Chapter 38

  The sound of the morning bell rang.

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

  Death two hundred and thirty-eight. Francis stared at the ceiling, feeling the phantom pain of the alpha's claws that had torn through his chest in the previous loop. He'd miscalculated again, thought he could squeeze in a fourth kill before retreating. The price of greed was always the same.

  Three. Always three. Don't get greedy. Don't push it.

  "Just another day, brother." Francis sat up and began dressing. The routine was so ingrained now that his hands moved without conscious thought. Get to Thules, tell Tormund, work the forge, train with Kerhi, fight the Ursaloths, retreat before the alpha arrived. Repeat until the skills climbed high enough.

  ---

  Six days into this loop. Francis had found a rhythm that worked, a pattern that maximized his progress without wasting time on variables he couldn't control. Tormund knew about the loops and accepted them. Kerhi taught him axe work while asking questions he couldn't fully answer. Jarl Keara had made her offer three days ago, which Francis had politely declined, and so far she'd kept her distance.

  The forge was warm as Francis entered. Tormund was already at work, shaping what looked like an axe head. The blacksmith glanced up and nodded in greeting, his scarred hands never pausing in their steady rhythm.

  "You are early again," Tormund observed. "Could not sleep?"

  "Thinking about yesterday's hunt," Francis said, moving to the second anvil. It was easier than explaining the truth—that he'd died seven loops ago to the alpha, spent the journey from the Southern Kingdom analyzing his mistakes, and had been refining his approach ever since. "Almost made a mistake. Pushed too hard."

  "What kind of mistake?"

  "I got greedy. Thought I could take four Ursaloths instead of three." Francis selected a piece of steel and began heating it. "The alpha is too fast. By the time I finish the fourth kill, it's already there, cutting off my escape routes."

  "So you know your limit," Tormund said. "That is good. Many warriors die because they do not know when to stop pushing. You at least have learned when enough is enough."

  "I've had plenty of practice learning that lesson," Francis replied, the bitter truth of it hidden behind a wry smile. Every death that didn't teach him something was wasted, and he'd wasted too many already.

  They worked in comfortable silence for a while, the familiar rhythm of hammer on steel filling the forge. Francis found himself thinking about the path ahead, about how many more loops it would take before he could face the alpha and win. His Life Core Channeling was at twenty-nine, his Magic stat at twenty-two. Still not enough for true regeneration, but closer than he'd been.

  The work was meditative in its own way. Heat the steel, strike it true, reheat, strike again. Each impact shaped the metal, refined it, made it stronger. Not unlike the loops themselves, Francis thought. Each death shaped him, refined him, made him stronger for the next attempt.

  "Tell me about your brother," Tormund said after a while, breaking the comfortable quiet. "This Michael you fight so hard to save. What is he like?"

  Francis paused in his work, considering the question. No one had asked him that before, not really. Most people saw Michael as the weak link, the optimistic fool who needed protection. They didn't see what Francis saw.

  "Skinny," Francis said, resuming his hammering. "Jokes too much, even when things are serious. Terrible at swordplay but refuses to give up." He smiled despite himself, remembering Michael's latest attempt at weapons training. "He's optimistic in a way I've never been. Sees the good in people, believes things will work out. It drives me crazy sometimes, but..."

  "But it is worth protecting," Tormund finished.

  "Yes." Francis plunged his work into the quenching barrel, watching the steam rise. "He's the reason I keep going. Every loop, every death, it's all to make sure he survives. That he gets to keep being optimistic and annoying and alive."

  He pulled the steel from the water, examining it for flaws. "And somehow, despite being completely useless in a fight, he has this way with women that makes absolutely no sense. They find him charming. Him. The scrawny kid who can barely hold a sword without tripping over his own feet."

  Tormund's laughter rumbled through the forge. "Ah, so there is jealousy mixed in with the brotherly concern?"

  "Not jealousy," Francis protested, though he felt his ears heat. "Confusion. I don't understand it. I train, I'm stronger, I'm more capable in every measurable way, but he's the one they gravitate toward."

  "Because strength is not everything," Tormund said, his tone growing more serious. "Your brother understands something you are still learning. That people want connection, not capability. They want someone who makes them feel safe through presence, not through power."

  Francis set down his hammer, considering that. "He does make people feel safe. Even when he shouldn't be able to. Even when he's the one who needs protecting."

  "That is a gift," Tormund said. "Different from yours, but equally valuable. You protect him with your strength. He protects you with his humanity."

  The words struck deeper than Francis expected. Michael did ground him, reminded him of what he was fighting for when the loops threatened to make him forget. Without Michael's optimism, his genuine care for others, Francis might have lost himself to the grinding repetition long ago.

  "That is a good reason," Tormund said quietly, returning to his own work. "Better than revenge or glory or any of the things that usually drive warriors. You fight for love. That gives strength that other motivations cannot."

  Francis hadn't thought about it that way before, but Tormund was right. Love was what kept him going through the grinding repetition of the loops. Love for Michael, yes, but also for the people he'd come to care about across the timelines. Tormund himself, Kerhi, and even the barbarians who died in battles he was trying to prevent.

