I exhaled slowly, steadying my heartbeat as I surveyed the battlefield before me. The stench of blood, the clamor of metal, the desperate cries of the dying—I had seen it all before. Hundreds of times. Thousands.
To the untrained eye, this was chaos. To me, it was a script I had memorized, a play I had performed 999 times.
The city of Veydor was on the verge of destruction. Screaming civilians ran through the streets as the monstrous horde closed in. The kingdom's knights formed a shaky defensive line at the city gates, steel trembling in their hands as they prepared to face the onslaught.
I had tried to save this city before. It had fallen 998 times.
I had no intention of seeing it fall again.
I moved toward the trembling knights, my cloak still dusted with the remains of my previous battles. They barely spared me a glance—just another mercenary, another dead man walking.
But I wasn't just another warrior. I was the only one here who knew exactly how this battle would unfold.
"The western flank is exposed," I stated, voice firm but calm. "If you don't reinforce it, they'll break through within minutes."
The knights hesitated. Who was I to command them? Just a lone swordsman. A stranger.
Then their commander, a grizzled veteran named Sir Aldric, turned to me with narrowed eyes. "And how would you know that?"
I met his gaze evenly. "Because I've seen it happen before."
A partial truth. A dangerous one. But necessary.
He scowled, clearly unconvinced. I didn't blame him. No sane man would believe that I had lived this moment again and again, watching as his men were torn apart each time.
But doubt was a luxury he couldn't afford right now.
"If you don't act now," I continued, stepping past him, "your right flank will be overrun by the berserkers. You'll lose at least twenty men in the first charge. Five minutes after that, your front line collapses. By the end of the hour, Veydor burns."
Silence. The knights glanced at each other, uncertainty flickering in their eyes. The logic of my words warred against their disbelief.
And then, as if the gods themselves sought to confirm my warning, a warhorn sounded in the distance.
The western flank.
Aldric's hesitation lasted a single heartbeat before he turned to his men. "Reinforce the western flank! NOW!"
The knights scrambled into motion, armor clanking as they obeyed their commander's barked orders. I watched as the reinforcements reached the western side just as the first wave of monstrous berserkers crashed against them.
Steel met flesh. Blood sprayed into the air. But this time, the line held.
I let out a slow breath. Good.
But this was only the beginning.
I turned toward the heart of the battlefield, where the true threat lurked. A figure in black armor, standing amidst the chaos, his crimson eyes glowing with malicious glee.
Duke Mordain.
The architect of this destruction. The man responsible for countless deaths. A warlord bathed in curses and dark sorcery.
I had killed him before.
I had died to him before.
But this time, things would be different.
I drew my blade, its familiar weight grounding me. The worn leather of the grip, the slight nicks along its steel edge—I had reforged this sword in every timeline, tested its edge against every foe.
I knew exactly what I had to do.
With a steady breath, I moved toward the heart of the battlefield.
The first enemy that crossed my path was a brutish warrior clad in spiked armor, his warhammer raised high. A foe that had ended my life in Regression #347.
Not this time.
I sidestepped his predictable swing before he even committed to it. My sword lashed out in a clean arc, severing his throat before he could even register my movement.
Blood sprayed. He fell.
The second opponent, an agile assassin wielding twin daggers, lunged at me from behind. I had fought her before—she had driven her blades into my back in Regression #412. This time, I twisted before she even began her strike, my elbow slamming into her jaw. She staggered, and my blade found her heart.
One step ahead. Always.
More came. I cut them down with mechanical efficiency, my movements precise, almost lazy. To any onlooker, it must have seemed as if I were untouchable, a god of war descending upon the battlefield.
To me, it was just another repetition of a battle I had fought a hundred times before.
I barely registered the carnage around me as I advanced toward Mordain. The closer I got, the more I could feel his dark presence, the unnatural chill that accompanied him.
Then, finally, he noticed me.
"Ah… you again."
His voice was a low, amused drawl.
He didn't recognize me, not truly. He couldn't remember the previous timelines. But something in him, some primal instinct, seemed to sense that I was different.
That I was dangerous.
Good.
I raised my sword. "You die here."
Mordain grinned, his black armor shifting as he raised his own cursed blade. "You always say that."
Then he lunged.
The battle that followed was unlike any other.
Mordain was fast. Strong. Unnaturally so. His sword struck with the force of a landslide, his magic crackling through the air with each movement.
But I had fought him before. I knew his patterns, his tricks, the way he shifted his stance before he unleashed a devastating attack.
I dodged before he even swung.
I countered before he could react.
With each clash of steel, his amusement faded, replaced by something that looked like… confusion.
Good. Be confused. Be afraid.
Because this time, I wasn't here to lose.
I drove my blade forward, feinting high before twisting at the last second. My sword found the gap in his armor—a weakness I had exploited in Regression #682.
Mordain's eyes widened as my blade pierced his flesh.
"No," he hissed. "This… this isn't how it's supposed to—"
I twisted the sword.
Dark blood gushed forth.
His body crumpled to the ground.
The battlefield fell silent.
The war wasn't over, but the tide had turned. With their leader dead, the enemy forces faltered. The knights, emboldened by the sudden shift, pressed forward, driving them back.
Veydor… would survive.
For the first time.
I exhaled, exhaustion creeping in. My hands, steady throughout the battle, trembled slightly as the adrenaline faded.
999 regressions.
One victory.
I glanced at the fallen warlord's body, then at the surviving knights cheering in the distance.
This was just the beginning.
I had many more battles to win. Many more enemies to defeat.
And for the first time in 999 lives… I felt like I was truly moving forward.
[To Be Continued…]