The Gamble King - Chapter 02. Reroll

Haah... haaah... haaah...

Max's lungs burned. His legs trembled. Every step felt like moving through concrete.

"What the hell is wrong with this body?" he gasped, struggling forward through the churned mud of the battlefield.

He'd made it maybe thirty yards from where he'd "respawned" and already his thighs were screaming in protest. Sweat poured down his face despite the cool air. The leather armor that had seemed so light at first now felt like it was lined with lead.

The soldier who'd called him Harek was shouting something, but Max couldn't spare the breath to respond. He needed to get away from the horsemen. Away from the spear-thrower who'd killed him once already.

A quick glance down at his body told him everything. Where his own frame had been lean—not athletic by any means, but at least reasonably fit from years of martial arts training—this body was soft. Doughy. A prominent gut strained against the leather vest.

"Seriously?!"

An arrow whistled past his ear, embedding itself in the mud ahead. Max yelped and changed direction, angling toward a cluster of bodies that might provide some cover.

Behind him, the sounds of battle grew more chaotic. The retreat to the ridge was in full swing now. Men cried out as they fell. Metal rang against metal. Horses screamed as riders drove them forward, trampling anything in their path.

Max threw himself behind the remains of an overturned cart, gasping for breath. His heart hammered so hard he thought it might burst. How could anyone fight in this condition?

"Move, you useless sack of shit!" A soldier crashed down beside him, bleeding from a gash across his forehead. "They're right behind us!"

Max peered around the edge of the cart. Three men in the enemy's armor were charging toward their position, swords raised. Further back, archers on horseback were nocking arrows.

"We can't stay here," Max said, already feeling the weight of fatigue in his limbs. "They'll pin us down and—"

A familiar cackle cut him off. Max whipped his head around to see the goblin from before, creeping along the edge of the cart, knife in hand. But this time, there was no number floating above its head. Nothing. Just those same yellowed eyes fixed on him with malevolent hunger.

The soldier beside Max saw it too. "Filthy little bastard!" he snarled, raising his sword.

The goblin darted forward with surprising speed, slashing at the soldier's leg. The man howled as the blade sliced through leather and flesh.

Max scrambled backward, fumbling for something—anything—he could use as a weapon. His hand closed around a broken spear shaft, the metal tip still intact but bent at an angle.

The goblin finished with the soldier, plunging its knife into the man's throat with a wet, meaty sound. It turned toward Max, black blood dripping from its blade. It made that horrible wet clicking noise again, a sound that might have been laughter.

"Not this time," Max growled, gripping the spear shaft with both hands.

The goblin lunged, faster than Max remembered. He swung the broken spear in a wild arc, connecting with the side of the creature's head. The impact sent a jarring shock up his arms.

The goblin staggered but didn't fall. It shook its misshapen head and hissed, yellow eyes narrowing to slits.

Max struggled to his feet, his body protesting every movement. He was already winded, his arms shaking from the effort of that single blow.

The goblin circled, knife held low. Max remembered this from before—the creature liked to go for the gut. He'd seen enough combat sports to understand the basic concept of maintaining distance, but his heavy, unfamiliar body made every movement awkward.

"Come on then," Max said, trying to sound braver than he felt.

The goblin sprang forward. This time, Max was ready. He sidestepped—slower than he would have liked—and brought the broken spear down in a vicious arc.

The jagged metal tip caught the goblin in the shoulder, tearing through its leathery skin. Black blood spurted from the wound. The creature shrieked, a sound so high-pitched it made Max's teeth hurt.

It wasn't enough. The goblin whirled, slashing wildly with its knife. The blade caught Max across the thigh, slicing through the fabric of his pants and into flesh. Pain shot up his leg.

"Fuck!" he cried out, staggering backward.

The wound wasn't deep, but it stung like fire, and worse, it slowed him down even more. The goblin sensed its advantage, lunging again with renewed vigor.

Max fell backward, landing hard on his ass. The goblin leapt, knife raised high, its weight driving Max onto his back. Fetid breath washed over him as the creature snarled in triumph, jagged teeth inches from his face.

With all his strength, Max drove the broken spear upward. The bent metal tip punched through the goblin's chest, just below its throat. The creature's momentum carried it forward, impaling it further on the makeshift weapon.

Yellow eyes widened in surprise. Black blood poured from the wound, hot and sticky over Max's hands. The goblin made a strangled sound, its limbs twitching and spasming.

Max pushed the dying creature off him, rolling away from the spreading pool of its viscous blood. He staggered to his feet, leg throbbing where the knife had caught him.

No time to rest.

