The Gamble King- Chapter 05. The Man Without Fear

"Damn it all!" Max snarled, stumbling as his boot caught on a stone.

The soldiers on the nearby wagon erupted in jeers and laughter. One held up a wineskin mockingly.

"Look at the little lord run!" called a burly man with a scar through his beard. "Don't break a nail!"

"Three steps more before he drops!" another shouted. "Two silvers says he hits the dirt!"

Max ignored them, focusing instead on dragging air into his burning lungs. His legs felt like they'd been hollowed out and filled with lead. Sweat poured down his face in rivulets, stinging his eyes and soaking the simple tunic that now clung to his heaving chest.

They'd been marching since dawn, the company stretching along the King's Road in a dusty procession. And for every step they took, Max ran alongside them.

"Wine, Lord Vanheim?" A soldier dangled a skin just out of reach. "Or perhaps some lamb? We saved the fatty bits for you!"

The men howled with laughter.

At the very front of the column—impossibly far ahead—rode Sir Gregory, back straight and eyes forward, never once looking back.

It wasn't training. Anyone with eyes could see that. The morning after accepting Gregory's terms, Max had been ordered to run alongside the marching column. No instruction on Fanga techniques. No meditation exercises. Just running.

A sane spirit in a sane body—that's what Fanga required. A vessel strong enough to contain such power. Harek's body, with its extra weight from years of indulgence, was the opposite of what was needed. And transforming it would take months, even years, of dedicated training. Not six days on the road to Frosthold.

The world spun suddenly. Black spots danced across Max's vision. He tried to take another step, but his right leg simply refused to lift. Then his left. He crashed to the ground, stones digging into his palms and knees. Vomit rose in his throat. He swallowed it back, refusing to give them the satisfaction.

"Pay up, bastards!" A soldier with a patchy beard jumped down from the wagon, collecting coins. "Told you he wouldn't make another thousand steps. Big ones always drop fast!"

Max struggled to his knees, wheezing. His body trembled uncontrollably.

"Look at him," the soldier sneered, squatting beside Max. "Our 'Hero of Eastwatch' can't even run a morning. What a disappointment."

A man stood over Max—Captain Rhen, Gregory's second. Weathered face, hard eyes.

"On your feet, Vanheim," he ordered flatly.

"This is... impossible," Max panted, not even trying to stand.

Rhen's expression remained neutral. "Sir Gregory set the terms."

"Seven days to manifest Fanga," Max muttered, wiping sweat from his eyes.

"Yes."

Max looked up at him. "And how many have actually strengthened their bodies enough in that time?"

Rhen's silence was answer enough.

The terms had been designed with cruelty. Not an outright refusal that might offend the Prince, just conditions that ensured failure while appearing to give Max a chance. Strengthen a body that took years to weaken, purify a mind clouded by indulgence, and create a vessel worthy of Fanga—all by dawn of the seventh day.

"Get up anyway," Rhen said.

Max shook his head. "Why?"

Rhen glanced up the column, ensuring Gregory was out of earshot. "Because the alternative is crawling back to your father before we even reach Frosthold."

The soldiers watched from their wagons, placing new bets on whether Max would rise or surrender.

"Five silvers says he crawls back to his father before we even get there," someone called.

Max forced himself to his feet, legs shaking beneath him. His body screamed for rest, but the thought of returning to his family in disgrace was more painful than any physical torment.

Apparently, House Vanheim's reputation could hardly withstand another scandal.

During the night at camp, he had pieced together the northern houses' social framework through careful questions. It was brutally simple: they valued the appearance of strength above all else. Everyone—from the lowliest soldier to Gregory himself—understood Harek was set up to fail.

But there was failing, and then there was failing properly.

To give up on the first day, with six more to go, would brand House Vanheim as weak-willed and soft. In the austere north, where survival through harsh winters required unyielding resolve, such a label was devastating. The proper course, even in certain defeat, was to struggle until the bitter end. Save face by exhausting every possibility before surrendering.

The "Hero of Eastwatch" title had briefly elevated Harek's standing, but it was a thin veneer over years of accumulated disgrace. The gambling debts, the refused duels, the public drunkenness—all these had slowly eroded House Vanheim's prestige. Max had died more than ten times at Eastwatch before succeeding, but they didn't know that. All they saw was the final victory.

To put it simply, this situation could escalate fast. Really fast.

House Vanheim was already in a precarious position. Lord Tredor, Harek's father, had backed the wrong faction in a recent succession dispute among the coastal provinces. Their trade agreements were now being questioned, their military alliances strained. Three of their vassal houses were reportedly considering breaking their oaths of fealty.

In such circumstances, even a son's personal failure could apparently be weaponized by political enemies. A few more public disgrace might cost House Vanheim's guardianship of Frosthold itself—a holding they'd maintained for seventy-nine generations.

Very dramatic, these people. So much for one person seemed overkill.

