Chương 14: Snow and Blood

The hundred and fifty-first 'Today' started as normal. For old time's sake, Alcyr helped with the unloading of the convoy at the gates and spent the afternoon digging trenches with his fellow Irregulars. Unlike the recent loops, he chose not to challenge Lieutenant Vormas to a duel, nor did he borrow weights from the company's store to exert himself. The day passed in mundane peacefulness. He did not do anything his previous self before the loop would not have done — save for one notable deviation.

Early in the morning, he visited the quartermaster to put in his request. And when evening approached, Alcyr went to the armoury to collect his custom equipment. A new set of heavy armour, a freshly oiled pair of arming swords, a drakescale buckler, and a set of throwing knives. They cost him practically every coin he received from the generous gratuity he earned for his actions during the Battle of the Red Rime.

The armour, in particular, was easily the most expensive thing he ever bought since he joined the Irregulars: a full harness of steel plates and a fur-lined mail hauberk beneath. It would have been ridiculously heavy and unwieldy for any other Irregular. For Alcyr, however, it was perfect. His high skill levels in Armour Discipline and Physical Conditioning allowed him to wear it without any notable encumbrance. His swords and throwing knives were nothing exceptional, but they would serve him well.

To give him a slight edge, he made sure to personally sharpen them to the utmost, ensuring that each slash would be as deadly as he could make it. Despite all the new additions, his mentor's parting gift remained the most valuable item in his arsenal. The umbral alloy remained as sharp as the day it was forged, catching violet or teal when he shifted it in the dim moonlight. Holding it, the weapon felt impossibly balanced — shaped as it was by his mentor, crafted for his hands alone.

The dagger had no name that could be translated into the common tongue. However, Alcyr had been there when it was forged, and he knew the materials that went into its creation were of a decidedly exceptional — and perhaps profane — nature. Regardless of its exotic origin or foreign craftsmanship, it would be essential in the fight to come. Heavily equipped as he was, the other members of the convoy were a little taken aback when they saw him.

Some were worried whether he would be able to keep up in the snow, while others teased him light-heartedly. Thankfully, no one voiced their unease or suspicions, even when it became clear that his heavily armoured form was somehow not encumbered by the snow or the additional weight. There was one notable conversation. Roland caught up with him on the march and looked at him sideways for a moment before asking, "Did you grow taller?" That made Alcyr stumble a little.

"I… No? I shouldn't have. Why do you say that?"

"You're a little taller than me now. We used to be the same height." Alcyr stepped closer to check and realised with a start that it was true. He was about an inch taller now. That hadn't been the case at the start of the loops. Another Irregular chipped in.

"I knew something was off. It's like your muscles doubled overnight. I swear you weren't this big yesterday!" Someone else laughed.

"Alcyr's always been a big lad. But I suppose even boys his age still get growth spurts." Alcyr frowned. He hadn't noticed any physical changes in himself throughout the loop, but that could be because the changes were more gradual from his perspective, or he'd been too focused on other things to notice them. Am I growing older even during the loops? It was a discomforting thought. If each loop counted as a day, then he was pretty sure his birth date had passed at some point during the past hundred or so loops.

Yet the Status Screen never once updated his age. Rather than ageing, my physical changes could be the result of my increased skills. That made a more pleasant hypothesis. Physical Conditioning usually stopped morphing a body's physical appearance past a certain level, but with how many levels Alcyr had gained in a single 'day', perhaps a more noticeable effect had taken place. Regardless, it was a relatively minor concern. Alcyr filed the thought away to be investigated later.

There were more important matters to deal with soon. Hours passed. The camp fell behind them, and the tundra opened up. Rather than anticipation as the fated battle drew close, Alcyr was calm. Were he the poetic type, he might have even called himself at peace. Assuming all went well, 'today' would end on its final iteration. He wasn't sure if his ability to loop would remain. There was always the risk that, were he to advance the day, his next death might be his last.

But he knew repeating the same 'today' over and over was not the answer. He would not deny that the urge to cling to the safety of the loops wasn't there. Rationally speaking, it might be even the most optimal choice. In the presence of infinite loops, why not exploit it even more? It would take time — thousands of years, perhaps — but he could accumulate more skills and levels by simply repeating the same day, the same challenge, over and over until he reached Sainthood. Forever, if need be.

Was that not the safest way to become strong? Perhaps. But… But if he truly desired such impeccable safety, then he should have laid down the sword years ago. More importantly, his mentor did not train him to be a coward. Even now, some part of me still clings to being a cowardly frog, hiding in the smallest Well I can find. Alcyr smiled. Even if I repeat this day a hundred more times, a thousand, what would I gain? What kind of spineless wretch would I become then?