Three enemy soldiers were almost upon him. Max grabbed a discarded shield from the mud, wincing at its unexpected weight. How did people fight with these things? The leather strap on the back was crusted with what was probably its previous owner's blood.

"Vanheim dog!"

The shout came from his left. Max turned to see an enemy soldier bearing down on him, sword raised high. The man wore the same crude armor as the horsemen, his face twisted in a mask of hatred.

Above the soldier's head floated a glowing numeral: 3.

Max barely got the shield up in time. The sword crashed against it, the impact reverberating up his arm and nearly tearing the shield from his grasp. He stumbled backward, his injured leg threatening to buckle beneath him.

"Wait! I'm not who you think—" Max began.

"Silence, pig!" the soldier spat, circling for another attack. "The rumors about the Vanheim boy were true. Fat. Cowardly."

Max's mind raced. Vanheim? The name sparked recognition—a place from the north in Bjorn's world. But he wasn't from Vanheim. Was Harek?

"You've got the wrong guy," Max said, backing away as far as his wounded leg would allow. "I'm not—"

"Lying to the end," the soldier sneered, gesturing at Max's chest plate with his sword. "Your sigil marks you clear enough."

Max glanced down. Through the grime and blood coating his leather armor, he could just make out a faded symbol—a stylized bear’s head surrounded by a faint outline of frost or mist.

The soldier rushed him again. Max raised the shield, but he was too slow, too awkward in this heavy body. The sword sliced along his side, cutting through leather and into flesh.

Pain lanced through him. Max cried out, stumbling sideways and nearly falling. Blood soaked through his shirt, warm against his skin.

"The son of Lord Vanheim bleeds like any other man," the soldier laughed. "Not so mighty now, are you?"

Son of Lord Vanheim? Max's head spun from pain and confusion. Who the hell was Harek supposed to be?

The soldier lunged again. This time, Max managed to catch the blow on his shield, but the force of it drove him to one knee. His wounded leg gave out entirely, sending him sprawling in the mud.

The soldier stood over him, sword raised for the killing blow. "Any last words, Vanheim whelp?"

Max tried to raise the shield, knowing it was too late. The sword began its downward arc—

Thunk.

An arrow sprouted from the soldier's throat, the impact jerking his head backward. He staggered, sword falling from suddenly nerveless fingers. Blood bubbled from his lips as he clawed at the shaft.

But he wasn't done. Even with an arrow through his neck, the soldier drew a dagger from his belt, hatred burning in his eyes as he lurched toward Max.

Acting purely on instinct, Max grabbed the fallen sword and thrust upward with all his strength. The blade sank into the soldier's gut, sliding through leather and flesh with ease.

The man's eyes widened. The number 3 above his head flashed once, twice, then changed to 0 before fading entirely.

Max pushed the dying man off him, the sword still buried in his belly. Something flashed across his vision—a blue window with text:

NUMBER OF REROLLS REMAINING: 3

The window dissolved after a moment, leaving Max blinking in confusion. Hadn't it said zero before? Now he had three rerolls?

Max braced himself against the mud, mind racing despite the chaos of battle around him. He'd killed the goblin, then this soldier, and suddenly gained rerolls. That couldn't be coincidence.

"The numbers," he muttered, glancing at the corpse beside him. "They're counting down... and mine is counting up."

A theory began to form in his pain-addled brain. The goblin had nothing above its head this time—he'd already killed it once before. The soldier had a 3, which went to 0 when Max killed him. And now Max had 3 rerolls instead of 0.

"I'm... taking their lives?" he whispered, a chill running through him despite the heat of battle. "Their chances become mine?"

It made a twisted kind of sense. Kill an enemy, gain their remaining lives. Like some macabre video game.

But that meant something else too. The enemies with higher numbers were probably more dangerous—they had more lives to lose before they stayed dead. And that spear-thrower who'd killed him before... he'd had a 5 floating above his head.

Five lives. Five chances to come back and kill Max again.

"Shit," Max breathed, forcing himself to his feet despite the pain lancing through his leg and side. "This is seriously fucked up."

A hand grabbed Max's shoulder, yanking him from his thoughts.

"What are you doing? Get up!" A bearded soldier with wild eyes stood over him. "We're falling back to the ridge! Move your ass, Harek!"

Max blinked, the battlefield rushing back into focus around him.

"I—" Max started, but the soldier was already hauling him upright.

"No time! They've broken through the center! Move!"

