, fitting it against the others like a stone set into a wall. The parasites screamed in frustration, their assault intensifying, but he could feel them straining now. They hadn’t expected this. They consumed by hollowing a thing out and pouring themselves into the empty space it left behind. But everywhere they reached to carve Francis open, they found the space already filled. A face. A name. A moment that was his and no one else’s. There was nowhere in him left vacant to take.

Stop, the southern one commanded, and there was something new in its voice. Fear? Stop resisting. You cannot win this way.

But Francis was already reaching for the next memory.

Kerhi’s tent. The northern cold howling outside, but inside there was warmth, safety, her. They had lain together in the darkness, her head on his chest, her breath soft against his skin. She had traced her finger along his skin, and he had told her stories that no one else knew, stories of deaths and failures and the endless grinding repetition of loops.

She hadn’t pitied him. Hadn’t recoiled from the horror of it. She had just held him tighter and said, “Then I’m honored to be part of a life you keep choosing to live.”

And then, overlaid on that memory, another one. Kerhi on the killing field, walking through the robed figure’s beam of killing light. Ice forming on her skin, her flesh freezing, every step an agony that should have killed her. But she had kept coming. She had saved him.

She doesn’t even remember why she did that, Francis thought. But I do. I carry it for both of us.

The parasites reeled. He could feel them losing ground, their grip on his mind slipping. They had been alone for so long, isolated in their hosts, connected only to each other. They had forgotten what this felt like. They had forgotten that some things couldn’t be consumed.

One more memory. The most recent. The most powerful.

Michael, after the southern battle. The fighting was over, the beastkin routed, the kingdom saved. Francis had been standing in the middle of the battlefield, covered in blood that wasn’t his, too exhausted to move, too overwhelmed to think.

And Michael had sought him out. His brother, alive, whole, grinning like a fool despite the carnage around them. Michael had crossed the distance between them in three strides and pulled Francis into a hug so tight it had hurt.

“We did it,” Michael had said, his voice breaking. “You actually did it.”

Francis had held his brother. After everything, after all the deaths and the loops and the endless fighting, they had won. Together. The way it was always supposed to be.

He wrapped that memory around himself, the final piece of armor, and faced the parasites with everything he had.

“You want to know what makes me different?” Francis said, and his voice filled the void, drowning out the parasites’ screams. “It’s not my power. It’s not my skills.”

He could feel them trying to retreat now, trying to pull back, but he wouldn’t let them. They had invaded his mind. They had tried to consume him. Now he was going to show them what that felt like.

Francis reached for the parasites with his will, with every ounce of determination that had carried him through thousands of deaths, and he squeezed.

“You’re hoping to outlast me. That’s the only weapon you’ve ever had, isn’t it? Time… You wait and learn. You grind whatever you infect down until there’s nothing left with the strength to fight you, and then you take what’s left. Don’t you?” His will bore down on them. “But I don’t run the way they did. I die, and I come back to the same morning, as the same man, and everything you tore loose is whole again. Every inch of ground you win, I take back the moment I fall. You have eternity? So do I! The difference is mine starts over.”

The parasites thrashed, and Francis tightened his grip.

“And the part you keep clawing at, the part you can’t pull free no matter how deep you reach? It’s every person who made me into someone worth coming back as. There was never any room in me for you. There never will be.”

The southern parasite broke first.

It had been weakened by its original absorption, its will bent when Francis had first consumed it. Now, faced with the full force of his determination, it shattered. Francis felt it fragment inside him, its consciousness dissolving into raw power that flooded through his veins.

No… brother… help me…

The northern one tried. Francis could feel it reaching for its sibling, trying to pull the fragments together, trying to save what was left. But it was too late. The southern parasite was gone, absorbed fully, its power becoming Francis’s power, its memories flooding through him in a torrent of alien experiences that he pushed aside for later.

Now there was only the northern one. Ancient. Powerful. And utterly alone.

This changes nothing,  it snarled, but its voice had lost its thunder. I am older than your civilization. I have consumed beings that would have driven you mad just to perceive. You cannot—

“I can,” Francis said. “And I will.”

He threw everything at it. Every memory, every connection, every moment of love and sacrifice and hope. Stenson’s pride. Trina’s rare affection. Kerhi’s warmth and courage. Michael’s embrace. The faces of the warriors who had died to get him here. The trust of kings and generals. The faith of an army.

The northern parasite screamed.

It was a sound that transcended hearing, a psychic wail of something ancient and terrible facing its own end for the first time. Francis felt it thrashing inside him, fighting with everything it had, but it wasn’t enough. It had only ever needed to wait. Across every host and every world, it had simply outlived whatever dared stand against it, certain that time belonged to it and nothing else. It had never once faced a thing that could take time back. It did not know how to fight what it could not outlast.

And now it was paying the price.

[ Mental Resist Increased - 72 ]

The parasite’s consciousness shattered. Its memories flooded through Francis, centuries of them, worlds and civilizations and horrors beyond counting. He saw what it had been before the looping twisted it, a creature of ambition and hunger but not yet madness. He saw its first hosts, its first conquests, its slow descent into the thing it had become.

For just a moment, he felt something like pity.

Then the moment passed, and the parasite was gone.

Francis opened his eyes.

