Chương 10: Alternate Ways

Alcyr took some time to consider his next move and eventually decided it might be worth testing out the limits of his time-looping abilities. He still wasn't going to tell anyone about it, but if his power was going to activate each time he died, no matter the circumstances, then it was imperative that he found out everything he could about it first.

Going forward, his entire approach to growing his System's skills — his entire future — now revolved around how he could best exploit and utilise the time loops to his advantage. First theory: It is possible to advance the day by evading the predestined conflict. Avoiding bloodshed felt anathema to him. By forgoing violence, he was giving up the skill experience he could gain. But there would be countless more battles to come, not just in this set of loops, but in future encounters as well.

It was better for him to conduct his tests now, when the situation and its variables were still more controllable. The first thing he attempted was to try convincing both the Company Captain and Lieutenant Vormas to cancel the convoy's supply run. Doing this without any physical proof on hand was next to impossible. Captain Halmon himself wasn't happy to hear Alcyr's baseless warning, to say the least. To the man's credit, the captain didn't laugh, nor did he dismiss Alcyr outright.

Despite having enlisted only a year ago, Alcyr had since proven himself a valuable asset to the 3rd Irregular. Though stoic and perhaps unsettling in his dedication to training, he was nonetheless strong, respectful, and competent. In short, he was not the kind of soldier who'd wasted an officer's time with nonsense, and so Halmon listened. Alcyr, in turn, avoided dancing around the issue and laid out the situation as concisely as he could.

To maintain some credibility, he avoided any notion of time travel entirely and instead framed his warning as the product of a vivid premonition. He kept his tone entirely professional throughout his explanation, even when the words he spoke were — objectively speaking — utterly insane. Lieutenant Vormas was present at the briefing as well. Unlike Halmon, however, he was less inclined to hold his disbelief.

"Private, you must understand what you are telling us is ridiculous," the lieutenant snapped.

"I was willing to hear your words, given Captain Halmon's respect for you. But prophetic dreams? The entire convoy dying to an ambush led by a warlord? Clearly, the rigours of war have addled your youthful mind. You had a nightmare, soldier. Nothing more."

"I assure you, sir. I'm mentally sound," Alcyr replied dryly.

"Your moniker as the company's sword fanatic suggests otherwise," Vormas pointed out. Captain Halmon sighed.

"Look, Private… Are you sure this isn't merely a nightmare? You are still young and relatively new to the war. Such things are not uncommon to newbloods."

"I think you know me well enough by now to realise that I do not fear war, Captain," Alcyr replied bluntly.

"Have you ever known me to shy away from bloodshed?" The captain glared at Alcyr for a moment.

"No, I suppose not. The others, perhaps, but not you. You volunteer for every possible danger, and you have killed more barbarians than the rest of the newbloods combined. Moreover, your performance in the Battle of the Red Rime lends some merit to your words."

"Then you believe me? You will cancel the supply run tonight?"

"No. Even if I want to, I simply cannot. The 4th Regulars are expecting that convoy to return by tomorrow morning. We cannot delay them without good cause."

"Prophetic dreams don't constitute cause," Vormas added.

"Not unless they are sanctioned by the Royal Oracular Order. Which yours are not." Alcyr tried once more.

"Sir, sending out that convoy is a death sentence. I believe the 4th Regular would rather have a late delivery than none at all." Halmon wearily considered for a moment.

"I will bolster the convoy with two additional squads. That's all I can spare. We will also arrange for an alternate route to avoid this ambush you speak of." Two additional squads would barely make a difference — not against a High Elite. However, an alternate route might be enough to avoid the battle.

"This isn't necessary," Vormas sighed.

"Captain, you're reorganising the convoy's security on the whims of a Private's nightmare."

"For this specific Private, it might be worth listening," Halmon replied.

"He's young, and maybe a little mad, but he's one of my best swordsmen. Besides, there's no harm in some extra security. If he's wrong, nothing is lost — the convoy runs a little heavy, sure, but it will arrive without delay. And if he's right, well…" He glanced at Alcyr.

"A few extra swords are the least of what you'll need to survive." Alcyr pushed one last time.

"Respectfully, sir. This seems like a massive, needless risk. At least give it a day's delay. Maybe then, the chances of an encounter will—""Enough." The captain cut him off, his displeasure clear.

