Chapter 29

  The tattoo was a rune Francis didn't recognize. He'd tried to look at it after the woman finished, but the angle was wrong and the markings too intricate to make out in the dim firelight. All he knew was that it covered most of his chest, and that it still burned hours after the bone needle had finished its work.

  They'd led him to another tent shortly after, this one barely larger than his body. There were no furs to keep him warm, no fire to ward off the cold. Just a small wooden bowl with something that might have been dried meat, and a cup filled with liquid that tasted bitter and wrong.

  "Drink," the shaman had said. "All of it."

  Francis had obeyed, forcing the liquid down despite the taste. Then the tent flap closed, and he was alone with nothing but his body and the space between the cold.

  A time of purification.

  A time to consider who he really was.

  At first, Francis just sat there, his arms wrapped around his knees, trying to conserve what warmth he could. The cold bit at his freshly shaved skin, and the tattoo on his chest throbbed with each heartbeat. But as time passed, as the night stretched on and the liquid worked its way through his system, something changed.

  The darkness of the tent began to shift.

  Francis saw his father's face first, twisted in anger as it had been so many times before. The man's fist was raised, and Francis could feel the phantom pain of blows that had landed years ago. His father had been an evil man, according to Francis’s accounts. He had shunned him and his half-brother, never giving him any kind of acceptance or love.

  I hated you.

  The rage came flooding back, raw and fresh as if no time had passed at all. Francis had hated his father for many reasons, but the one that cut deeper than the words was when he had been killed by him at the Spires. He'd hated his older brothers too, for following their father's example, for making Francis's life a daily exercise in survival.

  His mother's face appeared next, and Francis felt his chest tighten. She'd been kind when she could afford to be, but fear had ruled her more than love. Fear of her husband, fear for her children, fear of what each day might bring. Francis remembered the way she'd looked away because his father was watching.

  The guilt of not standing up for himself was a familiar weight, one Francis had carried for so long he'd almost forgotten it was there. But now, in this tent, with the liquid burning through his veins and the cold biting at his skin, he felt it all over again.

  The images shifted faster now. His other siblings, the ones he hadn't seen in years. Scattered by circumstance and choice, lost to him in ways that felt permanent. Francis wondered if they were still alive, if they thought of him, if they'd even recognize the person he'd become.

  Then he saw Michael, the skinny and weak person compared to him now, standing beside Francis at the training camp. And Francis remembered the moment he'd realized they were both going to die. That there was nothing he could do about it. That all his rage and all his fear wouldn't be enough to save his brother.

  The pain of that realization hit him again, fresh and sharp. Francis had watched Michael die multiple times. He had felt the helplessness of knowing he was about to follow. And in every loop since, that fear had driven him forward, pushed him to become stronger, faster, better.

  I can't lose him. I won't.

  The dark forest appeared in his mind, and Francis relived the moment the parasite had tried to take him. He felt its presence again, alien and vast, pressing against his consciousness with an intelligence that was both terrifying and incomprehensible. They'd mingled blood, and Francis had gained power beyond anything he'd imagined.

  But there were gaps in his memory. Missing pieces that he knew should be there but weren't. The parasite had taken something from him, or perhaps hidden it, and Francis still didn't understand why.

  Why me? How was I chosen? Was I chosen at all, or was it just random chance?

  The questions had no answers, but Francis asked them anyway. He thought about the power he'd gained, about the loops and the deaths and the slow accumulation of skills that were turning him into something more than human. There had to be a reason. There had to be a purpose beyond just survival.

  Phillip's face appeared, scowling as always. Francis felt rage rise up at first, remembering the harsh words and the brutal training, the way the man had seemed to take pleasure in making everything harder than it needed to be.

  But then Francis understood. Phillip was a man who'd known nothing but pain and loneliness for so long that he'd forgotten how to be anything else. The harshness was armor, protection against a world that had taken everything from him. And when Francis had promised to bring Valehart to his knees, had seen the tears in Phillip's eyes, he'd understood that sometimes revenge was all that kept a man going.

  I'll give you that satisfaction. I promise.

  Francis thought about Glitvall, about the warchief's love for his dead wife and the way that love drove him to push Francis harder than anyone else. He thought about Stenson, about the general's careful calculations and the weight of responsibility he carried. He thought about all the people who'd died in the loops, all the faces he'd seen cut down again and again, and how each death had shaped him into someone who could maybe, possibly, save them all.

  The deaths had changed him. Each one had stripped away another piece of who he'd been, replacing it with something harder, sharper, more capable. Francis wasn't sure if he was better for it, but he knew he was different. The skinny, terrified boy who'd first arrived at the training camp was gone, replaced by someone who could kill without hesitation, who could endure pain that would break most men, who could die and come back and keep fighting.

  Is this who I am now? Is this who I want to be?