All around them, chaos reigned. A group of men to their right collapsed under a wave of enemy soldiers. Nearby, a warrior with a two-handed axe whirled through three opponents, his weapon left severed limbs and spraying arterial blood in its wake. One man stood atop a pile of corpses, throwing spears with inhuman accuracy—each one finding a throat or an eye socket.

Max wobbled on his feet, his wounds throbbing. The blood loss was making him light-headed.

"This way!" The bearded soldier pulled him toward the ridge where men were retreating in ragged formation.

But Max hesitated, his eyes scanning the battlefield. Beyond the immediate carnage, he could see the edges of the fighting—and beyond that, a treeline. Dark, dense forest maybe half a mile away.

"We have to stand and fight!" the soldier shouted, misinterpreting Max's hesitation. "For Osran! For the king!"

"Who even is—" Max began, but the man cut him off.

"I know you've had your differences with His Majesty, but now isn't the time for your Vanheim pride! We fight together or we die alone!"

Another soldier nearby overheard. "Let the fat pig run if he wants! His father's gold bought him that armor, not skill!"

Max stared at them in bewilderment.

The bearded soldier grabbed his arm again. "Come on! We need every sword!"

Something in Max snapped. He wrenched his arm free.

"No," he said, backing away. "I don't know you. I don't know any of this. I'm not dying here!"

The soldier's face contorted in rage. "Coward! Your father would—"

Max didn't wait to hear what Harek's father would do. He turned and ran.

Or tried to. His injured leg nearly buckled with the first step. The wound on his side burned like fire. And this soft, heavy body wasn't built for running in the first place.

"Traitor!" the soldier bellowed behind him.

Max ignored him, forcing his legs to move. Each step was painful, but the alternative was death. Again.

He angled away from the densest fighting, toward the eastern edge of the battlefield where the lines were thinner. If he could just reach that forest...

An arrow whizzed past his ear, so close he felt the air displacement. Max yelped, ducking instinctively. Bad idea—his momentum carried him forward, and he fell face-first into the mud.

He scrambled back up, spitting dirt and blood, and kept moving. His lungs burned. His side felt like someone was pressing a hot iron against it. The wound on his thigh throbbed in time with his racing heart.

Twenty yards ahead, a knot of enemy soldiers spotted him. One pointed and shouted something Max couldn't hear over the general din of battle.

"Damn it all," he panted, veering right to avoid them.

The change in direction put him on a collision course with two goblins dragging a wounded man by his ankles. The creatures looked up at Max's approach, their yellow eyes widening.

Max didn't slow down. He charged straight at them, sword raised. The goblins abandoned their prey and scattered, hissing in anger.

Keep moving. Don't stop.

He leapt over the wounded man, nearly lost his footing in a slick patch of mud, and staggered onward. The edge of the battlefield was getting closer. Beyond lay open ground, and beyond that, the blessed sanctuary of the forest.

The sounds of fighting grew slightly more distant behind him. Max risked a glance over his shoulder. No one seemed to be pursuing him directly—they were all too busy trying to stay alive.

Then he heard it. The distinctive sound of hoofbeats, rapidly approaching.

Max looked back. A horseman was bearing down on him, spear leveled for a thrust. Above the rider's head floated the number 5—the same man who had killed him before.

Terror shot through Max like an electric current. New energy flooded his limbs despite the pain and exhaustion. He sprinted forward, zigzagging to make himself a harder target.

The treeline wasn't far now. Two hundred yards, maybe less. If he could reach the trees, the horseman would have trouble following.

The hoofbeats grew louder. Closer.

Max's lungs felt like they were full of broken glass. His vision narrowed to a tunnel focused solely on the distant trees. Almost there. Almost...

Something flashed in his peripheral vision. He threw himself sideways just as a spear sliced through the air where his back had been a moment before.

The horseman thundered past, already drawing another spear from a quiver on his saddle. He wheeled his mount around, eyes locked on Max.

Max didn't wait. He scrambled up and ran, no longer trying to zigzag—just pure, desperate flight toward the treeline.

One hundred yards. His leg threatened to give out with each step. Blood soaked the entire right side of his body now, hot and sticky.

The horseman charged again. Max heard the whistle of the spear cutting air and dove forward, rolling through mud and grass. The weapon missed again, but only just.

Fifty yards. The trees loomed larger, their dark shadows promising safety. Max pushed his battered body harder, ignoring the screaming pain from his wounds.

Behind him, the horseman cursed and circled for another charge.

Twenty yards. Max could make out individual trees now—thick trunks that would block a horse, dense undergrowth that would slow a pursuer.

Ten yards. His breath came in ragged gasps. Black spots danced at the edges of his vision.

Five yards. The shadow of the forest fell across him. He was going to make it.

