Chapter 26
The sound of the morning bell rang, and Francis opened his eyes, smiling.
"It's earlier than usual," Michael grunted as he sat up. "What gives?"
"Just another day in our lives," Francis said, anxious to read all the notifications that were waiting for him. Death had come quickly to those four, and at no point did he seem to mind, more interested in focusing on what he couldn't before he died.
[ Master Rank Swordsmanship Achieved - Bonuses Acquired ]
[ Bonus to all sword damage +15% ]
[ Bonus to parrying with swords ]
[ Bonus to Riposte with swords ]
[ Bonus to defending against swords ]
[ Training Mastery unlocked ]
Training Mastery… does this mean Stenson could teach me that path he knows?
"Hey, you going to get up?" his brother called out. "I don't want to get in trouble because you're being lazy."
"I'm fine," Francis replied. "I'll be out in a minute. I need a second."
"You're not sick, are you?"
Shaking his head, Francis used the thin blanket he owned to help cover his muscular body. "No, just go on. I'll be out there in just a moment. I need a second."
"Seriously? We're–"
"Go!" Francis belted out, louder than he had expected.
"Fine," Michael grunted. "You don't have to be a prick. That's Phillip's job."
[ Status ]
Francis Lancaster
Age 17
Strength: 54
Endurance: 56
Agility: 55
Wisdom: 33
Perception: 43
Magic: 10
His stats had improved, and every part of him felt better. Francis had stopped growing physically. His muscles and body had hit a peak at fifty. Stenson had told him that there would be no further bodily gains to be seen from his progression. The worst was that he needed to reach a seventy in a stat before the Elite tier of physical evolution could be acquired.
That's going to be a while… still… I'm well beyond anything I ever imagined I would be.
Then there were the skills that had improved as well over all these deaths.
Skills
Swordsmanship (Common) - 76 Master
Tracking (Uncommon) - 18 Novice
Stealth (Uncommon) - 17 Novice
Pain Resistance (Uncommon) - 66 Elite
Power Strike (Rare) - 62 Elite
Brawling (Uncommon) - 41 Advanced
Strong Bones (Rare) - 63 Elite
Quick Attack (Uncommon) - 54 Advanced
Guarded Stance (Uncommon) - 43 Advanced
Riposte (Rare) - 46 Advanced
Thick Skin (Rare) - 37 Proficient
Iron Wall (Rare) - 35 Proficient
Dual Wield (Rare) - 53 Advanced
Flurry (Rare) - 31 Proficient
Battle Sense (Epic*) - 21 Novice
Warrior's Resolve (Legendary) - 11 Novice
Blacksmithing (Common) - 16 Novice
Metal Working (Common) - 16 Novice
I've made a ton of gains… I think I need a moment with Stenson to talk all this over.
---
Stenson stared at Francis for a long moment, his weathered face unreadable. Then he leaned back in his chair and let out a slow breath.
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"Master rank," the general said quietly. "At seventeen years old."
Francis nodded, unsure how to respond.
"I..." Stenson paused, rubbing his face. "Part of me shouldn't be surprised, but still... you're so young and have done the impossible. Of course, dying and coming back again and again is included in that statement."
"What now?" Francis asked.
Stenson took some time, mulling over his thoughts. His fingers drummed against the arm of his chair, and Francis could see the calculations running behind the man's eyes. Finally, the general spoke.
"Return to Tules. Talk with Glitvall. Tell him I think it's time for the man to see you need to really aim for the skill I sent you to get."
"You mean he hasn't been?" Francis asked, shocked.
"Not completely. Glitvall is unique. His methods are his own. I'm sure he has a plan, and part of that is seeing what you can become and what you'll be able to do. Just make sure he knows I think you're ready for whatever path you need to pursue next."
Before Francis could leave, Stenson held out his hand, smiling. "Congratulations again, Francis."
"For what?"
"Becoming one of the few master swordsmen we have in the kingdom."
---
Francis stood in Glitvall's tent as the warchief chuckled, a deep rumbling sound that seemed to fill the space.
"It appears Stenson does know me," Glitvall said. "You are ready then for what comes next."
"Wait, so you have been holding back?" Francis asked, frustration creeping into his voice.
"Not holding back, testing." The warchief leaned forward, his massive frame casting a shadow. "To go down this next path is going to require a level of commitment most can never imagine. While I'm certain part of me has thought you would be ready, learning you now possess a legendary skill is the proof that you'll endure what comes next."
"You keep saying that, but I've shared with you all the deaths and things I've done before," Francis said. "How can this be different?"
Glitvall leaned forward and grinned. "Because we're going to try and teach you how to draw upon the magic our gods have given us."
