Chapter 20

  Fuck, this stuff is cold.

  Francis's breath misted in the frigid air as ice crystals formed along his armor. Every muscle in his body screamed in protest, the magical cold seeping through even his Magic Resistance. Five days of constant skirmishes had pushed him harder than he'd anticipated, and now he faced something new.

  A piercing shriek split the air again. The Frost Serpentskin's cry of pain as Magic Feedback reflected a portion of its spell back at the caster. The sound was almost musical, as air moved through its gill-like vents, sending out the freezing mist. It cried out in agony, echoing across the frozen battlefield.

  [ Magic Feedback Increased - 22 ]

  Francis allowed himself a brief glance at the three packs scattered across the icy field they were on. Each struggled against a single Ursaloth, the massive polar bear-like beasts swinging weapons that could crush bone with a single strike. One pack worked in practiced coordination, their curved blades finding gaps in their beastkin’s guard. The second pack was taking a beating, two of their members already bleeding heavily into the snow. The third pack was holding their own, barely.

  But he couldn't help them. Not yet.

  The Frost Serpentskin demanded his full attention.

  The creature was unlike any of the serpentskin he'd faced in the south. Where those had been brown and tan, this one gleamed with scales of ice-blue and silver, each one catching the pale light like frozen diamonds. It moved across the snow with unnatural grace, its lower body undulating in a serpentine glide that left barely a trail. Ten feet of coiled muscle and magic. Its torso rose into a humanoid upper body, complete with four arms that wove patterns that glowed blue in the air.

  Francis had faced fast opponents before. The elite catkins, the jaguarkin champion, and even some of the Frostfang Lynxkin that had tested him during his time in the north. But this serpent combined speed with the advantage of terrain that Francis distinctly lacked.

  The ice beneath his feet was treacherous. Every step had to be measured, every movement calculated. Meanwhile, the serpent glided across the frozen ground as if it were made for it.

  Something has to be choosing these beasts for each kingdom, because this one is too much at home here!

  The creature's yellow eyes fixed on him, slit pupils narrowing. Its forked tongue tasted the air, and Francis knew it was intelligent. So far, his attempts to get it to speak like the others had back home had not worked. He knew this was a thinking opponent, one that had likely killed many warriors before him.

  "Come on then," Francis muttered, adjusting his grip on both swords.

  The serpent struck.

  Ice erupted from its outstretched hands, shards like crystalline daggers hurtling toward Francis with deadly precision. He dove left, his feet sliding on the frozen ground, nearly sending him sprawling. The ice shards tore through the spot where he'd been standing, and Francis felt the cold intensify even as his Magic Resistance pushed back against the spell's effects.

  [ Magic Resistance - 54 ]

  The cold wasn't just uncomfortable; it was slowing him down. Not enough to cripple him, but enough to matter. His muscles took a fraction of a second longer to respond. Each of his movements seemed to lose the razor's edge of speed that often meant the difference between life and death.

  Warrior's Resolve burned within him, compensating where it could, but Francis knew this was going to be a problem. The serpent seemed to know it too. Those yellow eyes gleamed with what could only be described as satisfaction.

  The creature launched forward, closing the distance with frightening speed. Two of its arms wielded curved daggers made of what looked like solid ice, while the other two continued weaving spells. Francis brought his swords up to meet the physical attack, steel ringing against the frozen blades.

  [ Riposte ]

  His skill provided an opening as he parried one dagger and redirected its force. His left blade came around in a counterattack, aiming for the serpent's exposed side.

  The creature twisted impossibly, its serpentine lower body coiling beneath it to change angles mid-strike. Francis's blade cut through air, and suddenly he was overextended, off-balance on the ice.

  A hand blazing with frost magic pressed against his chest.