Not that Harek had shown much concern for these matters before. But Max wasn't eager to discover what "stripped of titles and lands" might mean in a world where politics and survival were often the same thing.

So he forced himself to his feet, legs shaking beneath him.

Rhen studied him for a moment. "The body needs water. Next stream you pass, drink. And eat something at midday, even if you vomit it up after."

He walked away, leaving Max swaying on his feet.

The column continued its march, indifferent to his struggle. Gregory remained a distant, unreachable figure at the front.

Max took one shaky step, then another. Running was impossible now, but he could walk. And walk he would, for as long as his legs could carry him.

"Stubborn fool," someone muttered from a passing wagon.

That was it. After hours of running, falling, and enduring constant mockery, something in Max snapped.

"What did you just say?" he demanded, stopping in his tracks and turning toward the wagon.

The soldier who'd spoken—a lean man with a patchy beard and a scar across his nose—looked surprised that Max had heard him, then quickly recovered with a sneer.

"I called you a stubborn fool, little lord. What of it?"

Max stalked toward the wagon, his exhaustion momentarily forgotten in a surge of anger. "What exactly would you do in my situation?"

The soldier glanced at his companions, who were watching with growing interest. "I'd know my limits."

"Oh, you would?" Max's voice had gone dangerously calm. "So you'd just give up? Crawl back to Gregory and say, 'Sorry, sir, turns out I'm too weak'? Is that what you'd do?"

The soldier's face reddened. "I'd—"

"No, please, enlighten me," Max interrupted, his voice rising. "Because I'm genuinely curious what brilliant strategy you have that I'm missing. Should I quit and dishonor my house? Should I just accept that Gregory set me up to fail? What's your expert opinion, since you're so free with your commentary?"

The wagon had stopped now. Other soldiers were turning to watch.

"You need to calm down," the scarred soldier said, his hand drifting to the knife at his belt.

"Or what?" Max challenged, too angry to be sensible. "You'll stab the son of Lord Vanheim? That'll look great in your service record."

The soldier hopped down from the wagon, standing a head taller than Max. "You forget yourself, boy."

"And you forget who you're talking to," Max shot back, despite knowing he had approximately zero authority here. Harek's reputation was clearly in the gutter, but technically, he was still nobility.

Three more soldiers jumped down to join their companion, weapons half-drawn. Behind them, others were abandoning their posts along the column, drawn by the prospect of a fight.

Max squared up, adrenaline temporarily overriding his exhaustion. "Oh yeah? I'll drop all of you motherfuckers!"

The soldiers exchanged glances, clearly not expecting this response from the "soft little lord."

"Get the hell out of the way, you fool!" someone shouted from behind.

Max barely registered the warning before he heard it—a low, rumbling growl that seemed to vibrate through the ground beneath his feet.

Pure instinct made him dive forward, rolling between two shocked soldiers as something massive swiped through the air where he'd been standing.

He scrambled to his feet and spun around.

Standing in the middle of the road was a Frostfang Great Bear—the northern realm's apex predator. Twice the size of any bear Max had ever seen, with a coat so white it was almost blue in the sunlight. Its muzzle, stained red with fresh blood, housed teeth as long as daggers. Claws that could disembowel a horse with a single swipe scraped against the stone of the King's Road.

Like, literally. This was not an exaggeration.

Yet, surprisingly, what made Max freeze wasn't the bear's size or ferocity. It was the glowing number "9" that hovered above its head.

The soldiers who'd been threatening Max moments before now formed a hasty defensive line, their faces pale with fear.

"Sound the alarm!" one shouted. "Frostfang on the road!"

The massive beast roared, a sound that vibrated in Max's chest cavity.

The soldiers stepped back, forming a loose circle, but they didn't attack the bear. Most didn't even draw their weapons.

They were looking at Max—at Harek—expectantly.

The bear's growl rumbled through the clearing again, its massive head swinging from side to side as it assessed the gathered men. It took a heavy step forward, claws scraping against stone.

And still, none of the soldiers moved.

A terrible realization dawned on Max.

Are they trying to get me killed?

Because it sure as hell looked that way. These were battle-hardened soldiers, veterans of the Eastwatch conflict. Even without Fanga, they should have been forming a defensive line, raising shields, preparing a coordinated attack.

Instead, they were watching. Waiting.

Max scrambled to his feet, heart hammering in his chest. The bear's eyes fixed on him, black as obsidian and burning with predatory focus. It huffed, a cloud of steam escaping its blood-stained muzzle.

Something heavy clattered on the stone beside him. Max looked down to see a flanged mace—a brutal weapon with a spiked metal head and short handle. The kind of thing you'd use against armored opponents.

Or large animals.

The soldier who'd been threatening him moments before—the one with the scar across his nose—stood nearby, hand empty where the mace had been.

"What the hell are you doing?" Max hissed, eyes darting between the man and the advancing bear.

