Chapter 63
The sound of the morning bell rang.
Francis lay still for a moment, letting the familiar weight of reset settle over him. How many times had he heard that bell now? How many deaths had it taken to reach this point?
He pulled up his status, something he hadn't done in what felt like forever. The numbers that greeted him told the story of his journey better than words ever could.
[ Status ]
Francis Lancaster
Age 17
Strength: 57
Endurance: 59
Agility: 58
Wisdom: 35
Perception: 46
Magic: 39
Skills
Swordsmanship (Common) - 79 Master
Shield Use (Common) - 68 Elite
Tracking (Uncommon) - 21 Novice
Stealth (Uncommon) - 22 Novice
Traps (Uncommon) - 3 Basic
Rock Throwing (Common) - 7 Basic
Mental Resist (Uncommon) - 47 Advanced
Blood of the Undying (Unknown) - 100+ Sage
Fast Learner (Epic) - 1 Basic (Locked)
Mace (Common) - 11 Novice
Horseback Riding (Common) - 11 Novice
Horse Handling (Uncommon) - 6 Basic
Pain Resistance (Uncommon) - 69 Elite
Poison Resistance (Rare) - 51 Advanced
Power Strike (Rare) - 71 Elite
Brawling (Uncommon) - 41 Advanced
Strong Bones (Rare) - 68 Elite
Magic Resistance (Rare) - 60 Advanced
Magic Feedback (Legendary) - 26 Proficient
Quick Attack (Uncommon) - 63 Elite
Guarded Stance (Uncommon) - 48 Advanced
Riposte (Rare) - 51 Advanced
Thick Skin (Rare) - 43 Advanced
Night Vision (Epic) - 39 Proficient
Iron Wall (Rare) - 39 Proficient
Dual Wield (Rare) - 56 Advanced
Flurry (Rare) - 43 Advanced
Battle Sense (Epic) - 33 Proficient
Warrior's Resolve (Legendary) - 15 Novice
Blacksmithing (Common) - 37 Proficient
Metal Working (Common) - 22 Novice
Cold Resistance (Uncommon - Racial)
Life Core Channeling (Rare) - 48 Advanced
Axe (Common) - 38 Proficient
Regeneration (Rare) - 18 Novice
Blade Tempest (Rare) - 8 Basic
Aether Manipulation (Rare) - 3 Basic
The numbers were impressive, he supposed. After his first death, back when he'd first woken up in this new way of life, Francis would have been amazed by statistics like these.
Strength at fifty-seven, endurance at fifty-nine, and Magic at thirty-nine.
So many of these had been increased even more through sheer exposure to the robed figure's relentless assaults. His Swordsmanship had reached seventy-nine, just one point shy of what Stenson had called the threshold of true mastery.
And that’s not even a grand master skill… How long is it going to take to reach 86 in Swordmanship?
Yet none of it had been enough to kill the creature on the throne.
Francis dismissed the status screen and sat up in bed. Michael was already getting dressed across the room, still completely oblivious to the war he was fighting. To his brother, it was just another morning. For Francis, it was another reset, another chance to find a way through.
The creature was afraid of him. He'd seen it in those milky eyes, had felt it in the desperate speed of its resets. It wasn't confident anymore, wasn't treating him like a minor inconvenience. Every time Francis got close, every time his blade found flesh, the thing on the throne grew more desperate.
Today, Francis intended to kill it so fast it couldn't speak that word of power. So fast it couldn't think, couldn't react, couldn't do anything except die.
He got dressed and headed north.
***
The path was automatic now. Kill the Wolverkin with two Blade Tempest, the massive creature falling before it could even connect its first swing. Cross the bridge at a dead sprint, boots finding purchase on ice that would have sent him tumbling months ago. Clear the Reavers with efficient, economical strikes that conserved his energy for what lay ahead, their mimicked voices dying in their throats as his sword found flesh.
He reached the killing field and didn't slow. The detection sweep had just passed, and Francis ran across the open ground while the robed figure was still adjusting its focus. Arrows flew, but fewer than before, and Francis had learned to angle his approach to protect his vitals. Two metal shafts caught him in non-critical areas, and he ignored the pain as he hit the wall at full speed.
His hands found the familiar handholds, his feet pushed off the stones he'd memorized through countless attempts. Francis scaled the wall faster than he ever had before, his body moving with a precision that came only from endless repetition.
The robed figure turned toward him, frost beginning to gather around its hands.
Francis was already swinging.
[ Power Strike ]
The blow caught the robed figure across the chest before it could fully react, cutting deep into pale blue flesh. The creature screamed and staggered, and Francis was already moving, dropping from the wall and sprinting for the structure's interior.