THUD.

Max ran full-tilt into something solid and invisible. The impact was like hitting a brick wall—his nose crunched painfully, blood spraying from broken cartilage. He bounced backward, stunned, and fell hard on his back.

"What the—" he gasped, reaching out with trembling fingers to touch... nothing. Just empty air. Yet something had stopped him as surely as a physical barrier.

He tried to stand, but his head spun. Blood poured from his broken nose, filling his mouth with the taste of copper.

The sound of hoofbeats grew louder. Max looked up to see the horseman looming over him. No words, no taunts. Just cold, efficient death coming for him.

Max tried to crawl backward, but his body wouldn't respond properly. His limbs felt like they belonged to someone else.

The horseman dismounted in one fluid motion. Max watched in helpless terror as the man drew his sword, the number 5 still glowing steadily above his head.

Max tried to raise his own weapon, but his arms felt impossibly heavy. The blade slipped from nerveless fingers.

The horseman advanced, silent as a shadow. Without warning, he brought his boot down on Max's chest, pinning him to the ground. Max screamed as broken ribs ground together beneath the weight.

Max tried once more to move, to fight, to do anything—but his body had nothing left to give.

The horse reared above him, hooves flashing in the sunlight. The last thing Max saw was those hooves descending toward his skull.

The last thing he felt was the crunch of bone giving way, his skull collapsing under the massive weight.

The last thing he thought was: I have three rerolls now.

Then darkness.

*****

Awareness came next, floating in the infinite void of what Max was already beginning to think of as the "In-Between."

No body, no sensation, just pure consciousness suspended in nothingness. Despite the profound emptiness surrounding him, Max felt something close to relief. The In-Between, for all its strangeness, was infinitely preferable to having his skull crushed beneath a horse's hooves.

Here, at least, he could think clearly. No adrenaline-fueled panic. No blood pounding in his ears. No screams of dying men or clash of weapons. Just silence and the space to process what had happened.

I died. Again.

But this time, something was different. Floating before him in the darkness was the glowing numeral: 3.

Three rerolls. Three more chances.

Max focused his awareness on the events of the battlefield, replaying them in his disembodied mind. He'd tried to escape, to reach the forest beyond the fighting, only to crash into... nothing. An invisible barrier that had stopped him as effectively as a stone wall.

Magic. It had to be magic.

It was real here.

The invisible wall. The numbers floating above people's heads. His own resurrection after death. All of it reeked of magic.

But the wall—that was something specific. Something tactical.

He remembered reading about something like this in the novel. A battle in a mountain pass where enemies had trapped Bjorn's party within a magical barrier. A containment spell, the book had called it. Designed to prevent escape and force a fight to its conclusion.

In that story, such barriers were usually created by artifacts or mages. And those sources were typically positioned at the center of the barrier, creating a dome-like structure that couldn't be penetrated.

The logical conclusion crystallized in Max's thoughts: This wasn't just a random battle. It was an ambush. Someone had deliberately trapped these forces inside a magical perimeter, ensuring no one could escape. That's why running had failed—there was nowhere to run to.

If Max wanted to escape, he would need to find and destroy whatever was generating the barrier. And if what he'd read about this world held true, that meant heading toward the center of the battlefield, not away from it.

The complete opposite direction from where he'd been running.

The numeral 3 pulsed gently before him.

Max focused his awareness on it, just as he had done with the 1 before. His consciousness pressed against it, enveloping it.

The number flashed brightly, then shattered into countless motes of light.

The void collapsed around him.

Pain returned—the throbbing ache in his leg where the goblin had cut him, the burning sensation in his side where the soldier's sword had sliced him. Max gasped, eyes flying open to find himself once again lying in the bloody mud, staring up at that same blood-streaked sky.

But things were different this time. He wasn't where he'd first respawned. He was exactly where he'd been when the soldier with the number 3 had tried to kill him—the moment after Max had driven his sword into the man's gut.

The blue window appeared before him:

NUMBER OF REROLLS REMAINING: 2

Max pushed himself to his feet, ignoring the pain from his wounds. The battlefield looked the same, but now he understood it differently. This wasn't just chaos—it was a trap. And if he wanted to survive, he needed to find the center, find whatever was generating the barrier.

"Get up, Harek!" The bearded soldier was there again, grabbing his arm. "We're falling back to the ridge!"

Max shook his head. "No," he said firmly. "That's not the way out."

The soldier's eyes widened. "What are you talking about? We have to—"

"Listen to me," Max cut him off. "We're trapped here. There's a barrier around the battlefield. If we want to escape, we need to find what's creating it."

