Chương 6: The End of A Day

The battle was concluded soon after. The barbarians stood little chance against the reinforcement sent by the 4th Regular Company. Unlike the Irregulars — who were merely trained militia raised in times of emergency — the Regulars were the kingdom's professional troops, often consisting of lesser bluebloods from the many noble houses in the Morwyn Kingdom. Their skills and battle experience were thus leagues above the lowborn infantrymen, bolstered by powerful bloodlines and expensive skill tutor training.

Moreover, the 4th Regulars had deployed not just their armoured foot soldiers, but their distinguished Drake Cavalry squadrons as well. Though few in numbers, those winged beasts and their halberd-wielding highborn riders were all in the Elite tier. Their strength utterly outmatched the barbarians, who had no counter to their aerial abilities either. Alcyr helped his platoon clear out the remaining stragglers in the field as the reinforcements routed the third wave. By the end of the hour, the battle was over.

"Hell of a job, killing that warchief!" One of the squad sergeants laughed as he slapped Alcyr in the back.

"Three-on-one, and you still pulled it off! I've rarely seen a finer kill in my life! The captain's going to reward the platoon big for this!" Alcyr absentmindedly nodded as he took in what was left of his platoon. Over half of them were dead, but that was more of a good outcome than a bad one. Looking over the corpse-filled tundra, Alcyr could see multiple squads in the distance trudging back to the rear lines with barely one or two soldiers left.

Hundreds of infantrymen had died that day, with whole platoons being wiped out. Their military leaders' reckless deployments had cost the Irregulars dearly. With that in mind, a fatality rate of just over half was considered a blessing. It seemed his actions had ensured a higher survival rate within his company. Moreover, any survivors were now far stronger as a result of how bloody the battle was. The general mood among the platoon was optimistic.

"My Sword Discipline has risen two levels and reached level 11!" One of the recruits excitedly said.

"I'm now a High Initiate! Maybe the captain will promote me to squad sergeant after this."

"I won't count on it," someone else said.

"Then again, with how many died today, a lot of leadership positions had just opened up… Maybe I'll apply for a spot."

"I'm just happy to be alive," a squad sergeant grunted.

"Can't enjoy my new skill levels if I'm dead. But if I keep this up for two more years, maybe I'll qualify for the academy exam after my Irregular contract is over—""Oh, hey, it's Alcyr!" Roland suddenly shouted.

"There's the hero of the battle!" People rushed over to clap him on the shoulder or to express their thanks. Alcyr awkwardly accepted their praise, unsure of how to reply. The excited clamouring was cut short when heavy wingbeats were heard approaching from above them. The group hurriedly scattered as a great beast descended from the skies and landed close to them. Its low, guttural rumble was akin to distant thunder. The 4th Regulars' famed drakes.

They were massive, with a bulk equal to the largest of warhorses and a wingspan twice their length. This one was old and heavily scarred, but its greater size and ferocity left no questions about its lethality. Riding upon the elder warbeast was a steel-clad warrior, her winged helm and flexible scale armour hiding her features, but not her lithe and powerful form. The rider looked down upon them, mighty halberd in hand. The aura exuded by her strength felt palpable.

The skill Combat Sense told him she was in the High Elite tier, at the very least. Probably even Master.

"Which one of you is in command here?" she demanded. Everyone looked to Alcyr. Roland whispered urgently in his ear.

"Platoon sergeant's dead." Alcyr blinked. That was a bit of a surprise. He hadn't even seen the man die.

"So?"

"So you're in charge, fool! Seriously, who else here is brave enough to address a Regular?! You know how proud these bluebloods are. They'll have us whipped for just talking without permission…"

"I can hear you," the drake rider snapped. Roland hurried back as the winged beast snarled at them, acidic venom dripping from razor-sharp fangs. Alcyr remained where he was, unflinching even as the drake's caustic maw was inches from his face. The Regular glared at him.

"You, boy. Were you the one who rallied the men here and killed that warchief earlier?" Alcyr straightened his back and assumed a more respectful stance.

"Yes, ma'am. It was me." All Regulars carried an officer's rank, regardless of length of service or battlefield merit. Addressing the rider as a superior was only sensible, doubly so given her strength.

"Hm." The female rider sounded dissatisfied.

"Name, rank, and grade. Now." Alcyr considered lying about his newly acquired grade, as it was sure to draw unwanted attention, but the military had ways to check it. Better to admit the truth now and face some discomfort than face interrogation later.

"Alcyr Rivers. Private. High Journeyman." The Irregulars behind him started muttering among themselves. Even the Regular looked taken aback.

"High Journeyman, at your age? That's… incredible. Are you a blueblood? How did you end up here?" Alcyr laughed openly. The soldiers glanced at each other. The stoic soldier was not known for showing his mirth often. The memory of his wild laughter during his speech earlier still shook them a little.

"No, ma'am," he said between chuckles.

"My blood is no more noble than the mud beneath our boots."

"Hm." The drake rider studied him a little longer.

"Rivers is an orphan's surname. Many will think you a noble's secret bastard with such strength at your age. Alcyr, was it? I will remember your name." The Regular pulled upon the reins of her war beast. The scarred drake gave one last snarl at Alcyr before it took off into the skies once more.

