Chương 1: Forever, If You Must

I am going to die here. Alcyr raised his cracked shield, blocking the vicious blow of the barbarian striking at him. Unbalanced by the opponent's insane vigour, the young soldier rolled into a fighting crouch and blocked the follow-up, his sword throwing sparks onto the snow as it met the Northman's axe. The barbarian's face was inches from his as their weapons locked, the enemy's eyes bloodshot from combat drugs, drool spilling from a slack-jawed grin.

All around them were the sounds and sights of a thousand desperate battles. Two armies had collided on the frozen fields — companies of Morwyn infantrymen against tribes of northern barbarians. Under fading sunlight and drifting snow, chaos reigned upon the tundra as countless men were sent to hack each other to death. And Alcyr's platoon, isolated and outnumbered, was being ground into the frost along with them. Alcyr did not cower. Pooling strength in his legs, he pushed to the side as hard as he could.

Briefly creating space, he trapped the haft of his opponent's axe with the flat of his arming sword before mercilessly ramming the rim of his shield into the Northman's face. The crunch of nose cartilage breaking was satisfying music to his ears — almost as much as the ding of notification that followed. [Shield Discipline increased to 12] Seeing his opponent staggered, Alcyr took a step back and spun with all the strength he could muster. His arming sword drove through the enemy's throat.

It went in without slowing, as though cutting through air. The barbarian fell to his knees, his head half-severed from the neck. Alcyr kicked the corpse aside, feeling little satisfaction at the kill. Another one down, he thought tiredly. How many more are left? A foolish question. He already knew the answer was too many. Bodies of his butchered allies littered the snow around him, and still the Northmen came. The platoon was trapped. No help was coming.

Fatalism wasn't bred into his bones, but neither was deluded optimism. There was no valour to be found in living a lie. This frost will be my grave. But he would not sleep in it alone, nor with a dry sword. Before he breathed his last, Alcyr swore he would fill the snow around him with the corpses of his foes. Another barbarian caught sight of him. The brute ripped his axe from the spine of a fallen soldier and marched towards him.

Alcyr saw that his opponent's facial features were red — a shining wetness from eyes that cried blood, sleeting the rictus grin beneath. A meaningless screed of foreign syllables poured forth from the barbarian's palsied lips, the demented words shaped into some form of crude tribal challenge. The foe was taller than him, larger than him, and enhanced with whatever foul shaman alchemy this northern wasteland produced. Faced with such a hulking and frenzied reaver, the sane response should have been to run.

Alcyr instead raised his sword, wordlessly declaring his acceptance of the duel. He had always believed there was something beautiful in the very first moments of a hopeless battle. Here were the echoes of highest emotions: the reeking fear of your allies, the frustrated bloodlust, and the screaming confidence of your opponents. In those last minutes before certain death, the purity of one's soul was revealed in their final choice: To be overcome by fear, madness, or defiance. Alcyr chose defiance.

The enemy came, heaving a burbling laugh as their axe surged forth. Alcyr met the killing edge without hesitation or fear. If he was not allowed to achieve his dream, then the least the world could give him was a beautifully violent death.

Who was at fault for his tragic demise that day? In Alcyr's eyes, the reasons for his impending death weren't directly because of the axe coming for his head, nor was it really linked to the incompetent nobles shepherding the northern campaign he had joined. No, the true fault — the true reason he was going to die like a dog that day — was because of three words.

"You have talent." Those three words, given to Alcyr when he was a boy, were a curse. They were the seeds of an impossible dream. From the moment Alcyr was born, the world had already deemed him worthless. When he was seven, his family abandoned him. When he was eight, he was made into a slave. When he was ten, he killed for the first time. Through luck and sheer will, he freed himself from the chains and whips. Under the tutelage of a capricious mentor, he learned how to fight and defend himself.

For a while after they parted, he wandered as a lone mercenary, having nothing but an iron sword and a dagger to his name. Those who pitied him spoke kindly.

"Put down the blade. You will never survive." Many simply laughed.

"Just give up. You are better off with a beggar's bowl than a sword." Yet, he persisted in his dream. He trained harder, slept less, and drilled with his sword every day until his palm bled. At seventeen, Alcyr joined the military. Within less than a year, he became a decorated killer in the 3rd Irregular Company. The captain praised him as a sword prodigy, and the other soldiers of the company treated him with equal parts respect and awe. None of it was enough. He took on increasingly dangerous roles.