Behind him, the robed figure fell to one knee and began to channel. Francis felt the temperature plummet as he ran, felt the power being drawn from the structure, from the locks, from everything around him.
Good.
That was exactly what he needed.
He burst into the circular chamber and threw himself at the chained door without slowing. The locks flickered, weakened by the channeling, and Francis squeezed through the gap, his constant death cycle letting him do this almost with his eyes closed. Metal scraped against his armor, but he barely noticed.
The creature on the throne was waiting, but it was weakened too. Francis could see it in the slower gathering of void-cold around its withered hands. He could feel it in the diminished pressure against his senses.
He crossed the distance in a heartbeat, his sword already moving.
[ Quick Attack ]
The blade carved into the creature's shoulder, and Francis followed with a second strike, then a third. Dark blood sprayed across the chamber as he hacked at the thing on the throne, trying to end it before it could react.
The creature's mouth opened, those crumbling black teeth parting to form a word.
"N—"
The world went black.
***
The sound of the morning bell rang.
Francis sat up, his mind already working through what had happened. The creature had barely started to speak before the reset triggered. It was fast, faster than he'd anticipated, but it still needed that word to focus its power. The syllable had been forming on its lips when reality ended.
What if it couldn't speak at all?
He made the journey north with a new plan forming. Same approach, same timing, same brutal efficiency. But this time, when he reached the throne room, his first strike wouldn't be aimed at the creature's chest or its heart.
It would be aimed at its throat.
The journey passed in a blur of violence. Wolverkin, bridge, Reavers, wall. Francis executed each step with mechanical precision, conserving his energy, focusing his mind on the strike that would matter most.
He wounded the robed figure and sprinted for the door, feeling the channeling build behind him. The locks flickered, the chains loosened, and Francis squeezed through into the darkness beyond.
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The creature on the throne looked up as he entered, those milky eyes tracking his movement. Its mouth began to open.
Francis was faster.
[ Quick Attack ]
The blade sliced through the creature's neck, not deep enough to decapitate but deep enough to sever something vital. Dark blood fountained from the wound, and the thing on the throne clutched at its ruined throat with skeletal hands.
It tried to speak. Francis could see the effort, could see its mouth working, could see the desperation in those milky eyes. But all that came out was a wet gurgle, blood bubbling from the wound, words dying before they could form.
Francis raised his sword for the killing blow, triumph surging through him.
Then he felt it. A pressure building in the room, in the air, in reality itself. The creature couldn't speak, but its power was gathering anyway, slower and less focused but still building toward the same inevitable conclusion.
Francis swung, trying to end it before the reset could trigger.
The world went black.
***
The sound of the morning bell rang.
“FUCK!” he called out.
“Yeah, I feel that,” Michael groaned. “It’s earlier than usual.”
Francis lay in bed, processing what he'd learned. The word helped the creature focus its power, but it wasn't strictly necessary. Given enough time, the reset would trigger anyway. The creature's ability wasn't bound to speech. It was bound to will, to intention, to some deeper connection with the power that sustained it.
Then I need to destroy it so completely that it can't will anything. Break its mind along with its body. Overwhelm it with so much damage that it can't think, can't focus, can't do anything except die.
He dressed and headed north, but this time he took a detour through the ice corridors. He'd seen weapons among the fallen Reavers, heavy things meant for creatures larger and stronger than humans. Francis found what he was looking for in the third group he killed: a massive war hammer, its head as large as a man's torso, its haft nearly as tall as he was. The weight was staggering, but his strength made it manageable.
It was unwieldy, awkward, completely unsuited to his fighting style. But it would do the job he needed it to do.
Francis made his approach with the hammer slung across his back, using his sword for the robed figure, saving the heavy weapon for the creature on the throne. The familiar sequence played out: wall, strike, channeling, door. When he burst through the chained door, he dropped his sword and swung the hammer in a massive overhead arc.
[ Power Strike ]
The blow caught the creature square in the chest with a sound like thunder. Bones shattered, decayed flesh pulped, and the thing that had been sitting in regal stillness was driven backward off its throne to slam against the wall. It crumpled to the floor, broken and twitching, barely recognizable as something that had once been alive.
Francis didn't stop. He raised the hammer and brought it down again, and again, and again. Each blow destroyed more of the creature's body, reducing more of its physical form to paste and fragments. He smashed its chest, its arms, its legs. He crushed its skull, scattered its teeth across the stone floor, and obliterated everything that had once been recognizable as a living thing.
And still, somehow, he felt the power building.
The creature's body was destroyed, completely destroyed, nothing but scattered remains and dark blood pooling on the floor. But the reset was coming anyway. Francis could feel it in the air, in the pressure against his senses, in the wrongness that was spreading through reality.
