Chương 22: Wishful Thinking

Lenore didn't take him to see the commander or the quartermaster in that loop. He instead spent the day undergoing various check-ups and was given the chance to rest. It was an understandable and prudent choice, given how he nearly died earlier. But it also annoyed him. Both the commander and quartermaster had high enough charisma skill levels that even a brief exchange with them was enough to increase his weak Persuasion, Barter, and Presence skills.

Losing that opportunity due to his weakness, even for just one loop, felt wasteful. It wasn't a complete loss, however. He had the chance to observe Lenore work in the infirmary. Her mastery of alchemy and medicine was clear to see as she expertly prepared a myriad of exotic ingredients and mixed them within a strange, miniature brass furnace.

"Here," she said, passing him a new set of pills, different from the one she made in the previous iterations.

"These should relax your muscles and slow your heart in case the convulsions return."

"You are skilled," he remarked.

"Why is a physician of your calibre working in the military? Becoming part of a House retinue or a royal alchemist would likely earn you much more profit and renown."

"Would you believe me if I said I joined this position because I believed it would ultimately save more lives?" It was a noble answer. Selfless, even. It was also complete nonsense, given the character she portrayed so far.

"You don't strike me as the altruistic type," he stated bluntly.

"I'm a doctor."

"You are also a warrior. I find it hard to believe someone who casually shed blood as you have would care about the sanctity of human life. No, your reasons for practising the medical arts either stem from selfish intent or a lack of choice." Lenore's lips twitched in amusement.

"Astute. You are right; I don't really care about saving lives. But I don't care much for gold, either. Both are just means to an end."

"So why are you here?" She was silent for a moment, weighing whether it was worth answering him.

"An agreement," she ultimately answered.

"I was given an offer, one more beneficial than what mere gold or moral comfort could bring. It led me here, so here I am." [Persuasion has improved to 3] She didn't look inclined to share more, so Alcyr remained silent as she continued her work. To his surprise, observing her brought about skill experience as well. [Field Triage has improved to 9] I suppose it doesn't take much effort to improve a low-level Common rarity skill, especially if I'm observing a Master in their field… Night came fast.

Lenore brought him dinner from the mess hall when meal time came. They exchanged little further interaction beyond the physician measuring his vitals and heartbeat every now and then. Alcyr took the pills she prepared for him and felt the stiffness in his muscles recede an inch. He eyed the pain-killing drug ampoule on the counter.

"Can I have that for tonight?" he asked. Lenore frowned slightly.

"You recognise it?" Hearing the silent accusation in her words, he chuckled.

"I'm not an addict. I just want something to numb the pain." Without it, he wouldn't even be able to walk. That drug was the bare minimum he needed if he wanted a fighting chance of surviving the night. Lenore relented, likely because it was his first dose of the day. Before she left for the night, she went and grabbed a guard to stand outside the infirmary, giving instructions to check in on him periodically to ensure he didn't die in the middle of the night.

"I'll see you in the morning," she said.

"Try not to die before then. The commander has high hopes for you, and I'd rather not see my hard work over the past two weeks go to waste." Alcyr nodded wearily.

"I'll do my best." Unfortunately for both of us, that's not going to be as easy as we hope. That night, Alcyr forced himself to stay awake once more. He futilely preserved what strength he had in preparation, but his fatigue and pain were ever-present. When the hour of the creature's arrival neared, he injected the pain drug and started moving out of his bed. Gritting and swearing internally, he quietly hobbled his way to the door, scalpel in hand.

Panting silently, he leaned against the wall beside the door and waited. My best odds lay in a surprise attack. I'm in no shape to force a direct engagement, and judging by the speed of the creature, it must be in the High Elite or Low Master tier. It was frustrating. Alcyr would have preferred the brute force approach: endlessly challenging an opponent stronger than him in punishing combat until he grew strong enough to defeat them. It was the best way to grow his skills.

