Chapter 32

  The sound of the morning bell rang.

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

  Francis smiled, already throwing off his blanket. Every day, and every death he'd spent becoming one of the barbarians, and learning their magic, made dying dozens of times to Haldor and the Ursaloths worth it. All of it was knowledge he carried with him now, just like the small flame inside his chest that never went out. "Just another chance to get things right, brother."

  ---

  "It appears we have a visitor," Kerhi's voice said as Francis appeared in the ice building. "Tell me, what are you here for?"

  Francis pulled out the two sealed letters, studying the woman before him. She looked at him with curiosity, but something was different this time. Her eyes lingered on him longer, as if sensing something she couldn't quite identify. Francis had seen that look every time he came through after dying. Every barbarian had it, and sometimes it was almost comical.

  "I have come to offer aid and help with the fight your people are currently caught in," Francis said. "I would prefer to see Warchief Glitvall sooner rather than later."

  Kerhi scoffed, her eyes narrowing slightly. "Tell me, who is it that comes to see the chieftain and is so full of himself?"

  "I am afraid you have not earned the honor of knowing my name yet," Francis replied. "Perhaps if you carry out your duty in a timely manner, I will share it with you."

  Her eyes widened slightly, and Francis saw confusion flicker across her face. She studied him more closely now, her gaze moving over his features, his stance, the way he held himself.

  "You..." She paused. "There is something about you. Something familiar."

  Francis said nothing, simply waiting.

  "Come," Kerhi finally said, leading him through the camp. As they walked, Francis noticed other barbarians stopping to watch him pass. Their expressions held the same confusion Kerhi's had shown. They could somehow recognize him without being able to understand why. As if they knew him or had met him before, but couldn't place how.

  They reached the tent where the clan leaders gathered, and Francis went through the familiar ritual of presenting the letters to Glitvall. The warchief took them, his massive hands gentle with the sealed parchment, and Francis saw the same flicker of recognition in the man's eyes.

  When they were alone in Glitvall's tent, Francis told him everything. Not the full story of the loops, but enough. About the training, the ceremony, the magic he'd learned. Glitvall listened without interruption, his expression unreadable.

  "I cannot deny the knowledge you possess," Glitvall said finally. "Nor can I deny that you bear the mark of our people. The gods have claimed you, and I can sense it."

  "Then you believe me?"

  "I believe you carry secrets that should not be possible," Glitvall said. "But to prove what you claim, you must show the others. Come."

  ---

  The training ground where Francis had first fought Kerhi was now filled with onlookers. Word had spread quickly that something unusual was happening, and barbarians gathered in a loose circle around the cleared space.

  Lyska stood in the center, his painted face showing surprise when he saw Francis approaching.

  "You want me to fight...him?" Lyska asked Glitvall, gesturing at Francis.

  "I do," the warchief replied. "He claims to possess the magic we call upon. Prove him wrong or right."

  Lyska looked at Francis more carefully now, and Francis saw the moment recognition flickered in the shaman's eyes. "There is something... but I cannot place it."

  "Then let's find out," Francis said, drawing his swords.

  Lyska pulled his training axe, but Glitvall shook his head. "Real weapons. If he truly trained with you, he will not fall easily."

  The shaman's expression grew serious, and he drew his actual axe, its stone blade gleaming. Francis had fought Lyska forty-one times over the course of his training. He knew how he moved, how the barbarian enhanced his speed with bursts of power from his core. Francis had learned the hard way how he used his reach advantage to control the fight.

  Lyska attacked first, his axe coming in fast. But Francis was already moving, his swords coming up to deflect the strike. He stepped inside the shaman's guard and cut toward his midsection, forcing Lyska to leap backward.

  The crowd murmured.

  Lyska's eyes widened, and Francis saw power gather around the shaman. He drew from his core, and suddenly, he was faster, stronger. His next series of attacks came like lightning, each strike calculated to overwhelm Francis's defenses.

  But Francis had learned from dying to this exact pattern. He gave ground, blocking and deflecting, waiting for the moment when Lyska's enhanced state would falter. It came after eight strikes, a slight hesitation as the shaman's power flickered.

  Francis struck, both swords moving in concert. One blade caught Lyska's axe and redirected it, while the other sliced across his arm, drawing blood.

  The crowd went silent.

  Then Francis felt it, his own core responding. The threads that spread through his body suddenly felt more alive, more present. A notification appeared in his vision.

  [ Life Core Channeling Increased - 11 Novice ]

  [ Rank Increased - Novice ]

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  Power flooded through Francis, and immediately, he could feel his core more clearly than ever before. The threads weren't just something he sensed anymore. They were responsive, eager, waiting for his command.

  Francis grabbed his core with both mental hands and pulled.

  The effect was immediate. His muscles flooded with strength; his movements became sharper and faster. It wasn't as dramatic as what Lyska could do with his thick veins, but it was there. It was real and tangible.

  Lyska attacked again, this time with more caution. The shaman recognized a threat now, and Francis could see the calculations happening behind those painted eyes. He drew more power, his body practically glowing with enhanced strength.

