Chương 12: Blade and Grit

Despite having never done so before, Alcyr activated both Cleave and Red March Swordplay in tandem. Power ran hot down his arms and into the blade, turning the sword's edge into a deep arterial red. He charged. When his blade clashed with the warlord's axe, the sound was nothing short of deafening. The warlord was only using one hand, but even that alone was more than enough to brace against Alcyr's strike.

"Weak," the chieftain growled, eyes narrowed above the locked blades.

"I sensed the Saint of the Agony gaze upon you earlier. Is this truly the sum of your power? Do not insult me, you—!" Alcyr pulled his left hand from the hilt of his sword. Channelling the Arte, Cleave, in his free hand, he slashed for the warlord's throat with a hand chop. The warlord snapped his head back, the cut missing his neck by a finger's width. He then brutally rammed his head back down, smashing hard against Alcyr's forehead. The world went white.

"Better!" The warlord laughed. Eyes blind and ears ringing, Alcyr nonetheless dodged the axe blow that came for him next, saved once again by Combat Sense. He countered with a Cleave-empowered sword slash, but the attack bounced off the chieftain's parry. He kept fighting. Pain Tolerance was working overtime to keep him moving. Combat Sense pricked his spine again.

He immediately raised his ruined sword to block the killing blow that had been aimed for his blindside before cracking the pommel against the axe haft, knocking the weapon aside. Blood poured down into his eyes — that headbutt alone had cracked his skull earlier. Something thick and coppery dribbled out from his nose. Sensing his death near, Mortal Defiance finally kicked in. The burst of vitality was almost violent — a sudden, terrible clarity. Every pain was pushed to the edge of his awareness.

His vision returned, and his body responded with a strength that had no place with the dying. Alcyr roared, lashing out with another Cleave, finally pushing back the warlord's advance. Ten more exchanges passed in half as many heartbeats. Alcyr's arm felt numb. He doubted he had ever swung so hard in his life. Whatever Red March Swordplay was doing, it made Alcyr hit harder than he should.

The crimson-glowing blade of his sword seemed to shriek each time it caught the warlord's iron axe, as if it hungered for his opponent's blood. On the fourteenth exchange, he heard a shatter. His poor arming sword, already worn from killing so many barbarians earlier, finally broke from the protracted duel, sheared at mid-length. Undeterred, Alcyr drew his dagger with his left hand, using both weapons to block the descending strike before striking hard with twin vertical slashes.

[Paired Blade Mastery has improved to 10] They both backed away. Alcyr was panting hard. His weapons — both glowing red from Red March Swordplay — felt heavy in his arms. His head wound had cleared up somewhat, but a deep throbbing remained, making his vision pulse at the edges. In contrast, his opponent barely looked winded.

"Good. Very good." The grim smile on Bjorn's face hinted at contentment.

"Your will is strong. My patron Saint feeds well from your violence. He will reward me for your death."

"Counting chickens before they hatch? Well, I think I'm winning." Alcyr grinned bloodily.

"What do you think?" The warlord gripped his worn iron axe with both hands.

"I think it is a pity we met so soon. If only you had another decade to grow… I would have liked to face you at my full strength then. You have done well for a feral pup. But it is time for you to die."

Alcyr lasted twenty more exchanges. True to his word, Bjorn never exerted his full might. Alcyr had no way of knowing whether his opponent kept to the promised 'one-third of his strength', but judging by the power of their clashes, it felt appropriate. For the first time in his life, Alcyr was hammered with the realisation of just how strong a High Elite was. He managed to hit the warlord twice more. The first time was when his broken sword grazed across his opponent's hand.

However, the glancing hit had simply bounced off their skin, leaving not even a mark. The second time was when his dagger managed to slash the length of their forearm. This time, the blade bit through the surface, leaving a shallow wound. It's his Iron Body Arte, Alcyr remembered. Only the alloy of my dagger is strong enough to cut through. Regardless, Alcyr could recognise that he was fighting a losing battle.

His blows struck with feverish desperation, and though he could push back the warlord from time to time, he was unable to break through their guard, even as he exhausted himself by striking with all his might. However, his efforts were not for nothing. By duelling with such an overwhelmingly powerful opponent, Alcyr's skills were skyrocketing.

[Sword Discipline has improved to 38] [Dagger Discipline has improved to 32] [Combat Sense has improved to 30] [Movement has improved to 34] [Cleave has improved to 11] [Pain Tolerance has improved to 35] [Mortal Defiance has improved to 22] [Red March Swordplay has improved to 3] All of that… from a single battle. Levels that should have taken months of grinding were being condensed into a mere duel. Alcyr would laugh if he weren't so focused on the fight. On the twentieth exchange, Alcyr finally faltered.

