Chapter 34

  The sound of the morning bell rang.

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

  Francis sat up, already mentally counting. Death sixty-eight. The Ursaloth alpha had caught him yesterday, its massive paw crushing his ribcage before he could activate Iron Wall. A stupid mistake, one born from overconfidence after taking down the pack.

  Getting sloppy. Can't afford that.

  Glancing at his brother who was yawning, Francis couldn’t help but smile.

  He bolted out of bed, grabbing Michael and slung him over his shoulder.

  “What the–”

  Francis ignored his brother’s protests, running out the building they shared, and toward where Phillip was going to be waiting.

  “Hey, I’m just trying not to be late!”

  ---

  Having a confidant had changed everything in the last loop. The weight of carrying the secret alone had been crushing him without Francis even realizing it. But with Tormund knowing, understanding, and accepting, it had felt like he could breathe again.

  So he'd keep that. Every loop from now on, Tormund would know.

  The forge was exactly as Francis expected it to be. Tormund stood at the anvil, hammer in hand, working a piece of steel that glowed orange in the morning light. The massive blacksmith didn't look up as Francis entered, but his voice carried over the ring of metal on metal.

  "You are here early, Southerner."

  "I need to tell you something," Francis said, moving to stand near the fire. "And I need you just to listen until I'm done."

  Tormund's hammer paused mid-swing. He set it down carefully and turned to face Francis, his scarred face unreadable. "That sounds serious."

  "It is." Francis took a breath. "When I die, I wake up back at my training camp in the South. Everything resets. Everyone forgets. But I remember everything, and I retain my skills, stats, and all that I've learned. And then I have to do it all again."

  Tormund's expression didn't change, but Francis saw something flicker in the blacksmith's eyes. Recognition, maybe. Or understanding.

  "I've died sixty-eight times," Francis continued. "Sometimes to the Ursaloths. Sometimes in battle against one of the warriors here. Once, because I was stupid enough to challenge an elite warrior when I wasn't ready. Each time, I come back. Each time, I have to build the relationships again, earn the trust again, prove myself again."

  "And you are telling me this now because...?" Tormund asked.

  "Because last loop, you figured it out. You noticed I knew techniques you'd never taught me, that I worked metal like someone who'd been your apprentice for months. We talked, and I told you the truth, and you... accepted it. Helped me carry the weight of it." Francis met Tormund's eyes. "I don't want to wait for you to figure it out this time. I need someone who knows. Someone I can talk to without pretending."

  Tormund was quiet for a long moment. Then he picked up his hammer again and gestured to the second anvil. "Show me. Work metal. Let me see what you know."

  Francis moved to the anvil, selected a piece of steel from the stockpile, and heated it in the forge. When the metal reached the right temperature, he pulled it out and began shaping it. Not hesitantly, not like someone learning. He worked with the confidence of someone who'd done this dozens of times, his strikes precise and measured.

  He used the fuller stroke Tormund had developed, the one the blacksmith had commented on in the previous loop. He checked the color of the steel before each heat, adjusted his grip without thinking, and moved through the process as if it were second nature.

  Because it was. He'd learned it from Tormund across multiple loops, refined it through repetition, earned every bit of knowledge through sweat and burns and patient instruction that the blacksmith didn't even remember giving.

  When Francis finally plunged the shaped blade into the quenching barrel, Tormund set down his own hammer and walked over. He picked up the blade, examining it in the firelight.

  "This is my style," Tormund said quietly. "My techniques. Things I have only taught to three apprentices over twenty years. And you work metal like you have been doing it for months, not days."

  "Because I have been," Francis said. "Just not in this version of today."

  Tormund set the blade down and moved to the bench at the back of the forge. "Come. Sit. Tell me everything."

  So Francis did. He talked about the first loops, about watching Michael die over and over. About learning to fight the Ursaloths, about the ceremony that made him one of the barbarians. He talked about the grinding repetition of it all, the way days blurred together, the exhaustion of being the only one who remembered.

  Tormund listened without interrupting, his expression thoughtful. When Francis finally finished, the blacksmith leaned back against the wall.