"That is going to be troublesome," Alcyr murmured.

"Troublesome?!" Roland laughed.

"Are you mad, you daft bastard?! A drake rider just said she would remember your name! That means she might nominate you for a spot in a Regular company! You're about to get promoted, Sword Fanatic!"

The rest of the day passed quickly. Dusk arrived in less than an hour. The less battered soldiers from the second and third waves came to relieve the vanguard. The bodies of the dead were retrieved, their weapons and armour to be stripped for repair and reuse. Alcyr's platoon was blessedly excused from that sordid task. As the adrenaline of the battle and the excitement of their survival wore off, exhaustion crashed upon them like a tidal wave.

The remnants of 2nd Platoon of the 3rd Irregular Company stripped off their blood-soaked gear and scraped off the grime clinging to their skin with freezing snow-water. One by one, they returned to their barracks — now with more empty beds — and fell upon their bunks. Most of them fell asleep within seconds, physically and mentally drained by the day's events. Alcyr couldn't sleep, despite his exhaustion.

A certain tension kept him awake — a question that has been silently bothering him ever since he slew the warchief. When the new dawn comes, would the day move on as was natural, or would it simply reset once more? Theorising the outcome felt pointless; there was no precedent to his situation. In the end, the only thing he could do was wait. Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

Staying in bed and wallowing in worry didn't suit him, and so he instead spent the night at the training grounds again, pushing his already overtaxed muscles and encumbered body to swing his sword over and over. He noted the improvement to his form and stamina, the swiftness of his footwork, and the dexterity of his swordplay. [Physical Conditioning has improved to 28] He was stronger now, no doubt about it. Dying over thirty times in the loop had brought obscene rewards to his growth.

The memories of his repeated deaths did not haunt him as one might expect. So long as his suffering made him stronger, he would gladly endure any agony. The hours passed. As his breathing grew heavy and his bandaged palm bled without stopping, light finally broke over the night's horizon. The first rays of sunrise shone upon the training fields. Alcyr finally ceased his training, turning to look upon the skies as their hues shifted from moonlight grey to amber dawn.

For a minute, he simply waited, seeing whether a sudden darkness would arrive to swallow him whole and bring him back to the morning of howling wolves. A minute passed. Then two. Then five. Nothing. Alcyr finally exhaled, his tension leaving him. He smiled lightly.

"Tomorrow comes at last."

The next two weeks passed by uneventfully. After the massive clash in the snowy plains — now dubbed the Battle of the Red Rime, on account of how sleeted the gore-soaked ground had become with frozen blood — the barbarian tribes had retreated further into the highlands known as the Frost Tooth Peaks. Outside of a few hit-and-run skirmishes involving the 4th Regulars' Drake Cavalry, no other notable battles broke out. The peaceful interlude was both a blessing and a curse.

Alcyr considered himself a creature of conflict, but with the 3rd Irregular Company being assigned only auxiliary duties as it recovered its strength, Alcyr was left without avenues of lethal combat — and therefore without means of expedient skill growth. But the lull in activity also allowed him time to adjust to his new sword mastery and advanced physical prowess, so it wasn't without its silver linings. His days were spent either training alone or sparring with the other soldiers.

The monetary reward for his heroic actions during the Battle of the Red Rime brought a slight smile to his face as well when he received it: two gold coins, one for killing the warchief, and another for his pivotal leadership on the fields that day. It was a sum equivalent to four full years of service as an Irregular. He would have more than enough funds to properly rearm and re-equip himself with those coins.

The fame brought about by his action during the last battle also lasted far longer than he expected, with the cheers and goodwill from the company perplexing him to no end. Alcyr would find himself with no shortage of free drinks whenever he settled in the mess halls, nor soldiers who would like to revel at his table drunkenly.

"Who won't want to drink with the Butcher of the Red Rime?" Roland had answered with a laugh when he heard Alcyr complaining one day.

"People won't stop talking about you and your speech the other day. Even the other companies now know of you: the young Private who slew barbarians like dogs and saved 2nd Platoon from annihilation."

"That moniker is as ridiculous as my speech was," Alcyr said irritably. He'd thought the name 'Sword Fanatic' alone was bad enough.

"It was a battlefield involving thousands. My actions shouldn't garner this much acclaim." He wondered if people would be as impressed if they knew how many loops it took to get his rallying cry to work. His earlier attempts had been embarrassing, to say the least.

"I'd agree that the fame is wasted on you." Roland nodded.

"You're the only soldier I know who turns down free drinks in the mess hall."

"And you're the one responsible for encouraging this inane foolishness," Alcyr shot back bluntly.

"Stop spreading outlandish tales about me. Don't you have better things to do?"

"I fancy myself an amateur bard," Roland said cheekily.

"I'm not going to stop when I finally have a half-decent tale to talk about. It helps level my Bardic Craft skill, and the free drinks I get don't hurt either." Alcyr resisted the urge to sigh. He wasn't sure when he and the other soldier had gotten so close. He did not consider Roland a friend. Their relationship as squadmates in the past had always been coldly cordial. Not hostile, but not exactly companionable either. He did not remember Roland being this cheery or talkative before either.

