Chương 15: The Butcher of the Red Rime

Alcyr moved first. Calling upon every level of Movement he had, the soldier charged. Bjorn met him halfway, his silverite axe clashing hard against the drake-scale shield. Alcyr's high Shield Discipline greatly mitigated the damage as he turned the blade away, but even so, the hardy scales still cracked under the blow. The axe is supernaturally sharp and durable, but so long as I don't block a direct hit and instead redirect the blow each time, the shield wouldn't give way immediately. But even so…

In Alcyr's experience, despite its sturdy design, the shield usually broke after taking more than ten direct hits from the Silverite axe. A protracted fight was not in his best interest. The best way to win was to go all-out right from the start. Pouring power into his sword through Cleave and Red March Swordplay, Alcyr began his assault. Fighting the warlord was like sieging a castle.

The giant was taller than him, stronger than him, and had a defensive Arte that rendered even the strongest of his sword slashes largely ineffective. Alcyr would bet that even within the High Elite tier, this opponent stood among the top echelons. Nonetheless, Alcyr would not be deterred. He struck with conviction, even when his slashes failed to draw blood. He dodged deadly axe blows by hairbreadths, never second-guessing his movements or fearing death.

Pooling upon the accumulated experience of a hundred and fifty loops, every weakness and window to attack was exploited to its fullest. Each parry, counter, and evasion was executed with razor focus and an unfaltering intent to win. He had changed greatly from his first loop, but at his core, Alcyr remained the same: a struggler who always fought with everything he had.

He was the kind of fool that trained till his hands bled, who dreamed impossible dreams, and who — for more than one hundred loops — bullheadedly fought and died against the same opponent over and over again rather than scheme his way to victory. Bjorn bellowed like a beast, now fully invested in the fight. A series of rapid axe swings met Alcyr's sword. Multiple blows were exchanged in the span of heartbeats. Each second that passed was accompanied by at least a dozen clashes of steel against steel.

The continuous cascade of their blows echoed for miles across the tundra. The snow around them churned from the force of their footwork. For several heartbeats, their strength appeared equal. However, the scales soon tilted in the warlord's favour. Pulling off a complex feint, his axe scored two deep crimson lines across Alcyr's flank. They were no minor wounds; Blood immediately soaked his chain armour as the impact folded through his armour and into his ribs.

Alcyr knew that not even the passive regenerative effects of Red March Swordplay could seal up such large gashes in time. But that was exactly what he was counting on. Ignoring the pain, the soldier kept pace and traded blow for blow, using an overwhelming flurry of heavy sword swings to pressure the foe. Slowly, exchange after exchange, the warlord began to slow.

"Impossible!" Bjorn roared.

"Your strength and stamina rival mine?!" That was not the case. Alcyr had been exerting everything he had in the last minute. With Alcyr's high-level physical and combat skills, the warlord was forced to clash against him with considerable strength. Each parry, block, or dodge was rapidly draining both fighters' energy. However, while Bjorn possessed greater endurance due to his levels, the loops had given Alcyr an intimate knowledge of the warlord's moveset.

He could counter the chieftain's attacks far more efficiently than they could counter his. More importantly, Alcyr had a trick up his sleeve — a deception that would allow him to land the killing blow. Mortal Defiance was the key. By letting the warlord land two devastating hits on him right as his stamina edged on the cliff of exhaustion, the skill was activated. Alcyr received one last burst of vitality. Every sense and movement was sharpened.

His pain was pushed to the periphery, and his limbs responded with a desperate fire-snap of speed and strength. He had learned through countless loops of deliberate practice exactly what his skill's limits were. Now. It has to be now! Surging forth, Alcyr activated Perfect Parry. The warlord's axe slammed against his shield. Unlike before, it was a direct hit. There was no chance for the attack to be redirected.

The warlord had fully expected the enchanted blade to cleave right through, committing the entirety of his strength to the strike. Thus, when the magical blade instead bounced off the shield like it were a toy weapon, the warlord completely lost his balance. With his opponent tired, stumbling, and entirely open to attack, Alcyr dropped the shield to his hip and drew his dagger in one practised motion. He lunged as fast as he could. His aim was straight and true.

