Chương 2: Once More

The howling of Blightwolves across the tundra tore Alcyr from his rest. He was a light sleeper by necessity. Eighteen years of uneasy living had birthed difficult habits, and his new posting in the northern frontier had done nothing to help. Snow seeped through the barrack walls at night, and the sounds that drifted in from the tundra — wolves, wind, and occasionally things more monstrous — had a particular feral quality that was hard for him to ignore. He lay still for a moment, listening.

When the unnatural howls faded to silence, he let out a slow breath and sheathed the dagger he'd drawn by his bedside without thinking. He was being paranoid. No monster, however hungry, would be stupid enough to attack a military encampment. Why am I so tense? He frowned as he sat up in his bed. Strange and unsettling images spun in his mind. I had a dream. I was… dying? He vaguely recalled a field of snow, of blood and axes. It was impossible to grasp the fading vision for long. A nightmare.

He shook his head in disbelief. I'm being restless over a childish nightmare. The moon still hung low, the sun nowhere in sight. The rest of the soldiers in his barracks remained soundly asleep. Alcyr debated returning to bed, but his nerves were wound tight, and he knew the effort would be wasted. Dawn was not far. He might as well accept that sleep was done for the night and freshen up early for the day.

He rose quietly, careful not to wake the others in the next bunk, and went outside to wash his face at the well. The morning cold was a cruel lover, waning night winds clawing relentlessly for his body's warmth. He scrubbed his face and hands, ignoring the way the freezing water burnt through the worn bandages on his palms and bit into the raw calluses beneath. [Natural Resistance increased to 15] Even as he hated the cold, Alcyr could not deny that it brought benefits."

Adversity breeds character," as his mentor enjoyed saying. There was a reason Alcyr had decided to join the northern military campaign, despite it being one of the harshest fronts. It was where he could grow his skills the fastest. He dismissed the notification. After a quick bite of stale bread and some jerky, he headed straight to the training grounds.

His breath came out in slow white plumes. The clearing was empty, as he'd expected. The 3rd Irregular Company had no urgent orders until the afternoon, and no sane man would practise in the pre-dawn frost by choice. It was still dark, but the moonlight provided enough illumination, and Alcyr's eyes were used to low light from his days as a slave. He picked out a straw dummy and started swinging. He never skipped morning training. Not because he was gifted or a genius. Quite the opposite.

Alcyr knew damn well he was no one special. If he wanted to survive and reap the rewards of his temporary military career, he needed to train relentlessly. The Kingdom of Morwyn marched to war, hoping to conquer the barbarian-infested north. The campaign was not going well. The military desperately needed soldiers. To fill the ranks, mercenaries, conscripts, and glory-seeking peasants were gathered to form companies of 'Irregulars' — temporary, non-professional troops — to assist the advance of the main army.

It was a dangerous role, and thus made an environment perfect for a third-rate swordsman like him to grow. [Sword Discipline has improved to 19] About damn time, he huffed. The last increase had been weeks ago. Alcyr had no connections. No family or friends in high places. Gold was always in short supply, and the only items in his possession were the clothes on his back and his worn equipment: an arming sword, a wooden shield, and the dagger his mentor had given him when they parted ways years ago.

For someone like him, there were few opportunities available. Unable to afford a skill tutor or hire a retired adventurer to feed him monster kills for skill experience, Alcyr's options were limited to joining a town militia, becoming a mercenary, or signing up as an Irregular soldier in the Morwyn military. The last option paid the worst — a mere sum of fifty silver coins a year — but it gave him a free roof over his head and put food on his table.

More importantly, it was the most dangerous — and thus most skill-rewarding — option he could pick. Alcyr cared little for luxury or safety. Neither would let him develop his strength. The rigours of his current arrangement suited him just fine. He took a short break after an hour of sword practice. Drinking some water, he called upon his Status Screen.

[Status Screen] Alcyr Rivers — Age 18 Titles: Godless High Initiate Combat Skills: Sword Discipline 19 (Common) Unarmed Discipline 14 (Common) Dagger Discipline 9 (Common) Shield Discipline 12 (Common) Armour Discipline 10 (Common) Combat Sense 1 (Uncommon) Life Skills: Physical Conditioning 16 (Common) Pain Tolerance 18 (Common) Movement 13 (Common) Natural Resistance 15 (Common) [End Screen] Overall, it was decent. Far better than the average Morwyn peasant, at least.