But as he was now, a single strike was likely the only thing his body would allow before it gave out from its wounds. Up close to the entrance, he could hear the guard outside murmuring to himself. No, he corrected. Herself. He couldn't see the guard's face the previous night on account of the helmet she was wearing, but the voice from outside clearly sounded feminine. He couldn't make out what she was saying, but it sounded like she was writing something on paper while talking to herself aloud.

"... not a story the bards would tell you. Or would 'dare tell you' be better? No, no… Have to keep it simple… Not much material yet, but there's great potential here. Better than anything else I might feed on in this boring wasteland, at least…

'Butcher of the Red Rime' has a nice ring to it; I have to make sure it catches on if I want a reward…" Alcyr frowned. Butcher of the Red Rime? That was the stupid moniker Roland had been spreading back at the 3rd Irregular camp. Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author. Why was this guard talking about him? The sound of scribbling suddenly stopped.

"Hm? Oh. I think I hear a punchline coming… Let's see, the funny thing about losing your head is that after the first time—" There was a wet thud. The door shook a little. The stench of blood filled his nose as it seeped in from under the door. Alcyr held his breath. He stood as still as possible, a feat far harder than it sounds due to his wounds. His scalpel was already in hand. The door creaked open.

The moment the blurry shadow walked through, Alcyr lunged, his blade aiming for what he guessed was the creature's neck. Or at least, he tried. There was a blur of movement from the edge of his vision, as if something had been launched from the creature's side towards his face at impossible speeds. He thought he heard a wet, fleshy echo inside his head. [New Skill: Blunt Resistance 1 (Rare)] Then everything went black.

He woke up convulsing again. His face hurt horribly, and his neck felt as if it had been twisted out of shape. It was only later after Lenore had stabilised him that Alcyr realised what just happened. That creature had punched my head off. It had happened so blindingly fast that even with his Combat Sense skill, all Alcyr could register was a shadowy fist heading for between his eyes before he died. And despite acting first, his scalpel hadn't even been anywhere near the creature when it retaliated.

He had been so completely outsped, Alcyr's 'surprise attack' might as well have been him staying stationary. Alright. I might have slightly underestimated the enormity of this threat. No matter. He still had many tries left. He would get the better of it eventually. Or at least, that was what he had wholeheartedly believed at the time.

His next few attempts went equally poorly. The results of each confrontation with the shadowy creature were all the same: instant death, delivered at lightning speed, with no room to react or strike back. No matter what he tried, his opponent was simply too fast and too strong for him to counter against, especially in his wounded state. His body condition was miserable. Walking was difficult. Talking was a pain.

Even just staying awake was an agonising exercise in will, as at every moment of the day, the incessant and almost unnatural fatigue made his mind beg for sleep. Alcyr had quickly realised that the severity of this third 'Well' he was stuck in was going to be quite unlike the last two. Because of how badly injured his body was, he couldn't fight. And if he couldn't fight, he couldn't get stronger.

One of his biggest advantages of the time loop had just been negated; he no longer had the option of just repeatedly challenging his opponent, levelling his martial skills, and eventually brute-forcing a victory. The situation frustrated him to no end, especially as all his repeated attempts to kill the shadow creature bore no progress. Well, almost no progress.

[New Skill: Sneaking 1 (Common)] The notification showed up near the end of the sixth loop, right as the creature walked past the door he was hiding beside. Alcyr had yet to even succeed in touching the creature with the scalpel once, let alone wounding it. It was as if even the System were pitying him now. Thanks, I suppose, he tiredly thought as his skull was caved in with a single punch once more.

[Blunt Resistance has improved to 5] At least getting my face bashed in every night is proving worthwhile for my endurance. More and more loops passed. His Blunt Resistance and Sneaking skills kept gaining levels — as did a few of his other non-martial skills, depending on how he spent his limited afternoon hours — but every attempt at slaying the shadowy assassin still ended in failure.