The soldier's expression was hard, challenging. "The Frostfang Great Bear is the heraldic beast of House Vanheim," he said loudly enough for others to hear. "The men don't interfere when a Vanheim faces one. It's your kill, lord. Since you were so proud of your name not moments ago."

Max stared at him in disbelief. Who spoke to the son of their liege that way? This had to be a joke. A sick, potentially fatal joke.

But it had been a while since he'd read the first chapters of the series, and he'd forgotten that the story of this world began in the north.

See, the North of the realm was not a place that encouraged softness.

Snow arrived early, left late, and did its best to kill anyone foolish enough to depend on luck. Villages were small, walls were thick, and survival was treated as a communal obligation rather than a personal achievement.

Nobility, such as it was, came with fewer luxuries and significantly more responsibility. A northern lord was expected to lead from the front, bleed with his men, and know how to dig a trench or butcher a deer. Titles were tolerated—but only when worn by people who could justify them.

Among northerners, honesty was less a virtue than a default setting. They said what they thought, did what they promised, and generally assumed that anyone who couldn’t do the same was either incompetent or southern.

The culture prized restraint, endurance, and action over charm. To many from elsewhere, they seemed overly blunt, needlessly stoic, or simply rude. The northerners, in turn, considered that a reasonable trade for not dying in a ditch.

For the child of a noble house, being born in the North was less an inheritance and more a lifelong performance review. The name gave you a starting point, nothing more. If you failed to rise to it, people didn’t argue—they simply stopped listening.

Harek Vanheim had probably once carried the benefit of doubt, propped up by his father’s reputation and the inertia of old loyalties. But years of excess and apathy had eroded that quickly. Out here, a name without strength was a very elegant excuse to be ignored.

Around them, soldiers were keeping the bear at bay with long spears, not attempting to kill it but merely preventing it from charging. They jabbed when it came too close, backing away when it swiped at them with those massive paws.

This wasn't a desperate battle against a rampaging beast. This was a test.

The scarred soldier jerked his chin toward the bear. "If you're truly the heir to Frosthold, then lead the men and subjugate it." A cold smile twisted his lips. "Or did your courage run out with your stamina?"

Max stared at the mace on the ground, the realization sinking in that words wouldn't help him here. The entire company had stopped their march, forming a wide circle around the confrontation. Soldiers leaned on their spears, some sitting on wagon edges, all watching with varying degrees of interest, amusement, or cold assessment.

"Well, go on then, little lord," called out a grizzled soldier with a patchy beard. "We don't have all day. The bear seems hungry enough."

Someone else laughed. "Perhaps if you ask nicely, it'll let you ride it back to your father's hall."

The Frostfang bear roared again.

"Heh," Max exhaled, a sound somewhere between a laugh and a sigh. He died a few times already. What was one more?

This wasn't, of course, the thought process of a sane man. It was the peculiar mental condition of someone who'd completely lost their sense of fear. Perhaps a common side effect of multiple deaths, but then again, Max had no basis for comparison. No support groups for the repeatedly deceased to compare notes with.

The bear rose onto its hind legs, towering nearly ten feet tall, its shadow falling across Max like a physical weight. Claws longer than his fingers extended from massive paws.

Behind him, a soldier called out: "Your ancestors tamed the Frostfangs, Vanheim! Are you not of their blood?"

Just lock in.

He took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the mace in his hands, the exhaustion in his muscles, the terror in his chest.

Max charged.

...Well, not literally "charged."

More like a half-charge.

A charge-adjacent maneuver.

Somewhere between a determined hobble and an enthusiastic limp.

As he moved, a random memory surfaced—a National Geographic documentary on bears he'd watched three years ago. The presenter, a bearded man with an Australian accent, had explained that an average brown bear could exert around 1,200 pounds of force with a single paw swipe. Enough to decapitate a moose.

This Frostfang Great Bear was at least twice that size.

The documentary had listed several things to do when encountering a bear. First: make yourself appear larger.

That was a bit late for Max, considering he was already running at the thing with a mace.

Second: back away slowly while avoiding eye contact.

Also too late.

Third: play dead if attacked.

Given his track record, Max suspected he wouldn't need to play.

Fourth: never, ever run. It triggers their chase instinct.

Oops.

The bear dropped to all fours and lunged, covering twenty feet in a heartbeat. Max pivoted sharply, the beast's claws whistling through the air where his torso had been a split-second earlier.

Mace still gripped in his sweaty hand, Max backed away, keeping his eyes on the enormous predator. The soldiers had formed a loose circle, spears extended not to help him but to keep the bear contained within their makeshift arena.

"What's he doing?" someone muttered. "Swing the damn mace!"

But Max wasn't swinging. He was watching. Calculating. The bear was favoring its right front paw—perhaps an old injury. Its movements were aggressive but predictable: lunge, swipe, reset, roar. Lunge, swipe, reset, roar.