  The answer wasn't simple. Francis didn't enjoy killing. He didn't take pleasure in the violence. But he was good at it, and that skill was keeping Michael alive. It was the only thing that could keep everyone alive. And if that meant becoming someone his younger self wouldn't recognize, then so be it.

  Michael's face returned, clearer now. Not the weak boy from before, but Michael as he was in the present. Still skinny, still joking, still alive because Francis had died over and over to keep him that way. The love Francis felt for his brother was a physical thing, warm and painful and all-consuming.

  But there was fear there too. Fear of watching Michael die again. Fear that no matter how strong Francis became, it wouldn't be enough. And underneath that fear was something else, something Francis had been avoiding for a long time.

  This can't just be for him. If it's only for Michael, then what happens when he's safe? What happens when this is over?

  Francis had told Glitvall as much, had admitted that he couldn't be alone forever. But saying it and truly understanding it were different things. This path he was on, these changes he was making, they had to be for himself too. Not just to save his brother, but to become someone who deserved to be saved.

  Someone who could build a life worth living once the fighting was done.

  In that moment, an image appeared before Francis. It was himself, but not as he'd been. This was Francis as he looked now, muscular, his head shaved on the sides, a fresh tattoo marking his chest. The image stood tall and confident, and its eyes held a challenge.

  "Why do you want this so badly?" the image asked, its voice Francis's own.

  Francis met its gaze without flinching. "Because I'm tired of being powerless. Because people I care about keep dying, and I can't stop it. Because I need to be strong enough to protect what matters."

  "What will you do to acquire the things you seek?"

  "Whatever it takes," Francis said without hesitation. "I'll die a thousand times if I have to. I'll learn every skill, master every weapon, and endure every pain. I'll become what I need to become, even if it means leaving behind who I was."

  "And how far are you willing to go?"

  Francis thought about everything he'd experienced, everything he'd lost and gained. He thought about the enemy looper who might be out there, resetting just like him, learning just like him. He thought about the war that seemed impossible to win and the people who were counting on him, whether they knew it or not.

  The author's narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

  "I'll never quit until the enemy is gone from our kingdoms," Francis said, and the words felt like an oath. "Not until every last one of them is dead or driven back. Not until Michael can live without fear. Not until I can look at myself and know I did everything possible."

  The image smiled, and Francis felt something settle inside him. A certainty he hadn't felt before. A commitment that went deeper than just survival or revenge.

  This was who he was now. This was who he chose to be.

  The image faded, and Francis felt the cold rush back in. His body was shaking, covered in sweat despite the freezing temperature. The tent walls came back into focus, and Francis realized he was lying on his side, his muscles cramped from however long he'd been in that state.

  He gasped for air, his lungs burning, his heart racing. Everything hurt, and for a moment Francis wasn't sure if he'd been asleep or awake, if what he'd experienced had been real or just the liquid working through his system.

  A voice called out from outside the tent, clear and strong.

  Kerhi's voice.

  "He has overcome himself. It is time."

  ---

  They came for Francis when the moon rose high above the camp. Kerhi led him from the small tent, and Francis blinked against the sudden brightness of dozens of fires burning across the open ground. The entire camp had gathered, hundreds of barbarians forming a massive circle around a central space where the largest fire roared.

  Most of them had painted their bodies or smeared mud across their skin in patterns Francis didn't understand. Warriors stood shoulder to shoulder with shamans, clan leaders beside common fighters, all of them watching as Kerhi guided Francis toward the fire.

  Glitvall waited there, standing beside High Shaman Greythorn. The warchief held something wrapped in dark leather, and his expression was solemn.

  "Remove your clothing," Kerhi said quietly. "You must face this as you entered the world. Bare and without pretense."

  Francis hesitated for only a moment before stripping everying off. The cold bit at his skin immediately, and he stood naked before the assembled crowd. No one laughed or jeered. They simply watched with eyes that held judgment and expectation.

  Kerhi brought him furs then, but not the kind Francis had worn before. These were traditional barbarian garments, heavy pelts sewn together with sinew, decorated with bones and teeth. She helped him dress, wrapping the furs around his waist and securing them with a thick leather belt. A cloak of white fur went over his shoulders, and Francis felt the weight of it settle on him like responsibility.

  When she finished, Glitvall stepped forward and unwrapped the leather bundle. Inside was an axe, its handle carved with runes similar to those on Francis's chest, its blade polished to a mirror shine despite being made of stone.

  "This was my father's," Glitvall said, his voice carrying across the silent crowd. "And his father's before him. It has tasted the blood of our enemies for three generations. Now I give it to you, Francis Lancaster, so that it may taste the blood of our enemies for a fourth. After it has done so, return it to me."

  Francis took the axe with both hands, feeling its balance, its weight. The weapon felt right in his grip, as if it had been made for him.

  "Kneel," High Shaman Greythorn commanded, her voice cutting through the night.

  Francis knelt, the axe resting across his thighs, and Greythorn approached. She carried a bowl carved from bone, filled with something dark that steamed in the cold air.

