Chương 5: The Sword Fanatic

His first attempt at preparing a coordinated counterattack didn't go so well. Alycr hoped it would be a simple affair to convince a few men to join him in his suicidal assault. Unfortunately, his odds of finding willing meat shields were slim to none. In his defence, he was not exactly a charismatic individual. His moniker as the company's sword fanatic was not unearned. He lacked the empathy to understand the hearts of regular men. It also didn't help that his grasp on persuasion was utterly abysmal.

"Hey, Roland. Help me gather what's left of our survivors. I need more men to kill that warchief."

"Are you crazy?! What survivors, you fool, there's barely any of us left! We're all going to die!" With numbers low and morale in the pits, no amount of words was able to rouse the despairing young recruits to follow him. Alcyr and the rest soon died to the unending waves of barbarian axes. In the next attempt, he attempted to solve the issue with their numbers.

Rather than plunge headfirst into the enemy's ranks, he took his time salvaging what was left of his platoon first, rescuing scattered squads and defending them until they successfully regrouped with the remaining vanguard.

"Roland, I've gathered more survivors. Help me convince them to charge towards the warchief."

"Are you crazy?! That giant just gutted our sergeant like a fish! We need to run!" Though their numbers weren't as dire, most of his platoon consisted of fresh recruits — boys barely out of their teenage years who only narrowly passed the Irregular's lax skill requirements. Seeing their platoon sergeant die was too large a blow to their already-fragile morale. Moreover, despite Alcyr's competence with the blade, he was still only a Private-rank infantryman — and the youngest one besides.

His bearing did not inspire confidence. All of them soon died afterwards as the berserkers and warchief worked in tandem to tear them apart. Again and again, he experimented and took different steps in the loops. Optimising the best path to rescue as many soldiers as possible, learning how to keep them alive from the barbarians hounding them, and looking for the best method to bolster their morale when the warchief finally came to kill them all. After repeated iterations, an unexpected boon was given to him.

[New Skill: Leadership 1 (Common)] Little by little, he refined his route through the battlefield, prioritising the squads he needed to save first before they were overwhelmed. He learnt which soldiers were the most reliable and which were the most likely to run. He slowly mapped the layout of the chaotic battlefield in his head, memorising which paths held the weakest resistance and which places were so heavily contested that they should be avoided entirely.

Each reset, he was able to rescue a few more soldiers than before. He even managed to wrangle a few scattered infantrymen from other platoons to follow him as well. His grasp on their morale grew, and his ability to rally them improved. Until, finally, by the thirty-eighth loop, he was ready. That morning, Alcyr stood on the training grounds and mentally called upon his status screen.

[Status Screen] Alcyr Rivers — Age 18 Titles: Godless Low Journeyman Combat Skills: Sword Discipline 29 (Common) Unarmed Discipline 22 (Common) Dagger Discipline 19 (Common) Shield Discipline 23 (Common) Armour Discipline 21 (Common) Throwing Weapon Discipline 16 (Common) Combat Sense 15 (Uncommon) Life Skills: Physical Conditioning 27 (Common) Pain Tolerance 26 (Common) Movement 25 (Common) Natural Resistance 21 (Common) Leadership 9 (Common) Mortal Defiance 11 (Rare) [End Screen] There was no denying it anymore.

Alcyr was now a full-fledged Journeyman. That it took dozens of agonising deaths to reach his current level did not matter. Seeing his status screen, he could not help but think his suffering was worth every drop. His strength was now the match of any of the veteran soldiers in the 3rd Irregular Company. Squad and Platoon sergeants had spent years or even decades fighting on the frontlines just to accrue this level of power. Alcyr had reached their strength in just a little over a month.

He was nearing the end of what he could feasibly gain in this loop. Mere barbarians and berserkers were no longer enough. His returns were diminishing. He needed something more. For a moment, he thought back to the words of his mentor. Her voice came as clear as ever.

"You cannot drag a frog from its Well, show it the world, then cast it back and expect it to remain content." He'd outgrown this Well — a small, insignificant one in the grand scheme of things, but he had outgrown it all the same. And while there was some pride to take in his progress… It's long past time to leave, he thought to himself. He had been dragging out this moment to further train his skills, but the time has come. He was done with 'today'. Tomorrow beckoned, with all its new challenges and struggles.