Given Alcyr's current age and uneasy background, most would even go so far as to call it excellent. A person's strength was graded by the level of their strongest skill. The tiers of Initiate, Journeyman, and Elite were sorted into development brackets of level 1-20, level 21-40, and level 41-60, respectively. An additional designation of 'Low' or 'High' was given depending on whether the person had passed the midpoint level of the tier yet. A person's System usually awakens only in their late teenage years.

Having just a single skill above level 10 before reaching two decades of age was thus considered the benchmark for 'good' among the common folk. By that measure, Alcyr had cleared the bar several times over. His Physical Conditioning alone had been high enough at enlistment that the evaluation officer had waved him through with barely a second glance. Since then, he has served with the 3rd Irregular Company for about a year.

His skills had grown nicely, largely thanks to his determination to work hard and take on more dangerous roles. The company captain had even personally praised him once, saying a 'talent' like him might even become a High Elite before he retired in a few decades. Alcyr's ambitions were nowhere that low. But he was also a realist. Almost every other Irregular recruit was a 'Low' Initiate — a person whose best skill was between Level 1 and 10.

Alcyr's Sword Discipline of 19 had long since passed the halfway point to Journeyman, which gave him the designation of 'High' Initiate. Reaching the Elite tier — having a skill level over 40 — was a lifelong ambition for most, and a goal only achieved near the end of one's life, if at all. Skills were a lot harder to level as they increased. As Alcyr's Sword Discipline approached that benchmark, he could swing at a training dummy every day for months without seeing even a single point of improvement.

Going even further beyond, getting Sword Discipline to level 50 and becoming a High Elite was an impossible dream for most soldiers, especially those without a wealthy background or noble blood to pave the way for an academy's tuition. Even for Alcyr, who trained far harder than anyone else in the company, it would be a brutally difficult path. But he would do it. Moreover, he swore he would reach even further than a mere High Elite. Anything less would be an insult to himself and his mentor.

Recovered, Alcyr was about to mentally dismiss the Status Screen when he noticed something strange. Some of his skills had higher levels than he remembered. Shield Discipline, Armour Discipline, Pain Tolerance… Those skills were one point greater than they should be. More than that, he had a new skill. An Uncommon grade skill. Fleeting memories of his nightmare returned. Before he 'died' in that dream, he had been fighting desperately, incurring fatal wounds and reaping barbarian lives.

Whilst locked in the throes of hopeless combat, he had earned himself a few levels. If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it's taken without the author's consent. Report it. Had he… levelled his skills in his sleep? Even gained a new one when he 'died' in his dream? He scoffed, shaking his head. Impossible. Such delusions toe the line from fantasy into madness. The simpler explanation was that he had missed track of his recent skill and level gains.

It had been a while since he bothered checking his Status Screen, after all. Even he made mistakes now and then. That being said… Going so far as to forget about gaining a new Uncommon skill? I'm not usually that careless. Could I really have gained a skill in a dream? Alcyr tried to recall more details of his nightmare, but the memories were too fickle. The more he tried to grasp them, the more they slipped from his mind.

Soon, he was left with only the faintest impressions, unable to remember any more beyond the fact he had died at the end of his nightmare. He sighed. Faced with two impossibilities, the only rational approach was to pick the one that was more plausible. The only sane answer is that I had a lapse in memory. There's no other reasonable explanation. Unless… Unless I had gone back in time? He huffed in amusement, disregarding that mad notion. A lapse in memory, he concluded. Nothing more.

The insistent discomfort in his mind refused to fade, even as he picked up his sword and resumed his training. Dawn was coming, and every minute was precious. He had no intention of wasting any of them.

The camp stirred around him as the sky lightened. Voices drifted across from the other barracks — and with them, inevitably, the commentary.

"Hey, look. Our sword fanatic's at it again."

"Training like that in this morning cold… He's going to get himself sick one day."

"We don't get paid anywhere enough for this. I heard we might have a combat deployment later. I just want to survive…" Alcyr ignored the onlookers, focused entirely on his swordplay. He worked through the combinations his mentor had drilled into him until his arms shook and his grip turned slick with blood, and then he kept going past that. Only when the morning bell rang for muster did he stop. He stood before the battered dummy with his chest heaving, his bleeding palms split open along the old calluses.

His bandages were ruined and would need to be replaced. Again. Every day. He trained like this every day. He was not insane; his skill levels were proof enough that his hard work paid off. He was a High Initiate when most youth his age were still barely considered a Low Initiate. He was the youngest soldier in the company, yet his martial prowess was on par with the more seasoned Infantrymen of the 3rd Irregulars, most of whom were more than a decade and a half older than him. But Alcyr was not satisfied.