The world went black.
***
The sound of the morning bell rang.
“Mother fucking, hell!”
“Yeah… It’s earlier than usual,” Michael said. “Not sure it’s that early though. Still, let’s get ready. I don’t want to get in trouble.”
Francis stared at the ceiling, his mind racing.
He'd destroyed the creature's body completely. There hadn't been enough left to identify as having once been alive. Scattered bones, pulped flesh, dark blood spreading across the floor. And yet the reset had still triggered, had still pulled the world back to this moment, had still undone everything Francis had accomplished.
Physical destruction isn't enough. The body doesn't matter. Something else is triggering the reset, something that survives even when the flesh is gone.
He thought about his own resets, about what happened when he died. His body was destroyed too, often completely, but he always woke up whole and healthy. The reset didn't just turn back time. It restored him, rebuilt him, brought him back from nothing. His Blood of the Undying skill, locked at Sage rank, was the source of that power.
Maybe the creature worked the same way. Maybe destroying its body just triggered its version of the reset, just as dying triggered Francis's. Maybe they were mirror images of each other, bound by the same rules, trapped in the same eternal cycle.
If that were true, then killing it would never work. Every death would just reset the loop, and Francis would wake up in this bed with the morning bell ringing, and nothing would have changed. They could fight forever, dying and resetting and dying again, and neither of them would ever truly win.
But he had to try one more time. Had to confirm what he suspected, had to see it for himself. Had to know with absolute certainty that killing wasn't the answer.
Francis dressed and headed north one more time.
He made the journey north, every movement optimized through hundreds of repetitions. The Wolverkin died without Francis consciously registering the fight. The Reavers fell to efficient strikes that cost him nothing. The wall climb was smooth and practiced, the strike against the robed figure perfectly timed, the sprint to the door executed with flawless efficiency.
When Francis burst through the chained door, he didn't swing wildly or attack in a frenzy. He approached the throne with cold purpose, his sword held ready, his mind focused on a single goal. This time, he would kill it cleanly. Precisely. He would watch it die and see what happened next.
The creature looked up at him with those milky eyes, and Francis saw the fear there. Real fear, deep and primal, the terror of something that knew it was about to die.
"You cannot—" it began.
Francis drove his sword through its heart.
The blade punched through decayed flesh and withered bone, through whatever passed for vital organs in this ancient thing, and emerged from its back to scrape against the throne of black ice. The creature's mouth opened in a silent scream, those milky eyes going wide with shock and pain.
Francis twisted the blade, then pulled it free and struck again. And again. Each blow was precise, deliberate, aimed at something vital. He carved the creature apart with surgical efficiency, watching the light fade from its eyes, watching the power drain from its withered form.
The creature slumped on its throne, dark blood pouring from a dozen wounds. For a moment it hung there, suspended between life and death, those milky eyes staring at Francis with something that might have been disbelief. Then it slid from the throne and crumpled to the floor, landing in a heap of withered limbs and tattered robes.
Dark blood pooled beneath it, spreading across the cold stone in an ever-widening circle. Its chest was still. Its eyes were empty. The pressure that had filled the room, that oppressive weight of ancient power, was gone.
It was dead. Really, truly dead. Francis had killed it.
He stood over the corpse, breathing hard, his sword dripping with blood so dark it was almost black. The throne room was silent, the only sound his own ragged breathing echoing off the walls of dark stone. He waited for something to happen. For the void-cold to erupt one last time, for the creature to rise again, for the reset to trigger.
Nothing happened. The creature lay still, as dead as anything Francis had ever killed.
Francis let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. His heart was pounding, his hands were shaking slightly, but he felt a surge of triumph rising in his chest. It was done. After countless deaths, after endless loops, after all the suffering and failure and grinding repetition, he'd finally—
The world went black.
***
The sound of the morning bell rang.
Francis sat up in bed, his heart pounding.
He'd killed it. He'd watched it die, had seen the light fade from its eyes, had felt the pressure dissipate from the room. The creature had been dead, completely dead, for several seconds before the reset triggered. He'd stood over its corpse, had begun to believe that it was finally over.
And it hadn't mattered.
The loop had reset anyway, had pulled the world back to this moment, had undone the creature's death the same way it undid Francis's deaths. Killing it accomplished nothing because death wasn't the end for things like them. Death was just the trigger that started everything over.
Francis sat in the darkness of the early morning, staring at nothing, his mind working through the implications. Michael was stirring across the room, beginning his morning routine, completely unaware of the revelation that had just shattered everything Francis thought he knew.