  They continued working, and Francis felt the familiar pull of skill progression, the way his hands moved more confidently now, reading the metal's needs almost instinctively. He was no longer just following Tormund's instructions—he was understanding the deeper principles, the why behind each technique.

  A notification appeared as Francis completed the piece he'd been working on.

  [Blacksmithing Increased - 30]

  "Thirty now," Francis said, feeling a surge of satisfaction. The skill was climbing steadily, each loop adding incremental progress that he carried forward.

  "Good milestone," Tormund approved, examining Francis's work with a critical eye. "You are becoming a true craftsman, not just someone who knows techniques. There is a difference."

  "What's the difference?"

  "Craftsman understands the why, not just the how." Tormund turned the piece over in his scarred hands, testing its balance. "You are starting to read the metal, to feel when it is ready, to know what it needs. That cannot be taught. It must be earned through practice and patience."

  Francis looked at the piece he'd made, seeing what Tormund meant. It wasn't just technically correct anymore. There was something more to it, a quality that came from understanding rather than just following steps. The metal had told him when it needed more heat, when it was ready for the quenching, and when to stop hammering. He'd listened, and the result showed it.

  "Thank you," Francis said, meaning it more than Tormund could know. "For teaching me. For accepting the truth about the loops. For being someone I can talk to without pretending."

  "You are welcome," Tormund replied. "And thank you for trusting me with your burden. It is a heavy thing to carry alone."

  The admission surprised Francis. He'd never thought about it as trust before, just necessity. But Tormund was right—sharing the truth, having someone who knew and believed, that lightened the load in ways he hadn't expected.

  They continued working until the afternoon sun began its descent. Francis's arms ached from the repetitive motion, but it was a good ache, one that came from productive work rather than meaningless suffering. The forge had become a sanctuary of sorts, a place where he could focus on creation instead of destruction, where progress was measured in skill points rather than body counts.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  ---

  Kerhi was waiting at the training grounds when Francis arrived. She'd set up a series of practice dummies, each one marked with colored paint in different spots.

  "Something different today," she explained as Francis approached. "You have learned basic forms and strikes. Now we work on targeting. An axe is not like a sword. You cannot thrust or stab easily. Every swing must be placed precisely, must hit where you intend."

  She gestured to the dummies, each one painted with colored circles representing vital points. "Red is kill shots. Neck, skull, major arteries. Yellow is disabling strikes. Joints, limbs, hands. Green is a distraction hit. Places that hurt but do not stop the enemy. Show me you can hit what you aim for."

  Francis hefted his practice axe and approached the first dummy. He lined up his swing, visualizing the target, and struck. The axe hit slightly low, catching the shoulder instead of the red circle on the neck.

  "Again," Kerhi said. "Your aim is off because you are overthinking. Trust your body. You have practiced the motion. Now let it flow naturally."

  Francis adjusted his stance, clearing his mind of analysis and calculation. This time when he swung, his body knew what to do. The axe caught the red circle cleanly, the satisfying thunk of impact telling him he'd hit his mark.

  "Better, but now the next one. Try a different angle, a different height. Adjust."

  They worked through all the dummies, Kerhi correcting Francis's form and aim with each strike. She was relentless but never harsh, pointing out errors with the kind of precision that came from genuine expertise. By the time they finished the circuit once, Francis could feel the difference in his swings, the way his body was internalizing the distances and angles.

  "Again," Kerhi said. "This time faster. In a real fight, you do not have time to think about each strike. It must be instinct."

  Francis ran through the circuit again, this time pushing for speed while maintaining accuracy. Some strikes hit perfectly, others were close but not quite right. He could feel himself improving with each pass, his body learning the distance and timing required. The axe was becoming an extension of his arm, the weight and balance so familiar now that adjusting for different targets felt natural.

  A notification appeared after the third complete circuit.

  [Axe Increased - 33]

  "Good progress," Kerhi approved, watching Francis complete the final strike. "Your targeting is improving. Not perfect yet, but better. In a few more sessions, you will be dangerous with that weapon."

  Francis lowered the axe, his breathing elevated but steady. The exertion was significant but manageable, his enhanced Body stat making what would have exhausted him months ago feel merely challenging now. "Thank you. This is exactly the kind of training I needed."

  "You are welcome." Kerhi gestured for him to sit on a nearby bench, joining him after a moment. "Can I ask you something personal?"

  "Of course."

  "This obsession of yours. This drive to become stronger. You said it was to protect people you care about. But..." She paused, choosing her words carefully. "But you push yourself like someone who has already failed. Like you are trying to atone for something. What happened to you, Francis?"

  Francis was quiet for a long moment. He couldn't tell her the truth, not yet. The loops were his burden to carry, his secret to keep. But he could give her something real, something that touched on the truth without revealing it.

  "I've watched people die," he said quietly. "People I cared about. People I should have been strong enough to save. And every time it happens, I realize I wasn't prepared enough, wasn't skilled enough, wasn't fast enough." He met her eyes, letting her see the weight he carried. "So I train. I push myself. Because the next time someone I love is in danger, I want to be ready. I want to be enough."