Others in the company might regard him as 'talented', but the truth was he was just the finest among mediocrity. The peasantry were not known for churning out geniuses or champions. Compared to nobles — scions of powerful bloodlines and legendary heritage — Alcyr's 'talent' barely qualified him to stand among them. And there were powers beyond even noble blood, too. Beyond the Morwyn kingdom, beyond even the continent…

Alcyr would never be content with just being better than the bottom average, not after his mentor had shown him just how vast the world was. In many ways, she had tainted him with her teachings, left him hungering for more than what a peaceful life could provide.

"You cannot drag a frog from its Well, show it the world, then cast it back down and expect it to remain content," Alcyr recalled her words. His hands shook from pain and fatigue. When he removed his old bandages, his palms were torn from how hard he had exerted himself with his sword." Knowledge of one's inadequacy is a curse."

"But it can also be a blessing. Life is nothing without the struggle for vindication." Alcyr shook his head as he finished wrapping up fresh bandages on his bleeding hand. He rushed to meet the muster assembled in the square. The company was being gathered for war once more. Once the afternoon came, the 3rd Irregular Company would launch a probing offensive against the barbarian tribes camped across the tundra, along with the 1st, 6th, 8th, and 9th Irregular companies.

They would be supporting the famed Drake Cavalry of the 4th Regulars — a renowned regiment of the Kingdom. Thousands of men would fight and die upon the snow that day. And Alcyr would be in the vanguard, where the bloodbath would be at its thickest.

Axes, swords, and shields collided, signalling the start of carnage. The initial clash between two armies was always the worst. The fearful anticipation as one marched forth to their death, the roaring release to mask one's cowardice during the opening charge… And then the ceaseless outpouring of blood, guts, and screams, followed quickly by the dreadful realisation that you were now one mistake from death. The newer recruits recoiled.

Youths barely over twenty years old, they saw how easily their comrades and seniors died in those first few seconds of battle and began to cower in fright. Alcyr felt no such fear. Without hesitation, he plunged headfirst into the battle and added his own murderous contribution to the slaughter. The enemy had met the Morwyn's vanguard with great eagerness.

The tribesmen of the North were brutish warriors who had grown strong by enduring the harsh tundras and feeding on the mutated monsters of the corrupted highlands. They fought with little regard for their lives, and though such recklessness was a sure path to eventual death, it also made them undoubtedly more dangerous opponents when they were still alive. The people of the kingdom detested them. Alcyr instead found them remarkable. There was something to respect in such blind, despicable rage.

Because that, too, is a possible path to becoming the strongest, he thought to himself. Only through exceptional danger could one find exceptional growth. His squad soon became separated. All cohesion was lost as the frontline dissolved into countless one-on-one brawls. For a time, Alcyr fought alone. Barbarians roared and hurled themselves at him, the strength of their axe swings rocking him back each time he blocked with his shield. He did not care for his safety.

There was a tranquillity to be found in the heart of the melee. Through the screams of the dying and the stench of fresh blood on his tongue, he attained a higher understanding of strength. It was here, and only here, where his skills would bloom the fastest. That razor-thin boundary between life and death. He slew his first opponent with a sword thrust through the neck, the barbarian's head jerking free as he ripped his blade out. Another he gutted after he parried the foe's axe.

One by one, he broke the momentum of the enemy and cleared an opening for his squad. [Combat Sense has improved to 2] [Movement has improved to 14] He dismissed the notification and took a moment to survey the shifting battlefield. The vanguard wasn't doing well. The barbarians had employed several berserkers in their midst — drug-enhanced warriors who risked their lives on strange alchemy to better train their bodies and improve their skills in combat. Those berserkers would be Low Journeyman grade, at least.

Most of the recruits in his squad were only Low Initiates. They would not last long against such foes. He glanced over his shoulder, seeing the fractured remnants of his squad. The squad sergeant was dead. Bereft of leadership and seeing the barbarian corpses at his feet, the terrified recruits looked at him with desperate awe.

"On me," Alcyr called out, taking pity on them.

"We need to regroup with the other squads of 2nd Platoon and hold out until the second wave of soldiers arrives to reinforce us." They eagerly compiled.

"F-follow him! Follow the sword fanatic!" He led them as best he could, but he was no leader. His rank was still a Private, despite his combat experience surpassing most platoon sergeants. He saved those he could, and left behind those too wounded to fight. When he regrouped with 2nd Platoon, only three members of his ten-man squad were still left. The other squads of 2nd Platoon were doing poorly as well.

