Chương 11: The Path of Leveling

That wasn't the last time Alcyr tried an alternative path to clear the loop. The next ten or so loops were spent trying to advance the day without getting into battle with the warlord. Alcyr managed to divert the convoy onto several different paths, yet each one ended up being ambushed without fail. It was as if fate itself were making sure the convoy was always attacked. There were other possibilities, of course.

Perhaps someone in the base was leaking the convoy's pre-planned routes to the barbarians, or perhaps the northmen had competent scouts tracking the convoy movements from the moment it left the camp. There wasn't enough evidence to either solidify or refute his first theory that it was possible to escape the time loops without conflict. Thus, he came up with another hypothesis. Second theory: The time loop only resets when I die.

The theory worked upon the assumption that the resolution of the predestined conflict — either by evasion or brute force — doesn't matter. The only thing that mattered to the time loop was whether he died before the end of the day or not. Therefore, rather than making sure the convoy made it safely to its destination, he should simply make it his objective to stay alive.

As such, on the fourteenth loop, he decided to make the uncharacteristic decision of not volunteering as one of the convoy's guards, much to the surprise of his captain and peers. He stayed awake for the rest of the day. Even hours after the sun had set and the convoy had left the base, he remained vigilant, refusing to retire to bed and instead spending the late hours practising his swordplay at the training ground.

He would not lie by saying a deep sense of anticipation had not seized him when the day finally broke. Right as the first rays of the new dawn bloomed over the horizon, Alcyr looked up. He blinked as the light hit his eyes, and then— [Wrong. Try again.] Darkness swallowed him. There was an infinitely brief sensation of falling. He was violently pulled under ethereal winds and waters. His senses were overwhelmed by roaring blackness.

When he woke, he was somehow back on his bed again — on the same morning when the convoy had just arrived. As his mind whirled with shock at this revelation, he concluded that his first two theories were false. Conflict was not avoidable, nor was merely staying alive enough. To advance the day, it seemed he needed to fulfil certain requirements. So I was right, he thought. There is a purpose behind this time loop. An intent.

Whoever or whatever was manipulating his fate wanted him to tread upon a certain path — one that saw the convoy delivered safely to the 4th Regular's camp. Fine then, he grinned slightly. That makes things straightforward. No more playing around. No more theories. There is only one path left: level my skills and grow strong enough to climb out of this time loop — this Well. All that was left for him now was to kill his way into a new day.

There was no need to make things more complicated than they had to be. Alcyr no longer forewarned the convoy, nor did he try to avoid volunteering to guard it. It was the thirty-first loop. Without Alcyr's warning, the convoy always sets out with its usual contingent of twenty men. This led to the ambush occurring at the same place as it did the first night: the shallow depression between two rises.

It was an ideal location for battle, and though he could have loaded the convoy with more soldiers had he warned the captain, Alcyr had deliberately chosen not to. He'd rather have more of the barbarians to kill for himself. An arrow plucked the head off one of the leading guards, and the battle began in earnest. Alcyr was ready with his sword and shield already drawn. Without waiting for orders, he charged the nearest barbarian, fighting them with the fervour of a man who did not fear death.

It did not take long before the kills — and their resulting experience — started piling up. [Dagger Discipline has improved to 25] [Movement has improved to 31] [Unarmed Discipline has improved to 28] He had not spent the past thirty loops idly. While he had been experimenting with the mechanics of the time loop, he had always been training during the day and participating in the ambush at night. His skills had grown by leaps and bounds, as they had whilst he was stuck during the Battle of the Red Rime.

However, he was still far from invincible. On his fourth kill, Alcyr's Combat Sense tingled. On instinct, he raised his shield and ducked left. That rush of movement saved him from instant death, as the arrow that should have taken his head instead hit his shield and dismembered his left arm. [Combat Sense has improved to 25] [Shield Discipline improved to 29] [Missile Deflection has improved to 8] The warlord had apparently decided that Alcyr was having too much fun killing his men.