The soldier stared at him as if he'd grown a second head. "Have you lost your mind? We need to—"

"Fine," Max said, pulling his arm free. "Go your way. I'm going mine."

He turned and started walking—not toward the treeline this time, but toward what seemed to be the center of the fighting, where the battle was thickest.

"You're going the wrong way, you idiot!" the soldier shouted after him.

Maybe, Max thought. But at least I'm not repeating the same mistakes.

He gripped his sword tighter, scanning the battlefield with new purpose. If the barrier generator was at the center, that's where he needed to go—right into the heart of the slaughter.

The problem was, his unfit body was still bleeding from two wounds, and he still didn't know how to fight properly. But he had one advantage now: knowledge. He knew about the goblin, about the soldier with the number 3 (now dead), and about the horseman with the number 5.

If he could avoid that spear-thrower and make it to the center, maybe—just maybe—he could find a way out of this hellish loop.

Max took a deep breath and strode forward, directly into the chaos of battle, where death awaited in a thousand forms. But death wasn't permanent anymore.

And he had two more rerolls to figure this out.

"Coming through!" Max shouted, shoving past a wounded ally who stumbled backward through the mud. The man gave him a confused look but was too busy trying to stem the flow of blood from his arm to question Max's direction.

Twenty yards in, and already the density of combatants had doubled. Bodies pressed against bodies, living and dead alike forming a grotesque obstacle course. The mud beneath his feet was no longer brown but deep red, slick with blood and other fluids Max didn't want to identify.

A sword flashed toward his face. Max jerked backward, the blade missing his nose by inches. The attacker—a wild-eyed man with a patchy beard—followed through, already preparing another strike.

Max raised his own sword just in time. The blades met with a jarring clang that sent pain shooting up his arm. His opponent was stronger, driving him back a step.

"Die, Vanheim dog!" the man spat, pressing his advantage.

Max noticed there was no number floating above the man's head. Did that mean he had no rerolls left? Or something else entirely?

No time to wonder. The man lunged again. This time, Max sidestepped—clumsy but effective—and brought his sword down in a desperate arc. The blade caught his attacker between neck and shoulder, biting deep into flesh.

Hot blood sprayed across Max's face. The man gasped, eyes widening in shock. He collapsed to his knees, then face-first into the mud.

Max didn't wait to see if he would rise again. He pushed forward, deeper into the maelstrom.

The fighting grew more intense as he neared what he guessed was the center of the battlefield. Men were packed so tightly that some couldn't even swing their weapons properly. They resorted to grappling, to stabbing with daggers, to biting and gouging.

Max ducked beneath a wild axe swing, feeling the wind of its passage ruffle his hair. The wielder—a burly man with a braided beard—wasn't looking at him but at someone else. Max took the opportunity to drive his sword into the man's side, beneath his raised arm.

Another kill, another step forward.

A gap opened in the press of bodies. Max lunged for it, nearly tripping over a corpse. Something slammed into his back—an elbow, a shield, he couldn't tell—sending him stumbling forward into a cleared space perhaps ten feet across.

In the center of this small arena stood the largest human being Max had ever seen.

The man towered over everyone else—at least 2.6 meters tall, with shoulders twice as broad as Max's. His arms were thick as tree trunks, rippling with muscle beneath blood-spattered skin. He wore no helmet, his bald head gleaming with sweat and gore. In his massive hands was a war hammer that looked like it weighed as much as Max did.

As Max watched, the giant swung his hammer in a horizontal arc. Three men caught in its path were simply... broken. One's chest caved in with a sickening crunch. Another's head snapped back at an impossible angle. The third was lifted off his feet entirely, flying several yards before crashing into a knot of fighters.

Above the giant's head floated the number 8.

Max decided to suspend disbelief for now. Giants, magic, numbers floating above people's heads—he'd process it all later, if he survived.

The giant hadn't noticed him yet, too busy crushing anyone foolish enough to approach. Max kept low, skirting the edge of the cleared space, using the massive fighter as distraction.

The press of bodies was even worse beyond the giant's clearing.

Max pushed through, using his sword more as a wedge than a weapon, creating space just to advance. His wounds throbbed, but he ignored them. This life was just for reconnaissance—a gamble to confirm his theory about the barrier.

Through a momentary gap in the melee, Max caught a glimpse of something strange. About fifty yards away, at what must be the very center of the battlefield, a white light pulsed rhythmically. It emanated from an object held by a figure standing atop a small rise in the ground.

That had to be it—the artifact generating the barrier. Theory confirmed.