  "Before you stands path to becoming one with our people," Greythorn said, her unique speech pattern making the words sound like an ancient ritual. "Blood must be given. Pain must be endured. Spirit must be tested. Are these you accept?"

  "I accept," Francis said.

  Greythorn dipped her hand into the bowl and pulled out something that looked like a coal but burned with an inner light. She pressed it against Francis's left shoulder, and pain exploded through him.

  The coal seared his flesh, burning deep, and Francis felt his skin blister and char. But he didn't cry out. He'd endured worse. Ursaloths had torn him apart, splitting him in half with axes and crushing him with hammers. His flesh and bones had been burnt and frozen off. This was nothing compared to that.

  Greythorn held the coal there for a count of ten before removing it. Then she moved to his right shoulder and repeated the process. Francis gritted his teeth, but he remained still.

  "Pain teaches," Greythorn said, leaning close so that only Francis could hear. "Suffering builds. You have known death many times, yes? Now know burning without dying. Know mark of our gods upon your flesh."

  She pressed the coal against his chest, directly over where the tattoo lay hidden beneath his skin. The pain was worse this time, sharper, as if the coal was burning through to his very bones. Francis felt his vision start to blur, felt his body trying to activate Warrior's Resolve, but he pushed the skill down. This wasn't a fight. This was a test, and he would pass it on his own strength.

  The smell of burning flesh filled the air, and Francis heard someone in the crowd murmur, but he couldn't make out the words. All his focus was on remaining still, on not flinching, on proving he could endure.

  Greythorn finally removed the coal and stepped back. Francis swayed slightly but didn't fall. His shoulders and chest throbbed with pain, the burns already blistering, and he could feel blood and fluid starting to seep from the wounds.

  "Three marks given," Greythorn announced. "Three trials endured. Now blood must flow."

  She produced a knife, its blade looked to be made from the same bone as the needle that had tattooed Francis's chest. Without ceremony, she cut across his left palm, opening a deep gash. Francis felt the blood well up, hot and thick, dripping down to splash against the frozen ground.

  "Your blood feeds earth," Greythorn said. "Earth feeds our people. Now you part of circle. Now you belong."

  She cut his right palm as well, and Francis held both hands out, letting the blood drip freely. Around him, the barbarians began to chant, a low rumbling sound that seemed to come from deep in their chests. The rhythm was hypnotic, primal, and Francis felt something in his own chest respond to it.

  Glitvall stepped forward and placed his own hands beneath Francis's, catching some of the blood as it fell. Then he raised his bloodied hands to the sky.

  "We claim this one!" Glitvall shouted. "We claim Francis Lancaster as brother! As warrior! As kin!"

  The crowd's chanting grew louder, faster, building to a crescendo that shook the air. Francis felt dizzy for some reason, but he remained kneeling, his hands still extended, his blood still flowing.

  Then Greythorn raised her hands, and instantly it was silent.

  "Now comes healing," she said. "What was taken returns. What was burned becomes strength. What was broken makes whole."

  She placed her hands on Francis's burned shoulders, and warmth flooded through him. Not the burning heat of the coal, but something gentler, more profound. Francis felt his flesh knitting back together, felt the pain receding like a tide going out. The burns on his chest healed, and the cuts on his palms closed, leaving only faint white lines as proof they'd ever existed.

  The healing spread through his entire body, touching muscles and bones, easing aches Francis hadn't even realized he'd been carrying. When Greythorn stepped back, Francis felt better than he had in months.

  "Stand," Greythorn commanded.

  Francis rose to his feet, the axe still in his hands, and faced the High Shaman.

  Greythorn stepped close and placed her hand directly on the tattoo that marked Francis's chest. Her palm was warm, and Francis felt a surge of power through the contact, different from the healing but no less profound.

  "You are now one of us," Greythorn said, her voice carrying to every corner of the gathering.

  The tattoo began to glow beneath her hand, the runes shining with an ice-blue light. The light grew brighter, brighter, until Francis had to resist the urge to look away. Then it faded, sinking into his skin, and when Greythorn removed her hand, the tattoo was gone.

  Not erased, but absorbed. Francis could still feel it there, could sense the power it held, but his chest was unmarked once more.

  A notification appeared before his eyes.

  [ Skill Acquired ]

  [ Racial Skill - Cold Resistance - Uncommon ]

  As the heat from the tattoo faded, so did the touch of the cold. Francis had been enduring the freezing temperature since he'd removed his clothes, but now it simply... didn't bother him. The air was still frigid, the wind still blew, but his body no longer registered it as uncomfortable. It was just there, neutral, like breathing.

  The crowd erupted. Warriors beat their weapons against their shields, shamans raised their staffs and chanted, and the fires seemed to burn brighter in response to their celebration. Glitvall stepped forward and clasped Francis's forearm in the warrior's grip.

  "Welcome, brother," the warchief said, and there was pride in his voice. "Welcome home."

  ?