Chapter 90
Meeting of Blades
Sylas stopped walking, leaning into the dead, winter tree, gasping for breath. Glancing back, he saw a tunnel-like trail along the mountain of snow that he’d left behind in his trek. Were he in the mood for jokes, he might have even laughed if for nothing else but the nostalgic value of seeing a human-shaped imprint on the surface. But he wasn’t in the mood for jokes--he was tired.
He’d walked some five-six miles off the ‘main road’ he’d take to the ‘city of the dead’, and felt like he could hardly budge any further. No, saying that he ‘walked’ was misleading--he had to carve out the road, almost as though he was digging a tunnel for a mine, before actually walking.
Because of it, he barely made any progress, needing to rest and recuperate frequently. Additionally, he was burning through his supplies much faster than he anticipated, forcing him to quickly realize that he likely wouldn’t get far in either direction during the winter. Or at the very least until the season of perpetual snow ends and it begins to melt, at least slightly.
Sitting down, he popped open the last jug of wine and decided to rest for a little while before resetting the loop. The winter... bound him--too much. He was effectively incapable of doing anything of value for as long as the snow fell as relentlessly as it did. This narrowed what he could do to just a few things--swordsmanship, magic, talismans, and arch--
“Archery!!” he shot up to his feet, his memory swelling. It had happened a long, long time ago--so long ago, in fact, that he’d completely forgotten until now. “Wasn’t I supposed to get archery mantra or whatever when I defended the castle? Wait--did I get it? No, right? Admittedly, those first few times I reset the loop... I wasn’t exactly in the right state of mind. Is there even a way for me to check? Fuckin’ hell...”
He continued to mumble aloud, something he’d begun doing more and more as to stay outside his head as much as possible. However, he truly couldn’t remember whether he got the archery skill or not.
“... let’s say I haven’t,” he sat back down, calming himself. “Why? Simple answer: the quest isn’t finished.”
Sylas sighed, leaning against the tree. Once again, he found himself tired--not of repeating the same thing, but of constantly needing to pull the curtains back on the things that stood important. He was like a child forced to take tests every day while expected to learn everything without a proper textbook and guidance--except, in the child’s case, the worst scenario was simply failing the test. For him, it was death.
“Alright,” he mumbled again, digging into his memories. “The quest didn’t trigger after we defended the castle--nor after I killed the hooded guy. Did somebody else get away? Huuh... maybe they hid in the castle? But why? And who? Though those dead showed some intellect, it wasn’t as though they could just put on some make-up and pass as the living. And there wasn’t another human among them. Plus... the dead don’t run from the battle. Fuck...”
Nothing he could come up with seemed to take root as a potential explanation. He quickly realized that he’d have to do it the old-fashioned way: brute force. Settling on it, he reset the loop once again, waking up in the middle of his personal, infernal nightmare.
After quickly settling the flaming castle once again, he began to walk its corridors, exploring the nooks and the cracks in search of anything that seemed off. But... nothing did. He’d been through these corridors many times before. Admittedly, most of them were because he was beyond drunk and just stumbling about in search of purpose, but he still would have remembered a corpse just hanging about.
Passing one of the corridors and exiting the interior into one of the castle’s mid-section gardens, he saw a guard cleaning up the snow away from the green hedges. Though the garden lost almost all of its luster, it was still cleaned and maintained daily as a point of pride.
“Need help?” Sylas asked, wanting to distract himself for a moment.
“Hm?” the guard straightened up and turned toward him, surprising him--it was a woman with a familiar face, though he couldn’t quite pinpoint it. “Oh, no, no--thank you. But it is unnecessary.”
“... uh, do we know each other?” Sylas asked, stroking his chin, trying to match the face to the memory.
“I know of you,” the woman replied, smiling faintly. “Though I highly doubt the other way around holds true as well.”
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“... apologies. Must have been a familiar face, then.”
“Must have been.”
“... ah! Weren’t you one of the women helping the Master during the first day?” Sylas remembered--though it wasn’t from this loop, but one of the first, as he recalled, that he played out after the tragedy.
“Oh? Yes, I was,” she nodded. “I don’t recall us meeting, though.”
“Not this go-around, anyway,” Sylas mumbled. “I’d still like to help, though,” he added, smiling. “If not for your benefit, at least to clear my head. If that is alright, I mean.”
“... of course,” she nodded.
Annya continued to shovel the snow aside, observing the newcomer from the corner of her eyes. The man was very famous--short of only the Prince himself, he was likely the most famous man in the castle. Nobody, however, was quite certain as to why. Not for the lack of rumors, though.
Some purported that the Prince and he were secret lovers and that was the reason Prince escaped the capital. Some were more grounded, making the man 'just' a very important advisor. Some, yet, were perhaps even more ridiculous, claiming that the man was a tier-three Mage sent by the King himself to protect the Prince.