Alcyr saw the unyielding blade pierce the iron skin of Bjorn's chest, right over their heart. I win. Yet before the blade could sink deep, the space before him suddenly blurred. Despite knowing his dagger had sunk over the warlord's heart, the blade was now impossibly buried two inches to the left instead. What? I missed? How in the world— Combat Sense overrode his bafflement. He yanked his sword up in time to meet the warlord's descending axe.

Perfect Parry failed to connect, but he still managed to redirect the swing down across the length of his sword. The blow was still heavy, however. Alcyr was thrown far back. He dropped into a roll, bringing up his sword and dagger in anticipation of a follow-up. It never came. The warlord was hunched over, blood flowing down his chest.

"A fatal blow," the warlord laughed, even as he panted.

"It has been years since my Second Measure activated."

"Another defensive skill," Alcyr realised.

"One that allows you to evade death?"

"A Rare-tier skill. It allows me to escape a lethal wound once a day. A gift from my patron Saint, as befits his legend of once escaping the underworld." Find this and other great novels on the author's preferred platform. Support original creators! Alcyr stood. He sheathed his dagger and strapped his shield to his wrist, freeing his hands. He then drew two throwing knives, gripped between the fingers of his left hand.

"No words, struggler?" The warlord straightened slightly, axe still in hand.

"Do you not have any complaints of unfairness? Most would argue that you have already won the duel."

"If we are to talk about unfairness, then I hold the most unfair advantage of all," Alcyr replied easily.

"Do not concern yourself with such useless talk. I hold you no grudge. Use everything you have. Cheat death again, if you can. I would not even blame you if you wish to run."

"Run? No. I must admit, you intrigue me. Your strength, your fearlessness, even that dagger of yours that pierced my iron body like parchment. All of it is excellent. Despite your youth, you are the most worthy opponent I've faced in a long while. And that's why I must kill you." Alcyr cocked his head.

"Because of your Path?"

"Only in part. The Slayer Saint will reward me greatly for your death; that is true. But more than that, honour dictates I do not flee before a worthy foe. I will gladly die at your hands if it comes to it, but before then… I will savour every last drop of this battle!" The warlord surged forth with such force that the ground behind him cratered. Alcyr recognised it as one of his Artes. He managed to defend himself in time, but his shield shattered from the force.

Only an expertly executed redirection spared him a broken left arm. The silverite axe was glowing, fuelled by the warlord's lifeforce. He was gambling everything he had in the fight. Alcyr would do the same. Taking a risk, he threw his two throwing knives at near point-blank range. One of them managed to hit the warlord's eye, drawing a gout of blood. Not deep enough! Alcyr cursed. The chieftain roared — pain and fury in equal measure — and came at him in a storm of mighty blows.

Alcyr defended himself as best as he could, combining redirection with Perfect Parry. A direct clash would see his sword sheared in half, yet even these deflections could not last forever. His sword was not made to take blows like this, especially against such a powerful foe. The dangerous metallic whines of each exchange signalled it would soon break. Alcyr's mind raced. I need to force an opening. Merely deflecting the axe isn't going to work.

He already knows I have Perfect Parry, but if I can execute the Arte successfully in quick succession, it should break his defence. A tall order, to be sure. Especially since he was nearly out of stamina. Perfect Parry had become easier to use over the last few loops, though if Alcyr were being honest, he would attribute his successes to his higher Combat Sense levels and increased practice, rather than the Arte's level itself.

The parry window did not seem to increase at all between levels, which made Alcyr wonder what exactly the Arte was doing with its higher numbers. It doesn't matter. Focus on the foe. I know his attack patterns, and I'm familiar with the reach of his axe. Even if the odds are small, it's possible to perform consecutive Perfect Parries. Parry three times, stagger him, then stab him with the dagger. Everything relied on timing. Exhaling a breath, Alcyr charged forth. The first Perfect Parry was a success.