When he died, he reset. When the creature died, it reset. They were the same, bound by the same rules, trapped in the same cycle. Killing each other would accomplish nothing because they would both just come back, again and again, forever. An endless war with no possible victory, no possible conclusion, just death after death after death.
Except that couldn't be right. Francis had killed one of these things before. In the south, in that desperate battle that had started everything, he'd killed the creature that had been casting fear upon his army. And that death had been permanent. The southern creature hadn't reset. It had stayed dead.
What did I do differently?
He closed his eyes, trying to remember. The battle had been chaos, a desperate fight for survival against something far more powerful than him. He'd been wounded, dying, pushed beyond anything he'd ever experienced. His body had been failing, his mind had been fading, and he'd acted on pure instinct.
And then...
Francis remembered tearing the creature's chest open. He remembered his own body being damaged and wounds gaping. There had been that purple mass inside the creature, in that decaying flesh. Francis could now feel the sensation of that parasite writhing and twisting around his body, attacking him and his mind.
He'd pulled at it, trying to stop it, but that hadn’t done anything as it pierced his skin. And when he had, it had wanted to take him over, had tried to make him its new host. There had been a battle, not physical but mental, a contest of wills fought in some space beyond the physical world. The parasite had been strong, ancient, desperate to survive. It stole his memories of his brother. Somehow, it knew Michael was an anchor for him.
Yet Francis had won. He'd bent it to his will, had made it his own, had absorbed its power instead of letting it absorb him.
That was the difference. That was why the southern creature had stayed dead. Francis hadn't just killed its body. He'd taken the thing that made it immortal, the thing that triggered its resets, and he'd claimed it for himself. His Blood of the Undying skill, the power that let him reset when he died, had come from that absorption.
That's why it's afraid of me. Not because I can kill it. Because I can take what it has. I can end it permanently, as I did its brother in the south.
Francis looked across the room at Michael, now fully dressed and heading for the door. The answer had been there all along, hidden in the memory of that first desperate battle. He didn't need to kill the creature on the throne.
He needed to absorb it.
***
Francis dressed slowly, his mind still working through the problem.
I need to absorb it.
It sounded simple enough when he put it in those terms, but the reality was far more complicated. He barely remembered what he'd done in that first battle, barely remembered the instincts that had driven him as he fought for his life. It hadn't been a technique or a skill or something he could practice and perfect. It had been desperation, pure and raw, the last resort of a dying man who had nothing left to lose.
Could he replicate it? Could he do it deliberately, consciously, with the creature fighting back every step of the way? The thing on the throne knew what he was now, knew what he'd done to its brother in the south. It would be ready for him, would be waiting for exactly this kind of attack.
He remembered the mental battle that had followed the physical one, the parasite trying to take him over, trying to make him its new host. It had been like drowning in ice water, like being pulled down into darkness by hands he couldn't see. He'd fought it off somehow, had imposed his will on the thing, had bent it to his purpose instead of letting it bend him to its own.
But that had been close. Closer than he liked to remember. The parasite had been strong and desperate. And he'd only won because it had been weakened. After all, the battle that came before had drained it, because Francis had caught it at its most vulnerable moment.
The creature on the throne would fight too. It would resist, would try to take him over, would do everything in its power to avoid being consumed. And unlike the first time, Francis wouldn't have the advantage of surprise. The thing knew what he was, knew what he could do. It had felt its brother die, had felt Francis absorb its power, had spent countless loops preparing for exactly this confrontation.
That was why it was so afraid. Not of death, which it could undo with a thought, but of consumption. Of being taken, absorbed, and ended permanently. Of losing not just its life but its very existence, its power, its place in whatever network these creatures had built.
Francis finished dressing and headed for the door. He knew what he needed to do now. Reach the throne room. Defeat the creature, or at least weaken it enough to attempt the absorption. Tear open its chest. Reach inside. Take the parasite.
And win the mental battle that followed.
Four steps, each one harder than the last. Four steps that would determine not just this battle but the entire war. If he failed, if the creature took him over instead, then everything he'd fought for would be lost. The parasites would have another host, another puppet, another weapon to use against the people Francis was trying to protect.
Simple enough to describe. Probably the hardest thing he'd ever attempted.
But Francis had died a thousand times to reach this point. He'd fought through impossible odds, had grown stronger than any human had a right to be, had become something that even ancient creatures of power feared. His stats told part of the story. His skills told another. But the real measure of who he was, of what he'd become, couldn't be captured in numbers or ranks.
He was the one who didn't stop. The one who kept fighting when anyone else would have given up. The one who died and died and died, and got up every single time to try again.
He could do this. He would do this.
The creature on the throne was waiting, ancient and decaying and terrified.
And Francis intended to consume it.
