Chương 17: Waking Up

For the first time in many nights, Alcyr dreamt of his mentor. He did not think of himself as the childishly sentimental sort. Neither did he place much value on the distant echoes of his past. And yet, the old memory that resurfaced was a precious one nonetheless. Perhaps it was drawn forth to counter his near-death state — a need to reignite his purpose of living. Or perhaps it was simply a desire to hear her voice again.

To relive that quiet, savage nostalgia that always threatened to overwhelm him whenever he remembered her.

"You have talent." Those three words, given to Alcyr when he was a child, were a curse. The woman who spoke them was no fool. Neither was she the type to lie. And it was why Alcyr chose to trust her with his life. The day he heard those words had been the first time he had killed. His soon-to-be teacher smiled.

"Do you wish to learn how to use a sword?" It was the first kindness anyone had ever shown him. He had said yes. He could not have known what that answer would have cost him in the years to come.

The first thing Alcyr noticed was that he had woken to daylight. The usual tenebrosity of night that accompanied the start of every loop was absent. His tired eyes struggled to open, a brightness pressing against their heavy lids. A good start, he sluggishly thought to himself. A hundred and fifty mornings of the same pre-dawn darkness, and now he was greeted with the sun instead. The experience was oddly disorienting, but he welcomed it all the same. Where am I?

His body slowly drifted back to the world of the living, his senses returning one after another. With great difficulty, he opened his eyes. He was lying on a soft bed, surrounded by walls that seemed much sturdier than the usual wet wood of his old barracks. Sunlight filtered in through a polished glass window, the sheer fabric of the shades blunting their glare. The room was sinfully warm, the cold kept at bay by a burning fireplace — a privilege usually denied to the rank-and-file infantry.

A myriad of unfamiliar scents assailed his nose and tongue. Each breath inhaled was thick with the cloying, metallic stench of blood and the sharp, herbal sting of potent alchemical salts. The scent of guttering wax from a nearby candle was the only thing that made the smell bearable. This is definitely not the 3rd Irregular's barracks.

He tried to move, but the moment he did, a myriad of sharp agonies assaulted him — a loathsome pulse behind his eyes, a deep-seated ache across his chest, the unbearable burning flickers of torn muscles within his arms and shoulders. It was beneath a true warrior to complain about his suffering in any form, but Alcyr could not hold back a groan as he sank back into his bed.

His chest felt as though it had been fused into a rigid, fragile block — every ligament held together by thin wax, ready to tear apart at the slightest movement. He heard a flurry of activity. Someone gently held him down.

"Don't try to move. You are still weak from the surgery." At the feeling of hands against his naked torso, Alcyr flinched.

"Do not touch me." His voice was shamefully weak. His throat felt like he had swallowed a bag of crushed glass. But that dry hiss — as well as the burst of violent intent that bled into it — was enough to make the person withdraw her hands.

"I apologise," she said.

"Please remain still. Your body is still recovering, and the stitches have yet to settle." His vision was still partially blurred, but even a mere glance was enough to tell him that the woman before him was nothing short of an exceptional beauty — a tall and slender maiden with skin as pale and flawless as windswept snow. Raven hair flowed to her waist, two short braids framing her face at the sides, while the rest gathered into a single tail at the back. Her attire, in contrast, was starkly morbid.

The sleeves of her worn surgeon's uniform were rolled up to her elbows, and her leather apron was stained by dark blood and other visceral fluids. Rather than jewellery, she wore a heavy chain around her neck, strung with an ugly sigil: a human-faced serpent devouring an iron sword. The sigil of the Second Saint. It's only given by the academy to expert practitioners of the medical arts. A licensed alchemist and apothecary, then. The 3rd Irregular had no true physician, let alone a female one. Which means…

"The 4th Regulars camp," Alcyr rasped.

"I have made it." The young woman nodded. Her pale silver eyes, nearly the colour of blue steel, smouldered with vivacious curiosity as she observed him.

"Against all odds, one might say." He had done it, then. He had finally escaped the second set of looping days. And it only took me half a year, he thought sardonically to himself. There were many matters to consider — what happens now if he dies, what should he do going forward — but for the moment, his recovery was his priority. As he was now, he could barely move, let alone fight. Being vulnerable was not a state he could tolerate.

"How long was I unconscious?" he asked. Every word scraped painfully against his throat. He suspected Deathbound Dirge had torn something when he unleashed the Arte. He would have to keep his voice low until it had fully healed. The apothecarion's reply, however, sent a jolt of alarm through him.

"Fourteen days. Fifteen, to be exact. It's just past midday."

"What?" The word escaped his lips before he could stop it, and a violent fit of coughing seized him.

"Do not shout," she said, helping to steady him.

"I managed to repair your damaged larynx, but if you strain it further, you risk becoming mute for the rest of your life." The woman inspected the heavy linen bandages wrapped around his torso, checking if any of his wounds were bleeding again from his coughing fits. Alcyr ignored the pain as his mind whirled from her earlier answer. He had been unconscious for over two weeks? Alcyr didn't know what to make of that.