  Cold exploded through his body. It wasn’t the discomfort of winter air, but the bone-deep, tissue-destroying cold of pure magical ice. His sister had shown him what pain could feel like when flesh was frozen. This beast’s spell was far more powerful. Francis felt his armor freeze instantly; the metal was so cold that it burned his skin even through his padded underlayer. Worse, he could feel the spell trying to freeze his blood, to turn his organs into brittle, crystalline structures.

  [ Magic Resistance - 55 ]

  [ Pain Resistance Increased - 60 ]

  [ Magical Feedback - 23 ]

  Power surged through Francis's body as his legendary skill recognized the threat to his life. His opponent let out another cry as a portion of the magic struck back. The world became sharper. The colors of those blue scales seemed more vivid, and the sound of everything nearby was more distinct. The serpent's movements, fast as they were, seemed to slow just enough for Francis to track them.

  He slammed his pommel into the creature's hand, breaking the spell's connection, and kicked backward, sliding across the ice to put distance between them. The serpent hissed at him and pressed its advantage.

  More ice magic came, this time in waves. Frost spread across the ground, trying to trap Francis's feet. Icicles formed in the air and launched themselves at him as if someone was shooting crossbow bolts. A wall of frozen wind tried to push him backward.

  Francis wove through it all, his Battle Sense telling him where to move and how to react before each attack arrived. He dodged left, rolled to the right, and brought his swords up to shatter icicles that almost struck him. But he couldn't get near the serpent. Every time he tried to close the distance, the creature glided backward across the ice, maintaining perfect spacing while continuing its magical assault or until it chose to get close.

  [ Quick Attack ]

  [ Flurry ]

  Francis burst forward with everything he had, his enhanced speed from Warrior’s Resolve and his high Agility pushing him faster than the serpent expected. His blades became a whirlwind of steel, each strike aimed at vital points.

  The serpent's ice daggers came up to meet him, blocking, deflecting. But Francis's Dual Wield skill, combined with the power surging through him, was overwhelming its defense. Francis finally managed a shallow cut along one of the serpent's four arms. Then another, this one deeper across its chest.

  The creature shrieked again, and Francis felt the air temperature drop even further. His exposed skin burned from the cold, and he realized that his fingers were starting to go numb. If he couldn't grip his swords properly, he was going to die and have to restart this loop.

  The serpent's tail whipped around with devastating force. Battle Sense gave him a fraction of a second warning, just enough to bring up both swords in a cross-guard.

  [ Iron Wall ]

  The impact still sent him flying. Francis crashed into a snowbank and had to roll immediately as ice magic exploded where he'd landed. He came up in a crouch, both swords ready, and assessed the situation.

  This wasn't working. The serpent was too mobile on this terrain, and every second that passed, the cold sapped more of his effectiveness. Warrior's Resolve was keeping him in the fight, but Francis could feel the clock ticking down. He had maybe two minutes before the cold became a critical problem.

  He needed to change tactics.

  Francis's eyes scanned the battlefield, taking in details he'd ignored while fighting. The ice wasn't uniform; there were patches of snow, exposed stone, and areas where the ground was rougher. The serpent avoided those areas, staying where the ice was smoothest.

  It needs the ice to move like that.

  A plan began to form in his mind.

  Francis charged again, but this time, he wasn't aiming for the serpent. He was aiming for the ground. His first sword came down in a massive overhead strike enhanced with Power Strike, shattering the ice. His second sword followed, and then he was moving, sprinting in a circle around the serpent, shattering ice with every attack.

  The serpent realized what he was doing and launched a desperate volley of ice magic. Shards tore into Francis's shoulder, his thigh, his side. He felt his ribs crack from the impact and warm blood begin to freeze almost immediately before shattering and bleeding again.

  [ Warrior's Resolve Increased - 8 ]

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  But he didn't stop. The more ice he destroyed, the more the serpent's advantage decreased. And with each wound he took, Warrior's Resolve grew stronger, pushing him beyond what should have been possible.