Driven to the absolute brink, his sword was flung from his exhausted grip. Too slow to move or parry with his dagger, he could only watch as the warlord's axe tore into his chest. The pain was almost a relief. His body sagged, and his dagger fell from his lifeless grip. It was over. He had lost.

"A fine fight," Bjorn growled.

"Never before have I seen such furious warrior spirit in one as young as you. The Slayer Saint thanks you for the violence you've shown, and I thank you in turn for the skills he will bless me with through your death." The warlord ripped the axe out. Alcyr fell to his knees, coughing blood.

"I shall remember you for as long as I live." The warlord raised his axe a final time.

"Return to the earth, struggler." The axe came down, ending the eighty-sixth loop. He had fought with everything he had, and he had still lost. Yet even as he died, Alcyr was smiling. How could he not? The loops had just gotten way better. Forget about slashing straw dummies or even killing barbarians for levelling skills. Alcyr had finally found the ideal training partner he needed to reach the Elite tier.

On the morning of the eighty-seventh loop, after he washed up at the well and found an empty bench on the training ground to sit upon, Alcyr mentally called his Status Screen forth.

[Status Screen] Alcyr Rivers — Age 18 Titles: Godless High Journeyman Sword Fanatic Combat Skills: Sword Discipline 38 (Common) Unarmed Discipline 33 (Common) Dagger Discipline 32 (Common) Shield Discipline 33 (Common) Armour Discipline 29 (Common) Throwing Weapon Discipline 28 (Common) Combat Sense 30 (Uncommon) Missile Deflection 22 (Uncommon) Paired Blade Mastery 10 (Rare) If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

Life Skills: Physical Conditioning 37 (Common) Pain Tolerance 35 (Common) Movement 34 (Common) Natural Resistance 27 (Common) Leadership 13 (Common) Field Triage 6 (Common) Presence 6 (Uncommon) Mortal Defiance 23 (Rare) Artes: Cleave 11 (Common) Red March Swordplay 3 (Uncommon) [End Screen] His bull-headed approach to the loops was paying off.

Countless level-ups, multiple new skills, and even Artes, with the icing on top being that some of his newfound gains were in the Uncommon or Rare tier — tiers that most peasant soldiers would never see in their careers. But it's not enough. I still can't beat the chieftain. He was getting close. The problem, however, was the rate of growth of his skills. It was slowing down. In truth, his usual day routine was barely helping him anymore.

Swinging at straw dummies might have once given him some tangible benefit, but now he could barely exhaust himself even if he swung with all his might for an hour straight. His Sword Discipline skill had reached a point where it was too high for such measly practice to meaningfully contribute to his growth. It was the same for his Physical Conditioning.

The cycle of hauling cargo in the pre-dawn morning and then digging earthworks for the rest of the day might have once helped him build up his fitness, but at his current level, Alcyr could labour away at this daily intensity for months on end before he saw a single point of increase. There wasn't enough challenge. The only activity in the loop that had truly aided in his growth lately was the nightly ambush.

Lethal combat remained what it had always been: the key to exponential growth, irreplaceable by any amount of conventional training. But even that was yielding less than it once had. The barbarians were thoroughly familiar to him by now — their fighting patterns completely memorised; their threat level significantly reduced against his current capability. Killing them was still useful, but the returns were diminishing with each loop. Soon, even their High Journeyman strength would mean nothing to him.

Duelling the warlord seemed to be his best option going forward. It was an excellent battle, giving him heaps of experience thanks to the feat of fighting a superior opponent in a fatal deathmatch with zero margin for error. But for Alcyr, one duel per loop, however valuable, was not enough. He had an entire day to himself, and he was not inclined to waste it away on menial chores or waiting.

He started looking for other ways to improve himself. Duelling multiple soldiers in practice matches was a good start, but yielded measly experience gains given how weak their Initiate-tier strength was. The sergeants put up a better fight, but even their Journeyman-tier strength wasn't enough of a challenge. There were only two people in the base who could put up a decent enough challenge: the two Regular officers, Lieutenant Vormas and Captain Halmon.

The latter was usually too busy to entertain Alcyr, but the former might prove more enthusiastic. He wouldn't duel Vormas to the death, of course. It wasn't a matter of morality that held his hand, but practicality. While killing Vormas would hold no real long-term consequences, Alcyr would assuredly be attacked by the rest of the camp.

