Chapter 68

  The war horns sounded at dawn.

  Francis felt the sound in his bones, a low rumble that built into a roar as thousands of voices joined it. All around him, soldiers surged forward, a tide of steel and flesh crashing toward the enemy lines. The ground shook with the thunder of cavalry charges on the flanks, and somewhere behind him, mages began their chants, weaving spells that would shape the battlefield.

  But Francis wasn't moving with the army. He was moving through it, cutting sideways across the formation, heading for the eastern edge where the terrain turned rough and rocky. The main assault was a distraction, a hammer blow meant to draw the enemy's attention while Francis slipped past their lines.

  The Lizardkin mage was waiting in the forest behind their army. And if Francis didn't kill it before it could cast, ten thousand men would die in a single moment.

  Not this time.

  He reached the edge of the formation and broke into a run, leaving the organized ranks behind. The rocky ground rose beneath his feet, and Francis used the uneven terrain to his advantage, staying low, moving fast, angling toward a gap in the enemy lines he'd memorized through dozens of deaths.

  The first beastkin saw him coming too late.

  ***

  [ Quick Attack ]

  Francis's sword took the wolfkin across the throat before it could raise its weapon. He didn't slow, didn't stop to watch it fall. Two more wolfkin turned at the sound, but Francis was already past them, his blade opening one from shoulder to hip while his momentum carried him beyond the other's desperate swing.

  [ Power Strike ]

  A tigerkin stepped into his path, larger than the wolfkin, its sword already swinging. Francis met the blow with his own blade, felt the impact shudder up his arm, and twisted, letting the tigerkin's strength carry it past him. His sword found the gap between its shoulder plates and sank deep.

  The creature roared and spun, claws raking toward Francis's face. He ducked, felt the wind of the strike pass over his head, and drove his blade up through the tigerkin's jaw.

  [ Quick Attack ]

  Three more, then four. The beastkin were starting to notice him now, turning from the main battle to face this single human cutting through their rear lines. Francis didn't care. Every second he spent fighting here was a second the Lizardkin had to prepare its spell.

  He ran.

  Not away from the fight, but through it. His sword became a blur of steel, cutting down anything that got in his way. A wolfkin lunged and died. A bearkin swung a massive hammer and missed, and Francis took its leg out from under it as he passed. Two catkin tried to flank him, moving with the coordinated precision of hunters, and Francis killed them both in the span of a heartbeat.

  [ Flurry ]

  The skill sang through him, his arm moving faster than thought, each strike flowing into the next without pause. Bodies fell in his wake, and the beastkin started to pull back, their animal instincts recognizing a predator more dangerous than themselves.

  A rhinokin charged from his left, smaller than the Elite but still massive, its horn lowered for a killing blow. Francis didn't try to meet it head-on. He angled his run, timing his movement to the thundering hoofbeats, and at the last moment dove forward, rolling beneath the creature's horn and coming up on its other side. His sword found the gap behind its front leg, and the rhinokin crashed to the ground with a bellow of pain.

  [ Quick Attack Increased - 64 ]

  The notification flashed across his vision, and Francis felt the familiar surge of power that came with advancement. His movements became fractionally faster, his reactions sharper. Every skill increase was another edge, another advantage in the endless war he'd been fighting.

  The forest loomed ahead, dark and massive. Francis sprinted for the treeline, his lungs burning, his muscles screaming. Behind him, the sounds of battle raged on, the clash of steel and the screams of the dying filling the morning air. Somewhere in that chaos, King Baxter was carving his way toward the Jaguarkin and Pantherkin. Somewhere, General Stenson was coordinating the main push. Somewhere, Michael was watching, waiting, hoping his little brother would survive.

  Francis couldn't let any of them down.

  He hit the treeline at full speed and kept running.

  The forest swallowed him whole.

  The canopy above was so thick that the morning light barely penetrated, leaving Francis moving through a world of shadows and ancient trees. Undergrowth tangled everything, roots rising from the ground like grasping fingers, and the air felt heavy with old magic.