As the bear prepared for another charge, Max deliberately dropped the mace.

"He's lost his mind!" a soldier shouted.

Tomas suddenly spurred his horse forward. The same one Max rode in Eastwatch. "We need to help him!"

"Stay back!" ordered the scarred soldier, blocking Tomas's path with his spear. "By the old laws, this is Lord Vanheim's trial alone."

"Damn the old laws!" Tomas argued. "That bear will tear him apart!"

The scarred soldier shook his head. "If he can't face his house's symbol, he has no business leading it."

Max took a deep breath. In "The Chronicles of Bjorn," Bjorn had tamed a Frostfang Great Bear named Utgard. The bond had made him nearly invincible in battle, the pair moving with single-minded purpose. But Sabo's account of how that taming occurred had been frustratingly vague—something about "standing fearless before nature's fury."

Easy for a fictional character to do. Less so for a very real, very mortal Max.

The bear rose on its hind legs again, towering over Max, who now stood completely weaponless. Soldiers murmured, a few reaching for their bows.

"Hold!" Tomas commanded. "By the old laws, this is Lord Vanheim's trial alone."

Max kept his eyes locked on the bear's. Not challenging, not threatening—just present. He slowed his breathing, focusing on projecting calm. It was the same thing he'd used with the warhorse at Eastwatch.

The bear huffed, confused by this strange creature that neither fled nor attacked. It dropped to all fours, circling him cautiously.

"That's it," Max murmured, extending his hand slowly, palm up. "I'm not going to hurt you. You're not going to hurt me. We're just having a chat."

The bear sniffed the air, its giant head lowering slightly. The tension in its massive shoulders eased by a fraction.

It was working. Somehow, impossibly, it was working. Just like with the horse. There was something about this body—about Harek—that could connect with animals when fear was removed from the equation.

Max took a careful step forward, hand still extended. The bear growled but didn't retreat.

"You're just hungry," Max said softly. "Hungry and confused why all these humans are in your territory. I get it. I'm pretty confused too."

Five feet separated them now. The bear's hot breath misted in the cool air. Max could smell its musky scent, could see the individual hairs of its blue-white fur. He extended his hand further, fingers trembling not with fear but with anticipation.

Three feet. Two feet.

The bear lowered its massive head toward his outstretched fingers.

One foot.

Thwack!

An arrow slammed into the bear's eye with a wet sound. The beast reared back, roaring in pain and rage, blood streaming down its face.

"NO!" Max shouted, spinning around to see a soldier lowering a bow, looking smug.

"Wasn't going to let it eat our little lord," the archer called. "No matter how stupid his plan!"

The bear, now half-blind and in agony, went berserk. It charged wildly, no longer focused just on Max but lashing out at anything that moved. Soldiers scattered, formation breaking as the beast crashed through their lines.

"Now you've done it!" Tomas shouted at the archer. "Get the Prince and Sir Gregory!"

The bear, now half-blind and in agony, went berserk. It charged wildly, no longer focused just on Max but lashing out at anything that moved. Soldiers scattered, formation breaking as the beast crashed through their lines.

"You idiot!" Tomas shouted at the archer, struggling to control his panicking horse. "He was taming it!"

The bear's massive paw caught a fleeing soldier mid-stride. The man's scream cut off abruptly as claws tore through leather, flesh, and bone with equal ease. His body flew twenty feet before landing in a broken heap.

A second soldier, spear raised defensively, didn't even have time to shout. The bear's jaws closed around his torso with a sickening crunch. It shook him once, violently, and tossed the limp form aside like discarded clothing.

Max froze, watching in horror as the massive predator whirled about, searching for its next target. Its remaining eye fixed on him, the bear lowered its head and charged.

Max dove for a fallen spear, his fingers closing around the shaft just as the bear reached him. With no time to dodge, he braced the butt of the spear against the ground, angling the point upward.

The bear, blinded by pain and fury, impaled itself on the spear as it lunged. The momentum carried it forward, driving the spearhead deep into its chest. Its jaws snapped down on Max's shoulder—not a crushing bite, but enough to break skin through his leather tunic.

Max felt a sharp, hot pain as teeth grazed his flesh. He held firm on the spear as the bear's own weight drove the weapon deeper into its heart.

The beast made a strangled sound, its jaw slackening around Max's shoulder. The single eye found his, and for a moment, something like recognition passed between them.

Then the light in that eye dimmed, and the great bear collapsed, its massive bulk missing Max by inches as he rolled aside.

For several heartbeats, no one moved. Max lay on his back beside the dead beast, blood trickling from his shoulder—a wound that would leave a scar, but nothing more serious. The number above the bear's head had vanished.

"Is he...?" someone whispered.

NUMBER OF REROLLS REMAINING: 10

Max groaned and pushed himself up, clutching his bitten shoulder, chest heaving.

"The heir of Vanheim strikes true!" someone finally shouted, and a ragged cheer went up from the soldiers.

