Chapter 56

  The sound of the morning bell rang.

  Francis was already moving before Michael could complain about the early hour. He dressed quickly, grabbed his gear, and headed north without looking back.

  The journey to Tules took the usual amount of time, but Francis barely noticed. His mind churned with questions about the observer, about whether it had learned anything during his time in the South, about what would be waiting for him when he reached the battlefield.

  Only one way to find out.

  ***

  The portal deposited Francis in the familiar ice building, and Kerhi was there waiting as she always was. Her blue eyes swept over him, taking in the full plate armor, the shield strapped to his arm, the sword at his hip.

  "You come dressed for war," she said, one eyebrow rising. "Most Southerners arrive shivering in their thin clothes, begging for furs."

  "I've learned to prepare," Francis replied.

  Kerhi stepped closer, her head tilting slightly as she studied him. That familiar look of confusion crossed her face, the same one he'd seen dozens of times before. She could sense something about him, something that didn't make sense to her conscious mind.

  "There is something..." She paused, frowning. "You feel like one of us. Like you belong here. But that should not be possible."

  Francis said nothing. He knew what she was sensing, the mark on his chest that the gods had given him, the blessing that made him one of their people. But explaining that would take time he didn't have.

  There's so much I wish I could tell you. So much we've shared that you don't remember.

  "I have letters for Warchief Glitvall," Francis said instead, pulling the sealed parchments from his pack. "And information he'll want to hear."

  Kerhi's eyes lingered on him for a moment longer, that confusion still present. Then she nodded and turned. "Come. I will take you to him."

  They walked through the camp, and Francis noticed the stares that followed him. Barbarians stopped what they were doing to watch the Southerner in full plate armor pass by. Some looked curious, others dismissive. A few warriors laughed and made comments he couldn't quite hear.

  "Your armor is impressive," Kerhi said without looking back. "But it will not save you from what waits on the battlefield. Our enemies do not care how much metal you wear."

  "I know," Francis replied. "I've died to them enough times to learn that lesson."

  Kerhi stopped and turned, her blue eyes sharp. "You speak strangely. Like a man who has seen more than he should."

  "Maybe I have."

  She studied him for another long moment, then shook her head and continued walking. "Glitvall will decide what to make of you. It is not my place."

  They passed the blacksmith section, where massive barbarians pounded hammers against metal. Steam hissed as hot blades were plunged into water. One smith looked up and called out something that made nearby warriors laugh, but Kerhi silenced them with a look.

  Finally, they reached Glitvall's tent. Kerhi held the flap open and gestured for Francis to enter.

  "Thank you," Francis said as he passed her.

  "Do not thank me yet," she replied. "You have not faced what waits for you."

  ***

  Glitvall's tent was warm even though the fire was barely burning. Francis’s ability to resist the cold now stood out after being in the south for a hundred deaths or so. Francis finished explaining what he'd learned in the South.

  The warchief sat in his massive chair, fingers intertwined against his chest. Greythorn stood nearby, her pale eyes fixed on Francis with an intensity that made his skin prickle.

  "So," Glitvall said slowly, "you went south, killed their Elite beastkin over and over, and came back with a new combat skill."

  "Blade Tempest," Francis confirmed. "It lets me strike up to six targets in rapid succession. Each hit refreshes the skill's duration."

  "Show," Greythorn commanded.

  Francis stood and drew his sword. He activated the skill at half power, letting them see the way his body blurred, the way the blade traced patterns in the air that would have been impossible with normal movement.

  When he stopped, Glitvall was grinning. "That's impressive. Very impressive."

  "There's more," Francis said. "I also learned something from their mage. The beginning of their magic."

  Greythorn's eyes sharpened. "Southern magic? Aether?"

  "Aether Manipulation. Just the basics, but I can touch the ambient mana now, and slowly start to shape it." Francis held up his hand and concentrated, calling a thread of ambient energy to him. It came slowly, reluctantly, but it came. A faint glow appeared around his fingers.

  Greythorn moved closer, studying the light with narrowed eyes. "Interesting. You have Life Core from us. Now Aether from South. Two magics, two sources."

  "Is that a problem?" Francis asked.

  "Problem? No." Greythorn circled him slowly. "Opportunity, perhaps. Life Core draws from within. Aether draws from without. Different rivers, different sources. Most never learn both. Those who do..." She paused, her expression unreadable. "Old stories speak of those who master many magics. Say they unlock things others cannot. I know not what. Only that path exists for those strong enough to walk it."

  "You're saying there might be something waiting if I learn more types of magic?"

  "Saying stories exist. Truth in them? Unknown." Greythorn returned to her position near the fire. "But learning two is hard. Using both at same time? Harder still. Mind pulls in different directions. Like trying to drink from two cups at once. Most spill both."

  Francis nodded, filing the information away. Something to explore later, when he had time to practice.