Rumors swirled often and swiftly, but what was the unmistakable truth--at least in her eyes--was that the man was important. It wasn’t just the Prince, but she’d seen even Captains treat him with respect, and even the castle’s Exorcist defer to him. No ordinary lover or advisor could elicit such a reaction.
There was another rumor that she picked up on, mostly diluted through maids and guards directly under Captains Derrek and Tenner, which was that the man was a Clairvoyant--he could see things. Such as how he’d foreseen the very first invasion of the castle, or even the existence of bandits east of the castle, and especially so the latest attack that took the heaviest toll.
Annya didn’t believe it--after all, she didn’t believe in prophets and messiahs. Most often those people wrought disaster before salvation, leaving carnage in their wake rather than the land rejuvenated. What she did believe, however, was the man’s importance to the Prince.
“I don’t think I am nearly handsome enough to warrant such a long stare,” he said suddenly, breaking her out of her thoughts. “But I am flattered still.”
“Apologies,” she smiled faintly. “I... I was just admiring you.”
“Admiring me?”
“You are a famous man,” she said. “And you are helping an ordinary guard clean the garden.”
“Famous? Ah, I suppose I am,” he chuckled, though never stopping. “But it’s quite hard to beat that boy that used to shovel cow dung for pennies out of me. Though, in fairness, most of the money I earned from that gig came from when I swindled their daughter--ah, never mind. Tell me--how’d you end up here, at the far end of the world?”
“On a carriage,” Annya replied.
“A carriage, you say? I took you for a walker.”
“Sorry that I had disappointed you.”
“Considering the sheer level of disappointment I hold in myself,” he said, straightening his back as he finished one of the corners. “Others can hardly disappoint me. So, what are your plans?”
“My plans?”
“Aye, your plans. Or are you telling me you came here to sight-see?”
“Would be so wrong to say I did?” she smiled faintly as she replied.
“Ah, you’re the guarded type,” he commented. “Like me.”
“Like you? Are you sure?”
“Oh, yes. You can try and pry me open with blades, but I’ll stay mum.”
“... like most folk here,” Annya chuckled before speaking. “I came here to escape... and to better myself. Though I may not look the part, I aspire to be a recognized swordmaster one day.”
“Oh? You do?” he stopped suddenly and looked at her. “Alright, let me test you out.”
“E-excuse me?”
“You say you want to become a swordmaster,” he said. “If your blade inspires me, I’ll teach you.”
“You’ll... teach me? Are you saying you are a swordmaster?” Annya spoke doubtfully.
“Putting the fact that your tone cut through my very soul aside,” he said, though his smile hardly matched the words. “I can’t tell you that. A very guarded soul and all.”
“Of course.”
“Of course.”
“... you are serious about sparring, though?” Annya was actually a bit excited--she’d seen him fight, and though it was only briefly, at least he knew how to wield the blade. Very few were willing to spar with her out here, making her progress frustratingly slow.
“I am,” he said, suddenly handing her his sword while he kept the shovel.
“I--I have my own sword.”
“It’s fine,” he said. “Come at me.”
“... very well. Don’t regret it.”
A mere minute later, Annya was on the ground, gasping for breath, her legs already bruised and hurting. Looking up, she no longer saw a strange, even goofy man who really ought to shave, but a proper, roughened veteran of many battles. The entire thing flashed by so quickly she barely registered any of it. She swung her blade and before she could react, she was on the floor. Six times it happened before she realized she was no longer able to stand up.
“Hmm... your form is wide but there’s some training there,” he commented, grasping her arm and pulling her up. “However, there’s one clear issue.”
“... what?”
“You’re skinny as shit.”
“H-huh?”
“What do you weigh? Hundred-twenty? Thirty tops? And you want to swing this chunk around with any force and speed? Nope. Not happening,” he shook his head. “Either you start beefing up, or reconsider your weapon of choice.”
“... which would you recommend?” she asked. This was the first time in a while that she’d gotten genuine advice from someone much, much better than her.
“Honestly, I’d prefer if you changed your weapon--but only ‘cause I’ve already got sods to spar with that use longswords and such,” he replied, stroking his beard. “That way, I could spar with you to learn how to fight against other weapons. Alas, it’s up to you. Go visit the Master and ask for some muscle relaxers. Tell him I sent you. Oh, right. I’m Sylas.”
“... Annya,” she replied, accepting his handshake.
“Nice to meet you, Annya,” he said. “When you make up your mind, feel free to find me. Ah, if I don’t die by then. But you won’t remember--never mind. Come and find me when you make up your mind.”
“R-right...?” she mumbled in confusion as he continued to clear the garden, though the snow continued to fall.