Max dragged himself to his feet, swaying slightly as the adrenaline began to wear off. Blood seeped from the puncture wounds in his shoulder, but he barely noticed the pain. His gaze fixed on the archer who had fired the arrow—a young soldier who was still holding his bow, looking entirely too pleased with himself.

"Have you lost your damn mind?!" Max shouted, staggering toward the man. "What were you thinking?!"

The archer's self-satisfied expression faltered. He glanced around at his companions, clearly confused by Max's reaction.

"I saved your life, my lord," he protested. "The beast was about to tear your throat out!"

"Saved my—?" Max choked on his own incredulity. "It was calming down! I almost had it! You saw it!"

The archer scoffed. "What I saw was a bear about to make a meal of Lord Vanheim. Where I come from, we call that 'protecting our betters.'"

Several soldiers nodded in agreement, but others looked less certain. Tomas had dismounted and stood nearby, his expression grim.

"That 'protection' cost two men their lives!" Max gestured furiously toward the mangled bodies nearby. "They're dead because you couldn't follow the simplest instruction—to let me handle it!"

The archer's face darkened. "You're welcome for the rescue, little lord," he spat. "Next time I'll let the beast eat you whole."

"There wouldn't have been casualties if you'd trusted me," Max shot back, anger overriding his exhaustion. He took another step toward the archer, fists clenched.

The soldier matched his advance, hand moving to the dagger at his belt. "You're accusing me of killing my brothers-in-arms?"

"I'm saying your reckless—"

"Enough."

The single word cut through the tension like a blade. It wasn't shouted, barely raised above conversational volume, yet it silenced everyone instantly.

Sir Gregory sat atop his warhorse at the edge of the clearing. No one had noticed his arrival—not the soldiers, not the archer, not even Max. He simply appeared, as if materializing from the mist itself.

The knight dismounted, his boots making no sound as they touched the ground. He walked forward, the crowd of soldiers parting before him like water.

Gregory studied the dead bear for a long moment, then turned his gaze to Max, noting the blood on his shoulder.

"You faced it alone," he stated rather than asked.

"I was trying to," Max replied, unable to keep the bitterness from his voice.

Gregory's eyes shifted to the archer, who had gone pale. "You intervened."

It wasn't a question, but the archer nodded nervously. "Y-yes, Sir Gregory. The beast was about to attack Lord Vanheim. I believed—"

"It wasn't," Gregory interrupted. "The bear was submitting."

The archer swallowed hard. "Sir, I couldn't possibly have known—"

"Two men are dead because of your poor judgment," Gregory said evenly. "Men under my command."

The archer's face drained of all color.

"You will build their pyres yourself," Gregory continued. "And you will write letters to their families explaining how your actions led to their deaths."

"Sir Gregory, I was only trying to—"

"Apologize to Lord Vanheim."

The archer blinked. "What?"

"Apologize," Gregory repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument, "for interfering with his trial."

The archer turned to Max, humiliation burning in his eyes. "My... apologies, Lord Vanheim," he said stiffly. "I should not have intervened."

Max nodded, too exhausted to take any satisfaction from the man's discomfort.

Gregory turned his attention back to Max, eyeing the bite wound on his shoulder. "Get that treated before it turns gangrenous. The healers are three wagons back."

"Yes, sir," Max replied automatically.

"You need not run for the remainder of the day," Gregory added. "Nor perform any other duties if you wish."

He turned to the nearby soldiers. "The sentinels failed their duty today. A Frostfang should not have reached the column undetected. See that they improve their vigilance." His gaze swept across the gathered men. "And quicken our pace. If the bear ventured this far from the highlands, monsters may not be far behind. I want us well clear of this area before nightfall."

With that, the knight turned and walked back to his horse. He mounted in one smooth motion and rode away, leaving the clearing in silence.

Max watched him go, frustration building inside him like a pressure cooker. This world was unbelievable. Literally unbelievable. Of all the fantasy realms he could have been dumped into, he had to end up in this medieval nightmare of toxic masculinity and violent traditions.

"Why couldn't I have woken up on that island with only women?" he muttered to himself. "Or in the realm with those actually civilized elves? Hell, I'd have taken the underwater kingdom with the fish people over this."

Tomas approached, looking concerned. "You should get that shoulder looked at," he said, nodding toward the bloody puncture wounds.

"Yeah, I'll get right on that," Max replied sarcastically. "Can't wait to see what passes for medical care in this hellhole."

A familiar figure pushed through the crowd—Gerth, the gruff healer who had treated him after Eastwatch. The old man took one look at Max's shoulder and sighed.

"You again," he grumbled. "Can't go a day without bleeding, can you?"

"Good to see you too," Max said dryly.

Gerth snorted and gestured for Max to follow him. "Come on, let's get you to my wagon. And try not to bleed on everything this time."