  The serpent tried to retreat to a different section of ice, but Francis was ready. He threw one of his swords, not at the creature, but ahead of it, shattering the ice where it was heading. The serpent had to swerve, and in that moment, Francis attacked.

  [ Power Strike ]

  His remaining sword took the serpent in the side, the blade punching through scales that had resisted lesser blows. The creature's cry this time was pure agony, and it lashed out with all four arms and its tail simultaneously.

  [ Guarded Stance ]

  Francis took the hits. There was no dodging, no blocking. He was committed, his sword buried in the serpent's body. Claws raked his face, his chest. Ice daggers pierced his shoulder and leg. The tail wrapped around his waist and squeezed, and Francis heard something in his torso crack.

  But his left hand was free, and he still had one more weapon.

  [ Power Strike ]

  [ Power Strike ]

  [ Power Strike ]

  Francis's fist, enhanced by Warrior's Resolve and every ounce of strength his Brawling skill could muster, slammed into the serpent's face. Once. Twice. Three times. Each one was empowered by his skill. The creature's head snapped back with each impact, its scales cracking, and its yellow eyes losing focus.

  On the fourth punch, something gave. The serpent's movements became sluggish, its tail loosening around Francis's waist. He wrenched his sword free and struck again, this time at the throat.

  The Frost Serpentskin collapsed backward, its body convulsing. Magical threads formed around it, frost spreading across its own scales, freezing it from the inside out.

  Francis stood over it, breathing hard, watching to make sure it was truly dead. When the light finally faded from those yellow eyes, he allowed himself to stagger back a step.

  [ Swordsmanship Increased - 74 ]

  [ Dual Wield Increased - 46 ]

  [ Brawling Increased - 39 ]

  The notifications could wait. Francis turned to check on the packs.

  What he saw made his stomach sink.

  One pack was scattered across the blood-stained ice. Francis counted quickly—all five of them down, maybe dead, maybe just wounded. Too far away to tell.

  Two Ursaloths lay dead, their massive forms still upon the snow where they'd fallen. The remaining two packs had combined forces, working together to bring down the third Ursaloth even as Francis watched. Their coordination was impressive, blades finding gaps between the creature's fur armor, but Francis could see they were exhausted and wounded.

  He didn't waste time. Francis retrieved both of his swords, and then he sprinted across the broken ice, his body protesting with every step. Honor wasn’t important at this moment, so he attacked the last Ursaloth from behind.

  [ Power Strike ]

  [ Power Strike ]

  Both swords plunged into the creature's spine, punching through thick hide and muscle to sever the spinal column. The Ursaloth let out a roar that cut off mid-cry, its massive body going rigid before toppling forward.

  The barbarians from the two surviving packs stumbled back, chests heaving, covered in blood and frost. One raised a hand in acknowledgment, too tired for words.

  "The others," Francis panted, pointing. "We need to check on them."

  Francis's injuries called out, his Warrior’s Resolve giving him an seemingly endless amount of energy. Every breath he took sent pain through his chest.

  Definitely a few broken ribs.

  His left arm protested at being used, his shoulder torn up by the serpent's ice daggers. Blood had frozen along his face, making it hard to see out of his left eye.

  But he'd survived.

  The fallen pack hadn't been as fortunate.

  Three of them were definitely dead. The remaining two were barely breathing, their injuries severe. One had taken a hammer strike to the chest. Francis could see the caved-in armor, could see how each shallow breath brought pink bubbles to the warrior's lips. Punctured lung, maybe worse.

  The other survivor had lost most of his left side to a crushing blow. His arm was gone above the elbow, and his hip was shattered. He was conscious, though, his eyes meeting Francis's with a mixture of pain and grim acceptance.

  "We'll get you back," Francis said, kneeling beside him.

  "Not far," the warrior rasped.

  Francis knew it wasn't denial. It was a fact. The barbarian knew he wouldn't survive the journey back.