  Francis knew this path. He'd died on it more times than he wanted to remember, learning every root that could trip him, every branch that could slow him down. Now he moved through the forest like he'd been born here, ducking and weaving, his feet finding solid ground by instinct.

  The clearing was ahead. He could feel it, a wrongness in the air, a pressure that built with every step. The Lizardkin's magic seeping into the forest around it like poison into water.

  Francis slowed, his breath coming in controlled gasps. He checked his grip on his sword, rolled his shoulders, and felt the familiar weight of his armor settling into place. His regeneration hummed beneath his skin, ready to heal whatever damage was about to come.

  Because damage was definitely coming.

  He stepped into the clearing.

  Thessarak, Wielder of the Burning Light, was waiting for him.

  Twenty feet of purple scales and coiled muscle, the Lizardkin stood in the center of the clearing with its staff already raised. The crystal at its tip pulsed with gathered power, casting shadows that moved wrong, that seemed to reach toward Francis like hungry things.

  "A human?" the creature hissed, surprise in its voice. "How did you get this deep?"

  Francis didn't answer. He charged.

  [ Quick Attack ]

  The world blurred as he crossed the clearing. Thessarak's eyes widened, the staff swinging around, and the crystal flared with blinding light.

  The beam came.

  Francis was already moving, his body shifting before his mind had consciously processed the attack. He'd seen this beam hundreds of times, had died to it more often than he wanted to recall. He knew its speed, its trajectory, the exact moment Thessarak's muscles tensed before the spell released.

  The white light scorched the air where he'd been standing, dissolving a tree behind him into ash. Heat washed over Francis's side, close enough to singe his armor, but he didn't slow.

  A second beam came. Francis dove, rolling across the grass, coming up with his sword already swinging. The beam passed over his head, so close he could smell his hair burning.

  Three strides, two, then one.

  Thessarak's staff swept in an arc, and a wave of force slammed into Francis like a physical wall. His momentum died, his feet leaving furrows in the dirt as the magical energy tried to hurl him backward.

  Francis felt his Magic Resistance skill push back and felt it absorb the worst of the impact. His boots dug into the ground. His muscles screamed. The force tried to drive him away but Francis didn’t let it.

  Thessarak's eyes went wide with shock.

  "What—"

  Francis lunged.

  [ Flurry ]

  His sword became a storm of steel. He struck at Thessarak's arms, its torso, its legs, anywhere he could reach. The Lizardkin tried to bring its staff around, tried to create distance, but Francis stayed close, inside its guard, where the beam couldn't track him.

  Blood sprayed across the clearing. Purple scales shattered under the force of his blows. Thessarak shrieked, its concentration broken, its spells failing before they could form.

  "What are you?" the creature gasped, blood pouring from a dozen wounds.

  "Someone who doesn't give up."

  Francis felt it building inside him, that pressure in his skills that meant something was about to change. Quick Attack and Flurry were resonating with each other, their energies combining into something greater than either had been alone. He'd felt this before, in another loop, when he'd first unlocked Blade Tempest.

  Now he would use it.

  [ Blade Tempest ]

  The world seemed to slow. Power surged through Francis's body, through his sword arm, through the blade itself. He became a whirlwind, his body moving in a blur, dashing forward and around Thessarak in a spiral pattern, his sword striking from every angle.

  One hit. Two. Three. Each successful strike kept the momentum going, kept the storm alive. The Lizardkin tried to track him, tried to bring its staff around, but Francis was everywhere at once.

  Four hits. Five. Six.

  Thessarak's eyes began to glow, that desperate light Francis had learned to recognize. The desperation attack. The final spell that would consume everything in a torrent of white fire.

  Francis didn't give it the chance.

  [ Blade Tempest ]

  [ Power Strike ]

  He drove his sword through Thessarak's throat before the spell could release. The blade punched through scales and flesh and bone, sinking to the hilt. The glow in the creature's eyes flickered, faded, died.

  Thessarak, Wielder of the Burning Light, collapsed.

  [ Blade Tempest Increased - 9 ]

  Francis stood over the corpse, breathing hard, his body covered in burns from near-misses and cuts from where flying debris had found gaps in his armor. His regeneration was already working, golden threads flooding the wounds, closing them with unnatural speed.