As they walked, Max glanced back at the fallen bear. Such a magnificent creature, reduced to a carcass because some trigger-happy archer couldn't follow instructions. The connection he'd felt with it in those final moments—that recognition in its eye—haunted him.

*****

The days that followed the bear incident blended together like wet watercolors—distinct at first, then gradually melding into an indistinguishable smear of routines and small indignities.

Gregory had ordered Max to rest his injured shoulder, which any reasonable person would have taken as permission to ease up on the impossible training regimen. The bite wounds weren't life-threatening, but they were deep enough to warrant concern about infection in a world where antibiotics consisted of "whatever herbs Gerth decided to mash into a poultice that day."

It would have been entirely reasonable—expected, even—for Max to use this as an excuse to step back from the punishing runs.

Right?

Wrong!

Instead, Max doubled down. The morning after the bear attack, he was back alongside the column, shoulder bandaged and face set in determination. When Gerth spotted him jogging alongside the wagons, the old healer nearly fell off his seat.

"Are you trying to tear those wounds open?" he shouted, waving a dirty cloth that might have been a bandage in a previous life. "Get in the wagon, you stubborn ass!"

Max ignored him, focusing instead on putting one foot in front of the other.

It wasn't about proving himself to Gregory anymore. That ship had sailed the moment the knight set his impossible terms. It wasn't even about the soldiers who still viewed him with disdain.

It was about Max himself—or rather, about refusing to become Harek.

The disrespect cut deeper than he'd expected. Not because he craved their approval, but because the constant mockery was so relentless, so normalized, that it painted a clear picture of what Harek's life had been before Max arrived.

"Make way for Lord Softfoot!" a soldier called out whenever Max passed his wagon.

Another would mime drinking from an invisible cup, then pretend to fall over in a drunken stupor. "Remember when he passed out in the middle of the spring feast? Right into Lady Erren's cleavage!"

What?

"Or when he threw up on the King's boots at the last Harvest Moon celebration?"

The King?!

"Or when he lost his father's prized hunting falcon in a card game with that traveling merchant?"

Damn...

The stories described a young man who'd spent years finding new and creative ways to embarrass himself and his family. A wastrel who'd never faced consequences for his actions, shielded by his father's position and power.

But something had changed. About a third of the men—those who'd witnessed the battle at Eastwatch or seen him nearly tame the Frostfang—had started treating him differently. Not with respect exactly, but with a sort of cautious reassessment. As if trying to reconcile the Harek they knew with the one they'd recently seen.

Tomas had become something of an ally, often riding his horse alongside Max during the daily runs, sharing stories of northern politics and House Vanheim's history after Max convinced him that he lost some memory from the hits he took at the head during Eastwatch.

Classic memory loss trope. It worked every time.

"Your father," Tomas explained one afternoon, "has been Lord of Frosthold for nearly thirty years. Took over from your grandfather after the Battle of Cold Harbor. Most say he's a good lord—fair, but unyielding when crossed."

"And my mother?" Max asked between labored breaths.

Tomas's expression softened. "Lady Elsa of House Solaryon was beloved by all. Her death seven winters ago hit the North hard. Your brothers were young—too young to remember her properly."

"Solaryon?" Max nearly tripped over his own feet. He knew that house. "Wait, she was from the Dhards? She was an elf?"

Tomas gave him an odd look. "Half-elven, yes. Your grandfather caused quite the scandal when he made the alliance with the Dhardians by marrying your father to an elven warrior. I'm surprised you'd..." He paused, studying Max's face. "You really hit your head quite hard, haven't you?"

"I just—I never really thought about it," Max stammered, mind racing. Half-elf? That explained so much—the preternatural focus he'd experienced when using the bow at Eastwatch, the way his senses expanded when he concentrated, that strange affinity with animals like the horse and the bear.

It all made sense now.

Also, Harek had siblings. Two brothers, Tomas explained: Haldor, now twelve, and little Finn, just ten years old. Both were being fostered with allied houses, as was custom for noble children in the north.

"Haldor's with House Blackmane, learning warcraft," Tomas said. "Shows promise with the bow already. And Finn's with the Stormcrows, where they say he's developing quite the head for numbers and strategy."

During evening meals around the campfire, Max studied his reflection in a water skin. The face that stared back was both familiar and strange after his time in this body. Harek Vanheim was eighteen years old, with striking blue eyes and black curly hair that fell just past his ears. His features were strong—high cheekbones, a straight nose, and a jawline that was probably quite defined when not obscured by the extra weight he carried.

If he shed the pounds—which Max's relentless running was slowly accomplishing—Harek could have been a model back on Earth. Not even an exaggeration. The raw material was there, buried under years of excess.

During the quieter moments of their journey, Max found himself contemplating the strange ability he'd discovered at Eastwatch—his power to "reroll" after death. It was the one aspect of his situation he couldn't discuss with anyone, because as far as he could tell, no one else knew about it. Not Gregory, not Tomas, not even Gerth who seemed to know everything about Harek's medical history.