Max pressed forward, fighting not for victory but for proximity. He needed to see exactly what he was dealing with.

The battle grew more claustrophobic with each step. Bodies formed walls of flesh and steel. Some men were being crushed to death simply by the pressure of bodies around them. Others struggled on top of corpses, fighting from mounds of the dead that grew with each passing minute.

An enemy soldier appeared before Max, sword raised. Max managed to parry the blow, countered with a thrust to the gut. The man fell, creating a small opening. Max pushed through, gaining another yard.

The white light grew brighter as he approached. Now he could make out more details. The figure was a soldier, more elaborately armored than the others—an officer or commander of some sort. He stood atop a small mound of earth and bodies, surrounded by a protective ring of his own men.

In his hands was a crystalline orb that pulsed with white light. With each pulse, the air around it seemed to ripple, like heat waves off hot asphalt.

That was it—the barrier generator. The thing keeping him trapped in this hell.

The officer's guards were disciplined, forming a tight perimeter around the mound. They fought in coordinated pairs, covering each other's flanks, nothing like the chaotic individual combat elsewhere on the field.

Twenty yards away now. Max ducked a sword swing, countered with a thrust that pierced a man's thigh. The soldier fell, creating a momentary opening. Max lunged for it, only to meet a shield wall as another guard stepped forward.

The impact knocked him backward. A sword flashed toward his face. Max barely twisted away in time, feeling the blade slice a line across his cheek.

Blood dripped into his eye, half-blinding him. He wiped it away with a muddy sleeve, backing up a step to reassess.

The guards were too well-organized for a frontal assault. He needed another approach. Maybe a ranged attack?

Max scanned the ground, searching for a bow or even a thrown spear he could use. Nothing within reach. But several yards to his left, a dead archer lay sprawled in the mud, his bow apparently intact beside him.

It would have to do.

Max changed direction, fighting his way toward the corpse. A goblin leapt at him from behind a fallen horse. Max kicked it away, then stabbed downward, skewering the creature through its chest.

Another step closer.

An enemy soldier charged him, axe raised high. Max sidestepped, letting the man's momentum carry him past, then slashed at the back of his legs. The man went down howling, hamstrings severed.

Almost there.

Max reached the dead archer, kneeling beside the body to grab the bow. It was simpler than the modern compound bows he often saw, but the principle seemed the same. The quiver still held three arrows.

As his hands closed around the bow, something unexpected happened. The weapon felt right in his grip. Familiar.

Max had barely touched a bow before—a brief childhood archery class his father had enrolled him in when he was five, before he'd discovered martial arts. Yet his body seemed to know exactly what to do.

As he nocked an arrow, his breathing regulated instinctively. His vision sharpened, focusing with unusual clarity on the distant figure holding the orb. His stance adjusted without conscious thought, weight shifting to compensate for his wounded leg.

Was Harek an archer? The body he inhabited clearly had muscle memory Max himself lacked.

Max nocked one, rose to his knees, and tried to sight on the officer with the orb. The distance wasn't great—maybe fifteen yards now—but the press of fighting bodies made a clear shot nearly impossible.

"Come on," Max muttered, waiting for a gap to open.

There—a momentary clearing. Max drew back the string, arms shaking with fatigue despite the surprising familiarity, and released.

The arrow flew true... only to be batted aside by one of the guards at the last moment. The man's eyes locked with Max's across the distance. He pointed, shouting something to his companions.

"Damn it." Max nocked another arrow quickly, but already the guards were closing ranks, shields raised to protect their commander.

Max's second shot glanced harmlessly off a shield. His final arrow struck a guard in the shoulder, but the man didn't even fall—he simply broke off the shaft and kept fighting.

Time for a new approach.

Max discarded the bow reluctantly, feeling the loss of the one weapon that had felt natural in his hands. He grabbed a fallen dagger from the mud. If he couldn't attack from a distance, he'd have to get closer somehow.

He moved laterally around the mound, searching for a weakness in the defensive ring. There—on the far side, the guards seemed thinner, perhaps pulled away to deal with attackers elsewhere.

Max fought his way around, using the chaos of battle as cover. A sword sliced along his arm, opening a shallow cut. He barely felt it, adrenaline dulling the pain.

Ten yards now from the officer with the orb. The white light pulsed stronger, almost blinding at this distance. Max could feel something emanating from it—a pressure against his skin, like static electricity but stronger.

Five yards. The officer hadn't noticed him yet, too focused on maintaining whatever spell the orb was powering. Max crouched, waiting for his moment.

One of the guards fell, pierced by a spear from another attacker. A gap opened in their line.