Volunteering for scouting missions, patrols, and vanguard placements. Anything that allowed him to improve his swordplay through blood and violence. And so the reason Alcyr was going to die that night wasn't really because of the Morwyn kingdom's ill-fated war against the Northmen, nor was it because his platoon had the misfortune of being surrounded by some of the strongest warriors this side of the northern mountains. It was because he was stupid enough to believe three words. I have talent, huh?

Alcyr felt the bite of the barbarian's axe gnash deep into his chest. He smiled, neither bitter nor angry. You are a liar, mentor. Defiant and dying, Alcyr fought on regardless of his wounds or fatigue. Even as his body tried to shut down, he refused to fall and die, not when he still had a sword in hand and foes to kill. Death would take him eventually, as it did for all living beings. But it would have to earn his corpse first.

Alcyr kicked his dead opponent aside, pulling his mangled sword from the berserker's body. [Armour Discipline has improved to 10] Still alive. He breathed painfully, feeling the wound on his chest. His leather armour had just barely saved him. Death will have to work harder if it still wants me. The exchange with the barbarian had barely lasted a minute, yet it felt like a lifetime.

The flurry of blows exchanged was decidedly inhuman, bolstered by strength and speed gifted by the myriad skills within their respective Systems. All in all, it was a good fight. He was still alive and had reaped the benefits of mortal battle with new skill levels. It was too bad he wouldn't live much longer to enjoy it. Alcyr dismissed the notification, taking a few seconds to catalogue his wounds and remaining equipment.

The shield strapped to his wrist had been reduced to nothing more than splintered wood, and his arming sword was bent at the midway mark after he parried an axe blow earlier. He still had his dagger, but that was a poor substitute for a proper shield and sword. His muscles ached with a raw, coppery urgency. Blood was oozing from the countless slashes across his body. His heartbeat had turned erratic ever since that barbarian managed to strike his chest earlier, leaving him breathless and weak.

Unless he got to a healer sometime within the next fifteen minutes, he was going to bleed out and die. Too bad the closest healer is a thousand bodies away, Alcyr thought. The platoon was isolated, with no hope of receiving reinforcement from any nearby allies. None of them was long for life. Amidst the continuous clashes of scattered battle, someone limped towards him. Alcyr turned to meet the despairing gaze of a fellow soldier. He nodded in greeting.

"Roland." The other infantryman spat bloodily at the barbarian corpse in the snow.

"Alcyr. You look like hell. How many of the Northmen did you kill, you sword fanatic?" Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

"Not enough to make a difference," Alcyr answered honestly.

"How many of us are left?"

"Eight. Maybe nine. Those damn Northmen sent berserkers after us. Bloody berserkers! Second and Third Squads were wiped out. We might be the last ones left here." That wasn't even a quarter of the platoon's original strength. The local barbarian forces still outnumbered them at least three-to-one.

"These bastards are strong," Roland continued, his tone fearful.

"High Initiate tier, at least. Never should have joined the Irregulars… The military recruiter promised us we would be slaughtering untrained Low Initiates, at worst!"

"Some of these Northmen are close to the Low Journeyman tier as well," Alcyr added.

"Their combat skills felt too high-level to be mere Initiates." He heard heavy footsteps approach.

"Can you still fight?" Roland laughed helplessly.

"If the opponent is crippled like me, maybe." Alcyr shifted into a combat stance.

"I don't think we're that lucky." Two barbarians stopped before them, twenty paces away. Their axes were already drenched red from the other soldiers they killed. Roland swallowed nervously.

"I'll hold one of them down. How long will you need to cut through the second bastard before coming to help me?" Alcyr evaluated his murderous opponents, his wounded ally, and then the bent sword held in his numbed fingers.

"Ten seconds," he answered bluntly.

"Twenty if the other comes after me once you fail to hold his attention." He paused.

"Thirty if my sword breaks and I have to strangle them both to death with my bare hands."

"Even half-dead, you still make stupid jokes," Roland hissed through gritted teeth.

"Alright. Let's do this!" Combat resumed once more, fast and brutal like storm lightning. Blades swung and clashed against each other with thunderous clangour. Alcyr faced the full force of the barbarian's bestial fury. Empowered by stimulants, the Northman's muscles were expending more energy than a human body should allow. Alcyr could smell the sour reek of fungal narcotics flooding his opponent's breath and blood.

The rush of battle had heightened the spread until the drugs had completely saturated the barbarian's bloodstream. The soldier deflected the first strike, then the second. The third shattered his sword when he tried to parry the blow, and the fourth glanced against his side, cracking ribs. Blackness crept into the edge of Alcyr's vision, the tendrils of death inching closer with each desperate defence he forced his failing body to execute. Not yet!