There was no sense in lingering in such a small corner of the world. Only one last piece of unfinished business remained. It was time to kill that warchief, once and for all.

He equipped himself as best he could. That morning before the battle, he put in a request to the armoury for a surplus of gear.

"Here you go, sword fanatic," the quartermaster said, laying out a large arsenal of equipment on his table.

"Was a damn pain to get this all done on time. You mind finally telling me why you need all this? I agreed to help since you're paying this out of your commission, but this seems excessive, even for you." Alcyr shrugged.

"Just a precaution. Nothing more."

"Brat, you're not fooling me. But fine. Keep your secrets. Just come back alive, you hear? The blacksmith will be pissed if he finds out we went all out only for you to end up a well-armed corpse." After the paperwork was signed, Alcyr collected his newly forged equipment and headed to his barracks to ready himself. First, the breastplate. He learnt long ago that the standard-issue padded armour was not enough to stop a barbarian's axe. The new plate he now wore was good iron, covering his upper torso.

So long as he did not suffer a direct hit, it would deflect a blade. In the past, he would have ignored such cumbersome gear. But now, his Armour Discipline level was high enough for him to endure the weight without affecting his mobility. Given how many barbarians he was facing, even one less injury could help tip the odds when he had to face down the warchief. Several pieces of hardened leather followed, covering his abdomen and sides. Next, a shoulder belt filled with throwing knives was strapped over his chest.

His shield was strapped tight to his wrist. Then came the arm guards, the shin guards, and an inner layer for the cold. Finally, his weapons. His arming sword — oiled, cleaned, and sharpened to the utmost — and his precious dagger. That last piece of equipment was a parting gift from his mentor. Nearly the length of his forearm, the hilt was silver-ebony leather, and the blade was sleek and deadly.

Even after years of use, not once did he have to sharpen it, nor did he ever find a material strong enough to withstand its edge, save for the midnight sheath it rested in. Well-armed and well-prepared, Alcyr headed for the day's battle, hopefully for the final time.

The thunderous clash of a thousand blades no longer bothered him. He was never one to be fazed easily, on account of his hellish childhood, but now, the screams of dying men and the sight of blood barely even registered in his mind. The animalistic, fight-or-flight instincts within him were thoroughly suppressed by the experience he gained in the loops. Now, only blessed, rational calm remained. Alcyr wasted no time.

His sword was a whirlwind of death, cutting down the barbarians in his way as he hurriedly made his way to rescue the first group. With only seconds to spare, he attempted a mad dash through the fighting, arriving in time just to see a squad of infantrymen being overwhelmed by a trio of berserkers. One of the soldiers was on the ground, wide-eyed as the Northman approached him.

"I don't want to die!" The youth screamed.

"Someone, please! Saints, help me!" The berserker laughed as he raised his axe. His amusement was cut short when Alcyr leapt from behind and decapitated him in a single blow. [Sword Discipline has improved to 30] His Sword Discipline skill, combined with his high Physical Conditioning levels, allowed him to cut through flesh and bone with barely any effort. Without breaking stride, Alcyr drew a throwing knife from his shoulder belt and threw it at the closest target.

His Throwing Discipline of 16 was not the best, but against a surprised opponent, he would not miss. The second berserker died with a knife in his skull. The third was cut down barely a second later as Alcyr shield-bashed the foe and opened his throat with a dagger slash, leaving him no chance to retaliate. The rest of the nearby barbarians were butchered by him seconds later. With a momentary period of safety secured, Alcyr — drenched in gore — turned towards the infantrymen cowering behind him.

If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation. He ignored the way they flinched as he reached out towards the soldier who had been praying on the ground earlier.

"Get up. The Saints only help those who help themselves." Alcyr pulled the youth to his feet and shoved a sword into his hands.

"Your hands are better used holding your weapon than praying. Do you understand?" The youth nodded shakily, eyes wide. Alcyr turned to the rest of the awe-stricken men.

"The rest of you, if you wish to live, then follow me. We will cut our way through this rabble and regroup with the others."

"Y-yes! We'll follow you!" That was the first step completed: five men added to his meatshield count. Now to gather the rest.

Alcyr blitzed through the battlefield at record speed. His vicious swordplay made mincemeat of any lesser barbarian that stood in his way. Even when his sword grew dull, Alcyr had no problem using the rest of his arsenal to clear a path. Throwing knives, shield bashes, dagger slashes, and even his fists were all lethal weapons, thanks to his versatile and well-levelled skill set.