"We're surrounded!" one of the squad sergeants shouted.

"Where the hell is the second wave?! Do we hold out here or do we run?!"

"The front is buckling!" someone shouted.

"We can't stay!" The platoon sergeant — a powerful veteran at the High Journeyman tier — took command.

"We can't run either; our retreat is blocked! Hold position! Command will send more soldiers to relieve us soon! The 4th Regulars will come!" Minutes passed. Casualties, fatigue, and wounds grew. Swords broke, and fighting sometimes dissolved to daggers or even bare fists before a fresh blade could be pried from a comrade's corpse. Whatever the overall battlefield situation was, his platoon's position was growing increasingly bleak. The vanguard was being torn to shreds.

The promised wave of reinforcement never came. Within the heat of frenzied battle, slaughtering foes left and right with everything he had, Alcyr's skill rose with startling alacrity. [Unarmed Discipline has improved to 15] [Combat Sense has improved to 3] [Dagger Discipline has improved to 10] [Physical Conditioning has improved to 17] As more squads were wiped out, and the platoon's numbers dwindled to barely a third of what they once were, a realisation came to Alcyr's mind. I am going to die here.

The bleak realisation should have left him afraid, or at least worried. Instead, Alcyr frowned. Why does all of this seem… familiar? There was no mistaking it. He had been here before. His thoughts were interrupted when a great roar rose over the battlefield — a challenge cry. Alcyr saw a bronze-skinned giant tower over the mass of berserkers. I know him. That was the warchief that killed him in his dreams last night. Despite his monstrous size, the warchief moved with terrifying speed.

The barbarian leader came bursting through the press of combat, slaughtering an Initiate infantryman with a single swing of his axe. He hewed apart flesh and armour as if they were paper. Another soldier died, then a third, and a fourth. The line would have broken immediately if the platoon sergeant hadn't rushed into melee with the warchief. That sergeant was the strongest fighter in their platoon, but even he barely lasted ten exchanges with the warchief before he staggered back from the enemy's strength.

The warchief laughed as he shoulder-barged the platoon sergeant, knocking the veteran soldier to the ground before he swung his axe down, splitting helmet and skull in one blow. The soldiers' morale was shattered in an instant. Cries of despair and panic were everywhere.

"We need to run!" Someone shouted at Alcyr's side. It was Roland.

"Come on, help us break out of this encirclement!" Alcyr shook his head.

"We can't run. Not while he's there." He pointed towards the warchief.

"I'll deal with him. The rest of you, try to hang in there."

"What?! Alcyr, you suicidal lunatic! You can't win!" Alcyr ignored Roland's protests. He plunged back into the melee, killing another two barbarians before he emerged into a small clearing around the warchief. The giant had been waiting for him with a bloodied smile. Alcyr didn't bother with words. He lunged toward the foe immediately. His sword was worn and brittle from constant battle. It was a poor match for his opponent's axe, but it would last for a few exchanges, at least. He had to make them count.

Alcyr's first sword thrust was intercepted, the edge churning sparks as the two blades met. Pressing upon his momentum, he twisted, throwing the warchief's axe wide before pressing home with an overhead strike. The warchief caught the attack with the heft of his weapon. Alcyr's sword was too blunt to cut through, but what he lacked in his weapon's sharpness, he made up for with a burst of brute strength.

His Physical Conditioning skill was the highest in the platoon, surpassing even the sergeant's, thanks to his rigorous training regimen. Caught off guard by Alcyr's strength, the warchief was driven back in surprise. Alcyr's sword shattered from the effort, but an opening had presented itself. He dropped the broken sword and drew his dagger, lunging for his opponent's neck. Too slow. The warchief recovered faster than Alcyr anticipated, bringing his axe around and tearing it clean across the soldier's stomach.

There was a horrible, wet noise. Alcyr crumpled as his guts split onto the snow. [Pain Tolerance has improved to 19] [Combat Sense has improved to 4] Perhaps there had been no other outcome. A High Initiate against a High Journeyman — anyone would have predicted Alcyr's death. The gulf of an entire grade was too much for any mundane soldier to overcome. Still, it frustrated him that this was the limit of his capability. If only he had swung his sword a few more times each day, if only he were a split-second faster…

Why didn't he train more? Why didn't he do more to make himself stronger? Those were the thoughts that hounded Alcyr as he died. He lost all sensation. It felt as if he were floating in water. There was a light in the darkness, gold and welcoming. Without thinking, he reached for it. [Once more.] Then he was falling, drowning, fading… Until the familiar howling of wolves jolted him back to life once more.