Chapter 33

  The hammer came down with a ring that echoed across the forge, sparks flying as Francis shaped the heated metal. His muscles remembered the motion even though he'd died three times since the last time he'd worked at this particular anvil. Fifty deaths ago, he'd barely known which end of the hammer to hold. Now his hands moved with confidence, drawing the steel into the shape he wanted.

  "Better," Tormund grunted from where he stood near the fire. The massive barbarian watched Francis work with arms crossed, his scarred hands occasionally gesturing to correct a technique. "Angle is good. But you are rushing the cooling. Patience."

  Francis nodded and plunged the blade into the quenching barrel. Steam hissed up around his hands, and he held the metal steady, counting in his head the way Tormund had taught him. Except Tormund hadn't taught him. Not in this loop. Not yet.

  That was the problem.

  It had been building for weeks now, loops blurring together as Francis died to the Ursaloths again and again. Each time he came back, he sought out the forge, finding comfort in the rhythm of hammer on steel. And each time, Tormund noticed things he shouldn't have been able to notice.

  "That stroke," Tormund said, moving closer as Francis pulled the blade from the water. "The one you used on the fuller. Where did you learn it?"

  Francis set the blade on the anvil and reached for his tongs, buying himself a moment. "I... picked it up somewhere."

  "Picked it up," Tormund repeated, his voice flat. He walked around the anvil, examining the blade Francis had been working on. "That is interesting. Because that particular stroke? I developed it myself. Twenty years ago. I have taught it to exactly three apprentices."

  Francis felt his stomach tighten. He'd gotten too comfortable, too confident in his growing skills. The Blacksmithing notification that had appeared a few deaths ago now mocked him.

  [ Blacksmithing Increased - 18 ]

  "And you are not," Tormund continued, "one of those three."

  The forge fire crackled in the silence that followed. Francis could feel the heat on his face, could smell the coal smoke and hot metal. Around them, the sounds of the barbarian camp continued as normal. Warriors training, shamans chanting, the ever-present wind whistling through the tents.

  "I wondered," Tormund said, his voice quieter now. "When you first came to work metal. You held the hammer wrong at first, like a Southerner who has never touched a forge. But then, next time I saw you, your grip was perfect. And the time after that, you knew to check the color of the steel before striking. Things that take months to learn."

  Francis met the blacksmith's eyes. Tormund's gaze wasn't hostile, just... curious. And maybe a little concerned.

  "Can I share something personal?" Francis asked, the words coming out before he could stop them. "I feel like you might understand."

  Tormund was quiet for a long moment. Then he gestured to the back of the forge, where a small bench sat away from the main workspace. "Sit. We will talk."

  They moved to the bench, and Francis noticed that from this position, no one else in the camp could see them clearly. The forge building blocked most of the view, and the smoke provided additional cover.

  "I have watched you," Tormund said once they were seated. "Not just at forge. I have watched you fight, and watched you train with shamans. You carry our mark and are like one of us. Yet I am not sure how. I notice the patterns."

  "Patterns?" Francis asked.

  "You know things you should not know. You fight like a warrior with years of experience, but also like one just learning. And sometimes..." Tormund paused. "Sometimes you look at people like you are seeing ghosts."

  Francis felt something in his chest loosen. He'd been carrying this weight alone for so long, even with Glitvall and Greythorn knowing about the loops. However, they were leaders, focused on the big picture and strategy, with a keen eye on survival. Tormund was different. Tormund was a craftsman, someone who understood the value of patience and repetition.

  "What if I told you," Francis said slowly, "that I've lived this day before? Multiple times. What if I told you that when I die, I wake up back at my training camp in the South, and I have to live through everything again?"

  Tormund didn't laugh. He didn't scoff or call Francis crazy. Instead, the big man leaned back against the wall and nodded slowly. "That would explain much. The way you swing a hammer is how I taught others, years ago. Every smith learns differently, develops their own style. But you..." He gestured at Francis's hands. "You have learned my style. My techniques. Things I have only taught to my apprentices."

  "Many deaths ago," Francis said, the words spilling out now. "I came to your forge and asked you to teach me. You did. We spent weeks working together, and you showed me how to shape steel, how to read the fire, how to know when the metal was ready. And then I died to an Ursaloth, and when I woke up, you didn't remember any of it."