And even if he somehow survived or talked his way out of it, it wasn't as if the convoy escort mission would go ahead, meaning he would miss out on the best fight of the loop: the battle against the warlord. Perhaps there was a way he could reap both the experience from killing Vormas and fighting the warlord in one loop, but that felt like an unnecessarily complicated venture. No, a friendly sparring match with the Low Elite-tier Regular would suffice.

An hour after roll call, the 3rd Irregulars split into their assigned groups for the day to begin the earthwork preparations. Rather than join them as he usually did, Alcyr had headed straight for the convoy lieutenant the moment he had exited the captain's quarters.

"A duel?" Vormas blinked.

"Aren't you a relatively fresh Journeyman? Surely the other sergeants in camp would be a better match."

"I have long wished to test my skills against a true Regular of the Morwyn military," Alcyr half-lied.

"The Regular's martial exploits are known far and wide. The captain is always too busy to spare a match with me. It would be an honour if you would indulge my selfish request, sir." Vormas agreed easily enough after a bit more convincing. They both took their places within the training yard, ten paces apart. Word spread fast, and a small crowd had gathered as soldiers took a break from their heavy labours in digging through the frozen earth. Their amused murmurs grew.

"Bets?" One of the older Irregular recruits said — a former mercenary.

"I have a copper coin here that says the boy lasts no more than three exchanges."

"You underestimate our resident Sword Fanatic, rookie," Roland chided.

"You weren't here a month ago. I've seen him at the Battle of the Red Rime. Ten coppers say he'd last at least ten exchanges."

"Talented or not, he's up against a Regular. An Elite-tier soldier," the mercenary argued.

"Back during my sellsword days, I've seen those arrogant bluebloods dismembering my guys in 'friendly matches' before. That bullheaded moron will be lucky if he gets out of this with all his limbs attached." Vormas settled into a stance, relaxed and unworried — as if he were simply appeasing the request of a child. Rationally, Alcyr understood why the lieutenant would behave that way. He probably saw Alcyr as a young, hotheaded warrior who had allowed his talent to go to his head.

It was entirely reasonable for Vormas to assume such things and act accordingly. Nonetheless, it made Alcyr feel a slight tinge of irritation.

"First to hit. Whenever you are ready," Vormas said, utterly unconcerned and completely wide open. Alcyr nodded. That was the only warning the lieutenant got. With a Movement skill of 34, Alcyr cleared the distance between them in the span of a heartbeat and swung with all his might. To Vormas's credit, he had reacted in time. For all his cavalier attitude towards Alcyr, the man was still an Elite and a Regular.

Combat-honed reflexes kicking in, the lieutenant moved with lightning speed, body blurring as he instantly transitioned into a blocking stance. Their wooden swords met with a loud crack that split the air and splintered both blades. Vormas's eyes were wide.

"What—" Alcyr was already moving. Pinning the Regular in place, he used the wooden sword as a lever, twisting his wrists to trap Vormas's blade against his own chest. The lieutenant snarled as he tried to wrench his sword free, the wood groaning and spitting fresh splinters from the strain of his inhuman strength. However, Alcyr held firm. Twisting his hip, he drove the weighted pommel of his practised sword right for the lieutenant's gut.

The thrust was short and powerful, fuelled by Alcyr's mastery of the blade and body. Unable to dodge, Vormas's breath was knocked out of him as the blow landed home, right in his diaphragm. The lieutenant stumbled back. First hit to Alcyr. The first round was concluded. Three seconds. The entire 'duel' had lasted three seconds. The onlookers went silent. Alcyr hid his disappointment. He took a step back and nodded.

"Thanks for the match, sir. I'm sure that was just a fluke. Let's go another round." Vormas warily nodded. Alcyr turned away, intending to return to the starting point ten paces back for the next match. The moment he showed his back to Vormas, however, Combat Sense jolted his spine. Alcyr blinked in surprise, then grinned. He turned instantly, knocking aside the downward swing of Vormas's wooden sword. Cold winds rushed past his ears as the earth beneath him shook. The lieutenant had not held back on that strike.

Their hardwood training weapons had splintered instantly, unable to withstand the blow. The two of them instantly leapt back from each other.

"Better," Alcyr nodded.

"Shall we go again?"

"So it wasn't a fluke," Vormas murmured.

"How did someone of your age and talent end up here? At the very least, the evaluation officers should have immediately recommended you for the Regulars during recruitment." By this point, more onlookers had joined the crowd. The murmurs in the air had shifted from excitement to shock, and then to uncertainty.