Unwilling to face a new dawn, too afraid of a new tomorrow. Constantly telling myself that the best way to grow strong was to stay in the loop. Trapped forever by a rational cowardice of my own making. No. I will not let that be my fate. There's more to the world than one barbarian warband and its chieftain. Loop or no loop, it was time to move forward. Alcyr hungered for greater struggles, and only a real tomorrow could give him what he wanted.

The promised hour arrived. The ambush site came into view — a long, shallow depression where the road dipped slightly between two rises, the snow lying too flat on both sides. Alcyr knew the place well by now. The position of the buried fighters, the angle the warlord preferred for his opening shot… All of it. The barbarian warband eagerly awaits the convoy to pass before unleashing their trap. If you stumble upon this tale on Amazon, it's taken without the author's consent. Report it.

Unfortunately for them, Alcyr had no intention of letting it play out this time. Right as the convoy was about to pass by the stretch of road, he acted.

"Ambush!" Alcyr suddenly shouted.

"Barbarians in the snow! Draw your swords!" His Leadership and Presence skill compelled the others to act, forcing them into a state of alertness as they drew their weapons without thinking. As for Alcyr himself, he was already rushing forward, ignoring Lieutenant Vormas's baffled questions or his comrades' cries of alarm. A throwing knife was in his hand before the words had finished leaving his mouth. Pulling his arms back, he aimed it at a spot he had memorised and threw it without breaking stride.

The sharpened blade easily buried itself into the head of the camouflaged barbarian, spraying blood across the snow. The axe tumbled from the savage's grip. One down. Panicked shouts came from the soldiers behind him, accompanied by foreign curses from the ambushers ahead. With the element of surprise lost, the hulking marauders began to rise. The closest one did not even have time to lift his axe before his head came flying off. Two down.

"Shields!" Alcyr shouted even as he kept moving, his sword already red.

"Raise your shields! Get into formation!" As he ran, Alcyr felt Combat Sense touch upon his nerve again. Right on time. With an ease of motion brought about by countless repetitions, Alcyr's left hand swiftly dropped to his waist, snatched the drake-scale buckler, and immediately held it up at a braced angle. The warlord's arrow slammed against the round core of the buckler.

Backed up by Alcyr's Missile Deflection of 33 and a ridiculous level 41 Shield Discipline skill, the powerful projectile skidded off the reinforced shield. Using a sharp, controlled motion of the wrist and forearm, he forced the impact to travel harmlessly through his body rather than snapping his bones.

"Elite archer!" Alcyr warned the others.

"Close ranks! Do not leave the cover of the waggons!" Faced with sudden, mortal danger, no one questioned Alcyr's words. Vormas snapped himself out of his shock and began shouting orders. A few of them seemed directed at Alcyr, but he wasn't listening. He was already moving to the next kill. Empowered by Cleave, his arming sword tore a raging marauder in half.

At the same time, he backhanded the dead man's falling axe with his shield — a precise, redirected strike — and watched the weapon spin end over end until it buried itself into the head of another opponent. Four and five down. Hooking his shield back to his waist, Alcyr drew his second sword from his back and blitzed forth. Red March Swordplay came alive in both weapons simultaneously, the familiar surge of power running down through his arms and giving the blades a red glow visible only to him.

He ripped through the hapless warband with his dual-wielding swordplay, taking them apart as he had countless times before. Six, seven, eight down. In his rush, some of their attacks landed, but none drew blood. Alcyr made sure his armour took the blows. Thanks to his Armour Discipline of 38, the steel breastplate and his new arm guards took the hits well, despite the barbarians' raw strength. The last barbarian in his way actually froze, too dazed by the rending storm of death that had engulfed his comrades.

His expression of uncomprehending fear remained even as Alcyr advanced on him and lopped off his head. Nine down. No more than half a minute had passed. Already, nearly half the warband was dead — all slain by Alcyr's hand. That was more than enough to draw the warlord out. Without announcement, without even a word, the great chieftain leapt from the rise ahead. A blur of motion followed as he slashed his silverite axe for Alcyr's neck.

Alcyr narrowly dodged the blow, Combat Sense granting him a fraction of a second warning to evade. The enchanted blade grazed against his upper chest. A shallow wound opened up, cutting across his collarbone. In exchange, Alcyr was close enough to slash both his arming swords at once. Red March Swordplay and Cleave worked in tandem. Backed by Alcyr's colossal Sword Discipline skill of 46 and his Physical Conditioning of 44, the attacks hit hard.

