Chapter 36

  The sound of the morning bell rang.

  "It's earlier than usual," Michael grunted as he sat up. "What gives?"

  Death one hundred and fifty-three. Is it even worth keeping track like this?

  Francis lay in his bunk, staring at the wooden beams above him. The alpha had crushed his spine this time, a quick death but not a painless one. He'd gotten cocky, thought he could take on the whole pack plus the alpha in one go. He had been wrong.

  Stop rushing. The grind is the grind. Accept it.

  "Just another day, brother." Francis rolled out of bed and began the familiar routine. Get dressed, get to Thules, tell Tormund, work metal, train with Kerhi, fight beasts, die. The cycle had become almost comfortable in its predictability.

  ---

  Five days had passed since Francis arrived at the barbarian camp this loop.

  Five days of the same pattern. Wake, travel to Thules, tell Tormund about the loops, work the forge until afternoon, train with Kerhi until evening, hunt Ursaloths until he needed to retreat, and heal. Each day, adding incremental progress to skills that climbed with agonizing slowness.

  Tormund's forge was warm against the morning cold as Francis entered on the sixth day. The blacksmith worked at his anvil, shaping what looked like a spear tip, each strike of his hammer precise and measured. He looked up as Francis approached and nodded in greeting.

  "You are earlier than usual, Francis," Tormund observed, setting down his hammer. Over the past five days, they'd settled into a comfortable working relationship. The blacksmith no longer questioned Francis's knowledge of techniques he shouldn't know, simply accepted it as part of the strange truth Francis had shared on that first morning.

  "Couldn't sleep," Francis admitted. "Figured I might as well work metal."

  "Then work." Tormund gestured to the second anvil. "You were making progress on that joint yesterday. Continue with it."

  Francis selected the piece he'd been working on and heated it in the forge. The familiar rhythm settled over him as he began shaping the metal, each strike deliberate and controlled. Five days of practice in this loop had refined his technique even further, building on the foundation of knowledge carried across timelines.

  "Your Life Core Channeling," Tormund said as they worked side by side. "You said it was at twenty-seven. Have you made progress since we last spoke of it?"

  "Still twenty-seven," Francis replied. "It's slow going. Need my Magic stat to be higher before I can push the skill much further. That's sitting at twenty-two right now."

  "Patience," Tormund counseled. "Steel cannot be rushed. Neither can mastery of any craft. You push too hard, and the metal breaks. Same with magic, I think."

  "Patience is hard when people's lives depend on getting stronger," Francis said, but he understood the wisdom in Tormund's words. The blacksmith had a way of putting things in perspective, grounding Francis when the weight of the loops threatened to overwhelm him.

  They worked in comfortable silence for a while longer. As Francis completed the joint he'd been struggling with, a notification appeared.

  [ Blacksmithing Increased - 27 ]

  "Twenty-seven now," Francis said with satisfaction.

  "Good progress." Tormund examined the piece, nodding approval. "You have a natural talent for this. The metal speaks to you, and you listen. That is rare."

  They continued working until the afternoon sun began its descent. Francis's arms ached pleasantly from the repetitive motion, his hands were sore despite his calluses, but he felt centered in a way that combat alone could never provide.

  "You will train with Kerhi again today?" Tormund asked as Francis prepared to leave.

  "That's the plan. She's been patient teaching me axe work all week."

  "She is a good teacher." Tormund banked the forge fire. "But she also sees more than most. I have noticed her watching you when she thinks you are not looking. She is trying to understand something about you."

  "I know," Francis said. "She asks questions I can't fully answer."

  "Perhaps that is good," Tormund mused. "Questions mean she cares enough to wonder. That is the first step toward trust."

  ---

  Francis found Kerhi at the training grounds, working through forms with her axe. The weapon moved in precise arcs, each swing controlled and purposeful. She wasn't just practicing. She was meditating through motion, finding the quiet center that warriors sought when preparing for battle.

  He waited until she finished the sequence before approaching. Interrupting someone's forms was considered rude among the barbarians, a sign of disrespect he'd learned to avoid.

  "You are here for training," Kerhi said, lowering her weapon and turning to face him. She'd been expecting him. They'd followed this pattern for five consecutive days now, enough that she no longer questioned whether he'd show up.

  The story has been illicitly taken; should you find it on Amazon, report the infringement.

  "If you have time," Francis replied, knowing she did. They'd established a routine, carved out this space in both their schedules.

  "I have time." She gestured for him to take a position across from her. "Show me your stance."

  Francis fell into the wide, grounded stance she'd taught him over their previous sessions. Feet planted, center of gravity low, weight distributed to handle the momentum of an axe. It felt more natural now than it had on that first day, his body adapting to the requirements of the weapon.

  "Good," Kerhi approved. "Your foundation is solid. Now, show me the basic strikes we practiced yesterday."

  Francis worked through the sequences. Overhead strikes, diagonal cuts, horizontal sweeps. Each movement required precise timing and control, the weight of the axe demanding respect. He wasn't as fluid as Kerhi, didn't have her years of experience, but he was competent now. Functional.