  "Our people believe in cycles," Tormund said. "Death and rebirth. The gods test us, we die, and we are reborn stronger in the next life. But what you describe..." He shook his head. "This is different. You are not just reborn. You carry everything forward. Knowledge, skill, memory. It is like..." He paused, searching for words. "Like steel that remembers every time it has been forged."

  "That's a good way to put it," Francis said.

  "It must be lonely," Tormund observed. "To remember when no one else does. To build friendships that reset. To watch people die knowing you will see them alive again, but they will not remember what came before."

  Francis felt something tight in his chest loosen. "Yes. Exactly that."

  "Then you have my friendship, Francis Lancaster. In this loop and every loop after, if you choose to tell me. I will help carry this weight with you." Tormund stood and offered his hand in the warrior's grip. "Now. Let us work metal together. Tell me what you are trying to learn."

  They returned to the forge, and Francis found himself settling into the familiar rhythm. But this time, he could talk openly. He explained that he was trying to improve his healing magic, that he needed his Blacksmithing skill to climb higher, and that every point of progress mattered.

  "Healing magic," Tormund said as they worked. "The Life Core Channeling. You are trying to regenerate flesh?"

  "Eventually. Currently, I can close wounds more quickly than normal, but it's not true regeneration. That's going to take a lot more deaths, a lot more practice." Francis shaped the metal with steady strikes. "The problem is it's incredibly mana intensive. Much harder than just enhancing strength or speed."

  "Because regrowing flesh is more complex than making it temporarily stronger," Tormund said thoughtfully. "Like the difference between tempering existing steel and creating new steel from ore."

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  "Exactly." Francis appreciated how quickly Tormund understood. "So I'm constantly grinding against enemies. I’m always fighting Ursaloths, dying when I push too far, coming back, and trying again. I’m also slowly building up my Magic stat, as well as increasing my Life Core Channeling skill."

  "How high is it now?"

  "Twenty. My Magic stat is eighteen." Francis plunged his work into the water. "I need both to be much higher before real regeneration is possible."

  Tormund grunted acknowledgment. "Then we work. You practice smithing, I teach techniques. Between fighting and forging, you will grow stronger."

  They fell into a comfortable pattern after that. Tormund would demonstrate a technique, Francis would practice it, and they'd talk. Sometimes about the loops, sometimes about smithing philosophy, sometimes about nothing in particular. Just two craftsmen working metal together.

  "Tell me," Tormund said as the morning stretched into afternoon. "In previous loops, what have we talked about? What have I told you?"

  Francis paused in his work. "You told me about your apprentices. How one died in battle, how another moved south to work in Reevorort, how the third is still here in camp. You discussed your philosophy on crafting, explaining that a good blade is more than just sharp metal. You said that smithing is meditation, that the rhythm of the hammer teaches patience."

  "All true," Tormund said. "What else?"

  "You told me that you chose smithing over being a warrior because you wanted to create instead of destroy. That watching something take shape under your hammer was more satisfying than watching enemies fall." Francis met the blacksmith's eyes. "You said that warriors fight one battle at a time, but smiths fight every battle through the weapons they make."

  Tormund smiled slightly. "I do say that, yes. It is good philosophy."

  "It is," Francis agreed.

  They worked in silence for a while, and Francis felt the tension he'd been carrying ease. This was what he needed. Not just someone who knew about the loops, but someone who could help ground him in the present moment. The forge, the hammer, the metal, the fire. Real, tangible things that existed regardless of how many times Francis died and came back.

  A notification appeared as Francis finished a particularly tricky joint.

  [ Blacksmithing Increased - 21 ]

  "You smiled," Tormund observed. "Skill increase?"

  "Twenty-one now."

  "Good. You are learning fast. But then, you have had practice." Tormund examined Francis's work. "This joint is solid. Clean. You are ready for more complex projects."

  "What do you recommend?"

  "A full blade. Not a practice piece, but a real weapon. Something you would be willing to carry into battle." Tormund moved to his stock of metal. "We will use good steel. You will craft it properly, from heating to quenching to sharpening. And when you are done, you will have a weapon worthy of a barbarian warrior."

  Francis felt a surge of pride at the offer. "I'd be honored."