  But he didn't have time to rest. The death spell would never come now, but the battle was still raging, and there was still an Elite Rhinokin that needed to die.

  Francis pulled his sword free, flicked the blood from the blade, and ran.

  The battlefield had transformed while Francis was in the forest.

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  He emerged from the treeline to see chaos spreading through the enemy lines. The siege beasts, those massive grey-skinned creatures with catapults mounted on their backs, were in disarray. Two of them had gone berserk, thrashing wildly, trampling beastkin beneath their enormous feet. A third stood motionless, confused, its pandakin controller lying dead with arrows sprouting from its chest.

  The archers. They listened.

  Francis felt a surge of fierce pride. Those soldiers had trusted his instructions, had counted the volleys and found their windows, and now the siege beasts that should have been tearing through human formations were instead causing havoc among their own forces.

  But one siege beast still had its controller. And standing in front of it, hammer raised, was the Elite Rhinokin.

  The creature was massive, easily twelve feet tall, with hide like stone and a horn that could punch through castle walls. Its armor was scarred from previous battles, and the hammer it carried was the size of a small cart. Even from this distance, Francis could feel the ground shake with each step it took.

  It saw him coming.

  The Rhinokin's small eyes fixed on Francis, and something like recognition flickered in their depths. Not memory, exactly, but instinct. The recognition of a threat.

  It charged.

  The ground shook.

  Francis had fought the Rhinokin before, had learned through death after death how to survive its charges. The creature was devastatingly powerful, its strength beyond anything a human body could match, but it was also predictable. It relied on that strength, on the sheer overwhelming force of its attacks, and it had never learned to adapt.

  Francis didn't try to block the charge. He waited until the last possible moment, until the horn was close enough to touch, and then he moved.

  [ Quick Attack ]

  He spun to the side, his sword coming around in a vicious arc aimed at the Rhinokin's front leg. The blade bit deep, finding the gap between armor plates, and the creature stumbled, its charge thrown off balance.

  [ Power Strike ]

  Francis drove his sword into the same leg, twisting, widening the wound. Blood sprayed across his armor, hot and thick, and the Rhinokin bellowed with rage and pain.

  The hammer came around in a sweeping blow that would have crushed Francis into paste. He dove under it, felt the wind of its passage ruffle his hair, and came up slashing. His blade found the Rhinokin's other front leg, opening a gash that made the creature stagger.

  The legs. Always the legs. Take away its mobility, and it becomes just a big target.

  The Rhinokin tried to turn, tried to bring its hammer around for another swing, but its wounded legs betrayed it. It stumbled, and Francis was there, his sword finding flesh again and again.

  [ Flurry ]

  Five rapid strikes, each one targeting the joints, the gaps in the armor, the places where the creature's hide was thinnest. The Rhinokin screamed, a sound like grinding boulders, and swung its hammer in a desperate arc.

  This time, Francis wasn't quite fast enough.

  The edge of the hammer caught his shoulder, and he felt something break. Pain exploded through his body as he was hurled sideways, his armor crumpling under the impact. He hit the ground hard, rolled, and forced himself back to his feet through sheer will.

  His legendary skill Warrior's Resolve pulsed through him, flooding his broken body with strength. His shoulder screamed in protest, but his arm still worked, his sword still moved. His regeneration was already working on the damage, golden threads knitting bone and muscle back together. The pain didn't disappear, but it became manageable, something he could push through rather than something that controlled him.

  [ Warrior's Resolve Increased - 16 ]

  Another skill increase in the middle of combat. Francis filed it away, knowing that every point mattered, that every advancement brought him closer to the warrior he needed to be to end this war once and for all.

  The Rhinokin was limping toward him, both front legs wounded but still functional. Blood poured from half a dozen wounds, but the creature's eyes burned with fury. It raised its hammer for an overhead blow that would drive Francis into the earth.

  Francis charged.

  Not away from the hammer, but toward it. Toward the Rhinokin. The creature's eyes widened in surprise as Francis closed the distance, sliding beneath the descending hammer, coming up inside its guard.

