Sinatro
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Chapter 6. Immortality of A Sort
🕑 Added 2025-03-23 15:05:00 +0000 UTCHis fourth or so troop was much more experienced than all his others, and he stayed with them a lot longer. They were together longer than the two-month threshold all his former platoons couldn't quite reach.
They were very organised and had a rotating system where a group would start in the vanguard, rotate to the middle, then rotate to the rear.
The soldier was in the rear when it happened. Someone in the middle ranks used his mouth to mimic a farting sound.
The soldier and his line all scowled.
“Hey now,” someone in the vanguard said. “That isn't funny.”
“I tell you what, it wasn't funny eating you fellas’ gas while we was in the rear. What are you boy's even eating?” someone in the middle ranks said.
“We are all eating the same gruel,” another soldier complained. “Besides, it isn't all of us as had bad bellies.”
They all looked at him, at squad leader Harris, their very own star. He was a hit with the ladies, with his tall athletic build. And his build wasn't just for show either. He was the best of them.
“Are you trying to accuse me of something, lieutenant?”
“Not accusing you of anything sir, just your belly.” The soldier hesitated, looking around at the whole squad with wide pleading eyes. “Begging your pardon, but some of the others assumed that Colonel Jenner…well she might have well got you pregnant last night.”
They all stopped moving and looked at him with wide-open mouths.
“Colonel Jenner got me pregnant?”
“I mean…” one of those in the second line started. “If you do it a lot, everyone knows sooner or later there might be an accident.”
Harris inhaled in a slow deliberate motion, his eyes closed.
“And all you envious fucks feel this way?”
Everyone exchanged glances, then nodded.
“Yes, boss. If this goes on, we may be forced to retire you on account of baby gas.”
He stared them all down, they kept their faces blank. The nameless soldier broke first, the others snorting in expected disappointment before joining him in laughing their hearts out.
“Hah, hah, laugh it off. Enemies were sighted a few leagues out so you best settle down in the next—”
He didn't get much further than that, the squad leader.
There was no warning. One minute they were ambling along, and the next, the world broke into pieces. It was loud, it was hot. They were at the centre of it, of the storm of fire.
His body was broken. A few pieces of it vapourised in a sickening rusty smoke.
He was dead. And then he wasn't. It was not the first time either.
“... a bunch of idiots,” one of the enemy scouts was saying, tittering.
The soldier could hardly hear them at first because the explosion had damaged his hearing even before his death and resurrection. Still, he'd found that his resurrection healed everything, even his calluses, leaving him with depressingly soft hands.
He stayed where he was, quietly stewing, buried in his former comrades’s blood and guts. The enemies were relaxed. And as well they should be. There were hundreds of them yet there was none among his comrades.
But once, an indeterminate amount of time ago, the nameless soldier had seen a single swordsman face off against hundreds and prevail. He could down dozens with a single slash. The soldier might not be at that level yet, but he had his advantages. His seeming immortality, for one.
He hadn't wanted to so much as think of it before, but now it was convenient. He needed to believe he could come back from any type of death so that when he fought these assholes, he held nothing back. He would die to take them all down, because he could.
He jumped out of the gore. He did not know - nor care - what his enemies thought when they saw him. He didn't even know what this whole war was about, to be honest, but he didn't even know his name, so that was a moot point.
He crouched low - the tip of his sword touching the ground, both his hands gripping the hilt - and he swung before his enemies could get their heads wrapped around the situation. He swung fast, and hard, all his blows critically injuring an opponent. He did not let up, but the enemies recovered fast. Too fast.
There were so many of them, and most, if not all were stronger than the soldier. He was just more willing to die. A fireball flew towards him, and he jumped away just in time, only to find an ice lance taking him through one thigh. Still, he lunged forward with a thrust, only for the tip of his sword to clash directly with the tip of another sword.
A thrusting technique if ever he'd seen one. He'd been meaning to learn one. He hadn't found anyone to spar with, yet. A thought struck him then. He'd been ignoring a significant advantage he had. He was immortal, no injury to him was permanent. He didn't need to hold back. He could improve faster if he fought with stronger enemies, knowing he couldn't die no matter how much they injured him.
He could also feel free to experiment with impunity. He smiled, iron sung, and he started his battle against a hundred enemies.
He cut an arrow in half, then tried to deflect a fireball, but was pushed back. He overbalanced, and even though he saw it, he couldn't quite react in time to the swordman's lunging thrust. He died only a few microseconds after he decided to fight like his life didn't matter.
A few moments later his eyes shot open again and the swordsman backed up in bewilderment. That single swordsman killed the nameless soldier ten times before he was able to overcome him. The soldier cracked his neck and looked around at the open-mouthed spectators. He grinned and leaped back into the fray.
****
He was present the day the war ended. The nameless soldier had survived the grueling, soul-crushing slog that was the war he knew nothing about. He had gotten more and more accustomed to his situation as time went by.