  They met in the center of those gathered, axe against sword, two warriors who seemed to understand the power flowing through their bodies. Francis blocked a strike that would have taken his head off, countered with a slash that opened a cut on Lyska's leg. The shaman responded with a spinning attack that forced Francis to activate Iron Wall, his body hardening to absorb the impact.

  The fight intensified. Both of them were bleeding now, both drawing on reserves of power that pushed their bodies beyond normal limits. Francis maintained his grip on his core, pulling power through his threads with increasing confidence. It was harder than what the barbarians did, requiring more concentration, but his Novice rank now made it possible to sustain it longer.

  Lyska's axe came down in a massive overhead strike, and Francis didn't try to block it. Instead, he stepped inside the attack's arc, too close for the weapon to be effective. His swords moved like serpents, one catching Lyska's wrist, the other pressing against his throat.

  At the same moment, Francis swept Lyska's legs out from under him. The shaman fell, and Francis followed him down, his blade never leaving Lyska's throat. They hit the ground together, Francis on top, his sword pressed firmly against the shaman's neck.

  The training ground was absolutely silent.

  Francis held the position for a moment, then removed his blade and stood, offering Lyska his hand. The shaman took it, allowing Francis to pull him to his feet.

  Lyska bowed, his head lowered in respect. "You have defeated me. I owe you for sparing my life, for the honor you have shown. I will find a way to repay this debt."

  "No," Francis said, his voice carrying across the silent crowd. "You owe me nothing. Though you do not realize it, you have made me the man that I am and the warrior who stands before you. So let us be even on all accounts."

  Lyska's eyes widened and then he bent his head slightly. Francis saw the moment the barbarian recognized him as one of them. It didn’t matter that Francis looked like a Southerner or fought with weapons that many considered dishonorable. Lyska could see the power that flowed through Francis and the core that was burning. There was no mistake that Francis was one of them.

  Francis looked around the circle and saw High Shaman Greythorn standing among the gathered shamans. Beside her were several clan leaders, Glitvall, and Kerhi. All of them stared at him with expressions ranging from shock to awe.

  One of their strongest warriors had just been defeated by a Southerner who shouldn't have been able to do what he'd done.

  ---

  They gathered in Greythorn's tent, just the three of them. Francis sat across from the High Shaman and Glitvall, the blue-green flames casting familiar shadows.

  Francis told them everything. The loops, the month he'd spent training, the ceremony that had made him one of them. He explained how he'd died forty-one times to reach this point, how each death had taught him something new.

  When he finished, Glitvall smiled. It was a fierce expression, full of pride and anticipation.

  Greythorn cackled, the sound echoing off the tent walls.

  "What?" Francis asked, confused by their reactions.

  Glitvall leaned forward, his eyes gleaming. "Now... what I must have hinted at all those times you have come to see me. Now is when you will see that I was not kidding about what comes next. You, Francis, are about to experience pain, suffering, and hopefully growth like you cannot imagine."

  Greythorn nodded, her pale eyes fixed on Francis. "You think forty-one deaths to defeat Lyska was hard? You think learning to grab core was difficult?" She leaned forward. "What comes next makes those seem like children's games. Are you ready, Francis Lancaster?"

  Francis met their gazes, saw the challenge in them, and remembered everything he'd endured to get here. The Ursaloths, the Spires, Michael's deaths, all of it.

  Whatever it takes.

  "I'm ready," Francis said.

  ---

  I was wrong.

  Francis didn’t cry out though every bit of him wanted to. Even with the fire that burned inside him, it wasn’t enough to hold back the cold he felt as another bucket of ice and water was dumped on his naked body.

  Cuts came as soon as the water was gone, his blood flowing as the four shaman cut his skin in different places.

  “Hold the core!”

  “Heal yourself!”

  “Do not let yourself bleed to death!”

  Francis had heard those phrases multiple times, yet the shamans tasked with this kind of training never relented of their task.

  The cold wind blew and it didn’t matter that they were hours past midnight. He had accepted a task from Glitvall that sounded simple. Both the High Shaman and the Warchief had spent a good minute laughing at his bravado.

  Now, approaching the second day of training, Francis realized why he couldn’t do this until now.

  He had to supply the magic from his core to keep himself alive. Each second drained it, threatening to extinguish the flame that had once shone brightly. Sometimes his skin was completely healed. Othertimes it tore back open from the shivering of his body.

  “Hold off,” Kerhi called, moving closer to where he stood. “His flame is almost gone.

  “I can… go longer…,” Francis got out between clattering teeth. “I… can…–”

  “No, you are done,” Kerhi said, waving away those who had been ready to cut him again. “If we push further, you will not find growth. Eat, rest. We’ll begin again in the morning.”

  Francis wanted to argue, but the truth was his body felt empty on the inside. Even Warrior’s Resolve was struggling to keep him going, the never-ending drain of his body finally showing him there was a limit to how long and how far he could go.

  Still… the gains… they were good.

  [ Life Core Channeling (Rare) Increased - 19 Novice ]

  [ Magic Increased - 16 ]

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