  [ Blade Tempest ]

  Francis became a whirlwind of steel. He circled the Rhinokin's legs, his sword striking from every angle, each blow finding the wounds he'd already opened and making them worse. Six strikes later, the Rhinokin's front legs gave out.

  The massive creature crashed to its knees, its hammer falling from its grip, and Francis didn't hesitate. He ran up the creature's armored back, his boots finding purchase on the scarred plates, and reached its neck.

  [ Power Strike ]

  His sword drove down through the gap between the Rhinokin's helm and its shoulder armor, sinking deep into its neck. The creature shuddered, a great tremor that ran through its entire body, and then it went still.

  [ Power Strike Increased - 72 ]

  Francis stood on the Rhinokin's back, breathing hard, his shoulder still burning despite his regeneration's efforts. Around him, the battlefield raged on, but the tide was turning. The siege beasts were in chaos, their controllers dead or dying. The Lizardkin mage was gone, its death spell forever uncast. And now the Rhinokin that had been guarding their heavy hitters was just another corpse.

  He jumped down from the creature's back and looked toward the western flank.

  Time to see how King Baxter was doing.

  ***

  It appeared that King Baxter was doing just fine.

  Francis reached the western flank in time to see the king finish his battle. Baxter stood in the center of a ring of bodies, his armor splashed with blood that wasn't his own. The Elite Jaguarkin lay at his feet, its chest caved in by what must have been a devastating blow. The Elite Pantherkin was sprawled a few yards away, its skull crushed, its assassin's blades still clutched in lifeless hands.

  Even in death, the Jaguarkin was impressive. Twelve feet of striped muscle and killing instinct. It had been one of the most dangerous opponents Francis had ever faced, in any loop. And Baxter had killed it.

  The Pantherkin was smaller but no less deadly. Its black fur was matted with blood, and Francis could see the wounds it had inflicted on the king's armor. Deep gouges in the plate. But the wounds hadn't been deep enough, hadn't been fast enough, to stop Baxter.

  The king turned at Francis's approach, and his red eyes gleamed with satisfaction. There was blood on his gauntlets, blood on his chest plate, blood dripping from the massive sword he carried. But his movements were steady, his breathing controlled. This was a warrior in his element.

  "The Pantherkin tried to take me from behind," Baxter said, gesturing at the corpse. "Twice. It didn't work either time."

  "I told you they'd try that."

  "You did." The king's smile widened, showing teeth that looked almost predatory. "And I listened. When the Jaguarkin committed to its attack, I felt the Pantherkin move. Didn't even have to see it. Just turned and struck." He gestured at the crushed skull. "One blow. That's all it took."

  "The Lizardkin?"

  "Dead. The Rhinokin too."

  Baxter nodded, looking out over the battlefield. "Then it's over. Look at them."

  Francis looked. The beastkin army was breaking. Without their Elite units, without their siege beasts, without the devastating magic that should have swept through human formations, they had nothing left. The organized army that had threatened the Southern Kingdom was dissolving into a panicked mob.

  "General Stenson is coordinating the push," Baxter said. "We'll have them routed within the hour."

  Francis felt something loosen in his chest. Something he hadn't even realized was tight. For so long, this battle had been a wall he couldn't get past, a puzzle he couldn't solve. Every loop, something had gone wrong. The death spell. The siege beasts. The Elite units. It was always another obstacle Francis had struggled with to overcome.

  But not this time. This time, everything had worked.

  This time, they were winning.

  ***

  The battle ended before noon.

  By the time the sun reached its peak, the beastkin army had scattered. Over ten thousand lay of their enemy lay dead on the field, their bodies forming grotesque patterns across the churned earth. Thousands more had fled into the wilderness, leaderless and broken. The siege beasts stood motionless, their controllers dead, their purpose forgotten. What had been an unstoppable force just hours ago was now nothing but corpses and chaos.

  Francis walked through the aftermath, stepping over bodies, his sword still in his hand. His armor was dented and scorched in places, stained with blood both his own and otherwise, but he barely felt the damage. His regeneration had closed the worst of his wounds, leaving only aches and bruises that would fade within hours.