"Place yourself in my position, soldier. Would you trust such rantings without proof? I've given your deluded caution enough courtesy. You are free to withdraw your place in the escort if you wish, but I'll hear no more talk of cancelling the convoy." Alcyr kept silent for a moment. Seeing no other way to persuade his captain, he resignedly nodded.

"I understand, sir. I still wish to be part of tonight's escort, if Lieutenant Vormas will allow it." Vormas looked surprised, but he did not protest. Alcyr supposed he should be thankful the lieutenant leaned more towards the tolerant end. He could not imagine any other Regulars accepting his nonsense. Getting whipped for insubordination seemed more likely. Going along with the convoy seemed tantamount to suicide, but that was hardly a concern. There was a suspicion he needed to confirm.

A repeatable time loop where my levels and skills are retained between deaths, he thought to himself. Something this powerful doesn't come without limits or a cost. Using an unknown ability to his advantage was one thing. Blindly trusting it edged the line towards recklessness. He had no intention of gambling his life on an obscure fantasy. Understanding the nature of his temporal immortality was the best path forward. Because if he could fully figure out the mechanics behind the time-loop…

Then the fate of his fruitless struggles to Sainthood was about to change forever.

"Get to cover! Get to— hrrk!" Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. The arrow took the Irregular through the side of his neck before he could finish, leaving him gurgling on blood. Alcyr grabbed the man as he fell and hauled him behind the nearest waggon. He tore a piece of cloth from his cloak and pressed it against the wound, trying to stem the blood flow as he was taught. It was of little use. The man died seconds later.

But Alcyr's efforts did not go unrewarded. [New Skill: Field Triage 1 (Common)] Alcyr ignored the message and the screams of the dying nearby. That was the fifth casualty the convoy had suffered. Not even a minute had passed since the first arrow was shot, and the bodies were still mounting. Vormas had his shield up. There was a flare of power as the Regular activated some skill and deflected an incoming arrow with a sharp motion.

The projectile spiralled into the snow behind him, throwing up dirt and ice as it detonated like a small bomb. The timeline has changed. Alcyr thought to himself, intrigued despite the chaos. This is a different spot from yesterday's ambush. It's also too early. We were supposed to meet the barbarians hours later. And yet, here they were. The convoy had set out a few hours after dusk, just as it had before.

However, it had barely trudged on for two hours upon a different path before a black streak tore through the night and took off the legs of three guards in a single shot. Alcyr had reacted immediately and started shouting for everyone to hide behind the waggons. The arrows tore through the wooden carriages like paper, but there was precious little cover anywhere else. Soldiers fell one after another as arrows removed heads or limbs. Their opponent was a monstrous archer.

His arrows were sporadic, powerful, and seemingly came from every angle around them. Sometimes, Alcyr's Combat Sense allowed him to catch a glimmer of the warlord's silhouette. The giant darted lightning fast across the snow as he constantly repositioned himself, like a wolf on the hunt. Alcyr had sat behind cover with his shield raised, watching the soldiers around him fall one by one. Fear and dread were palpable among the men.

The sense of helplessness that enveloped the convoy was deeply unwelcome, stoking an irate rage within. By the time the sixth arrow passed, nine soldiers were already dead. Then, as the ninth soldier fell, Alcyr felt it — the same crawling unease from the night before. He glanced around him. The snow did not look right. Alcyr swore.

"Ambush! On our left—" The pelt-wearing barbarians burst from the snow and hit the column hard. Order broke down instantly as frontmost soldiers went down under the first wave, their blood splattering across the frozen ground. The ones still standing drew swords and locked shields, their backs against the waggons. Having been forewarned of the threat, they reacted faster than the night before, but with almost a third of the convoy already dead, Alcyr knew the odds were still grim.

The barbarians were as nightmarish as ever. Hulking reavers of iron and blood, waiting in the freezing snow for hours had apparently done nothing to dull their enthusiasm for violence. They came charging with axes raised, brute strength barely tempered by uncharacteristic discipline. But they were not the only ones looking for blood. His bloodlust roused to a fiery point, Alcyr broke formation and met the foe head-on. Behind him, he heard Vormas curse, shouting at him to get back.

But Alcyr would not let his need for violence be denied. He already knew he was going to die tonight. But there was no sense in doing so with a dry blade. There were lives to take and skills to level. Death held no consequence. Why should he hesitate? He sent a lengthy sword thrust through the nearest foe's throat before their axe could reach him.