  "Much improved from where you started," Kerhi said after watching him run through the forms twice. She paused, her blue eyes studying him with that penetrating intensity he'd come to recognize. "You learn quickly. Faster than most students I have taught."

  Francis kept his expression neutral. "I practice whenever I can."

  "That much is obvious." Kerhi set down her practice axe and crossed her arms. "But practice alone does not explain the intensity I see in you. Most warriors train to maintain their skills, to prepare for battle. You train like a man possessed. Like you are running out of time."

  Francis chose his words carefully. "Maybe I am."

  "That is not an answer." Kerhi's voice wasn't accusatory, more like curious. "I have watched you this week, Francis Lancaster. You arrive at Tormund's forge before dawn and work until afternoon. Then you come here and train until your arms shake from exhaustion. And then, when most warriors would rest, you go into the wilderness alone to hunt dangerous beasts. When you return hours later, covered in blood and wounds that should have killed you, there is something in your eyes. Something haunted."

  Francis said nothing, unsure how to respond without revealing too much.

  "I do not understand your obsession," Kerhi continued. "What drives you to push yourself so hard? What are you preparing for that requires this level of dedication?"

  Francis met her eyes. She deserved some truth, even if he couldn't give her all of it. "I'm preparing for the moment when everything I've learned will matter. When the people I care about will live or die based on whether I am strong enough, skilled enough, or prepared enough. That moment is coming, and I can't afford to waste any time."

  Kerhi's expression softened slightly. "You speak like someone who has already lost people. Who has already failed."

  "I have," Francis said quietly. "More times than I can count. And I'll keep failing until I'm strong enough to stop it."

  She was quiet for a long moment, her gaze searching his face for answers to questions she hadn't asked. "You are a strange one, Francis. You speak in riddles and carry secrets like stones in your pack. But I see the determination in you. The refusal to give up." She picked up her practice axe again. "Very well. If you will not explain your obsession, then I will help you feed it. We continue training."

  They sparred for the next hour, Kerhi pushing Francis harder than she had in their previous sessions. She moved faster, struck with more force, and tested his defenses and his ability to read incoming attacks. Francis gave ground when he had to, held it when he could, and learned with every exchange.

  A notification appeared as Kerhi's practice axe caught him across the ribs, the impact hard enough to bruise even through his training leathers.

  [ Axe Increased - 28 ]

  Francis stepped back, breathing hard, and lowered his weapon. "Thank you. That was exactly what I needed."

  "You are welcome." Kerhi wasn't even winded, her breathing steady despite the intensity of their sparring. "Tomorrow, we will work on defensive techniques. You attack well, but your defense needs improvement. If you truly want to survive the battles ahead, you must learn to protect yourself better."

  "I'll be here," Francis promised.

  As Francis turned to leave, Kerhi spoke again. "Francis. Whatever secret you carry, whatever drives this obsession of yours, I hope you know what you are doing. Obsession can make us strong, but it can also consume us. Be careful that the fire that drives you does not burn you to ash."

  Francis looked back at her, seeing genuine concern in her expression. "I'll be careful," he said, though they both knew it was only partly true. He would push as hard as he needed to, risk what had to be risked, because the alternative was unacceptable.

  "I hope so," Kerhi said softly. "You have potential, Francis Lancaster. It would be a shame to see it wasted."

  ---

  Francis stood over the corpses of six Ursaloths, his chest heaving and blood streaming from multiple wounds. The alpha still circled him, wary now, having watched Francis kill half its pack. The beast was smart enough to know when to press an attack and when to wait for a better opportunity.

  Francis grabbed his core and pulled power through his threads. The wounds on his arms and legs began to close, flesh knitting together faster than it had even a dozen deaths ago. Not instant regeneration, not yet, but fast enough to matter in a prolonged fight.

  The alpha roared, a sound of rage and challenge. It wanted revenge for its fallen pack members. It wanted to tear Francis apart for the insult of invading its territory and killing with impunity.

  Francis roared back, grabbing his core harder and flooding his body with power. His muscles surged with enhanced strength, and his movements became quicker. And then, as he had so many times, Francis turned and ran.

  The alpha charged, yet he didn’t stop, his core struggling to close wounds while also giving Francis the speed he needed to outrun the alpha. Soon, they had crossed a point on the battlefield and the sounds of pursuit lessened.

  It always stops here for some reason.

  Glancing over his shoulder, Francis saw the alpha standing on both legs, and then it roared.

  Laughing, Francis slowed down some, jogging to the outer entrance of the palisade area, seeing the guards who were always there, watching him come home.

  Francis thought about Kerhi's words as he nodded at the barbarians he moved past. About obsession and burning to ash. She was right to be concerned. He was pushing himself hard, maybe too hard. But what choice did he have? Michael would die if he stopped. The barbarians would fall if he gave up. Everything he cared about hung in the balance, and only he could tip the scales.

  So he'd keep grinding, keep dying, and keep coming back stronger.

  Whatever it took.

  ?