Even though the warlord half-anticipated it, the sudden disappearance of his axe's momentum still made him stumble. The second Perfect Parry only barely managed to connect. Alcyr nearly missed the window when the warlord threw a punch instead of an axe swing. Imbuing the Arte on his left hand rather than his blade, he managed to knock the fist aside with his own jab, further imbalancing the warlord. However, the third parry was too much.

The mental toil of two consecutive Arte activations combined with his physical fatigue slowed Alcyr's reaction by a fraction of a second. With how unforgiving Perfect Parry was, the Arte failed to trigger in time. Death descended upon him, as it had a hundred times before. Axe glinting under moonlight, the warlord's third strike sheared clean through Alcyr's arming sword and tore straight through his chest. [New Skill: Slash Resistance 1 (Rare)] Blood and pain bloomed in his mind.

A single realisation registered: Fatal hit. For a moment — the briefest moment — Alcyr felt his will falter. His weakness gave birth to a gentle, treacherous thought: Just give up. It doesn't matter. I can always try again. It was tempting. More than that, it was rational. Why continue when it's clear he was going to fail the loop? Why endure the pain and torment when he could just escape it by giving up? Why fight at all? Why? That was obvious.

Because he swore he would never again be a slave, not even to his own weakness. Giving up was not permitted. Surrendering was not permitted. Fight. Live! Even if it's just for one more second, even for just one more kill! He refused to let his dream be sullied by this unsightly cowardice. No matter how distant or impossible his path was, it was one that he had chosen. I will become a Saint. Driven by defiance, Alcyr howled.

The sound that tore from his throat was nothing short of primal — the death cry of a wounded beast, flooded with unearthly rage. Dying was not to be feared or allowed. Dying was to be hated. Alcyr's howl raged against Death itself. [Warning: You have drawn the attention of a higher entity.] [The Saint of Nihility has heard your fury.] [New Arte: Deathbound Dirge 1 (Rare)] The warlord staggered back, jerking in pain as his eardrum burst. His muscles locked as psychic tremors ran through his bones like lightning.

For a split second, Alcyr's pain vanished. Seizing the opportunity, he lunged. His opponent's state of paralysis did not last. Even enfeebled, the warlord managed to move in time to block Alcyr's dagger with his hand. The blade slashed through the palm, but in doing so, Bjorn had trapped the weapon, leaving Alcyr with no means to kill him. The warlord's face was close. He growled in animalistic hate and fear, the laboured heat of his breath washing over them both. Blood streamed down his ears and eyes.

One of those eyes still had a throwing knife embedded within it. Alcyr did not hesitate. He reared his head back and smashed his forehead down — directly onto the blade in Bjorn's eye. The warlord's roar of pain was nothing short of therapeutic — a fine tonic for the agony that detonated through Alcyr's skull on impact. The giant's head snapped back, spraying blood from his eye, but Alcyr would not let him go.

He leaned closer, forcing his broken left wrist to lock around the chieftain's neck, before powering his head against the throwing knife's hilt a second time. The blade was hammered further into Bjorn's eye. A third headbutt followed, the echoing crack accompanied by the warlord's scream. A fourth impact, Alcyr felt his nose give way with a sickening snap as the blade was hammered into brain matter once more. Then came the fifth and final head slam. Alcyr thought he felt something cracked at the front of his skull.

By this point, the throwing knife was well and truly buried in the warlord's eye. His vision was blurred to red smears, his body burning with pain from head to toe. Alcyr never felt so close to death. Even so, he still wrenched the warlord's shattered head down, exposed the neck, and then drove his dagger straight through the northman's spine. A shudder. Alcyr felt the slick parting of bone beneath the blade.

Bjorn, chieftain of the Frostcoil Tribe — the monster who held Alcyr hostage in the loops for one hundred and fifty days — gave a wet, rattling chuckle.

"Good… fight." Bjorn exhaled, his breath shuddering.

"I return… to the earth…" The silverite axe fell from limp fingers. The body became dead weight, and Alcyr allowed it to fall. Bjorn's corpse finally crashed into the crimson snow, never to rise again. [Your legacy deepens.] [New Title: The Butcher of the Red Rime]