The other soldiers watched in equal parts shock and terror-struck wonder as Alcyr guided them through the blood-soaked snow, his every move and gesture a killing blow. Bones were broken with punches or kicks. Skulls were caved in with the pommel of his sword or through shield bashes. Throwing knives took out berserkers before they could unleash their devastating strength upon the weaker recruits. All the while, his skill levels continued to grow.

[Shield Discipline has improved to 24] [Unarmed Discipline has improved to 23] In the grand scheme of things, his presence made little difference to the overall battle. But locally, his actions were causing ripples to spread. Nearby squads from other platoons felt the enemy's pressure on them lessened thanks to the carnage Alcyr left in his wake. They trailed along the paths he cleared, as if funnelled along by his actions. More and more followed him.

By the time Alcyr rejoined with the rest of his battered platoon, he had nearly eighty men following him. He helped his squad clear out the remaining barbarians, earning them a minute of reprieve before the next enemy wave arrived.

"The hell?" His sergeant said.

"These are men from the 6th and 8th platoons! How did you fools get here in this mess?"

"We followed one of your men," one of the squad sergeants panted, eyes wide as he pointed at Alcyr.

"You should have seen him! He fought like a damn devil!" His squadmates looked at Alcyr uneasily. His armour was torn, his sword chipped and blunted, but his expression carried neither pain nor fear. The blood that soaked him from head to toe was not his, and it terrified them to realise that.

"By the balls of the Twelve Saints, how many did you kill, Alcyr?" Roland asked in bewilderment.

"And since when did you start leading your own platoon?"

"Don't worry about it." Alcyr turned to his platoon sergeant.

"I found some stragglers and brought them here."

"Damn fine work, Alcyr!" His sergeant laughed, a little uneasy.

"We might just stand a chance of surviving after all. Everyone, form up! We are going to dig in here and hold out until the second wave of reinforcement arrives to relieve us! Link up your shields, and—""No," Alcyr cut in.

"The second wave isn't coming to save us. We need to advance. There is an enemy warchief here coordinating the local barbarian forces. If we cut off the head of the snake, we can still salvage this region of the battle."

"A warchief? That is a worthy target." The sergeant was unsure.

"But you're too optimistic, boy. Look at the enemy! Those barbarians who just hit us were only part of their first wave. The main force is coming!" Some distance across the snowy tundra, plumes of snow were kicked up by the horde of approaching barbarians. Hundreds of bloodthirsty warriors were rushing to reinforce the frontlines. Once they reached it, the Morwyn's infantry vanguard would struggle to survive. Alcyr could hear the foe's frenzied roars.

He could sense his allies, especially the recruits, cowering amongst themselves at the sight. The acrid stench of their fear was clear; Some of them could not even bear looking at the enemy, their wide eyes glued to the ground as they struggled not to retch. Unlike him, who had lived through this day countless times, they felt fresh dread at the horde of devastation charging their way. Even with their position reinforced by twice their previous numbers, they knew they might not survive.

Alcyr knew he should not judge them by his standard. He had abilities and foresight that they did not possess. The distaste he felt at their cowardice was unfair — unwarranted, even. Yet it remained nonetheless. This would not do. He needed them brave — suicidally so — if his plan was to succeed. And thankfully, he had enough practice with his Leadership skill to make it work. Courage, morale, inspiration, he thought to himself. He needed to instil all three qualities into the cowering men before him.

He only had minutes left to do so before the enemy arrived. He had to make it count. Alcyr took a step up onto a nearby mound of snow. All eyes turned to him.

"Look at them," he ordered the men, pointing at the horde. At first, none understood him. The infantrymen's faltering morale paralysed them, and Alcyr's gore-drenched presence and confusing behaviour only heightened their fear.

"Look at them!" He roared.

"Do not avert your gaze from the prey! Do you see them?" The closest soldiers flinched. Alcyr's voice — empowered by his nascent Leadership skill — carried across the battlefield. They looked up at him, terrified.

"Answer me! Do you see them?" He received a few terrified nods. All eyes were now either on him or the horde advancing behind him. Alcyr turned his back on them. He faced the tundra, its low horizon choked with snow and the teeming swarm of bloodthirsty barbarians. It was a sight hopeless enough to drive men to their knees. Staring at such a sight… Alcyr chuckled. At first, it was barely audible. But as the seconds passed, his mirth grew louder.