He was on his knees in the throne room, his hands pressed against the frozen floor, his body wracked with tremors he couldn’t control. Steam rose from his skin where the cold of the floor met something far too hot inside him. He looked down at his chest. Purple light pulsed beneath the skin, bright, then brighter, branching out along his ribs in thin lines like cracks running through ice.

It wasn’t fading.

That’s not right.

The first time, in the south, the light had dimmed and settled. The core had found its place. This one wasn’t settling. It was burning him alive.

He tried to stand, but his legs wouldn’t answer. The tremors climbed into his chest, his jaw, behind his eyes, and something deep in him was coming apart, slow and certain, and no part of it felt like a wound he could close. Even his regeneration couldn’t keep up with what was happening.

Two old cores in a body built for one.

Greythorn had warned him. The creature you face is old. Its parasite will be stronger. He’d heard it as a fight to out-will this opponent. He hadn’t understood she meant his body. He hadn’t understood that winning the war inside him and surviving it were two different things.

He could hear footsteps and voices. The world came back in pieces, the broken seals, the throne, the cold. Then hands on his shoulders, turning him.

Through blurred vision he saw Kerhi.

She’d reached him first. Frost-burn streaked her face, blood crusted her knuckles, her axes gone. Her palms pressed flat to his chest like she could hold him together by will alone.

“Up,” she said. “You’re getting up. Greythorn!”

The high shaman was already kneeling beside him, gnarled fingers spread over the light spidering across his ribs. He watched her eyes narrow, her lips tightening in a way that told him everything.

“No wound, this,” Greythorn said quietly. “Cannot close what has no edges. Thing he carried in is too old for the body that holds it. Does not kill him from without.” She drew her hands back. “Kills him from within. Nothing in this world heals that.”

“Then find something not in this world,” Kerhi snapped. “You speak to gods. Speak to them now.”

“Kerhi.” His voice sounded off, like he was speaking in a cave. He found her hand and gripped it, or tried to. “Hey. Look at me.”

She turned, her eyes wide, doing the thing he loved and hated in equal measure, that fierce refusal to accept a fact just because it was true.

“It worked,” he said. Francis smiled, because under the pain sat something that felt like the first clean breath in so long. “Kerhi, it worked. It’s dead. I killed it, I took it. The north’s looper is gone.”

“Stop talking like that.”

Her free hand came up to his face. Her thumb traced under his eye, where he knew the purple was guttering like a candle in a draft.

“Your eyes,” she said.

“Really?” He huffed something that wanted to be a laugh.

“I don’t care what color they are.” Her voice cracked, and she pressed her forehead to his. “I care that they’re still yours. Do you hear me? Whatever you put inside yourself, you’re still in there. You’re still you.”

“I’m still me,” he agreed. Still Francis. Still here.  The oldest promise he’d ever made himself. It was one the parasites had tried to break. “Always.”

“I’m going to reset,” he said. “That’s all this is. I die here, I’ll wake up and we’ll be together again.”

She made a sound that was half sob and half laugh and shook her head against his. “No. No, you stubborn southern fool. Listen to me.” She drew back just far enough to fix him with those burning eyes, fierce as the first day he’d met her in a life she couldn’t remember. “I’ll find you again. I don’t care that I won’t know why I’m looking. I always find you. I always will.”

The bond…

Whatever it had been she sensed across every loop, the confusion that crossed her face the moment they met, the certainty beneath it she could never explain. She was giving him the one piece of herself the resets had never managed to take.

It undid him more than the dying did.

“Okay,” he managed. “Okay… We’ll find each other.”

“Every time.”

The light under his skin flared white at the edges. The cold of the floor went distant. The throne room narrowed to the warmth of her hands and the blue of her eyes.

“Francis.” Glitvall’s voice, somewhere above, rough as broken stone. He set one massive hand on Francis’s shoulder and let it stay, and that was its own kind of farewell.

“Enjoy… your place… with your wife,” Francis managed to get out.

Kerhi kissed him.

It was fierce, and desperate, and full of every word neither of them had time left for. He kissed her back with what he had and held the shape of it, the taste of frost and iron and her.

It’s okay… I won… I survived the parasites, and we’ll see each other again.

He believed it, all the way down.

The void took him.

***

Far to the east, in a throne room carved from living stone, something ancient stirred.

The creature on the throne had been still for hours, its consciousness extended across vast distances, monitoring the war, coordinating the endless assault on the human kingdoms. It had felt its northern brother fighting, had sensed the struggle against the intruder who carried their consumed sibling.

Then, suddenly, silence.

The eastern looper sat up, its milky eyes widening. It reached out with its mind, searching for the familiar presence of its brother, the connection that had existed for centuries.

Brother?

Nothing. Where there had always been an answer, there was only void.

Brother!

The creature rose from its throne, ancient bones creaking, decayed flesh straining. It reached out again, and again, searching desperately for the presence that should have been there.

But there was nothing. The northern brother was gone. Not reset, not sleeping, not hiding.

Gone.

Consumed, like the southern one before it.

The eastern looper opened its mouth and screamed.

The sound echoed through the stone halls, carrying rage and grief and something that might have been fear. Servants fled. Guards trembled. The very walls seemed to shake with the force of an ancient creature’s fury.

Somewhere in the north, an enemy had done the impossible. Again.

And the eastern looper knew, with terrible certainty, that something was hunting them.