It was an irritation, but there was not much Alcyr could do. The difference between a Journeyman and an Elite was not merely a matter of levels. Aside from the numerical difference, each successive level in a skill carried exponentially greater impact. The further one mastered a skill, the more their mastery was amplified.

Levelling a skill from 1 to 10 might take less effort than levelling a skill from 30 to 31, but that single level between 30 and 31 was worth more than all ten levels gained between 1 and 10 combined. It was also partially why the tier of an individual — whether they were an Initiate, a Journeyman, or an Elite — was judged by the level of their strongest skill, rather than by how many skills they possessed. Alcyr was still only a High Journeyman.

A talented High Journeyman, perhaps, but the warlord likely had multiple skills over level 50, while Alcyr's best skill was barely over level 30. The gulf of an entire tier was still too wide for him to conquer. For now, he corrected mentally. Mortal Defiance activated, giving him a burst of vitality and supernatural adrenaline. Roaring and enraged, Alcyr killed four more of the warlord's honour guard before blood loss finally took him.

He fell to his knees soon after, his leather armour torn up by countless axe swings and his left arm reduced to shreds. [Armour Discipline has improved to 26] [Pain Tolerance has improved to 31] [Mortal Defiance has improved to 16] Footsteps. Alcyr glanced up to see the warlord staring at him.

"Commendable, but futile. Return to the earth, struggler." The warlord always said that same, damnable phrase before he lopped off his neck. Again and again, Alcyr doggedly threw himself at the Well presented before him. Training during the day. Digging trenches in the afternoon. Fighting and dying at night. The concept of rest or peace ceased to exist. The scent of blood, the screams of the dying, the sensation of his sword hewing flesh… All these things kept his mind company in moments of serenity or violence.

The memories of bloodshed were never far from his thoughts. And all the while, his skill levels kept growing. The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings. It was on the forty-eighth iteration that things in the loop started slowly changing. First off, the warlord no longer waited until Alcyr killed a few of his men before firing an arrow to wound him.

It was clear from the moment Alcyr cut down the first barbarian that his skills were far beyond those of the other Journeyman soldiers guarding the convoy. An arrow was fired his way at the start of nearly every ambush. Being crippled so early into the fight meant Alcyr could not secure as many kills as he liked. However, there was one silver lining to all this. Forced to protect himself against the arrow in each loop, his defensive skills were improving at an astonishing rate.

[Shield Discipline improved to 33] [Missile Deflection has improved to 14] When the arrow hit his shield on the forty-eighth loop, it didn't utterly obliterate his left arm. Instead, the powerful projectile briefly curved against the wooden surface before breaking off at an angle and cratering the snow behind him. For once, his arm wasn't torn clean off. Instead, it hung limp at his side — every bone shattered and the shield broken. That's an improvement, I guess?

He might still be down an arm, but at least he would not die from blood loss as quickly. Additionally, the pain was a lot more bearable, though that could also be attributed to his Pain Tolerance skill hitting level 35 recently. Regardless of his crippled state, Alcyr would keep fighting, killing more and more with each passing loop. For some reason, the warlord never shot more than a single arrow at him during each iteration.

Perhaps it was some tribal honour that held him back, or perhaps he was amused at Alcyr's efforts at fighting with only one arm. Either way, he was glad for it. It allowed him to slay more of the barbarians for experience, and he wasn't shy to exploit every advantage he could get.

On the seventieth loop, something curious happened. [New Artes: Cleave 1 (Common)] Alcyr had accidentally beheaded two barbarians with a single swing of his sword — with only one arm, no less. By this point, the skills Physical Conditioning and Sword Discipline were nearing level 40. His strength and precision with the blade had reached new and utterly inhuman heights. But even he could not have anticipated what his newfound mastery of the sword would give him. An Arte!