In that field of corpses, screams, and clashing blades, Alcyr's mad laughter was heard by all.

"Do you see that?" He said, sardonic contempt thick in his voice.

"Are you as insulted as I am?! This is what the pathetic tribes of the North had sent to meet us?! This unwashed rabble of poison-addicted vermin?" Unconsciously, the men straightened their stances, discipline returning to their form.

"We are the chosen soldiers of Morwyn," Alcyr continued, his voice echoing across the tundra.

"The greatest kingdom on the continent! Our armies number in the tens of thousands, our troops armed with the finest steel and training this side of the world! And yet, these primitive savages dare think to challenge us?! Alcyr's laughter rose. None of the soldiers had ever heard the stoic man even chuckle before. The mere sight and sound of it tore them from their fear.

"Proud men of Morwyn, I must apologise to you! A host of whimpering dogs have come to beg and die at your feet! I ask that you forgive me for when the time comes that you must wet your swords and stain your shields on their pathetic blood! You came to the north seeking challenges, but all this place has to offer you are worms and wretches! Regardless! You will perform your honourable duty to your kingdom, and put these worthless fools out of their misery!" A measure of steel entered their spine.

The men no longer cower at the foe. It was the bare minimum Alcyr needed. Courage, morale, inspiration. He gave them one last push. Bloodlust.

"Soldiers, prepare yourselves! Death comes fast, and we must ready ourselves to provide his feast! Let Hell receive these offerings by our swords!" Alcyr raised his blade forth.

"Kill at will!" This time, when he charged to meet the enemy, the soldiers charged alongside him, roaring his name. [Leadership has improved to 10] [New Skill: Presence 1 (Uncommon)] The clashes of blades resumed once more. The frontlines buckled and bent as men died in the opening seconds, but it did not break. Though Alcyr had not meant even half the words he shouted earlier, his speech had done its job. The morale of the soldiers was tenuously restored, and they now put up a passable standard of resistance.

It helped that Alcyr had saved more of their numbers earlier.

The squad sergeants he salvaged, in particular, were vital for bolstering the frontlines with proper leadership and martial strength. Berserkers no longer tore through the ranks as rapidly as previous loops. Rather than isolated and terrified recruits, they faced organised shield walls and Journeyman veterans instead. That freed up Alcyr to move and hunt down key targets as he pleased. He butchered his way towards the warchief, cutting down barbarians in his way to ease up pressure on the revitalised platoon.

The men behind followed his advance, taking care of the stragglers he ignored. Sooner than expected, Alcyr caught sight of his prey. Rather than wait for Alcyr to approach him, the warchief had understood the danger Alcyr's presence posed and had instead chosen to make his way to him as well.

"That's the warchief?!" Roland shouted, eyes wide.

"That bastard's twice as big as the others! How are we going to kill him?!"

"Alcyr, go ahead! We'll cover you!" One of the squad sergeants shouted.

"Take him down, and these brutes will falter!" The platoon sergeant was nowhere in sight. It would be entirely up to Alcyr to slay the giant. He made his way forward, smashing aside a barbarian with his shield and slitting open another's throat with his dagger. A small clearing opened up before him as the warchief approached with two berserkers flanking his side.

"Mad southerner," Ragna greeted.

"I heard your laughter from across the field. Have you resigned yourself to Death's embrace this day?"

"Death holds no appeal to me," Alcyr replied evenly.

"There's still too much I need to do in this life before I'm ready to be gorged upon at Hell's table."

"As do I," Ragna chuckled.

"Death is not a lover to be embraced, but a shadowed beast always just a step behind. Seeing you before me, it is as if I can now feel its breath on the back of my neck. But I, too, do not intend to be part of its feast this day." The berserkers at his side shifted their stance. Alcyr narrowed his eyes.

"I request a duel," Alcyr said. Ragna's grin widened.

"Denied. Ulf, Torsten. Kill him." At their warchief's command, the two berserkers rushed towards him, jagged axes swinging wide as they bellowed warcries. Ragna himself was not far behind, the bronze giant moving in a blur of violence. Alcyr cursed as he blocked the first blow. Fighting Ragna himself would be a challenge already, but with two additional berserkers at the same time? Well, he never wanted things to be easy. Three attacks simultaneously came at him from different angles.