Was this power something Sabo had granted him? Or had Harek always possessed it, perhaps without knowing? Why did some people and creatures have numbers while others didn't? What determined how many rerolls something possessed?

As the journey continued, Max pumped Tomas for information about the wider world. The picture that emerged was grim. Bjorn Ursa was presumed dead. His famed adventuring party had dissolved years ago after the catastrophic final battle with the Lich King. Both Bjorn and the Lich had vanished during that confrontation, but the aftermath had been far worse than anyone could have predicted.

"The Seven Generals of the Lich broke free from their master's control," Tomas explained during one of their afternoon runs. "Now they wage their own campaigns of terror across the greater world. No longer bound by the Lich's strategies, they've become unpredictable. That's why the world has fallen into such chaos."

Sabo, if I catch you... Max often repeated himself.

He wasn’t even that mad about being dropped into this world anymore.

This was about the ending.

The fact that Sabo had told a story—one he loved—that ended like this.

He'd searched through Harek's personal journal—a small, leather-bound book that Gerth had returned to him on the second day of their journey, mentioning that "you never let anyone read this thing." The journal contained rambling accounts of gambling debts, drunken exploits, and occasional self-loathing reflections, but nothing about magical resurrection abilities.

So Max was left to piece together the mechanics himself. The system seemed relatively straightforward: when he died, he could "reroll" to try again if he had charges available. Killing something with a number above its head would transfer those charges to him. And anything he had already killed once seemed to lose its number permanently.

Simple, but utterly unexplainable within the framework of this world. This wasn't Fanga or any other power system he'd read about in Sabo's novels. It was almost like... game mechanics, superimposed on reality.

It was a power he kept close to his chest. After all, explaining "don't worry if I die, I'll just come back" would likely end with him being burned as a witch or worse in this medieval nightmare.

Speaking of nightmares, the nights brought their own challenges. Monsters prowled the darkness beyond the firelight—not just wolves and bears, but things Max had only read about in Sabo's novels. Things with too many limbs or eyes, things that mimicked human voices to lure the unwary away from camp.

"Stay within the fire's light," Gregory ordered each evening. "The creatures that hunt these lands fear flame more than steel."

The company never traveled after dark. Instead, they established defensive perimeters with torches and braziers marking safe boundaries. Sentries patrolled in pairs, never alone, and always within sight of the fires.

Meals consisted primarily of hard journey bread, dried meat, and whatever game the hunters managed to bring down during daylight hours. On the third day, they caught a young elk, and the resulting feast was almost enough to make Max forget his aching muscles.

Almost.

His routine never varied: rise before dawn, eat a small breakfast, run alongside the column until his legs gave out, recover, join the afternoon march, assist with evening camp duties, sleep, repeat.

The only concession he made to his injury was to switch from running on the right side of the column to the left, to avoid jostling his wounded shoulder.

By the fifth day, his body had started adapting. The runs lasted longer before exhaustion set in. The muscle soreness faded faster. His breathing came easier. Though still far from athletic, Harek's body was slowly responding to the brutal training regime.

Not that it would matter in the end. No amount of physical conditioning could produce Fanga in six days. Everyone knew this.

Yet Max persisted, driven by something that went beyond simple stubbornness. Maybe it was pride. Maybe it was spite. Maybe it was the fear of what might happen if he returned to Frosthold in failure.

Or maybe, just maybe, he might, by some sort of convenient narrative contrivance, develop Fanga at the last possible second like any other self respecting protagonist. It would be ridiculous, implausible, and completely unfair to everyone who'd spent years training to achieve what he'd stumble into after less than a week of jogging.

...Hm.

The night of the fifth day came soon enough.

Max sat alone by the dying campfire, flipping through Harek's journal for the hundredth time. The camp had quieted hours ago, most soldiers seeking rest before tomorrow's march, but sleep eluded him. Instead, he'd turned to the leather-bound book, hoping to gain any additional insight into the man whose life he'd hijacked.

"The Spotted Pig charges two coppers more than The Velvet Curtain, but their girls are prettier and cleaner," read one entry, dated about eight months back. Max grimaced.

Charming.

Another page catalogued gambling debts with meticulous precision: "Owe Lord Farnsby sixteen gold crowns from the Festival Night dice game. Must pay by harvest or he'll tell Father."

The journal revealed a young nobleman with too much time, too much coin, and far too little self-discipline. Harek had apparently devoted himself to sampling every vice available in the North, often simultaneously.

"Father caught me hungover again," read another entry. "Threatened to disavow me if I don't shape up. He doesn't mean it. He never does."

Max turned a page, finding an ink drawing of a young woman with soft features and long, braided hair. Beneath it, Harek had scrawled: "Aelana Klark. Future bride. Future nightmare."

The following pages contained several bitter entries about this Aelana.