Alcyr had been so shocked that he nearly missed the barbarian coming from behind him. On impulse, he allowed his new ability to activate. Strength surged from somewhere in his body, flowing into his sword. When he twirled around and performed a low slash, his sword didn't just bite into the barbarian's flank and stop. It kept going. Alcyr watched in great surprise as the top half of the barbarian's torso flew clear over his shoulder and landed somewhere behind him in a red arc.

The lower half stood for an awkward moment, bereft of everything above the stomach, before folding over with a gentle thud. [Cleave has improved to 2] A brief moment of stunned silence fell over the battlefield. Ally and foe alike spared a shocked glance at his blood-soaked form. Alcyr blinked, then laughed long and loud.

"Alright! Let's keep going. Whose next?" He died soon after, but not even the pain of dying could ruin his mood. It was a hallmark moment. Alcyr had just gained his first Arte. Artes were not the same as skills. Skills gave passive, ever-present advantages — reflexes refined beyond mundane limits, bodies conditioned to endure punishing situations, or even the ability to perform complex tasks without conscious thought. They formed the foundation of a person's lifestyle or fighting method.

Artes, by contrast, were deliberate invocations of power — active abilities, so to speak. They elevated a warrior into a truly terrifying threat, allowing them to perform impossible feats of strength or technique. Even at equivalent rarity, an Arte's value was undoubtedly superior to that of a skill. They were also incredibly difficult to obtain. A person could go their whole life without seeing even a single Common-grade Arte. Even Alcyr himself had not anticipated gaining one so early in his life.

In any case, his prospects had improved quite a fair bit. With the Arte and his current skill levels, combined with his young age, Alcyr could most likely qualify for a transfer to a Regular Company. At the very least, it would certainly qualify him for a promotion to Squad Sergeant in the 3rd Irregulars. He would be treated as a talent worth nurturing by the military and be afforded greater opportunities for his growth. But those were thoughts for the distant future.

Alcyr had no intention of leaving 'today' yet, nor did he wish to reveal his newfound power to his superiors if he could avoid it. While the rate of his growth was slowing down a little now that most of his skills had hit level 30, there was still much to be gained from the current Well he was stuck in. And besides, his blade had yet to reach the warlord. Alcyr would not be able to forgive himself if he did not duel the High Elite seriously at least once.

More loops passed. After eighty-six iterations of ambushes and deaths, Alcyr managed to perform another remarkable feat — one that set a chain of interesting events that changed how he approached the battles from then on. While crippled with a broken arm from the warlord's arrow, he somehow managed to kill ten of the barbarians. It was practically half of the enemy warband, and more than the rest of the convoy's kills put together.

When the tenth barbarian fell — headless after Alcyr had used Cleave to decapitate him — an ominous notification came. Instead of the usual light blue that the Status messages usually appeared as, this one was dark red — the colour of old blood. [Warning: You have drawn the attention of a higher entity.] [The Saint of Agony has gazed upon your bloodletting.] [New Artes: Red March Swordplay 1 (Uncommon)] Alcyr froze, staring at the screen with wide eyes.

"The Red March?" That was the moniker of one of the Twelve Saints — and, as the system message implied, not one of the morally 'good' ones, either. Someone was shouting for him — Vormas.

"Alcyr! Get back here, we are retreating!" Alcyr shook himself out of his thoughts. He analysed the field. The barbarian numbers were down to no more than a handful. His rampage had reduced the enemy numbers so significantly that, for the first time across eighty-six loops, it actually seemed feasible for the convoy to escape. He hesitated. He wasn't ready for the loops to end yet, but at the same time, he was somewhat reaching the limit of what he could gain by repeating them.

Before he could come to a decision, a massive figure rose from the shadows and leapt from the rise ahead. Alcyr jumped back immediately. Even with his level 34 Movement, he was barely able to evade being crushed by the landing. Snow and ice erupted where the warlord's boots hit the ground. The giant straightened, his bow strapped to his back and his enchanted axe already in hand.