  "So you came back," Tormund said. "And learned again."

  "And again. And again." Francis looked at his hands, callused now from both combat and smithing. "Each time, I remember. Each time, I strive to become stronger, learn more, and improve. Because if I'm not, people die. I have a brother… Michael. He dies. You die. Everyone I care about dies, and I have to watch it happen over and over until I figure out how to stop it."

  The forge fire popped, sending a shower of sparks up into the smoke-stained rafters. Tormund watched them rise and fade before speaking.

  "Our people," Tormund said finally, "we believe in the cycle. Death and rebirth. The gods test us, and we are reborn stronger. But this..." He shook his head. "This is something else. You are not just reborn. You say you remember, and you learn. Even more is that you bring with you what you have learned and gained."

  "I don't know if it's a gift or a curse," Francis admitted. "Sometimes I think I'm going insane. Doing the same things over and over, watching the same people die, having the same conversations. But then I make progress. I save someone who died before. I learn a skill that helps me survive longer. And it feels like maybe, just maybe, I can actually win this."

  "Win what?"

  "The war. All of it. Keep everyone alive and defeat the beastkin." Francis laughed, but there was no humor in it. "Sounds impossible, doesn't it?"

  "Everything sounds impossible until someone does it." Tormund stood and moved back to the anvil, picking up the blade Francis had been working on. He examined it in the firelight, testing the edge with his thumb. "This is good work. Not perfect, but good. You have talent."

  "Thanks to you," Francis said, joining him.

  "Thanks to you not giving up." Tormund set the blade down and looked at Francis. "I do not know if I believe in your loops. But I believe in what I see. And I see a warrior who keeps fighting, who keeps learning, who refuses to quit. That is worth something, whether you live once or a thousand times."

  Francis felt something ease in his chest. He hadn't realized how much he'd needed this, someone to just... accept it. Even better was that his blacksmithing mentor didn’t question or demand proof. He just acknowledged that Francis was carrying something heavy and offered to help bear the weight.

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  "So," Tormund said, picking up his own hammer. "If you have learned from me before, then you know what comes next. We work on blade balance. Your fuller is good, but weight distribution needs adjustment."

  And just like that, they were back to work. But something had changed. As Francis heated the blade and began working on the balance point, he found himself relaxing in a way he hadn't been able to in dozens of loops. Tormund asked questions about the loops, about what Francis had learned, about the battles he'd fought. And Francis answered honestly, finding relief in the honesty.

  "The Ursaloths," Tormund said at one point. "You fight them often?"

  "Most loops, yes. Sometimes, though not for a while." Francis shaped the metal with steady strikes. "They're how I practice. How I push my healing magic to its limits."

  "That is why you smell like blood and snow when you return," Tormund observed. "I wondered. Most warriors do not seek out those beasts alone. They are pack hunters. Dangerous."

  "Dangerous is the point." Francis plunged the blade into the quenching barrel again. "If I can't survive them, I can't survive what's coming. The real battles, the ones that matter."

  They worked in comfortable silence for a while after that, the rhythm of the forge settling around them like a familiar cloak. Francis found himself remembering all the previous times he'd done this, all the conversations they'd had in other loops. But this time felt different. This time, Tormund knew. This time, Francis wasn't alone.

  A notification appeared in Francis's vision as he finished adjusting the blade's balance.

  [ Blacksmithing Increased - 19 ]

  "Tell me," Tormund said as the afternoon wore on. "This magic you are learning. The Life Core Channeling. How does it work with your loops?"

  "When I die, I lose anything I’m holding or wearing, but I keep all my stat and skill increases. The stats increase stay, and the skill levels stay, but my actual body returns to its original state. So if I acquire a beautiful scar in one loop, it is gone when I die."

  "But knowledge remains," Tormund said thoughtfully. "Like smithing. You know techniques."

  "Exactly." Francis set down his hammer and flexed his fingers. "It's frustrating. I know what I should be able to do, as if I’ve never stopped. So I keep pushing forward, and I keep dying, trying to learn more and improve with each death."

  "Sounds like smithing," Tormund said with a slight smile. "You know what a good blade looks like, but making one? That takes practice. And failure. Lots of failure."