Snarling, Alcyr headbutted the foe hard enough to make his head spin. A kick followed, boots hammering into the barbarian's knee and causing the Northman to slip on the bloody frost beneath them. Alcyr advanced, pouncing onto the fallen barbarian, broken sword in hand. The Northman frothed and raved, his eyes bleeding from the drug overdose that was burning out his mind and organs. The soldier pinned the thrashing brute with his weight, muscle burning with venomous exhaustion.

Gritting his teeth, he brought both hands down and pushed his shattered sword against the Northman's throat. He began sawing. There was nothing honourable, clean, or noble about the act. It was a brutal way of killing, even by Alcyr's standards. Back, forth. Back, forth. First blood, then flesh, then bone. Fear broke through the drug-induced cloud in the Northman's eyes as the jagged blade rapidly ripped through the meat of his neck and reached the spine. The barbarian's last gurgling words sounded like a plea.

His frantic movements soon ceased as his bloodshot eyes rolled to the back of his skull. His opponent dead, Alcyr relaxed and allowed himself a second of respite. That proved to be a fatal mistake. Before he even had time to draw breath, he heard a feral cry behind him, followed by the tremors of rapidly approaching footsteps. Damn it, Roland! With no time left, Alcyr released his broken sword — still stuck deep in the first barbarian's neck — and turned as fast as he could, his dagger drawn.

Unfortunately for him, his new opponent was even faster. Roaring in triumph, the second barbarian — the one that Roland should have been distracting — brought his axe down on Alcyr's shoulder. The soldier had instinctively twisted at the last second. The blade landed at an angle. Though it failed to dismember his left arm, it succeeded in shearing a chunk off his shoulder, exposing the white of bone beneath.

[Pain Tolerance has improved to 18] The adrenal rush of pain lent strength to his aching limbs and acrid muscles. Alcyr's killing fury turned his vision from black to red, awash with arterial blood as his dagger plunged into the rich veins at the base of his opponent's throat. Hot sprays of coppery red seared his eyes. Alcyr's savage roar echoed across the battlefield as he closed in on the gurgling brute.

His hands crunched onto the Northman's neck, collapsing the throat while his fingers viced into the soft tissue around it. The barbarian was brought to his knees, eyes bulging. Deprived of air, unable to draw even a shred of breath as blood flooded his lungs, the Northman mouthed a final word before he died — a universal curse that even Alcyr understood despite the foreign dialect.

"Godless…" Alcyr wrenched his grip to the side, snapping the barbarian's neck. Disgusted, he shoved the corpse off him, retrieved his dagger, and wiped the hot blood off his face. There was movement at the edge of his failing vision. Roland was still alive, somehow. Alcyr was about to curse at the other soldier for failing to distract the second barbarian, but then he saw the man's condition. Roland's right arm was gone — severed clean and lying on the bloody snow.

"My arm!" Roland gasped.

"I lost my damn sword arm!"

"You didn't lose it. It's right there." Alcyr grabbed Roland and got him to his feet. That act alone brought an agony so fierce he nearly passed out.

"We'll come back for it later. Right now, we need to leave. There's an opening." The fighting had taken them away from the chaos; the path towards the rear lines was clear of foes, for now. If they could just make it to the edge, their allies from the second wave might notice them.

"I'd punch your teeth out if I still had my right hand," Roland hissed, leaning on Alcyr.

"If only your sword arm were as vicious as your tongue, then perhaps you wouldn't have lost it." Alcyr held up the man's weight as best he could.

"Come on. Move!"

"I can't believe you managed to kill those two bastards," the other soldier wheezed, blood flecks staining his lips as he walked.

"You were wounded even worse than I was. How are you even still standing? You're a damn monster, Alcyr."

"Too bad being a monster is not enough to save us. Is our platoon sergeant still alive?" Alcyr asked, supporting the other soldier as the pair hurriedly hobbled towards the break in the battle. He wasn't sure what to do when they got there. Alcyr was not long for life, but perhaps Roland could still flee.

"Saw his body on the ground earlier," Roland coughed weakly.

"Not sure how these barbarians killed a Journeyman veteran, but we need to go before— Damn, look out!" Roland shoved Alcyr aside. There was an impact. The older soldier's body jerked violently, then went still. Alcyr rolled to his feet, dagger raised. He looked up. Roland's head was gone. It rolled along the snow, stopping right at the feet of a grinning berserker. Alcyr exhaled, more amused than resigned.