It was as if his personality had completely changed after the battle. But now, of their original ten-man squad, only the two of them had survived. The majority of the other infantrymen in their platoon — even their platoon sergeant — were dead as well. Perhaps that made the veteran inclined to talk to Alcyr more, seeing as most of his old friends were killed.

And, pointless as it was, he still remembered the man had once tried saving his life before in the first loop by pushing him out of the way of the warchief's axe. In the grand scheme of things, that act barely amounted to anything, but Alcyr supposed the least he could do in return was tolerate his company for that selfless gesture.

"You've been on the rumour mill over the last two weeks," Alcyr asked.

"Any news of our next deployment yet?" Roland shook his head.

"You'll be waiting a while. Tribes may have fallen back a bit, but the Irregular companies are too battered to advance. I'd heard the 8th and 9th Irregular companies would be dissolved into ours since they had taken too many casualties. Between the three of us, we've barely enough soldiers to fill the 500-man requirement." Ten men made up a squad, five squads a platoon, and ten platoons a company. For three companies to be reduced to one meant nearly a thousand soldiers were killed in the last battle.

"I wonder how long the Morwyn Kingdom can keep up this rate of attrition," Roland noted.

"Those nobles in command sure love wasting their men's lives, huh?"

"Only for the Irregulars," Alcyr replied evenly.

"Irregulars are meant to be disposable infantry. We draw out the foe, and the Regulars make the kill. Peasant swordsmen are less valuable than blueblooded soldiers, so of course, they'll spend our lives wantonly."

"And… that doesn't make you bitter at all?" What kind of inane question was that?

"That's the world. If you want to live in it, I suggest you stop playing as a bard and start training as a soldier."

"Being a bard better suits my Path," Roland shrugged.

"If I wanted to be a proper soldier, I would have chosen a different faith to follow." Alcyr blinked.

"You don't follow a martial Path?"

"Nope." Roland grinned.

"As a storyteller, I walk the Path of Revelation." Alcyr blinked. That couldn't be right. When a person gained their System for the first time, they were given a choice of faith: to select one of twelve possible divine Paths — each heralded by a Saint — that would guide their growth for the rest of their lives.

Their choice would determine their first System title — prioritised even before their newly gained 'Low Initiate' title in the Status Screen — as well as what skills they will have positive or negative affinity with. For example, the majority of soldiers in the Morwyn army followed the popular Path of Perpetuity, which gave them their first title, 'Follower of Perpetuity'.

This made it easier for them to learn and level useful martial skills such as 'Armour Discipline' or 'Shield Discipline', while forgoing the chance to learn ranged skills such as 'Archery', or even mundane skills like 'Cooking' or 'Hunting'. In contrast, the northern barbarians likely adhere to the Path of Violence, leading to better growth in their 'Axe Discipline' or 'Movement' skills. Alcyr remembered the warchief, Ragna, mentioning the Path of Violence, as well as its patron deity — the Slayer Saint.

For a soldier like Roland to follow the Path of Revelation — a Path known more for its scholarly pursuits — was, well…

"You're either insane, foolish, or a liar," Alcyr bluntly stated.

"If you truly are a Follower of Revelation, why by the Twelve Saints would you ever set foot on a battlefield? You have a negative affinity with most martial skills; you are going to get yourself killed."

"Well, how else am I going to get a good story to level my skills with?" Roland shrugged, looking utterly unconcerned.

"High risks, high rewards — that's how all skills grow. Bards need heroes the same way soldiers need bloodshed. No place better than the battlefield to find both, right?" Alcyr was unsure of whether to be amazed or to pity him.

"That sounds incredibly naive." Roland snorted.

"Alright, what's your Path, then? Tell me what title holds the first spot on your Status Screen right now. Knowing you, I bet it's something boring like 'Follower of Perpetuity'. Or maybe 'Follower of Authority', if you're secretly a blue-blooded noble like I suspect." Alcyr said nothing. Seeing his hesitation, Roland's curiosity was pricked." Oh … This might be interesting." The self-proclaimed bard leaned forward, grinning as if he had found a particularly juicy piece of rumour.

"Not Authority or Perpetuity, and you don't seem like the homely type to pick Creation either. Those are the primary three Paths gone, so tell me: which of the other nine Paths did you end up with? Do you perhaps follow a more… heretical deity?" Were it that simple. Alcyr knew that if he opened his Status Screen right now, his first title would show only the most damning answer: Godless. In many ways, it was the worst title a person could start with, because it meant that Alcyr followed no Path at all.

Telling Roland how he ended up with the Godless title was not an option, so Alcyr instead switched the topic.

"You're better off using your time to train rather than interrogate me for useless information. At the rate the campaign is going, people like you are going to be dead within the year."

"Or I could just stick by you and let you kill everything," Roland laughed.

"I have a feeling you're going to send a lot more bastard souls to Hell's feasting table before the war is done. And I want to be there to see it." That drew a small sigh from Alcyr.

"Let's hope you're right." Only through bloodshed could he grow, and Alcyr's yearning for greater strength was yet sated.