  "I've had plenty of that." Francis looked at the blade they'd been working on. It was better than anything he could have made when he first arrived at the barbarian camp. Not perfect, not masterwork quality, but solid. Functional. "Do you ever regret becoming a smith? Instead of a warrior?"

  Tormund considered the question while he banked the forge fire. "No. Warriors fight battles. Smiths make warriors able to fight. Without good weapons, even the greatest warrior falls. I serve my people this way. It is enough."

  "You're a philosopher," Francis said.

  "I am smith who thinks too much," Tormund corrected. "Now come. You will return tomorrow, yes? To work more?"

  "If I don't die tonight," Francis said, then caught himself. "Sorry. Dark humor."

  "If you live a thousand lives, you are allowed dark humor." Tormund clapped him on the shoulder with enough force to make Francis stagger. "Go. Train. Die if you must. But come back and work metal with me again. I would like to see what you can make with more practice."

  Francis nodded and headed back into the camp proper. The sun was setting, painting the snow in shades of orange and pink. Warriors were finishing their training for the day, and the smell of cooking meat drifted from the communal fires.

  He made his way toward the training grounds, intending to practice with his swords before the evening meal. But as he walked, he noticed someone watching him from near one of the shaman tents.

  Kerhi.

  The shaman stood with her arms crossed, her blue eyes tracking Francis's movement through the camp. She'd been doing that more often lately, he'd noticed. Watching him. Studying him. As if she were trying to figure out a puzzle that didn't quite fit together.

  Their eyes met across the distance, and for a moment, neither looked away. Then Kerhi turned and disappeared into the tent behind her, leaving Francis alone with his thoughts.

  What does she see when she looks at me?

  Francis shook his head and continued to the training grounds. He had work to do. The Ursaloths would be waiting for him tomorrow, and he still had progress to make with his Life Core Channeling.

  ---

  Five deaths later, Francis stood over the corpses of three Ursaloths, his chest heaving and blood streaming from a dozen wounds. The cold didn't bother him anymore thanks to his Cold Resistance, but the pain still registered despite his Pain Resistance dulling it.

  He grabbed his core and pulled, feeling the power flow through his threads. The sensation was becoming more familiar now, easier to maintain. Not effortless, not like the barbarians with their thick veins, but manageable.

  The wounds on his arms began to close. Not quickly, not like true regeneration would, but faster than normal healing. Flesh knitting together, blood flow slowing, pain receding as his body repaired itself.

  A notification appeared.

  [ Life Core Channeling Increased - 20 ]

  [ Magic Increased - 18 ]

  Francis smiled despite the exhaustion. Progress. Slow, hard-won, paid for in blood and pain, but progress nonetheless.

  Without waiting, he took off jogging, ignoring the roar of the alpha as it most likely called him a coward.

  He made his way back to camp as the last of his wounds finished healing. The walk gave him time to think about what Tormund had said, about cycles and rebirth. The barbarians viewed death as a natural part of life, an inevitable transition. But what Francis experienced wasn't natural. It was something else, something that broke the normal rules.

  When he reached the forge, he found Tormund still there, working on some project of his own. The blacksmith looked up as Francis approached and grunted in greeting.

  "Still alive," Tormund observed.

  "For now," Francis replied. "Mind if I work for a bit? Need to keep my hands busy."

  "Forge is always open to those who respect it." Tormund gestured to the anvil. "What will you make?"

  Francis considered. "A knife. Something small. I want to practice detail work."

  "Good choice." Tormund returned to his own work, but Francis could feel the man's presence, steady and reassuring. Having someone know about the loops, someone he could talk to without hiding or pretending, made everything feel a little less overwhelming.

  As Francis worked the metal, shaping it with careful strikes, he found himself thinking about the path ahead. Hundreds more deaths, maybe thousands. Learning to regenerate properly would take time, would require his Magic stat to climb higher, and would demand that he push his Life Core Channeling to levels he could barely imagine.

  But he had time. He had all the time in the world, even if each moment was bought with death and pain.

  And now, he had a friend who understood.

  The hammer rang against the anvil, and Francis shaped the knife with steady hands, feeling the metal yield to his will. Outside, the barbarian camp settled into evening routines. Warriors told stories around fires, shamans chanted their prayers, and a few children that he had seen played in the snow despite the cold.

  Life continued, cycle after cycle, death after death.

  And Francis continued with it, one strike of the hammer at a time.

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