Chapter 41

  The alpha moved like death itself, faster than anything that size had a right to move. Francis had fought it before, died to it dozens of times, but never with Kerhi beside him.

  "Left flank!" Kerhi shouted, her spiked fists already moving to intercept one of the alpha's guards.

  Francis engaged the other guard, his axes finding the gaps in its defenses with practiced precision. These fights he knew, had memorized through repetition. The guards fell within minutes, their bodies crumpling to the frozen ground.

  The alpha roared, a sound that shook the ice beneath their feet.

  "Together," Francis said, moving to stand beside Kerhi. "Watch for the feint to the right, it always—"

  The alpha charged, and Francis's warning came too late. The massive creature didn't feint. It came straight at them with terrifying speed, and Francis realized with cold certainty that it had changed its pattern.

  They fought with everything they had. Francis's axes bit into thick hide, drawing blood that steamed in the cold air. Kerhi's strikes landed with bone-crushing force, her berserker fury making her a whirlwind of violence. But the alpha was stronger, faster, and more cunning than he had given it credit. Bringing her along had changed how it fought.

  Francis saw the moment the alpha's claws found an opening in Kerhi's guard. She tried to dodge, but the creature anticipated her movement and adjusted mid-strike. The massive paw caught her across the chest, and Francis heard the sickening crack of breaking ribs.

  Kerhi flew backward, hitting the ice hard. Blood spread beneath her, staining the white ground crimson.

  "No!" Francis threw himself at the alpha, abandoning defense for pure aggression. His axes found flesh, opened wounds, but it wasn't enough. The alpha's massive paw caught him mid-swing, lifting him off the ground. Francis felt his ribs crumble under the pressure, felt his spine crack as the alpha squeezed.

  The last thing he saw before darkness took him was Kerhi's body lying still on the ice, her blood pooling around her.

  ---

  The sound of the morning bell rang out, and Francis jerked upright, his hands clutching at ribs that were no longer broken. The phantom sensation of Kerhi's death pressed against his chest, heavier than any physical wound.

  "You alright?" Michael mumbled from the next bed.

  Francis didn't answer. He was already moving, getting dressed with mechanical efficiency. There was no time for conversation, no time for anything except getting back to Tules and trying again.

  ---

  The alpha's claws tore through Francis's throat. Darkness claimed him.

  ---

  The morning bell rang.

  Francis stood, dressed, and began the journey north without a word.

  ---

  The alpha's jaws closed around Francis's skull. The world went black in a spray of bone and blood.

  ---

  Bell. Reset. North.

  ---

  Five deaths taught him the alpha's new opening pattern. He wasn’t sure, but the creature had adapted, somehow. It no longer followed the predictable sequences Francis had memorized. Francis wondered if it was because he now used axes and not swords.

  Ten more deaths showed him the counterattack windows, the brief moments when the alpha overextended and left openings. But the windows were small, smaller than anything Francis had faced before, and missing even one meant death.

  Another fifteen deaths before he could consistently survive the first minute of combat. The alpha fought with intelligence and purpose, adjusting its tactics based on Francis's approach. It was learning as fast as he was, maybe faster.

  Francis stopped counting after thirty attempts. Each death blurred into the next—claws, teeth, crushing impacts, the bitter taste of failure. His axes found flesh repeatedly, opened wounds that would have killed lesser creatures, but the alpha fought through the damage with terrifying determination.

  [ Axe Increased - 37 ]

  [ Axe Increased - 38 ]

  [ Life Core Channeling Increased - 37 ]

  [ Life Core Channeling Increased - 38 ]

  The skills climbed, incremental progress bought with blood and pain. But progress toward what? Francis could now fight the alpha for minutes instead of seconds, and dodge attacks that would have killed him fifty deaths ago. But surviving wasn't winning, and every loop ended the same way—with Francis's broken body cooling on the ice. His skill with the axes was too low to do anything to this creature and yet he didn’t want to simply swap back to the sword. He was torn, having to choose between fighting with a weapon he was better with or the one the barbarians said he needed to learn.

  On the forty-seventh attempt, Francis managed to wound the alpha badly enough to make it retreat. He stood alone on the battlefield, surrounded by the corpses of the guards he'd killed, watching the alpha limp away into the frozen wasteland.

  It wasn't a victory. It wasn't even close. But it was progress.

  Francis killed himself with his own axe rather than wait for the reset, unwilling to waste time when he could be learning.

  ---

  The morning bell rang, and Francis lay still for a moment, staring at the ceiling. Forty-seven deaths to the alpha in this stretch alone. Hundreds more across all the loops. And he was still nowhere near strong enough.

  He sat up slowly, his mind already turning over the problem. The alpha was too fast, too strong, too smart. No amount of axe skill or combat experience would bridge that gap. He needed something more, something fundamental.

  He needed the regeneration he'd been working toward.

  But first, he needed to stop throwing himself at an unwinnable fight and regroup.

  ---

  Three days into the new loop, Francis found himself standing outside Kerhi's tent as evening settled over the camp. He'd sought her out deliberately, needing the connection to someone who understood, even if she wouldn't remember their previous conversations.

