Chương 3: No Hesitation

Moonlight. Cold barrack walls. The distant howl of Blightwolves fading across the tundra. Alcyr stared uncomprehendingly at the ceiling, his dagger already in hand. I'm… alive? He felt more confused than relieved. Alcyr could still vividly recall his final moments. The phantom pain of the berserker's axe still lingered on his torso. That had been an undoubtedly lethal wound. But now, he felt… fine? More bafflingly, he was somehow back in his bunk. Around him, soldiers slept without a care in the world.

Is the battle over? He thought. Had someone dragged me to the infirmary? No. That wasn't quite right. Alcyr quietly got up from the bed and inspected himself in the dim moonlight. His wounds were all gone. He grabbed his dagger and examined his abdomen in the blade's reflection. Nothing. Not even a scar. Healing potions or restorative spells weren't this efficient, not unless someone wasted Master-tier healing on him.

"A dream?" he murmured. No. He refused to delude himself into believing it was a mere dream. Not when this was the second time it had happened. Restless, he pulled on his boots and coat, took his sword, and went outside to the well. Ignoring the biting winds, he washed his face and hands, hoping to clear his head. When the cold bit into his palms, he noted the bandages were worn and dirty. He'd changed them yesterday morning — he was certain of it.

Unless he had been unconscious for several days, their already-sordid condition made no sense. What's happening? Everything feels… familiar. He stood by the well for several minutes, gathering his thoughts. Theory: I have already lived this morning. Twice. Premonitions or prophetic visions were not unheard of, but they were the purview of noble oracles or trained psychics, not random infantrymen.

If one of his fellow Irregulars told him they had received a vision of their own death, Alcyr would have simply thought them mad. He briefly considered whether he had gone insane, but then decided that train of thought wasn't useful. His mentor always said the trifling matter of one's sanity was best ignored. What else, then? He thought to himself. If not the psyche… Perhaps a matter of time? Chronomancy was considered a fairy tale for most people, but Alcyr knew it existed.

His mentor had taken him to see such wonders before, during the years when he travelled with her. But even so, something of this scale was far beyond what he thought possible. Slowing time or accelerating it was one thing, but to actually travel back in time? It was a completely absurd notion. Still… There was one easy way to verify the truth. Taking a deep breath, Alcyr mentally summoned his Status Screen.

[Status Screen] Alcyr Rivers — Age 18 Titles: Godless High Initiate Combat Skills: Sword Discipline 19 (Common) Unarmed Discipline 15 (Common) Dagger Discipline 10 (Common) Shield Discipline 12 (Common) Armour Discipline 10 (Common) Combat Sense 4 (Uncommon) Life Skills: Physical Conditioning 17 (Common) Pain Tolerance 19 (Common) Movement 14 (Common) Natural Resistance 15 (Common) [End Screen] He stared at the numbers for several seconds, struck frozen by their implications.

His skills had levelled up exactly as he remembered. The battle 'yesterday' had undoubtedly taken place. Gains like these were only possible overnight through furious combat, not by sleeping. What is going on? How is this possible? After a moment to think, he acknowledged there might be other possible explanations he hadn't considered, perhaps ones which were far less absurd than time travel. But it was fine. As the day progressed, he would soon know for sure if what he had experienced was madness or reality.

Dawn was coming. It was the start of another day. The same day as his death.

Everything unfolded almost identically. During his 'second' life yesterday, the memories of his first death were foggy, no different than the fading afterimages of a distant nightmare. Alcyr hadn't placed much faith in them, given how obscure they were. This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere. This 'third' life, however, held no such impairment.

He remembered vividly the events of 'yesterday', from the moment he woke from his bed all the way to the point of his death. The vision of the past aligned with the present so perfectly, he felt as if he were a phantom reliving a dream. What was the cause of this strange phenomenon? A spontaneous manifestation of precognitive abilities, or genuine time travel? Either way, it was incredibly disconcerting. Though Alcyr still fought and killed the barbarians before him, his heart wasn't in the fight.

But that didn't mean he was any less lethal. [Shield Discipline improved to 13] [Armour Discipline improved to 11] [Sword Discipline improved to 20] He flicked the barbarian's blood off his sword as he dismissed the notification. His Sword Discipline skill was now only one level away from bringing him into the Journeyman tier — an incredible feat for someone of his age and background. In any other situation, he would have felt a slight measure of satisfaction. Right now, his mind was focused on other matters.

A certain thought kept haunting his mind. If dying once or twice didn't kill him… who's to say it wouldn't keep happening again and again? A repeatable time loop where my levels and skills are retained between deaths… It would be a ludicrously powerful ability, on par with the greatest of skills. No, he corrected himself. Something like this… It could only be classified as a Mystery. Mythical bloodlines, divine blessings, celestial enhancements — those were the domain of Mysteries.

They were a category of boons far greater than mere System skills, and were extraordinarily rare. The mere thought of him possibly having one made his heart beat a little faster. The problem was that it sounded too good to be true. Mysteries do not spontaneously appear overnight. If a person was not born with them as part of a bloodline boon, then they would at least need to perform a legendary feat to earn one. It was inconceivable that anybody would just develop one overnight without reason.

Could he really believe such a powerful boon would just fall so conveniently at his feet? His System didn't show anything either. If this were truly the work of a Mystery, his System would have added its name in his Status Screen. There's another possibility. Rather than it being my ability sending me back in time, it could be the work of someone else's Mystery affecting me. It would explain why the name of this strange Mystery didn't show up in his Status Screen. But who would do this? And why him?