On one hand, it didn't bode well for his immediate recovery, but on the other, it counted as a sort of unexpected progress that he had advanced so far from the time loop without doing anything. He flexed his muscles as he lay on the bed — cataloguing his most pressing pains, trying to diagnose his wounds. In the end, there were too many, so he gave in and asked.

"My injuries. Tell me about them." The surgeon looked up. The light from the window caught her face, revealing the extent of her exhaustion. She looked like she hadn't slept in days.

"Your body needs sleep. Your survival was nothing short of a medical miracle, Private Alcyr." Support the creativity of authors by visiting the original site for this novel and more.

"I've slept for two weeks already. I'm not going to waste any more time. My body needs to earn its rest."

"Earn its rest?" She tilted her head, her pale gaze becoming inscrutable.

"Do you not understand what you just went through? You've pushed your body to the very brink of death. The fatigue brought about by your usage of Artes alone nearly killed you. I've worked on many wounded soldiers before, but I've never seen one who fights with so little regard for his body. It's almost impressive." Her words made Alcyr chuckle.

"How flattering. But I'd rather you elaborate on my wounds, please." The surgeon looked at him for a moment. She exhaled.

"Where do I start… In summary: a self-inflicted skull fracture, highly probable head trauma, an open break of the left wrist, multiple severe lacerations and incised wounds across the arms and torso, severe blood loss and fatigue, significant soft tissue damage and bruising, two broken ribs and a punctured lung, perforation of the kidney, widespread muscle tears, a fractured nose, and, finally, you somehow managed to haemorrhage your own vocal cords by screaming." There was a pause.

Seeing Alcyr's unfazed expression, the surgeon continued with clinical detachment.

"You were lucky your opponent had a powerful healing potion on him," she said.

"The concoction kept your condition stable until I could bring you to my infirmary. Even then, without whatever defensive or endurance skill that was keeping you alive from the warlord's silverite slash, you would not have made it to my table."

"Hm." He supposed he owed Roland some thanks, then. Alcyr had been so badly wounded and disorientated after the fight, he doubted he would have even been able to pilfer Bjorn's corpse and drink the potion on his own. Bracing himself, Alcyr forced his body to sit up. The pain was… It was quite bad — as if he were being ripped, burnt, and pierced all over his body at the same time. Alcyr suspected a normal person would be screaming by now.

But by this point, his Pain Tolerance was high enough that he could endure it without passing out. And, for better or worse, he had suffered far worse before. The surgeon didn't try to stop him. She probably expected him to render himself unconscious. Were she not so exhausted, perhaps she would have bothered to say something. As it was, she watched him with some wonder as he successfully sat up on the bed before flexing his fingers, his breathing laboured and pained.

"How long for a complete recovery?" he asked breathlessly. Her gaze sharpened as she reassessed him.

"Normally, I would say months. But you seem unusually robust for an Irregular. Are you able to walk?" Alcyr frowned. He sensed trouble.

"Why?"

"The Masters and Grandmasters of the company would like to question you, myself included. I had planned for you to remain in bed, but given that you seem lucid and mobile, I see no reason not to bring you to my superior right away. There are many matters we need answered." Alcyr frowned. Masters and Grandmasters. Those were the tiers above Elite. The surgeon was saying the highest commanding officers of the campaign wanted to see him personally.

"Can this interrogation not wait?" he tried.

"It's hardly an interrogation. More an interview than anything," she corrected, her expression betraying nothing. It was difficult to gauge her honesty.

"Despite our reputation, the leaders of 4th Regulars are not in the habit of punishing lowborn soldiers for performing beyond expectations. Quite the opposite, really."

"I'm sure a mere Private like myself is not important enough to warrant the attention of such lofty figures."

"A mere Private would not warrant the personal care of the company's top physician for two weeks either. Yet the privilege was given, because you are no mere Private anymore, Alcyr Rivers. You ceased being one the moment you slew a barbarian warlord in single combat. Now, you are a person of interest to us." He raised an eyebrow.

"And what type of interest would that be?" She smiled slightly, her eyes cold.

"That depends entirely on your answers later." Not a shred of sympathy from this woman. Alcyr chuckled.

"Fine. Moving in my current state feels unwise, but I don't suppose I have a choice."

"You don't. But it will not kill you, and that is enough." The surgeon paused.

"I will administer you a pain suppressant and stimulant mixture to ensure you do not collapse on the way there." Alcyr's lips twitched.

"'I swear on my oath that I will not let you die.' That was what you said when you treated me upon the drake's back, two weeks ago. I can believe it now, seeing as you were willing to save a worthless Irregular like me even then."

"So you do remember me. I suppose we can remove head trauma from your list of injuries. Though the matter of your questionable sanity remains."