"He won? A brat like him won against an Elite?!" the mercenary stuttered.

"That's not— there's no way!"

"Ha! You see that?! That's the Butcher of the Red Rime for you!" Roland excitedly laughed.

"Pay up, old man! The rest of you, start placing bets! Our baby monster is about to kick that Regular's blueblooded ass!" Vormas's eyes were fixed on Alcyr, so focused that he utterly ignored Roland's insult. After glaring at him for a few seconds, the lieutenant made his decision.

"I've changed my mind. We duel to first blood."

"We will need better weapons," Alcyr said, lifting his ruined training sword.

"Unless you still wish to coddle me with toys?" The corners of Vormas's mouth twitched.

"I suppose your arrogance isn't unearned. Grab your arming sword and whatever gear you wish. I'll come at you with everything I've got." Well, well. This might not be a waste of time after all.

Starting from that loop, Alcyr would regularly spend his mornings or afternoons sparring with the lieutenant. The experience gains to his skills weren't as appreciable as they were with his death battle against the barbarian warlord, but Vormas was still an Elite-tier opponent, while Alcyr was only a High Journeyman. The disparity in their skill levels meant that Alcyr still reaped greater experience gains than he would otherwise.

More importantly, Alcyr could duel with Vormas multiple times a loop, unlike only once with the warlord. That accelerated his growth considerably. Once the lieutenant took him more seriously, Alcyr would often find himself genuinely pressured. Victory came as often as defeat, though with each loop, the ratio shifted more and more in Alcyr's favour. There were other methods Alcyr attempted to tackle the issue of his waning growth as well.

In matters of physical exercise, he had taken to borrowing heavy weights from the company stores. Rocks, lumber, ore, iron — anything that was heavy and that could be spared was used. He strapped these weights on his back, performing one-handed push-ups or punishing sprints in the snow. He did these activities until his body could barely move, torment lacing his every movement from overexerted muscles. The consequences were minimal — Alcyr always recovered fully when he moved on to the next loop.

To ensure combat effectiveness during the nightly ambush, he would often bargain for dangerous painkilling herbs from the quartermaster to tide him through the rest of the day. This placed even greater strain on his body and taxed his limited finances even more, but such concerns always became moot by the time the next loop rolled over.

At the very least, he was experimenting with more ways to abuse the time loop, and his overall routine enjoyed a drastic improvement over wasting his time hacking at straw dummies or digging trenches. As the loops progressed, he had also taken the time to improve his equipment. Alcyr's Armour Discipline was reaching the point where he could wear much heavier kit without being encumbered — reinforced shin guards, arm guards, even an alloyed breastplate.

The extra protection would not mean much against the warlord — especially if he ever decided to use his silverite axe on Alcyr — but it was a godsend against the other barbarians. Alcyr could now afford to take glancing slashes without haemorrhaging half a gallon of blood each time. Aside from that, he had only taken to carrying two arming swords — not because he wanted to dual wield, but rather because his first sword kept breaking.

Whenever he grew too enthusiastic with his barbarian killing spree, the sheer strength of his swings — combined with the strain his Artes placed on his weapon — meant his arming sword would rarely last the length of the ambush. Having a spare thus became essential to improve the growth gained in each loop. Negotiating all of this gear from the quartermaster did not prove too difficult. Alcyr's reputation was good enough that certain allowances were made for him. He only wished he had better choices to pick from.

The armoury, while well stocked, lacked quality. Or perhaps I'm simply asking for too much from an Irregular's inventory, Alcyr chided himself. In truth, the Irregular's equipment was perfectly serviceable. The fact that the Morwyn military even bothered to arm its companies of lowborn mercenaries and peasant conscripts was considered more of a generous boon than an expected expense on their part. Not all kingdoms were wealthy enough to provide Journeyman-level equipment on this scale.

However, for Alcyr, Journeyman-level wasn't going to cut it anymore. He was dealing with a High Elite warlord, and that's after more-or-less facing down half the chieftain's warband on his own. The standard equipment had decent forging, but the materials used were too shoddy. What Alcyr really wanted was a better shield. He was getting sick and tired of having his left arm broken or shot off at the start of each ambush.

Despite how high his Shield Discipline or Missile Deflection skill was, it still wasn't enough to fully redirect the strength of the projectile. The arrow was fired by a man who could take a head off at two hundred yards. It was simply too powerful for a mere wooden shield to absorb the force. Luckily, there was a solution. The supply convoy that came in during the morning brought not only building supplies, but also a small amount of more exotic materials as well. And Alcyr was going to make good use of it.