  "For now," Glitvall said, leaning forward, "the question is what happens when you go back out there. I don’t often send scouts out there to watch their movements because nothing has changed in all these months. Yet the way you speak and the story you tell us means that is has, but only because of what you do."

  "Then either it didn't notice I was gone, or it's waiting to see what I do next,” Francis replied. "Or perhaps it has been doing something during the time I was in the south and eventually stopped, sensing I wasn’t here.”

  "Only one way to find out," Glitvall echoed Francis's earlier thought. "Go. Fight. See what you learn."

  ***

  The Lynxkin died easily.

  Francis cut through pack after pack of them, his blade moving with the speed and precision of someone who had killed thousands of their kind. They came at him in groups of four and five, their white fur barely visible against the snow until they were almost on top of him.

  His shield caught claws that got too close, the force-redirecting enchantment sending the energy back into the attacking Lynxkin. His sword finished what his defense started, cutting through fur and flesh with brutal efficiency.

  One pack tried to flank him, four of them circling while a fifth attacked from the front. Francis let the frontal attacker commit, caught its claws on his shield, then spun and drove his sword through the skull of the one trying to take him from behind. The remaining three hesitated, and that hesitation cost them their lives.

  [ Battle Sense Increased - 27 ]

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  Another pack emerged from behind an ice formation, these ones larger than the others. Francis didn't wait for them to attack. He charged, shield leading, and crashed into the first Lynxkin with enough force to send it sprawling. His sword took the second across the throat before it could react, and the third died trying to flee.

  [ Shield Use Increased - 66 ]

  Francis cleaned his blade on the pelt of one of his enemies and kept moving. The Lynxkin were fodder now, barely worth the effort of fighting them. But they served a purpose, warming him up for what lay ahead.

  ***

  The Ursaloths were waiting in their usual position, the massive bear-like creatures forming a line across the frozen battlefield. Francis approached them carefully, watching for any sign that they'd adapted to new tactics.

  They hadn't.

  The first one came at him with its stone hammer, the same pattern he'd seen hundreds of times. Francis deflected the strike with his shield, felt the enchantment absorb and redirect the force, then drove his sword into the creature's throat. It fell with a gurgling roar.

  The second Ursaloth was larger, carrying a stone axe that it swung in wide arcs. Francis ducked under the first swing, blocked the second with his shield, and activated Quick Attack to close the distance. His blade found the gap between the creature's ribs, and he twisted, opening a wound that wouldn't close.

  [ Quick Attack Increased - 63 ]

  The third and fourth Ursaloths attacked together, trying to overwhelm him with coordinated strikes. Francis used his shield to keep one at bay while his sword dealt with the other. It was a brutal dance, trading blows back and forth across the ice, but Francis had done this dance before. He knew every step.

  When both lay dead at his feet, Francis paused to catch his breath. His armor was dented in places, his shield arm aching from the impacts, but he was alive and the Ursaloths weren't.

  Same patterns. Same timing. No adaptation. No learning.

  The observer appears to not know about my time in the South. It doesn't seem to know about Blade Tempest or Aether Manipulation either.

  Francis pushed deeper into enemy territory, past the Ursaloth line, past the positions he'd held before. He wanted to see what was waiting beyond, wanted to test whether the observer had prepared anything new.

  ***

  That's when he saw it.

  A shape moving through the snow, larger than any Lynxkin, covered in dark brown fur with lighter stripes. It moved with a speed and purpose that made Francis's Battle Sense scream warnings.

  The Elite Wolverkin.

  But something was wrong. The creature wasn't positioned like it was waiting for him. It was running toward him from deeper in enemy territory, as if it had been somewhere else and was only now arriving.

  It wasn't expecting me here. It's reacting, not anticipating.

  The Wolverkin closed the distance with terrifying speed. Francis raised his shield and braced, planting his feet in the ice.

  [ Guarded Stance ]

  The impact drove him backward, his boots creating grooves in the ice. Even with the enchantment redirecting force, his arm ached from absorbing the blow. The Wolverkin pressed its advantage immediately, claws raking across his shield, teeth snapping toward his helm.

  It was fast. Brutally, impossibly fast. Each strike carried enough force to dent plate armor, and the creature's movements were precise despite its obvious aggression.

  [ Iron Wall ]

  Francis activated his defensive skill and weathered a flurry of blows. His shield caught claw strikes that would have torn through lesser armor. His plate held against impacts that sent shockwaves through his bones. But the Wolverkin was relentless, finding the gaps in his defense, claws scraping across joints where the armor was weakest.

  Blood ran from cuts at his elbow and knee where the creature's claws had found flesh.

  It doesn't know about Blade Tempest. That's my advantage.

  Francis waited for an opening. The Wolverkin drew back for a massive overhead strike, claws raised to tear through his guard, and Francis activated his newest skill.