"Saw Aelana at the winter feast. She pretended not to know me, then spent the whole night dancing with that dimwit from House Blackmoor."

"Aelana said she'd rather marry a troll than me. Told her the feeling was mutual. Father wasn't pleased."

"Engagement still on despite both our objections. Aelana says she'll stab me on our wedding night. Might let her."

Apparently, Harek's fiancée hated him as much as everyone else seemed to. Hard to blame her, considering what the journal revealed about his character.

"No one actually likes me," read a surprisingly self-aware entry from a year ago. "They like what I can do for them. The favors I can grant. The coin I can spend. But me? Harek? No one."

Max frowned, feeling a pang of sympathy for the young man. Then he turned the page and found another brothel review.

He was about to close the book—he'd read enough about Harek's debauchery for one night—when he noticed something odd. Several pages toward the back were stuck together, thicker than the rest. Max carefully peeled at the edge, finding the pages sealed with what smelled like spilled wine.

"Perfect," he muttered, gently working to separate them without tearing the paper. One corner gave way, then another. With exaggerated care, he unstuck the final edge and pried the pages apart.

The writing on these hidden pages was different—hurried, almost frantic, with blotches of ink where the quill had pressed too hard.

"It happened again," began the first entry on a random page. "Died in that stupid duel with Tarkson's son. Felt the blade go through my neck. Then darkness. Then I was back in my bed, the morning before it happened."

Max froze, his breath catching.

Bingo.

He went to the first page.

"12th day of Frostmoon, Year 673. I write this in secret, for I fear they would think me mad. I possess what I have come to call 'The Power of the Gamble King.' Its origin lies with an old wanderer I met when I was but two-and-ten. Father had sent me to oversee the granary count—a punishment for some foolishness I'd committed the night before. I found an ancient man collapsed by the East Road, parched and near death. I gave him water from my skin and helped him to shade. He thanked me, called me kind."

The next entry was dated a fortnight later.

"The old man blessed me before he departed. Said I had given him a chance when fate had dealt him ill, and so he would grant me chances in return. Five chances to start, and I would have to later make my own chance. I thought nothing of it until the tower incident three moons later."

Max squinted at the next page, the writing smaller and more hurried.

"I fell from the East Tower. I remember the impact. I remember the darkness. Then I awoke in my bed, on the morning of the same day. At first I believed it a prophetic dream, until it happened again during the Winter Fever two years past. I died. I know I died. Yet, I returned."

Max flipped to the next entry, dated months later.

"I see them. Numbers hovering above certain people and beasts. Not all possess them—perhaps one in twenty. I cannot determine the pattern. Today I slew a stag that bore the number 3 above its antlers. When it died, I felt... something flow into me. My own tally increased to 6."

Another page, another entry. The handwriting had steadied, more deliberate now.

"I have tested it. Gods forgive me, but I have tested it. Drank nightshade tincture in measured amount. Counted the bells from the courtyard as darkness took me. Woke three days prior, exactly where I had been at that moment. My tally is now back to 5. The memories remain, but the body returns unmarked. I can choose my 'anchor' if I focus during the passing. The great nothing between death and return is brief but... I cannot describe it properly. It feels like standing in the gallery of a vast, empty hall, with doors leading to moments I have lived."

There were intricate drawings on the next page—crude diagrams showing what appeared to be a timeline with branching paths. Annotations in Harek's hand marked various points.

"Must be conscious to create an anchor. Cannot return to before the blessing was given. The old man... I believe now he was Voros himself. The Aspect of Luck, patron of fools, gamblers and second chances."

Max read on, captivated.

"I have begun to use this gift at the gambling tables. When I lose badly, I simply find private space, open a vein, and return to try again with foreknowledge of the cards or dice. Yet somehow I still manage to lose more often than I win. The gift is imperfect—or perhaps I am."

The final entry on these hidden pages was blotted with what looked like wine stains.

"I dare not speak of this to anyone. Father would think me touched by demons. Others would call me witch or worse. So I gamble and drink and play the fool they all believe me to be. Meanwhile, I practice in secret. I hunt creatures with numbers. I build my tally of chances. For what purpose, I know not. But someday, I feel, I shall need every last one."

The entries ended there. The following pages returned to tales of drunken exploits and gambling debts, as if Harek had decided to bury his secret beneath a carefully constructed façade of worthlessness.

Max sighed. The reroll ability wasn't something Sabo had given him—it had been Harek's all along. A blessing from what might have been a god of chance, given to a boy who'd shown a moment of kindness.

And all Harek had done with this incredible power was... become a slightly more successful gambler? Who still managed to lose most of the time?

What a waste.

A sudden howl that tore through the night made Max slam the journal shut.

"Lycanthropes," a nearby sentry muttered, clutching his spear tighter as another soldier hastily stoked the fire. Max tucked the journal away and retreated to his bedroll, the weight of Harek's secret following him into uneasy dreams.