  "Kerhi," Francis called out. "Can we talk?"

  She emerged from her tent, her expression curious but guarded. "Southerner. What do you want?"

  "I want to tell you something," Francis said. "About us. About things we've shared that you don't remember."

  Kerhi's hand moved to her axe, but her eyes showed more interest than threat. "You're speaking in riddles again."

  "Not riddles. Truth." Francis took a breath and began explaining, just as he had before. The loops, the resets, the way he'd died and come back over and over. He told her about fighting together, about the trust they'd built across timelines she couldn't recall.

  And then he told her about the carvings.

  "In another loop," Francis said carefully, "you showed me something personal. Something beautiful. You invited me into your tent and shared your mother's gift with me. The wooden carvings you make—animals, warriors, moments captured in detail that most people would never expect from someone known primarily as a fighter."

  Kerhi's expression shifted, surprise breaking through her usual stoic mask. "How could you possibly know about that?"

  "Because you trusted me enough to show me," Francis said. "Because in that timeline, we'd fought together, bled together, and you decided I was worthy of seeing that part of yourself. The part that creates instead of destroys, that finds beauty in a world of violence."

  For a long moment, Kerhi said nothing. Then she stepped aside and gestured toward her tent. "Show me you're not lying. Come inside and tell me which piece I was working on last night."

  Francis followed her into the tent, his eyes immediately finding the small shelf of carvings. But there was also a partially finished piece on her work table—a barbarian warrior mid-swing, the detail already emerging from the rough wood.

  The tale has been illicitly lifted; should you spot it on Amazon, report the violation.

  "That one," Francis said, pointing to a wolf he remembered from before. "The wolf howling. Your mother taught you that one first, because wolves represent pack and family. And that warrior you're working on now—you started it two nights ago, trying to capture the moment of perfect balance right before a strike lands."

  Kerhi moved to the table and picked up the unfinished carving, her fingers tracing the emerging details. "I've told no one about this project. Not even the other warriors know I carve."

  "I know," Francis said quietly. "Because you keep it private, something just for yourself. A reminder that there's more to life than battle."

  She set the carving down and turned to face him, and Francis saw something in her expression he'd seen before—the moment when disbelief gave way to cautious acceptance.

  "This ability of yours," Kerhi said. "These loops. They're real, aren't they?"

  "Yes."

  "And we've fought together before? The way you described?"

  "Many times," Francis confirmed. "Including against the alpha Ursaloth. We both died in that fight."

  Kerhi absorbed that information, then moved to her chest and pulled out the familiar wineskin. "Sit. If what you're saying is true, then we have much to discuss."

  They sat on the furs, and Francis told her about their recent battles together, about the seven Ursaloths they'd killed fighting side-by-side, about the way they'd moved as one unit. He described her berserker fury, the savage joy she took in combat, and how he'd had to force her to retreat from the alpha.

  "I don't remember any of that," Kerhi said, "but I can feel the truth in your words. And I recognize something in you—a familiarity I can't explain."

  "That's the bond you asked about before," Francis said. "The connection you sense. Some part of you remembers, even when your mind doesn't."

  They talked long into the evening, Francis sharing details only someone who'd truly known her would know, and Kerhi slowly accepting the reality of what he described. By the time Francis finally left her tent, something had shifted between them. Not quite the easy trust of their previous timeline, but the foundation of it.

  ---

  The next morning, Francis noticed Jarl Keara watching him during training. Her gaze was calculating, her expression unreadable, but there was an intensity to her attention that made Francis wary.

  Later, as he was leaving the practice grounds, she intercepted him.

  "The Southerner spends much time with Kerhi," Keara observed, her tone casual but her eyes sharp. "Training together, sharing meals, private conversations."

  "Kerhi is a skilled warrior," Francis replied carefully. "I'm learning from her."

  "Of course," Keara said, though her expression suggested she saw more than that. "It's good for warriors to train together, to build bonds through combat. Though some bonds become... complicated. Especially when one party might have other obligations."

  Francis felt the weight of that statement, the subtle reminder that Keara had made her interest known and didn't appreciate competition. But in this loop, as in all loops, her interest would reset. Whatever political maneuvering she attempted would vanish when Francis died again.

  "I appreciate your concern, Jarl," Francis said, "but my focus is on becoming strong enough to help your people against the beastkin. Everything else is secondary."

  Keara studied him for a moment, then smiled—an expression that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Of course. Your dedication is admirable, Southerner. I simply wanted to ensure you understand the... dynamics of our camp. Kerhi is valuable to us. I would not want her distracted from her duties."

  The message was clear: tread carefully.

  Francis nodded and excused himself, aware of Keara's gaze following him as he walked away. Politics were exhausting, especially when they reset every loop. But they were part of navigating life in Tules, and ignoring them completely would create unnecessary problems.

  ---

  The summons came that evening. Glitvall wanted to see him, along with the High Shaman Greythorn. Francis made his way to the warchief's tent, wondering what had prompted this meeting.

  Inside, he found both barbarian leaders waiting. Glitvall sat in his usual chair, massive and imposing, while Greythorn stood near the fire, her white hair seeming to glow in the flickering light.