Now.

Max surged forward, dagger held low. He broke through the line, lunging for the mound. He was going to make it. The officer turned, sensing the threat, his eyes widening in surprise. The orb in his hands pulsed frantically.

Three steps away. Two. One.

Something punched Max in the chest—a hard impact that stopped him mid-stride. He looked down in confusion to see an arrow shaft protruding from his sternum, directly over his heart.

"Oh," he said softly, blood already bubbling from his lips.

His legs gave way beneath him. Max fell to his knees, then forward onto his face. Pain blossomed outward from his chest, a burning agony that quickly consumed his entire body.

The world began to dim around the edges. Through the encroaching darkness, Max could still see the white light of the orb, pulsing steadily. So close. He'd been so close.

*****

...Aaaaaand, back to the In-Between.

NUMBER OF REROLLS REMAINING: 2

Max had confirmed the barrier generator—the glowing orb at the center of the battlefield. But getting to it had proved impossible. The guards were too coordinated, too well-trained. A direct assault was suicide.

What to do? What to do indeed...

First, he needed more rerolls. Insurance against the inevitable mistakes. And he'd seen two prime candidates: the spear-throwing horseman with his 5, and the giant with his 8.

The horseman seemed the easier target. And there was something else—Harek's body had muscle memory with a bow. That unexpected skill had felt right, natural, despite Max's own inexperience with archery.

Could he take down the spearman from a distance? Before the man could close and kill him again?

It was worth a shot. Literally.

Max focused his awareness on the glowing numeral: 1. His consciousness pressed against it, enveloping it. The number flashed, then shattered into motes of light.

The void collapsed.

NUMBER OF REROLLS REMAINING: 1

Pain returned—the throbbing ache in his leg where the goblin had cut him, the burning sensation in his side where the soldier's sword had sliced him. Max gasped, eyes flying open to find himself once again lying in the bloody mud.

"Get up, Harek!" The bearded soldier was there again, grabbing his arm. "We're falling back to the ridge!"

Max cut him off before he could continue. "Do you have a bow? Arrow? Where can I find them?"

The soldier blinked, taken aback by the unexpected question. "What?"

"A bow. I need a bow." Max struggled to his feet, scanning the battlefield with urgency.

"Are you mad? We need to—"

"Just tell me where I can get a bow. Now."

Something in Max's tone gave the soldier pause. He frowned, then turned to another man nearby. "Tomas! The Vanheim boy needs a bow."

The other soldier—Tomas—looked over, brow furrowed with confusion. "What for?"

"Just give him one, for gods' sake!" the bearded man snapped.

Tomas hesitated, then nodded toward a body lying several yards away. "Lorreth was an archer. Took an arrow to the throat not five minutes ago. His bow should still be good."

Max was already moving. He limped to the indicated corpse, ignoring the protests of his wounded leg. The dead man—Lorreth—lay sprawled in a grotesque pose, his neck almost totally separated from the rest of his body. But his bow was intact, and the quiver at his side still held arrows.

Max grabbed both, slinging the quiver over his shoulder.

"What are you doing?" The bearded soldier had followed him. "You can't possibly think to turn the tide with a few arrows!"

"I'm not trying to turn the tide," Max replied, testing the bow's string. It was taut, well-maintained. "I'm getting revenge."

"On who?"

Max scanned the battlefield, searching for his target. "The horseman with the spear. The one with a 5 above his head."

"A what above his—"

Max didn't wait for the soldier to finish. He spotted what he was looking for—a mounted figure at the edge of the fighting, hurling spears with deadly accuracy. Even at this distance, Max could make out the glowing numeral hovering above the man's head.

"There," he murmured, nocking an arrow. But the range was too great, the angle all wrong.

He needed to get closer.

Max began moving along the edge of the battlefield, keeping to the relative safety of the rear lines. His eyes never left the horseman, tracking him through the chaos.

The bearded soldier followed, bewilderment written across his face. "Harek, have you lost your mind? The ridge is the other way!"

"Then go that way," Max said without looking at him. "I've got business here first."

Max circled, working his way closer to his target. The horseman was occupied, pulling another spear from his quiver and taking aim at some poor soul in the melee.

Fifty yards now. Still too far for a reliable shot.

Max pushed forward, ignoring the fighting around him. A goblin appeared in his path. Without breaking stride, Max drew his sword with his free hand and cut it down, barely registering the black blood spraying across his leggings.

Forty yards. Getting better.

The horseman was moving again, urging his mount along the perimeter, seeking fresh targets. Max adjusted his course to intercept.