Since his ambush plan clearly wasn't working, he attempted the next logical path and looked into ways to alleviate his crippling condition, in hopes that it would secure him a fairer fighting chance against the creature. Unfortunately, despite his best efforts, that path proved equally fruitless.

"Five gold for a healing potion," Alcyr offered.

"I can't, lad! I really want to, but—""Eight."

"Boy, you're not listening to me! Look, the best I have are a few wads of bloodleaf here you can chew to take the edge off the pain or tiredness, but—"" Ten gold coins. Enough with the haggling and just give me what I need, you—!"

"Stop! For the love of the Saints, just stop! You're breaking my merchant heart here!" The quartermaster winced.

"I can't, alright! No selling medical supplies, and these are strict orders from the Grandmaster himself! As much as I like making illicit deals and selling contraband under the table, with the campaign's situation as dire as it is, a healing potion is too rare and valuable for me to secure for you! The supply is closely monitored; I'll get caught immediately!" He tried Lenore next. Though the physician proved more sympathetic to his plight, she ended up being equally unhelpful.

She refused to relinquish more than a single dose of her pain drug a day, and even her authority wasn't enough to secure him an adequately powerful healing potion.

"An immediate recovery is out of the question," she explained patiently.

"Given your fatigue and injuries, it would require a healing potion of extreme potency to return even a portion of your body to full fighting strength within hours. I can try securing for you a health potion of diminished strength to speed up your body's natural healing, but even that will take a full day to requisition, at least."

"I'm willing to concede to additional stipulations in my contract," Alcyr tried.

"If it's a matter of cost or favours, I can—" Lenore cut him off.

"It's a matter of supply and demand. Your current situation is not so dire — and your importance not so great — that the company would prioritise you over the dying Regulars on the front."

"There has to be something you can try. Can't you reproduce the blood potion the warlord had?"

"You mean one of near-divine potency? No. Not with the ingredients I have." Lenore sighed.

"The gradual healing I've been applying to you through the pills is the most cost-effective method I can administer. If I'm to be honest, you should simply be grateful you are still alive at all. Had it not been for my insistence and Grandmaster Faldren's support, the 4th Regulars would have left you to die. Just get some sleep and let your body naturally recover, Alcyr. You will be up and fighting within a month, I promise." I don't have a month to recover. I barely have a few hours…

Occasionally on some loops, Alcyr's improving Persuasion and Barter skills would earn him a few additional pills or chewing drugs for his trouble, but none of it was remotely close enough to get him to even a tenth of his usual fighting strength. Securing arms and armour was likewise of little help. The infirmary prohibited weapons, but even on the few occasions he managed to persuade Lenore to let him bring in an arming sword for his 'peace of mind', his body was too weak to use it properly.

If anything, he became less effective due to the weight of the weapon slowing his sneak attack down. Frustrating as it was, the scalpel remained his best — and perhaps only viable — option. Once, he tried not selling the silverite axe to the quartermaster and instead kept it with him in the infirmary. The assassin still came for him anyway. Denying the assassin the axe did nothing to lessen its overwhelming lethality.

The weapon was also dead weight in his hands, since he neither had the strength nor skill to wield it. But the most damning problem of it all was his body's permanent crippled condition. It did not improve between loops no matter what he tried. While his skills level-ups were retained, his physical shell remained constantly abysmal at the start of each reset. Fifteen loops later, and he was no closer to killing the creature as when he first started. This isn't going to work.

A frontal assault is out of the question, and a simple sneak attack isn't effective on a foe this high-level. He couldn't treat this 'Well' as the same as the last two. As much as he preferred the straightforward approach, his stubbornness was now treading the line of pointless idiocy. It would be one thing if his continuous deaths made him stronger, but right now, he was doing the same thing and dying over and over again for almost no practical gain. It was time to consider more creative solutions.

If the situation would not allow him the dignity of mortal combat, then he would have to do it the disservice of scheming his way to victory.