Spinning to the side, he caught the second's axe on his shield, letting the impact push him back a step before using the momentum to pivot, slashing his blade deftly across the man's neck. [Movement has improved to 27] [Sword Discipline has improved to 33] Two barbarians, dead in seconds. He kept moving. Behind him, the column was collapsing inward, soldiers falling back into a tighter and tighter knot. Alcyr was a lone blade in a sea of savage axes.

His sword decapitated another barbarian in a powerful two-handed swing. Just as he was about to stab another target, Combat Sense jolted his spine. There was no time for thought. The edge of his awareness registered something flying towards his head, faster than his eyes could track. Alcyr wrenched his shield up, driven entirely by reflex. The arrow hit the lid of the shield, sheared off the entire length of his forearm, and then kept going past his shoulder.

[New Skill: Missile Deflection 1 (Uncommon)] The force of it spun him. He had just barely directed the arrow away from taking his head. However, it did not come without cost. Alcyr looked down and saw that his left arm was gone. Separated cleanly at the elbow, he could see the white of his bone and the carmine tatters of his arm muscles, pouring blood. For one strange, suspended moment, he felt nothing at all. Then the pain hit him.

[Pain Tolerance has improved to 27] It wasn't the worst agony he'd ever felt, but it was still pretty bad. Alcyr didn't go down, though he wasn't really sure how he remained on his feet. His sword was still in his right hand, and there were still enemies in front of him. Perhaps that knowledge alone — that he still had foes to kill — was enough to keep him upright.

With only one arm left, he slew the next barbarian who came at him, ignoring the axe that bit against his gut and driving his blade through the Northman's guard. Fuelled by pain and driven by murderous intent, Alcyr fought with the kind of single-minded aggression that was equal parts terrifying and self-destructive. The fifth barbarian, caught off guard by Alcyr's ferocity, died with his head split open by a vicious vertical cleave.

His sword now stuck in the man's skull, Alcyr released the weapon and drew his dagger. He lunged at the next nearest foe, roaring all the while. He took ever greater wounds, felt searing fire dance across his limbs, torso, and face. Cut, stabbed, and slashed, Alcyr nonetheless fought on. [Armour Discipline has improved to 22] [Mortal Defiance has improved to 13] Only when the seventh barbarian fell did a familiar, monstrous presence come for him.

"Impressive. You deflected my killing arrow." Alcyr lashed out towards the voice with as strong a stab as he could muster. He felt the dagger hit flesh. And then he was stopped. No matter how furiously he pulled or pushed, Alcyr could not move his weapon. The chieftain had caught the blade with his open palm, uncaring of how the umbral steel had buried itself through his hand to the hilt. Giant fingers closed around Alcyr's wrist.

"An interesting weapon," the chieftain said.

"The fact that it could bypass my Iron Body Arte means the metal is no ordinary alloy. It does not appear to be silverite, but it shall make a fine trophy regardless." It was quiet. A moment of clarity cut through the red haze. Alcyr blinked blood out of his eyes and glanced around him. The convoy guards were all dead. Vormas lay butchered amidst a pool of blood, ringed by the remains of countless soldiers and barbarians. Only Alcyr was left.

He stood in the churned snow, his left arm missing and his right arm held in place by the warlord. The remaining barbarians had drawn back, partially out of respect for their leader, but also out of fear of their final prey. Seven kills. Nearly half the chieftain's personal warband was slain by one man. Alcyr's furious bladework had made a nightmare of their numbers.

"A mere Journeyman," the warlord continued, his voice unhurried.

"Yet you not only avoided my killing shot, but also managed to wound me and diminish my warband. It gladdens me that Ragna died at the hands of a true warrior. Those with the bloodline of the Twelfth Saint should aspire to nothing less." Despite the pain, Alcyr managed a wet laugh.

"Calling upon the Twelfth Saint… A little arrogant, isn't it?"

"It is not arrogance," the warlord replied easily.

"I am the descendant of the Slayer Saint. A distant descendant, perhaps, but I carry his divine, violent blood nonetheless. What about you, foreign pup? I refuse to believe you are an ordinary mongrel. Whose blood runs in your veins? Which of the Twelve Saints is your patron deity?" Alcyr tried to speak, but his lungs were filling with blood. He was drowning. The northman sighed.

"A pity. Our time has come to an end. But I will remember you for some time to come. Take pride in that." The warlord raised his axe.

"Twice you have wound me — once upon my kin, once upon my flesh. There shall not be a third. Return to the earth, struggler." Alcyr watched the axe come down. The last thing he saw was his own decapitated body as his head rolled from his neck.