  Kerhi's expression softened with understanding. "That is a heavy burden to carry. This need to save everyone, to be strong enough for all challenges. It will break you if you let it."

  "Maybe," Francis admitted. "But what's the alternative? Give up? Accept that people will die and there's nothing I can do about it?"

  "The alternative is balance," Kerhi said, her voice gentle but firm. "You can be strong without destroying yourself in the process. You can protect others without forgetting to protect yourself." She placed a hand on his shoulder, the gesture surprisingly gentle from someone so fierce. "I see your determination, Francis. It is admirable. But I also see the cost it is taking on you. The haunted look in your eyes. The way you push past exhaustion into something darker."

  Francis wanted to tell her she was wrong, that he was fine, that he could handle it. But the truth was, she'd seen something real. Something he'd been trying to ignore. The loops were taking their toll, wearing him down in ways that went beyond physical exhaustion.

  "I don't know how to stop," Francis admitted, the words coming out before he could stop them. "Every time I rest, every moment I'm not training or fighting or improving, it feels like I'm failing. Like I'm wasting time I don't have."

  "That is why you need people," Kerhi said. "To remind you that you are human, not a weapon. To show you that rest is not failure, that taking care of yourself makes you stronger, not weaker." She squeezed his shoulder once before letting go. "You do not have to carry this burden alone, Francis. Whether you believe it or not."

  Francis felt something tight in his chest loosen slightly. Kerhi didn't know about the loops, couldn't fully understand what he was facing, but her words still mattered. Her concern was genuine, and that meant a great deal. It meant he wasn't as alone as he sometimes felt.

  "Thank you," he said. "For caring. For saying what I needed to hear, even if I don't know how to follow that advice yet."

  "You will learn," Kerhi said with certainty. "You are smart, Francis. Stubborn, but smart. Eventually, you will understand that strength comes from many places, not just endless training."

  She stood and picked up her practice axe again. "Now, one more time through the circuit. Show me what you have learned today."

  Francis rose and moved back to the first dummy, his body already anticipating the movements. This time through, every strike landed true, each one hitting the colored circles with precision that would have been impossible weeks ago. Kerhi watched in silence, and when he finished, she nodded with something that looked like pride.

  "Good," she said simply. "Very good."

  ---

  Francis killed the first Ursaloth with a precise strike to the neck, exactly where Kerhi had trained him to aim. The beast fell without a sound, dead before it hit the ground. The second came at him from the side, and Francis adjusted his stance automatically, his axe catching it mid-leap and redirecting its momentum into a devastating counter-strike.

  Two down. One more.

  The third Ursaloth was warier, having watched its pack members fall. It circled Francis, looking for an opening, testing his defenses with feints and false charges. Francis let it, conserving his energy, watching for the moment when it would commit to a real attack.

  There. The beast's muscles tensed, its weight shifted forward, and Francis knew the lunge was coming. His axe was already moving when the Ursaloth leaped, the blade coming down in a killing strike that split the creature's skull with brutal efficiency.

  Three dead in less than five minutes.

  Francis didn't wait to admire his work. He turned and ran, heading for the camp before the alpha could arrive. He could hear the massive beast's roar in the distance, closer than he liked, and pushed more power through his Life Core threads to enhance his speed.

  His legs burned with enhanced effort as he sprinted across the rocky terrain. Behind him, the alpha's roar grew louder, more furious. The beast knew he was escaping again, knew its prey was slipping away. Francis could hear trees splintering as the alpha charged after him, but he was already too far ahead, already approaching the forest.

  Only when Francis had put significant ground between himself and the Ursaloth territory did he slow to a walk. His breathing was elevated but controlled; his body was tired from the enhanced running, yet still functional. He was alive. Victorious. And he'd learned something valuable from the hunt.

  He checked his wounds as he walked. Minor cuts from the fights, nothing serious. Nothing that would slow him down. He pulled power from his Life Core and began healing, watching the injuries close over the next several minutes. Not as fast as he wanted, but faster than before. Progress, always progress.

  A notification appeared.

  [Life Core Channeling Increased - 30]

  Francis smiled. Thirty. Another milestone reached. The grind was paying off, slowly but steadily. His Magic stat was still at twenty-two, but that would climb eventually. Everything climbed if he kept dying, kept fighting, kept refusing to give up.

  As Francis made his way back to camp, he thought about Kerhi's words. About balance and rest, and not destroying himself. Part of him knew she was right. He was pushing too hard, burning himself out in pursuit of strength he might never fully achieve.

  But the other part, the part that remembered watching Michael die, the part that recalled all the failures across hundreds of loops, that part couldn't stop. Wouldn't stop.

  Because the alternative was unacceptable.

  Death two hundred and thirty-eight had taught him better targeting with the axe and had given him another skill point in Blacksmithing and Life Core Channeling and had shown him that people like Tormund and Kerhi cared about him, even when he didn't know how to accept that care.

  Progress… I always feel like success is only measured by my progress.

  One death at a time, and one skill level at a time.

  Francis would do whatever it took to save those he loved.

  ?