  "Southerner," Glitvall greeted. "Sit. We have matters to discuss."

  Francis sat, his attention shifting between the two of them.

  "You've been here long enough now," Glitvall continued, "and fought enough battles that we can assess your progress. The High Shaman has been observing your magic use. Share with her your current skills."

  Francis pulled up his status, focusing on the skills that had improved since arriving in Tules.

  "Axe is at thirty-eight, moving toward the Proficient rank," Francis said. "Life Core Channeling is at thirty-eight as well. Blacksmithing has reached thirty-four. My Magic stat sits at twenty-five."

  Greythorn's eyes narrowed. "Show Life Core threads."

  Francis pulled power from his core, letting the golden threads become visible around his hands. The High Shaman studied them intently, her expression thoughtful.

  "Good progress you make," she said finally. "Control improved. Density of threads... core develops proper. But far from threshold you seek. Still far."

  "The regeneration ability," Francis said. "I know I need Life Core Channeling at the Advanced rank, but that requires reaching forty-one. I'm close."

  "Close to one requirement," Greythorn corrected, her voice sharp. "Regeneration requires more than Life Core mastery. Requires magical capacity to sustain continuous healing. Magic stat too low. Much too low."

  Francis felt something sink in his chest. "How high does it need to be?"

  "Forty-one minimum," Greythorn said. "Same threshold as Life Core Channeling. True regeneration requires both skill to manipulate life force and raw magical power to fuel continuous. One without other? Insufficient. Useless."

  "That's..." Francis did the math quickly. "That's sixteen more points in Magic. That could take hundreds of deaths."

  "Yes," Glitvall said bluntly. "Which is why we're having this conversation. You've been throwing yourself at the alpha repeatedly, grinding your combat skills, but neglecting your magical development. If regeneration is truly your goal, you need to change your approach."

  Francis leaned back, processing this information. He'd been so focused on mastering the axe, on becoming strong enough to defeat the alpha through pure combat skill, that he'd lost sight of the bigger picture.

  "What do you suggest?" Francis asked.

  "Train with Greythorn," Glitvall said. "Focus on magical development alongside your combat training. The alpha will still be there when you're ready, but rushing to fight it before you have the tools to survive it is foolish."

  "I've died to it forty-seven times in the last few loops," Francis admitted. "And I'm no closer to victory than when I started."

  "Because you try win with insufficient power," Greythorn said. "Alpha is Master-rank warrior. You fight at Advanced proficiency with limited magical reserves. No amount of skill bridge that gap without fundamental capabilities to support."

  She moved closer, her ancient eyes studying him with disconcerting intensity. "Can teach you increase magical capacity more efficient. Still require deaths, still require grinding, but focused magical training accelerate progress. Few hundred focused deaths instead of thousand scattered ones."

  Francis considered the offer. Everything in him wanted to keep fighting the alpha, to keep pushing against that wall until it broke. But that was pride and stubbornness, not strategy.

  "How would the training work?" Francis asked.

  "You spend time each loop working with me," Greythorn explained. "Meditation to expand magical channels, exercises to increase capacity, practice with more advanced Life Core techniques. Combined with combat training and forge work, create balanced approach to development."

  "And the alpha?"

  "Test yourself against it periodically," Glitvall suggested. "But don't waste entire loops dying to it repeatedly when you could be building the foundation you need for victory. Take one or two attempts each loop to measure your progress, then focus on development."

  It made sense. Francis hated admitting it, but they were right. He'd been spinning his wheels, dying over and over to an opponent he couldn't beat with his current capabilities.

  "I'll do it," Francis said. "Starting tomorrow, I'll train with the High Shaman."

  Greythorn nodded approvingly. "Good. Begin with basic magical capacity exercises and work way up. Won't be comfortable—expanding magical channels never is—but will be effective."

  "I'm used to discomfort," Francis said dryly.

  "Yes," Greythorn replied, her expression unreadable. "Imagine you are. Someone who dies and returns casual as you do has grown quite familiar with pain. Very familiar."

  They discussed the training schedule and what it would entail. By the time Francis left the tent, he had a clear path forward. It would take time and require patience, a quality he didn't naturally possess, but it was the right approach.

  As Francis walked back through the camp, he thought about Kerhi, about the trust they were rebuilding in this loop. About Keara's political maneuvering and the complications it would create. About Tormund at the forge, teaching him the patience and precision that smithing required.

  All of it would reset when he died. But the skills he built, the knowledge he gained, the understanding of what he needed to achieve—those would carry forward.

  Death four hundred and ninety-eight had taught him humility. Taught him that sometimes the direct approach wasn't the answer, that sometimes you needed to step back and build a stronger foundation before attempting to break through the wall.

  Tomorrow would bring magical training with Greythorn. More deaths, more grinding, more incremental progress toward the threshold that would finally give him the regeneration he needed.

  But tonight, Francis had clarity. He knew what needed to be done, had allies willing to help him do it, and a clear understanding of the path ahead.

  It would take hundreds more deaths. But eventually, he would be strong enough.

  Eventually, the alpha would fall.

  And when it did, Francis would be ready for whatever came next.

  ?