  "Then we begin tomorrow. Today, you practice joints and balance. Tomorrow, real work." Tormund returned to his own project. "Now tell me about this brother of yours. Michael. What is he like?"

  Francis smiled. "Skinny. Jokes too much. Terrible at swordplay but refuses to give up. He's..." Francis paused, searching for the right words. "He's the reason I keep fighting. The reason I keep coming back. As long as he's alive, as long as I can save him, all of this is worth it."

  "Good reason," Tormund said. "Best reason. Family is worth dying for. Or in your case, worth dying over and over for."

  They worked until the afternoon sun began to sink toward the horizon. Francis's arms ached from the repetitive motion, his hands were sore despite his calluses, but he felt good. Productive. Like he'd accomplished something real.

  "You will go fight Ursaloths now?" Tormund asked as Francis prepared to leave.

  "Probably. Need to practice my healing, test my limits."

  "Be careful. Even with your loops, pain is still pain. Death is still death."

  "I know." Francis headed for the door, then paused. "Thank you. For believing me. For accepting it."

  "Thank you for trusting me with the truth," Tormund replied. "Now go. Train. And come back tomorrow ready to forge a real blade."

  ---

  The Ursaloths were waiting in their usual territory, a rocky outcropping about an hour's jog from camp. Francis had fought them so many times now that he knew their patterns by heart. The way the smaller ones would circle while the larger ones attacked. The tells before they lunged. The moment when the alpha would enter the fight if things went badly for the pack.

  He drew his swords and stepped into their territory.

  The first Ursaloth charged immediately, its massive bulk covering the distance faster than most people would expect. Francis sidestepped and cut across its flank, opening a deep wound. The beast roared and spun, but Francis was already moving to engage the second one.

  This was the dance he knew. Strike, retreat, block, counter. Keep moving, never stay still, use their size against them. The Ursaloths were powerful, but they were also predictable. At least, they had been.

  Francis killed the first two without taking serious damage. The third managed to catch him with a glancing blow that opened his arm from elbow to wrist. Francis hissed at the pain but kept fighting, feeling his core respond as he pulled power through his threads.

  The wound on his arm began to close even as he fought. Not quickly enough to matter in combat, but faster than it should. The flesh knitting, the blood flow slowing, the pain receding to a dull ache.

  He finished the third Ursaloth and stood among the corpses, breathing hard. Three down. His arm was still healing, the sensation strange but not unpleasant. Like an itch he couldn't quite scratch, combined with the warmth of the power flowing through him.

  Then he heard it. The roar of the alpha, somewhere in the rocks above him.

  Not today.

  Francis turned and ran. Not out of fear, but strategy. He'd fought the alpha before, died to it multiple times. Today wasn't about testing himself against the strongest opponent. Today was about controlled practice, about pushing his healing without pushing so far that he died.

  The alpha roared again behind him, the sound echoing off the rocks. Francis could hear the massive beast pursuing, but he had a head start, and he was faster. By the time he reached the edge of the Ursaloth territory, the alpha had given up the chase.

  Francis slowed to a walk, checking his arm. The wound was almost completely healed now, just a pink line of new skin showing where the gash had been. In another hour, even that would fade.

  A notification appeared.

  [ Life Core Channeling Increased - 22 ]

  Francis smiled. Two levels in one day. Not bad. If he could maintain this pace, if he could keep grinding without dying too often, he'd make real progress.

  The walk back to camp gave him time to think. About Tormund, about the forge, about the path ahead. He had a friend now who understood the loops. Someone he could talk to openly, someone who would help ground him when the weight of it all became too much.

  That was worth more than any skill increase.

  As Francis entered the camp, he noticed Kerhi again. She stood near the shaman tents, her blue eyes following his progress. When their gazes met, she didn't look away this time. Instead, she nodded slightly, an acknowledgment that felt almost like respect.

  Francis nodded back and continued toward his tent. Tomorrow he'd forge a real blade with Tormund. Tomorrow he'd fight the Ursaloths again. Tomorrow he'd keep pushing forward, one step at a time, one death at a time, one skill level at a time.

  Because that was all he could do. Keep fighting. Keep learning. Keep refusing to give up.

  Whatever it took.

  ?