Before, every single one of his enemies could intimidate him with no more than a look. It was like they were always passively giving off some kind of blood-drenched aura. He had one too now he'd killed thousands of people.
His sword play while nowhere near that child genius’s was no joke now. He could exchange blows with the best of them. Sure, he was focusing on the basics, not trying anything fancier than simple swings, the simplest footwork, the simplest stances, lunges, thrusts, parries, and counters, but he was still a warrior to be proud of.
It was weird though. He hadn't seen his prospective master since the first time they'd met. And the army had been cut down to only about twenty thousand men and women.
He had expected to see him in the advanced squad he'd been a part of, but he hadn't. And he found out why a few hours ago, a few seconds before his suicide squad moment.
They hadn't been the best as he'd been led to believe. They had been the sacrifices their commanders chose to pay to conquer the final stronghold on their route.
The nameless soldier had found himself grinning wider and wider as he ran through the barrage of spells and arrows and traps to the gate, not even bothering with a shield or mana barrier or any defense whatsoever. He wanted to cut them all down with his sword. It was glorious, although he missed more than he cut, and he became a charred and frozen pincushion before he made it to the wall. And he lost another squad or troop or whatever. He hadn't bothered getting close to them, even that short blonde with the inviting hips.
Too bad some of the women kept saying he was too young for them, and some were all of them. He couldn't remember the last time he'd rolled around with an older woman, it must have been some time in his imagination. He would have done it that day, and he was sure he could have, but he waited for that swordsman. He didn't want to miss his chance on the account of something he was sure to get a lot of once he became a swordmaster.
It wasn't until three days later that he came. In those three days, the nameless soldier finally got time to try out that whole meditation thing older soldiers always told him about, to keep his mind calm and his aura serene. It wasn't for him.
The boy didn't look a day older than the first time they met. He had the same clothes on, even. The soldier could swear some blood stains were in the same spots as last time.
They studied each other without saying anything for a few moments. The soldier was sure his inspection was a lot more cursory than his prospective trainer's.
“Well, this is a surprise,” the boy said with a smirk. “What should I call you then?”
“I-I…” the soldier hesitated. “I cannot remember my name.”
“But you remember enough to wait for me to pick you up,” the young boy scratched his cheek, then shrugged. “Well, not that it matters. My name is Noid, and now that you've fulfilled my condition, I have no qualms about taking you with me. What say you, want to travel with me? Join my mercenary company?”
Noid was once a noble but a freak accident had left him scarred in the face. That was all it took for his father to relegate him to staying in a side house on their large estate. That was enough for his father's wife, who was not his mother, to turn him into an experimental prop for her magic.
When he was nine, Noid Ellan suffered permanent soul damage. Even though he had considerable mana reserves, he was unable to use magic, the last straw for his father. He didn't stay down for long after finding his new family though.
According to him, he was currently a fairly famous adventurer, and he'd only been forced to come to the war so that the chairman of the mercenary company he worked for didn't have to leave the company for years.
Sometimes the soldier wondered how long the boy had been in the war, even though he still looked no older than fourteen.
Their journey was a hard time for the soldier for reasons other than his empathy getting the better of him. The boy practiced harder than him and seemed to have more stamina than him to boot. He found himself wishing he could put a number on the amount of stamina they both had, for comparison's sake, but that was impossible.
When they sparred, he never had the slightest chance of winning.
“At least you have experience, and you can withstand battle intent well enough. You are a collection of flaws. What is with you charging like a graceless bull? You are a swordsman. Do you think you are immortal?”
The boy tilted his head to study him.
“Then maybe I'll show you that death is not the only reason you should fear fighting men.”
That day he learned that his strategy to improve super fast would not serve him forever. He was tortured for hours. The smallest cuts, cuts that burned, cuts that stung, cuts he could swear were coated in magic, even though Noid could not use magic. He didn't bleed out, despite feeling enough pain he'd thought his hands had been cut clean off.
And without dying, he couldn't heal the wounds instantly. He had trouble doing anything except standing with his hands and legs far apart to avoid them rubbing against his body for almost two days. He'd drawn the line on direct suicide. First, he didn't want Noid to know about his immortality if possible. And what if taking his own life meant he couldn't resurrect anymore. He would sooner not find out.
That might have been his worst habit, but he had a lot more bad habits. One time, Noid didn't even say anything, just kept tripping him up when he moved until the soldier realised there was something wrong with his footwork. It was too stiff. Stiffening his legs had been good for bulking them up so they could keep up with his ever-moving hands. It was better to be loose in combat, fluid, and adaptable.
He polished his basic swordsmanship over months of travel. Noid never offered to teach him any elaborate techniques, and the soldier never asked to learn. He still had yet to master the basics after all.
Like that, they arrived at their destination. They'd kept off the main roads, never entering any cities. In the end, their destination was a little settlement to the North and East of the border region the war had been in. A settlement - arguably a village - occupied by mercenaries and their families. And to a one they all knew Noid. He was a celebrity.