There was only one opponent, but the soldier knew right away this wasn't a foe he could beat — maybe not even if he had been at full strength. The barbarians were already formidable opponents to begin with, but this tattooed giant was a bronze wall of savage muscle, standing three full heads taller than the average Morwyn infantryman. A berserker warchief, he recognised. A monster strong enough to kill entire squads of soldiers on his own. Alcyr barely saw the bastard move.

By the time he thought to lunge with his dagger, the opponent's axe was already swinging to cleave through him. It was often said that in the final seconds before one's death, the mind and body struggled their hardest to survive. A transcendent moment of focus was achieved — that blink of time when one's life flashes before their eyes. It was typically in this moment — this brink of inhuman psyche that was rarely tapped into — that a person's System was forced to mutate. Alcyr's instincts sharpened.

Faced with imminent death, his mind and body moved faster than ever before. Unfortunately, it was too little, too late. The warchief's axe shifted to avoid his dagger parry and slashed deep into him. Alcyr's chest was opened diagonally from collarbone to sternum. [New Skill: Combat Sense 1 (Uncommon)] Idiocy. What was the point of the System giving him the skill now? Did he have to die to learn it? Alcyr fell to his knees. Blood flooded from his wound in a deluge. The dagger dropped from his numbed fingers.

So that's how our sergeant died. Alcyr's thoughts were sluggish as his vision faded. This warchief… A High Journeyman, at least. The warchief was already moving on to his next prey as Alcyr drew his last breath. Darkness washed over him. For some reason, he felt himself smiling. He died in the mud, worthless and forgotten, just as he always knew he would.

He was floating in a void. Alcyr did not know where he was. He barely remembered anything. All he wanted to do was to sleep forever. But his persistent thoughts would not let him rest. Desire. Dreams. And that damnable yearning to prove his mentor right. Her accursed words, given so freely, without a thought of what they would do to him.

"You have talent."

"You can master the sword."

"You can become the strongest."

"You can become a Saint." In the end, he had not been able to live up to even a sliver of her praise. He could have lived a modest life, spent his days in a peaceful village, and been buried in a quiet grave. It would have been a life well-lived, especially for him who had once been chained and whipped as a slave. Yet, he was here instead. One of a thousand nameless corpses on a battlefield, a life ill-spent honing his swordplay for a dream he already knew he would never achieve. He did this to himself.

He wasted his own life and freedom on impossible ambitions. Someone like him, who came from nothing, deserved nothing. From the moment of his birth, he was fated to die forgotten and worthless. … And yet.

"I know I'm worth more." Nobility, wealth, bloodlines, blessings, talent. Geniuses and prodigies had them all. He had none of those things. And yet, he knows he is worth more. The whips against his back. The chains biting his neck and wrists. The years of darkness spent in the mines, drinking foetid water and eating rotten food to survive. When so many others went mad, he endured. When so many others gave up, he persisted. When so many others died in their chains, he alone escaped.

He dug his way free of that hell, and when his tormentor stood in the way of his freedom, Alcyr had a choice. The purity of his soul was revealed in that moment. To choose fear, madness, or defiance. Alcyr swore to choose defiance, always. Maybe that was why his mentor chose him. She watched an emaciated child strangle his inhuman slaver to death with his own chains, and her only response was to laugh.

As the last dregs of Alcyr's life faded, he remembered the first words of his mentor — the only person who'd ever offered him kindness.

"Not a single one of those lofty geniuses and prodigies I trained could have pulled off what you just did. A child who knows no fear… What would a mad soul like yours bloom into, I wonder?"

"You have talent. Why don't you travel with me for a while?"

"I'll turn your defiance into a sword that will reach even the Godless Heavens." The weight of death was an ocean. Alcyr was drowning. But upon these bleak and fathomless waters, he saw a radiant light. A small wooden rowboat drifted in the middle of that vast emptiness. Its lamp shone like a lighthouse in a storm, hung upon a golden staff. The woman sitting on it was robed in white, utterly faceless beneath her dark hood. Her voice came from that endless shadow. It gave him only one command. [Again. Forever, if you must.] The golden power released him. Alcyr was falling through the void, drowning in blackness. He heard the rush of ethereal winds and the bubbling of stygian waters pass him by as this unknown recess of Hell swallowed him whole. An eternity and a second passed. And then… Alcyr woke to the sound of howling wolves.