Thirty yards. Within range.

Max stopped, setting his feet as his body seemed to know how. His breathing slowed automatically. He nocked an arrow, drew the string back.

As he sighted along the shaft, the world around him seemed to sharpen into preternatural clarity. Individual dust motes danced in shafts of light penetrating the clouds. The droplets of blood flying from a nearby sword stroke hung suspended in the air. The horseman's movements became predictable, telegraphed in the tension of his muscles.

This is incredible...

Max relaxed into the sensation, letting Harek's muscle memory guide him. He adjusted his aim, accounting for distance and the slight crosswind.

He released.

The arrow flew straight and true—but at the last moment, the horseman shifted, turning to fling a spear. The arrow caught him in the upper arm instead of the chest.

The man roared in pain, wheeling his mount around. His eyes locked on Max, narrowing in recognition and rage.

Without hesitation, the horseman charged, spurring his steed toward Max, spear raised despite the arrow protruding from his arm.

Max nocked another arrow, faster this time. His body moved with newfound fluidity, the awkwardness of Harek's doughy frame momentarily forgotten.

Draw. Aim. Release.

This arrow struck the charging horse in the chest. The animal stumbled, nearly throwing its rider, but recovered and pressed on.

Twenty yards and closing fast.

Max's third arrow took the horseman in the shoulder of his spear arm. The man dropped his weapon, crying out. But still he came, drawing a sword with his good hand.

Ten yards.

Max's final arrow caught the horseman directly in the throat. A perfect shot.

The man's eyes widened in shock. His sword fell from suddenly nerveless fingers. He toppled sideways from his saddle, crashing to the ground in a clatter of armor and limbs. The numeral 5 above his head flickered, flashed, and dissolved.

Blue text flashed across Max's vision:

NUMBER OF REROLLS REMAINING: 6

The horse, suddenly riderless, continued its charge toward Max, its eyes wide with panic and confusion. Instead of diving away, Max found himself frozen, locked in the animal's terrified gaze. In that moment of connection, he sensed the creature's fear—its rider gone, surrounded by death and chaos, an arrow wound burning in its chest.

"Whoa, easy," Max called, raising his hands not in defense but in a calming gesture. "Easy there."

The horse slowed, hooves skidding in the blood-soaked mud, coming to a trembling halt just feet from Max. Its sides heaved with exertion, nostrils flaring, the whites of its eyes visible. Blood matted the chestnut fur where Max's arrow had struck, but the wound wasn't deep.

Despite the battlefield chaos, a strange bubble of quiet seemed to form around them.

Max kept his eyes locked with the horse's, seeing intelligence and fear in equal measure.

"I'm sorry about that," Max murmured, slowly extending his hand, palm up. "I wasn't aiming for you."

The horse snorted, tossing its head, but didn't retreat. It studied Max with an intensity that felt almost human.

Max felt a jolt of surprise—he'd never been particularly good with animals back home, and he certainly had no experience with horses.

How is this even possible? he wondered as the animal leaned forward to sniff his outstretched hand.

He stepped closer, moving gently. "That's it."

The animal lowered its head slightly, allowing Max to touch its sweat-dampened neck.

I didn't know that horses could sweat... Max thought.

Whatever strange magic existed in this world, it seemed to bridge the gap between human and animal in ways he couldn't comprehend.

"Easy," he whispered, stroking the velvet muzzle as it nudged his palm. The horse's breath was warm against his skin, its fear gradually subsiding.

The bearded soldier appeared at his side, gaping at the scene. "By the gods, you killed Orlen. Their best rider." His voice held equal parts awe and confusion. "And his horse... it listens to you?"

Max barely heard him, still caught in the strange communion with the animal and bewildered by it. "I need to get to the center," he said, more to himself than to the soldier. "To the barrier generator."

"The what?"

Max gestured toward the heart of the battle. "The orb. The glowing thing their commander is holding. It's what's keeping us trapped here."

The soldier shook his head. "You can't possibly reach it. Their elite guard that circle—"

"Not from the ground," Max interrupted, an idea blooming in his mind.

He looked at the horse, then at the battlefield's center where the white light pulsed rhythmically. The distance seemed insurmountable on foot, through the press of fighting men. But on horseback, charging from an unexpected angle...

Max grabbed the horse's reins. It didn't resist.

"You're not actually thinking of riding into that?" the soldier asked incredulously.

Max checked the fallen horseman's quiver. Three spears remained. He took them, securing them to the saddle.

"Not thinking," Max replied, pulling himself up with effort. Harek's body wasn't made for graceful mounting. "Doing."