They failed to penetrate the warlord's iron skin — nothing short of his dagger had ever managed that — but the sheer force of the twin strikes was enough to push the barbarian leader several paces back, his boots churning in the snow. Not letting up, Alcyr pressed his advantage against his off-balanced foe, twin blades slashing in rapid succession.

The warlord was momentarily forced on the defensive — caught utterly off guard by his opponent's raw skill and ferocity — but a series of expert blocks and masterful parries forced Alcyr onto the back foot. With the element of surprise worn off, the warlord's swing became more aggressive. The silverite axe was impossibly sharp, its enchanted metal greater than any mundane edge the Irregular arming swords could carry.

Alcyr's powerful Artes helped compensate for the difference and allowed them to exchange a few blows, but as the metallic ringing of steel-on-steel began to grow more desperate, Alcyr could tell they were reaching their limit. On the eighth exchange, one of his arming swords broke. Rather than panic, Alcyr calmly disengaged, taking a step back. He let the shattered end of his blade drop, caught it with his boot as it fell, and then kicked it upward in one clean motion.

Caught off guard by such an unconventional attack, the broken piece of steel hit the warlord square in the neck with a keening clangour. Though it didn't scratch the skin, the chieftain nonetheless backed away, grimacing in surprise and pain. Alcyr created distance between them. He tossed the remaining hilt of his broken weapon aside, shifted his last remaining arming sword to his right hand, and brought the drake-scale buckler up on his left.

"First blood to me," Alcyr said.

"This lowly foot soldier greets Bjorn, chieftain of the Frostcoil Tribe." The warlord glared for a moment. Then, almost reluctantly, the edges of his lips curved.

"You know of me. Yet I do not recall clashing blades with such a ferocious pup before. Name yourself, warrior." Alcyr dipped his head slightly.

"My name holds no significance. Not like yours does. Warlord Bjorn, descendant of the Twelfth Saint. Though I do not carry the legacy of the Twelve in my veins, I would ask for a duel regardless." The warlord laughed.

"Arrogant pup. But then again, yours is an arrogance earned. I know who you are. You are Ragna's killer. You are the one those weakling Southerners behind you call the Butcher of the Red Rime." Alcyr grimaced.

"That title is too much, though I do admit to killing your son in battle."

"I hold no grudge for that. Facing you, he must have died a warrior's death. I can hardly recall the last time someone managed to pressure me in melee." He raised his axe.

"Very well! I accept your challenge. This ambush is now a duel! No one interferes!" The remaining barbarians reluctantly backed off. Alcyr glanced at the convoy and was slightly surprised to find not a single Irregular had fallen.

"Lieutenant!" He called out.

"Please retreat to the 4th Regulars' camp immediately! Let them know I'll need a promotion when I return." Lieutenant Vormas's expression was stuck somewhere between disbelief and anger.

"What are you talking about, Private?! What about you?"

"I'm staying here. I understand the situation is somewhat perplexing, but I think you are aware that this is not an opponent we can win against." Not if I have to defend the rest of you as well, at least. If Alcyr was being perfectly honest, he did not care much for the Irregulars. They were decent people, but he held no attachment to them. Even Lieutenant Vormas — a man he had come to respect after their many duels across the loops — was not someone he would mourn over. Even so, he wanted them to live.

Not out of some moral obligation, but out of a shallower desire — pride. He could think of no better ending to 'today' than seeing all members of the convoy survive their fated death, especially after he killed the warlord. Vormas was conflicted, but the lieutenant at least understood the warlord's strength was not to be underestimated. That brief exchange with Alcyr had created massive rifts in the snow. He could tell the warlord was at least a High Elite.

But more importantly, he — and everyone else in the convoy — could tell that Alcyr was somehow an Elite himself.

"Fine!" Vormas shouted.

"But we are having a talk when we get back! You are going to explain how exactly you are so strong!" The convoy rapidly retreated. Likewise, the lesser barbarians backed away. Most of them looked furious at being denied the promised bloodshed, but Alcyr could also sense a reluctant relief in their tensed forms. They glanced at their dead littered across the snow, and could only feel fear when they saw the one responsible. None of them wanted to fight him. Save for one.

"At long last, my need for battle can be sated." The warlord approached.

"Young warrior, the Slayer Saint watches us. Can you feel his gaze?"

"No. But I will take your word for it." Alcyr readied himself.

"Are you ready to die?"

"Are you?" Alcyr smiled.

"No. Not today."