---
Francis walked silently next to Glitvall as they moved through the barbarian camp. The warchief led him away from the familiar training grounds and living quarters, deeper into sections Francis had never ventured before. The tents here were different, decorated with symbols that seemed to shift in the corner of his vision, painted in colors that looked like dried blood and crushed bone.
They headed toward what Francis realized was the shaman side of the camp.
The first thing Francis noticed was the smell. Incense mixed with something earthier, like wet fur and old leather, hung heavy in the air. Wind chimes made from bones clinked together in the breeze, creating an eerie melody that set his teeth on edge. Animal skulls mounted on poles marked the boundary of this section, their empty eye sockets seeming to follow his movement.
The tents themselves were larger here, their hides painted with intricate patterns that Francis didn't recognize. Totems carved from ice and stone stood between them, some depicting bears and wolves, others showing creatures Francis had no names for. Steam rose from several fire pits, though Francis couldn't see any flames, just glowing coals that pulsed with an unnatural rhythm.
Barbarians moved through this section with a different energy than the warriors Francis had trained with. They wore pelts and furs adorned with feathers, bones, and what looked like frozen flowers. Their faces were painted with symbols in white and black, and many carried staffs wrapped in leather and decorated with charms that rattled as they walked.
Eyes turned toward Francis and Glitvall as they walked, and Francis felt the weight of their stares. Some looked curious, others suspicious, but all of them seemed to radiate a power.
At the center of this section stood the largest tent Francis had seen in the camp. Its entrance was flanked by two massive tusks, each one taller than Francis himself, carved with runes that seemed to glow faintly in the dim light. The tent's exterior was covered in pelts of white and gray, and hanging from the support poles were dozens of wind chimes made from finger bones, teeth, and what appeared to be frozen tears of ice.
Scattered around the tent's base were offerings, Francis realized. Bowls of what might be blood, frozen solid. Small carved figurines. Bundles of herbs tied with sinew. And skulls, dozens of them, arranged in patterns that Francis couldn't decipher but that seemed important somehow.
The flap of the large tent opened, and several figures emerged. Kerhi was among them, her face painted with fresh symbols. But it was the woman leading them that drew Francis's attention.
She was shorter than most barbarians, standing only about seven feet tall, but her presence seemed to fill the space around her. Dark paint covered most of her face in intricate patterns that looked like frost spreading across glass. She wore layers of pelts, each one from a different animal, and atop her head sat a cap adorned with curving horns that might have come from some massive beast.
Her eyes were pale, almost white, and they fixed on Glitvall with an intensity that made Francis want to step back.
"Warchief Glitvall," she said, her voice carrying despite not being loud. "Why have you come to this place?" Her gaze shifted to Francis, and he felt like she was looking through him rather than at him. "And why does a Southerner stand in a place he should not be?"
"I've come to ask for that which was promised," Glitvall said, his voice steady.
Gasps and grunts came from those gathered. Francis saw several shamans exchange glances, and Kerhi's expression shifted to something between shock and concern.
The woman frowned and squinted, then poked a wrinkled finger at the warchief. "You say what was promised and that you've come for it, yet no horn has sounded and the clans are not preparing for battle. Tell me, Warchief Glitvall, has your mind gone soft, or do you so casually toss away the promise I gave?"
Glitvall ignored the taunt. "You and I need to talk. Alone."
She snorted. "Alone... I'm too old for that kind of fun."
Laughter and chuckles came from those watching the exchange.
"None have earned that from me since my wife passed, and you'll need to make me another promise if you'd hope I'd so freely give of myself like that," Glitvall replied.
She rolled her eyes and then sighed. "Then come, let us talk. He must stay outside." She pointed at Francis.
Glitvall nodded, motioning toward a bench off to the side, carved from a single piece of wood and worn smooth by countless bodies.
"Sit, I'll try to make this quick," Glitvall whispered. "Just know... this next part... is going to be difficult."
Francis sat, seeing the looks and some of the scowls he received from those in the section of the camp. The shamans didn't hide their displeasure at his presence, and several of them made gestures he didn't understand but that felt distinctly unwelcoming.
Kerhi approached, her expression hard. "You do not belong here."
"And yet I am," Francis replied. "But why don't you sit and let's see what happens next."
Kerhi shook her head. "No... I have things to do, and sitting beside you would dishonor me."
Francis shrugged, then a thought entered his mind. "Can I use that free space over there?" He pointed to a cleared area of dirt between two totems.
"To do what?"
"Practice," Francis replied.
Kerhi grunted and then walked away.
Smiling, Francis moved to the cleared section of dirt and pulled out a sword. He closed his eyes and started to mimic the patterns he remembered Kels doing, the flowing movements that had seemed more like a dance than combat practice.
I might as well practice something versus sitting on my ass in the cold.
?