Ragna and his two berserkers were clearly used to fighting in tandem. Combat Sense pricked his spine, and Alcyr instinctively twisted to the side. One of the axes came so close to his face that he could hear it cut the air before his eyes. [Combat Sense has improved to 16] Ten resets ago, that blow would have definitely killed him. Alcyr's skills had grown by leaps and bounds, but his newfound prowess had its limits. A prolonged battle against three skilled opponents will kill him. He needed to end this quickly.

One of the berserkers came too close for him to swing his sword, their eyes bulging with rage as they sought to trap him. Alcyr lashed out with a kick to the knee, causing the brute to stumble before he swiftly drew his dagger from its sheath and slashed open the northman's throat. Without pausing for breath, Alcyr then grabbed the dying body and used it to block the incoming strike to his left. The second berserker's axe slammed into the corpse, embedding the weapon too deeply to be easily pulled out.

Alcyr immediately jumped back and threw two throwing knives at him. At this range, there was no time to dodge. Both knives buried themselves in the soft meat between the northman's collarbones, causing the berserker to stumble back as he choked to death. [Throwing Discipline has improved to 17] Only Ragna was left. The giant struck as hard as ever. Alcyr's wooden shield was shattered by the third blow.

He hurriedly sliced off the strap to free up his left hand before bringing his sword up in a two-handed grip to parry Ragna's follow-up strikes. Alcyr's fatigue was building. When his sword nearly broke on the fifth parry, he drew his dagger with his left hand and caught the descending axe swing with it instead. Parrying the weight of that strike with only a knife nearly broke his wrist, but it gave him enough time to slash with his damaged sword and open up the warchief's midsection in one smooth motion.

Ragna staggered back, blood spewing from his torso. The warchief glared at Alcyr for a moment before a terrifying smile broke upon his brutish features.

"I hear the calling of my Path! The Twelfth Saint gazes from upon his Throne in the Godless Heavens!" Ragna laughed, wild and violently mad.

"Death! Death for me and you! Death for the Slayer Saint!" Ragna launched at him in a suicidal charge, axe raised in a mighty overhead swing that sought to recklessly guarantee both his and Alcyr's death.

"Death for you, but not for me," Alcyr said. Raising the dagger in his left hand and the sword in his right, Alcyr struck. His sword met the axe. The moment the two edges touched, his damaged sword finally shattered. But the sudden destruction of the blade diverted the descending axe just enough that it missed Alcyr's head. With deft grace and precision, Alcyr's dagger struck the warchief's heart. Umbral steel parted meat and bone like water.

The dagger buried itself right to its hilt, its blade violently tearing heart flesh. [Sword Discipline has improved to 31] [Dagger Discipline has improved to 20] [New Skill: Paired Blade Mastery 1 (Rare)] [New Title: High Journeyman] Ragna's bulk sagged against him. The warchief gave what might have been a satisfied chuckle as Alcyr twisted the dagger.

"A good death," Ragna choked, blood spilling from his lips.

"Good enough for me… and for the Slayer Saint. My Path of Violence… ends here…" The body finally went limp. A look of almost profane peace came over the Northman's brutish features. Alcyr exhaled. He shoved the carcass aside, wiping the rich heart-blood off his dagger before sheathing it. He tossed aside his shattered sword without a care. It was done. Something akin to satisfaction fluttered over his smile.

"Try harder next time, friend Death," Alcyr said. The moment he spoke, the frost shifted beneath his feet. The ground was shaking from the stomping of heavy feet. Alcyr looked up, frowning. Seeing that the second wave had faltered, the tribes had preemptively let loose their third wave. Another mass of barbarians was approaching the frontlines.

"I didn't mean that literally," Alcyr sighed. He raised his dagger, readying himself for another reset. Right before the barbarians reached the front, a monstrous shriek shook the air above them. Then another, and another. A dozen wingbeats bellowed over the battlefield as enormous shadows swooped them from the snowy skies and crashed right into the ranks of the barbarian forces.

Draconic talons and venomous fangs tore crimson wounds upon their lines, the shrieking cries of war beasts deafening ears as their steel-clad riders swung their mighty halberds and decapitated limbs with each blow. Alcyr huffed and sheathed his dagger. The battle was over. The 4th Regulars and their Drake Cavalry were here. Reinforcements had finally arrived. [Your legacy deepens.] [New Title: The Sword Fanatic]