  [ Blade Tempest ]

  Francis became a whirlwind of metal.

  He blurred forward and around the Wolverkin, his sword striking from angles the creature couldn't defend. One hit to its right side, cutting deep through fur and muscle. Two to its back, opening wounds that sprayed blood across the ice. Three to its left flank, his blade carving through ribs.

  The Wolverkin roared in shock and pain. It tried to turn, tried to track Francis's movement, but he was everywhere at once. Four hits. Five. Six. Each strike found flesh, each wound weakened the creature further.

  The skill ended, and Francis stood behind the Wolverkin, breathing hard, shield raised and sword dripping blood. The creature swayed, its body carved open from a dozen strikes delivered in three seconds.

  But it didn't fall.

  The wounds were already closing. Francis had expected this. He'd seen the Wolverkin's regeneration before, knew it wasn't as fast as his own, but was fast enough to matter. The creature wasn't dying from the wounds that would have killed anything else.

  And now the berserker rage was coming.

  Francis recognized the shift, the way the Wolverkin's muscles bulged as foam gathered at its mouth. He'd seen this before, died to it before. The creature was entering its berserker state, trading whatever defense it had for pure, overwhelming offense.

  [ Guarded Stance ]

  Francis got his shield up just in time. The Wolverkin's strike hit like a battering ram, crumpling the edge of his shield and driving him to one knee. The second strike caught his pauldron and tore it free, exposing his shoulder. The third raked across his breastplate, leaving deep gouges in the metal.

  [ Regeneration ]

  Golden threads flooded the wounds at his shoulder and the places where claws had found gaps, trying to heal the damage, but the Wolverkin wasn't giving him time to recover. It pressed its attack relentlessly, each strike landing before the previous wound could close.

  [ Warrior's Resolve ]

  Power surged through Francis as his combat skill converted the pain into strength. Every wound the Wolverkin inflicted made him faster, stronger, more dangerous. He pushed back against the creature, his sword finding flesh again and again.

  The fight became a war of attrition. Francis's damaged shield caught blow after blow, barely holding together. His armor was dented and torn, blood running from a dozen wounds. But the Wolverkin was bleeding too, its regeneration struggling to keep up with the damage Francis was inflicting between its attacks.

  Minutes passed. The ice beneath them turned red with blood from both combatants. Francis felt his stamina draining, felt the exhaustion creeping into his limbs, but Warrior's Resolve kept feeding him power from every wound he took.

  One more Blade Tempest. I have enough now.

  The energy was there, built up from the damage he'd taken, from the minutes of brutal combat. Francis gathered what remained of his strength.

  [ Blade Tempest ]

  The second activation carved another six wounds into the Wolverkin's body. Francis targeted the creature's joints this time, trying to cripple its mobility. His sword cut through tendons in its leg, opened its shoulder to the bone, sliced across its face, and blinded one eye.

  [ Blade Tempest Increased - 5 ]

  The Wolverkin staggered, its regeneration finally overwhelmed by the accumulated damage. But Francis was struggling too. His shield arm hung limp, the shield itself barely holding together. His plate armor was dented and torn in a dozen places. Blood ran freely from wounds his regeneration couldn't close fast enough.

  The Wolverkin lunged, and Francis met it head-on. They crashed together, claws and steel trading blows in a final desperate exchange. Francis dropped what remained of his ruined shield and gripped his sword with both hands.

  Warrior's Resolve roared inside him, all the pain and damage converting into one last surge of power as his life began to end.

  [ Blade Tempest ]

  He poured everything into the assault. His sword found the Wolverkin's throat on the first strike, severed tendons in its remaining good arm on the second, and drove deep into its chest on the third. Four. Five. Six. Each hit was precise, aimed at vital points that even regeneration couldn't save.

  The Wolverkin collapsed, its body finally giving out under the accumulated damage.

  Francis stood over it, swaying on his feet. His armor was ruined, his shield destroyed, his body covered in wounds that his regeneration was barely keeping closed.

  And then the Wolverkin moved.

  One final, desperate lunge. Claws that Francis didn't have the strength to dodge drove through the gap in his ruined breastplate, punching into his chest.

  Francis looked down at the claws buried in his chest, then at the Wolverkin's face. The creature was dead, its eyes already glazing over, but its final strike had been true.

  [ Flurry Increased - 43 ]

  [ Power Strike Increased - 67 ]

  Darkness crept in at the edges of Francis's vision. He fell to his knees, the Wolverkin's body collapsing beside him.

  It didn't know about Blade Tempest. It wasn't prepared for me. The observer doesn't have information about the South.

  Francis's body gave out, and he collapsed onto the ice. As darkness claimed him, one final thought crossed his mind.

  If the observer doesn't know about the South, then maybe I need to push deeper into the North. Find out what it knows, a find out where it's watching from.

  The world went black.