"I also recalled meeting you after the Battle of the Red Rime," he added.

"You are a drake rider as well as a surgeon? How does a healer find themselves on the frontlines as a combatant?"

"It is the prerogative of the talented to excel in many crafts," she shrugged. Her words were delivered without arrogance.

"In my case, it is necessity that forces me to assume multiple roles throughout the campaign. Our numbers grow thin, and the kingdom demands much from people of my calibre." Curious. A person skilled in both martial and medical arts? Those were exceptionally rare, even among noble prodigies and geniuses.

"Are you a warrior first, or does your role as a surgeon take precedence?"

"I think you are asking too many questions for a person in your position. Hold out your arm, please." She reached for an ampoule on her desk. Upon extracting the contents with a needle and flicking the metallic tip with her finger, she paused, as if pondering something.

"You are wrong, by the way," she said, not looking at him.

"What?"

"You are not worthless. Anyone who struggled to survive as you had could not be said to be worthless." Alcyr blinked. That was an oddly sentimental statement, especially after all the deadpanned replies she gave him.

"If you are talking about how I killed the warlord, I was simply desperate. Nothing more."

"I'm not talking about the warlord. I'm talking about the scars on your back." Alcyr forced himself not to flinch.

"I recognise them," she said, her voice careful and controlled.

"Only a certain lash could leave wounds that deep. You were a Godless slave." He had not been prepared to hear those two words again. The suddenness of it caught him off guard.

"... Not anymore." Alcyr pushed his blanket aside and got off the bed. The agony brought by his movement was so fierce he lacked the imagination to describe it even to himself. The moment he stood on his feet, he was nearly driven to his knees. Yet he forced himself to stay upright, unwilling to let his weakness show. [Pain Tolerance has improved to 42] Alcyr dismissed the notification. Looking around for his gear, he caught sight of a full-body mirror behind him instead.

His hair had grown longer, dark strands falling loose enough to brush the back of his neck. His chin and jaw remained smooth, bare of any real growth — a small, stubborn reminder of his youth. He might have been handsome in another life, but the years of suffering and violence had left their marks. The face that met the mirror was wolf-lean and hard-edged. A long scar cut across the right cheek, and shadows pooled beneath a pair of amber eyes — eyes that were jaded and dimmed, yet unbroken despite everything.

It was not the reflection of his face that froze him, however. It was his body that revealed the shameful truth of his origin. Alcyr saw the records of his violent past, etched across the entirety of his naked back by slavers' whips. There was not a single stretch of continuous surface left. Unnatural scars either rose from his back in corded ridges of keloid tissue or as discoloured trenches within the veined marble of muscle.

Everywhere, the lashes had crisscrossed dozens of times over, his flesh reduced to an uneven patchwork of silvered welts that would never leave him for the rest of his life. Were it an ordinary whip that had struck him, perhaps the scars would have faded in time due to some regenerative hardiness gifted by the System. But his slavers had not been mere ordinary men, and the malicious magic they had laced in each lash ensured their marks would remain etched into him forever.

Looking at his scars now, Alcyr would not call his disfigurement admirable, but there was something there. Perhaps a measure of disbelief that he had somehow survived those years as a child, when such wounds were frequent and blood poured from his back daily like a deluge of wine. His body was like him in many ways. Somehow, impossibly, it had stitched itself back together when it should have died. A struggler against its fate. Alcyr turned his gaze away.

Shameful as it was to admit, he could not bear to look at his disfigurement for too long. The memories they dragged forth made him wish for violence, irrespective of reason or logic.

"Where are my weapons?" he demanded.

"Perhaps you should get dressed first?" The physician did not look or shy away from his unclothed form, even as he towered over her.

"My dagger," he half-snarled. His patience was thread-thin — an unusual break from his normal, stoic calm. Perhaps it was the pain that made him ill-tempered. Or perhaps her earlier words affected him more than he thought. Embarrassed, he forced his tone to soften.

"Where is it?" Her reply was calm.

"The rest of the recovery team had collected your gear. What was left of it, at least. They should have deposited them at the armoury." She stepped closer, unafraid of his rage.

"Hold still." She was careful not to touch him more than necessary. Alcyr watched as she injected the ampoule into his arm. Instant relief from the torment flooded him.

"It will last only a few hours. Our supplies are currently stretched thin, so I can't provide much more." Her fingers lingered on his shoulder for a second before she let go, as if worried he was going to collapse.

"My name is Lenore — a licensed apothecary and a captain of the 4th Regulars. I'm glad you are well, Alcyr. It would have frustrated me if my sleepless night produced a corpse."

"Likewise. You have my gratitude for keeping me alive." Alcyr rolled his shoulders, testing his mobility.

"Pass me something to wear, please. And a scalpel too, if you can spare one. I would hate to meet the members of 4th Regulars naked and unarmed." Despite her earlier words, he suspected not everyone in the base might be happy to see him.