All of his theories felt like worthless speculation. He reigned in his wild musing before it could spiral further.

"None of this makes any damn sense," he murmured under his breath. As he privately pondered, the battlefield situation continued deteriorating around him. Alcyr watched as the members of his platoon were slaughtered one after another, feeling no dread whatsoever. Even when the platoon sergeant was cut down once again by the warchief, he only felt calm.

"Roland," Alcyr casually said as the soldiers started panicking around him.

"I'm going to try to kill the warchief. Do you wish to come along?" The older soldier looked at him as if he had gone insane.

"What the hell are you saying, you sword fanatic?! We need to run!" Alcyr shook his head.

"Running is boring. Besides, we're surrounded. There's no place to run." The only option left was to cut a path forward. Making his way to the warchief wasn't too difficult. Alcyr was in better shape than yesterday. His advanced knowledge of future events allowed him to manage his stamina and equipment better. His shield was still in decent shape, and he made sure to snag one of the less-worn swords from his fallen comrades before approaching.

The warchief was distracted killing another soldier when Alcyr blurred forth and thrusted his sword towards his back. To the barbarian leader's credit, he turned and deflected the blade in time. Rather than be insulted by Alcyr's dishonourable action, the bronze-skinned giant simply laughed and returned Alcyr's fury with matching zeal. Defence and offence were used in equal, desperate measure. When Alcyr's shield broke, he parried with his sword. When his sword broke, he drew his dagger.

When he lost his dagger in the melee — the blade falling into the bloody snow — Alcyr resorted to his bare fists and nails. It was not remotely an equal fight. The warchief was a High Journeyman while Alcyr was only a High Initiate. The difference between their best skills might be almost 20 levels — an utterly insurmountable gulf. Moreover, the warchief was not as fatigued as Alcyr, who had been fighting non-stop for the past half hour. Without the element of surprise, Alcyr was sorely outmatched.

But thanks to his improved skills and stamina, it was at least a more even fight than it was 'yesterday'. By the tenth exchange, Alcyr had one arm crippled and a gash running across his forehead. The blood leaking through his torn leather armour smelt too rich and clean to be the weeping tears of a glancing wound. The pain around his lungs was getting colder, spreading until it numbed his arms. His death seemed inevitable. Then, he saw the dark blade of his discarded dagger glinting in the snow.

Worth a shot, he thought to himself. Digging his feet in the snow, Alcyr kicked upwards as hard as he could. Backed up by his high-level Physical Conditioning skill, the powerful kick erupted a dense, powdery mist between them. The discarded dagger on the ground was launched upwards through the cloud, spinning end over end towards the warchief's head.

[New Skill: Throwing Weapon Discipline 1 (Common)] Even with snow blocking his vision, the warchief parried it without breaking stride — but Alcyr was already moving, snatching the diverted blade from the deflection's arc before bringing the edge swinging down. A single, diagonal gash opened up across the warchief's face. A wound, at long last! But it was not enough — the barbarian had leaned back at the last moment, turning a potentially fatal dagger slash into merely a glancing one.

Too shallow, Alcyr thought with a grimace. The warchief kicked him powerfully in the chest, shattering Alcyr's ribs and pulverising his heart in one blow. [Pain Tolerance improved to 20] Try as he might to remain conscious, Alcyr was dead before he even hit the ground.

Darkness. Water. A brilliant light guiding him. And then the howling of Blightwolves across the tundra woke him once more. Alcyr stared at the ceiling of his barracks, dagger already in hand. He lay still for a moment, waiting for the distant howls to subside. When all that was left was the wailing of the winds outside and the fitful snoring of his bunkmates, Alcyr rose. Back again. For a long while, he did nothing. He sat on his bed and simply allowed his mind to ponder the implications. Three deaths now.

Three of the same mornings. Always, he returned to the same cold, the same barracks, the same annoying wolves howling to the same dark sky. Dying so many times — and faced with the prospect of dying the same agonising way again and again — he should have felt madness or dread. Instead, very softly, he started chuckling. A grin stretched hard across his face, his usual stoic calm nowhere in sight. He was not angry. Nor was he insane.

It was simply that, for the first time in his life, he found himself in a situation so profanely fortuitous that the only sane response was to laugh. Three times, he had died. With each death, he had returned stronger. New skills, higher levels… Progress that should have taken months of training was being compressed into a few hours of violence. Who's to say there won't be a fourth, fifth, or tenth time he will return? What did a hundred deaths, a thousand, matter in the face of such expedient growth?

Alcyr was an orphan. A slave. A madman with an insane ambition. There were many lowly words people used to describe him. But he was also someone who dared pursue an impossible dream. Someone who would train till his hands tore and bled. Someone who would roar in the face of death, lashing out like a feral beast if it would but grant him one more kill, one more second of living. Someone who dared say these five words, five words no sane human would say:"I will become a Saint." Hero. Monster. God. Devil.

The Strongest. That was his dream. A more reasonable person might question their circumstances. They might fear being trapped in a cycle of endless suffering. Perhaps they would desperately scheme or plan a way to escape, to avoid further pain or death. Alcyr had no interest in running. He knew pain more intimately than any lover, and death was nothing compared to the need for vindication. There was no more need to hesitate. It was time to exploit these looping 'days' for everything they were worth.