  The surviving pack members from the other groups had gathered around. Francis did a quick count. They had started with fifteen warriors across three packs. Now they were nine, and that was only if the two injured ones survived the trip back. The two surviving pack leaders, who were both older and massive warriors, were silent, their eyes upon him.

  "We carry them," Francis said, his voice brooking no argument. "All of them who still breathe. The dead..." He looked around at the battlefield, at the four Ursaloth corpses and the serpent's frozen body. "We can't take them all."

  It was a bitter truth. The corpses of their fallen comrades, warriors who had fought bravely, wouldn’t be left by him. Ursaloth pelts were valuable, their meat even more so in these lean times. The serpent's body alone would be a prize, its scales potentially useful for armor, its organs for medicine or magic.

  But Francis could see movement in the distance. The beastkin camp was responding to their fight. Three lines were forming up. If they didn't move now, they'd be caught in the open, exhausted and wounded, facing fresh enemies.

  "Take what weapons and personal effects you can carry," Francis ordered. "We leave in two minutes."

  He moved to the serpent's corpse, wrapping his hand with leather strips cut from one of the fallen barbarian’s outfits. He'd seen what happened when poorly handled serpent remains were touched bare-handed in the south—a cloud of poisonous gas that could drop a man in seconds. Better safe than sorry.

  The scales were freezing cold even through the leather, but they didn't react with poison or gas. Francis grabbed the corpse by what passed for its shoulders and began dragging it toward the group. It was heavy, especially the tail section, but Warrior's Resolve gave him the strength to manage it.

  "You're taking that?" one of the surviving barbarians asked, incredulous.

  "It's valuable," Francis said. "We’re going to need more medicine, so we can't leave it."

  The warrior nodded, understanding. They hastily fashioned a litter from spears and furs for the two injured, and each took what they could carry from their fallen comrades—weapons, personal totems, anything that could be returned to families or honored in funeral rites.

  Francis took one last look at the battlefield. Three lives lost. He knew there would be countless more in the coming days and loops, but for some reason, this one felt harder.

  "Move out," he said quietly.

  The journey back to the barbarian camp was a slow, painful affair. The beastkin lines in the distance were definitely moving now, but they seemed content to reclaim the battlefield rather than pursue.

  Francis kept the serpent's corpse with him, dragging it stubbornly through the snow. His arms burned with effort, his breathing came in ragged gasps, and several times he thought he might pass out from the pain of his own injuries.

  But he didn't stop.

  Francis was surprised to see Kerhi and a group of warriors meet them at the entrance. Her eyes glanced over the group, counting quickly, and Francis saw her jaw tighten as she registered the losses.

  "Three," Francis said, before she could ask. "Three dead on the field, two badly injured."

  Kerhi nodded slowly, her eyes shifting to the serpent corpse Francis was still dragging. "That's what killed them?"

  "No. The packs faced three Ursaloths. We got them all." Francis let go of the corpse, his hand cramping from the cold. "But it wasn't cheap."

  "Victory rarely is," Kerhi replied. She raised her voice, calling out orders. "Get these warriors to the healing tents! Now! Move!"

  The injured were whisked away on their litters, healers already running to meet them. The surviving warriors shuffled past, exhausted, heading for food and rest and trying to process what they'd just survived.

  Francis stood at the entrance of their defenses, glancing back out at the frozen battlefield. In the distance, he could see the beastkin moving among the corpses, reclaiming their own dead.

  It felt like defeat, even though they'd won the fight.

  "You can't save them all, southerner," Kerhi said quietly, standing beside him. “Some days, the ice takes what it wants."

  Francis didn't reply. He couldn't. The words wouldn't come past the tightness in his throat.

  After a long moment, Kerhi placed a hand on his uninjured shoulder. "Come. You need healing. And the Warchief will want to hear what happened out there."

  Francis allowed himself to be led into the camp, leaving the serpent's corpse for others to process.

  ?