"You foreign dogs may leave," he said, his voice low and powerful. His axe was pointing at the convoy, but his dark eyes did not leave Alcyr.

"I acknowledge this battle as my loss. This feral pup, however, is mine."

"Like hell." Vormas stepped forward.

"You're outnumbered, marauder. If you wish to survive this night, you will leave with what remains of your pathetic warband!" Vormas's words were a lie. Despite fewer than five of the barbarians remaining, the warlord alone was a match for the rest of the convoy. The lieutenant himself was likely more than aware of this gulf in strength. It was why he was hoping the warlord would fall for his bluff and leave. However, the barbarian chieftain was no fool.

"In respect for this feral's strength, I am giving you the chance to flee." The warlord's tone dipped dangerously.

"If you value your lives, you will not test my patience any further. My generosity is not limitless, unlike my fury." A member of the 3rd Irregular — Roland again — stepped forth.

"Ha! Wretched barbarian, do you think your puny axe can defeat the Butcher of the Red Rime?! He'll have you begging for your life before—" The soldier said nothing more. His head vanished, flesh and jagged bones flying everywhere as the arrow that took his life crashed into the snow far behind him. That man has the dumbest mouth and the worst luck I've ever seen, Alcyr thought grimly to himself. I don't recall him being this witless before the Battle of the Red Rime. Was he always like this?

The warlord had not even fired his bow. He had simply plucked an arrow from his quiver and hurled it like a javelin. The movement had barely taken a heartbeat.

"I am not, by nature, a choleric creature," the warlord said softly. Despite the wind, his malign whisper was heard by all.

"Do not mistake my indulgence as weakness. Leave now, or you will regret it." Alcyr spoke before anyone else could.

"Lieutenant, take the men and go. Do not concern yourself with me." There was no other option. Vormas cursed.

"Shit! Try to stall him! The Drake Cavalry won't be far! Sergeant Khoris, lead the rest of the men back! I'm going ahead!" The lieutenant hurriedly untied one of the waggon horses and mounted it, soon disappearing in a mad dash to get reinforcements from the 4th Regulars' camp. Alcyr doubted he would make it in time. The rest of the soldiers similarly abandoned the convoy and ran. Their fleeing figures were quickly lost over the next snowy crest. The warlord reached into his satchel and threw something at Alcyr.

"Drink." A stoppered glass vial, wrapped in cushioning leather, landed at his feet. Deciding to play along, Alcyr planted his sword in the snow, freeing his hand to pick it up. The contents of the vial were red. He popped open the cork. The bitter and metallic scent was instantly recognisable. Blood and herbs — tribal healing potion. A potent brew as well, judging by the smell. Alcyr did not bother with wasting the warlord's time with 'whys' or 'whats'. He drank it without hesitation. The effects were immediate.

Alcyr grimaced as he felt the bones in his broken left arm twist and reform painfully. The many cuts and wounds across his body burnt briefly before sealing themselves. When it was done, he flexed the fingers of his left hand experimentally. Finding their responsiveness satisfactory, Alcyr unstrapped the broken shield on his left hand and tossed it aside.

"I see you are not prone to useless questions like the rest of your pack," the warlord said.

"That gives me some relief. A duel beyond true warriors should not be sullied by worthless words." Alcyr picked up his sword and readied a two-handed grip.

"Then why are you still talking? Let's fight." The warlord smiled. To Alcyr's surprise, he reached behind and rehooked his Silverite axe to his back. With a blur of motion, he appeared next to a barbarian's corpse, kicking up their inferior iron axe to his hands instead. He gave it a few experimental swings before rolling his shoulders.

"In honour of this duel, I shall use only one-third of my strength," the warlord said. He did not even bother to settle into a stance.

"Whenever you are ready." Alcyr smiled. Well, I did ask for this fight. Let's see if I can take his head.