  The cost had been high. Human soldiers lay among the beastkin dead, their faces frozen in expressions of determination or fear or simple surprise. Men who had followed orders, who had trusted their commanders, who had believed they were fighting for something worth dying for. Francis tried not to look at their faces, tried not to wonder how many of them he could have saved if he'd been faster, stronger, smarter.

  You can't save everyone. You never could. All you can do is save as many as possible and make their sacrifice count.

  Soldiers cheered as he passed. Word had spread, somehow, about what he'd done. The young Sage who had killed the Lizardkin mage. The warrior who had brought down the Elite Rhinokin. Francis ignored the cheers, ignored the reaching hands and the shouted questions. He was looking for someone.

  He found Michael at the edge of the battlefield, exactly where Francis had told him to stay.

  His brother's face was pale, his eyes wide with a mixture of relief and something Francis couldn't quite name. He'd watched, just as he'd promised. He'd seen everything.

  "You did it," Michael said, his voice barely above a whisper. "You actually did it."

  Francis nodded. "I told you I would."

  “You’re a hero… to the army… to everyone.”

  His brother was quiet for a long moment. Then he stepped forward and pulled Francis into an embrace, armor and blood and all.

  "You're insane," Michael said into his shoulder. "You know that, right? Absolutely, completely insane."

  "Probably," Francis agreed. "But I'm not done yet."

  Michael pulled back, confusion in his eyes. "What do you mean? The battle's over. We won."

  "This battle is over." Francis looked north, toward a horizon he couldn't see but could feel, pressing against his awareness like a weight. "But the war isn't. There's something in the north I need to deal with. Something that could undo all of this if I don't stop it."

  "The northern looper," Michael said slowly, remembering their conversation. "The creature on the throne."

  Francis nodded. "I need to leave now. Today. The mages are already preparing the portal. If I wait too long, if the creature realizes what's happening..."

  "It could reset everything," Michael finished. His jaw tightened, but he didn't argue. Didn't plead. He just met Francis's eyes and nodded once. "Then go. Do what you have to do."

  "I'll come back," Francis said. "When it's done, when it's really done, I'll come back."

  "You'd better." Michael's voice cracked slightly. "Because if you don't, I'm going to find a way to bring you back myself, just so I can kill you for making me worry."

  Francis laughed, a real laugh that felt strange after so long. "I'll hold you to that."

  ***

  The portal opened two hours after the battle ended.

  Francis stood before it, his armor repaired as much as time allowed, his wounds healed by his regeneration. The swirling gateway dominated the clearing where the mages had gathered, a tear in reality that showed glimpses of another world beyond. The Northern Kingdom, waiting for him.

  Priscilla and the other mages held the portal stable, their faces drawn with concentration and exhaustion from the battle's magical efforts. Sweat beaded on Priscilla's brow, and her hands trembled slightly with the effort of maintaining the connection. Francis knew she wouldn't be able to hold it forever after the spells she had unleashed today during the battle.

  General Stenson stood nearby. The old soldier's face was pale, but his eyes were sharp, his posture straight. He had to have been injured somehow, yet even wounded, he refused to show weakness.

  "The escort is ready. Twenty of my best men."

  "I told you, I need to do this alone."

  "They'll get you through the initial territory," Stenson said firmly. "After that, you can send them back. But I'm not letting you walk into hostile land without at least some support getting there."

  Francis considered arguing, then decided against it. The general was right. Getting through the barbarian territories would be easier with soldiers at his back, even if the final assault on the structure had to be solo.

  "Fine," he said. "But if Warchief Glitvall says they stay back, they stay behind."

  Stenson nodded. "Understood." He extended his hand. "Good luck, Francis. For what it's worth, I believe you can do this."

  Francis shook the offered hand. "I've done it before. I just need to do it one more time."

  He turned to the portal. The swirling energy cast strange shadows across his face, and beyond it, Francis could see hints of a frozen landscape, of snow and ice and a cold that cut to the bone.

  The northern looper was waiting. Ancient and afraid and running out of time.

  Francis stepped through the portal.

  The race for the north had begun.