Re:Birth: A Slow Burn LitRPG Mage Regressor

Mervyn Ravencroft, the Northking, hated the cold.

Hated it with a passion that could melt glaciers, if passion worked that way. Unfortunately, it didn't. So here he stood, knee-deep in snow, watching incompetents fumble with equipment worth more than their miserable lives.

"Faster," he snapped at a group of soldiers struggling with a particularly heavy crate. "Or should I find men with actual muscle to replace you?"

The soldiers quickened their pace, nearly slipping in their haste. Good. Fear was efficient.

His breath clouded in front of his face, and he scowled. Three more days in this frozen wasteland. Three days of sleeping in a tent while ice formed on the inside of the canvas. Three days of listening to these idiots complain about frostbite.

"Commander Duvall," he called.

A stocky man with a face like weathered granite approached and saluted. "Yes, Lord Ravencroft?"

"How many more shipments need to be moved?"

"Four, my lord. We should be finished by nightfall."

Northking grunted. "Make it midday. I want to be out of this miserable valley by sunset."

"The men are working as fast as they—"

"The men," Northking interrupted, "are wasting my time. And Emperor Uther's resources. Need I remind you what happened to the last commander who disappointed me?"

Duvall's face paled slightly. "No, my lord. Midday it is."

"Good." Northking turned away, dismissing the man with a flick of his hand.

This entire operation had been a headache from the start. When his uncle had first approached him about testing the new weapons, Northking had assumed they'd use the northern desert—hot, yes, but at least dry. Instead, here he was, freezing his balls off because some idiot in Intelligence thought the southern border would be "less conspicuous."

Less conspicuous. As if hiding fifty elite soldiers and a cache of experimental weapons was ever going to be subtle.

A soldier approached with a steaming cup. "Your tea, Lord Ravencroft."

Northking took it without acknowledging the man. The liquid was barely warm, more ice than tea. He hurled it at the soldier's feet.

"Are you trying to poison me with this swill?"

"N-no, my lord, I—"

"Get out of my sight."

The soldier scurried away, slipping slightly in the snow. Northking watched him go, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. It was the little things that made these assignments tolerable.

He turned his attention back to the weapons being loaded onto sleds. Dragon's Breath. His uncle's latest obsession. Personally, Northking thought the name was a bit dramatic, but he had to admit the demonstration had been impressive. One small cylinder had reduced a stone fortress to rubble in seconds.

Imagine what a dozen could do to a city once the weapon was finalized.

Once they got back to Farmus, he'd make sure Arlen paid for suggesting this location. Perhaps a week in the Quiet Room would help the man understand the importance of comfort during military operations. Or maybe he'd just cut off a few fingers. Arlen was so proud of his calligraphy.

"My lord!" A soldier approached at a run, his face flushed from cold and exertion. "We've spotted something. In the trees to the north."

"Something," Northking repeated flatly. "Your observational skills astound me. Care to be more specific?"

"Movement, sir. Possibly locals."

Northking sighed. This was why you killed witnesses immediately rather than letting them escape to their villages. Now they'd have to hunt down whoever was watching and make sure they didn't report back.

"Send a squad. No survivors."

"Yes, my lord."

As the soldier turned to go, a loud crash drew Northking's attention. One of the men had dropped a crate, spilling cylindrical metal containers onto the snow.

Cold fury washed over him. In three long strides, he reached the soldier, who backed away, hands raised.

"My lord, no ple—!"

Northking's blade flashed, slicing through the man's desperate plea and into his throat with a wet, tearing sound. The edge caught on something—cartilage, probably—before Northking jerked it sideways with savage force. Blood erupted in a high-pressure spray, spattering across Northking's face and chest.

The soldier collapsed to his knees, hands clutching futilely at his ruined throat. Blood poured between his fingers in pulsing gouts, soaking his uniform, melting the snow beneath him into a steaming red slush. His eyes were wide with disbelief, mouth working silently as he tried to breathe through the gaping wound.

Several soldiers stumbled backward. One retched violently. Another whispered a prayer, fingers tracing protective symbols against evil.

Northking watched, mesmerized, as the dying man toppled sideways, legs kicking spasmodically in the snow. The blood was so vibrant against the white—like spilled wine on a lady's dress. The sight of it eased something in him, a tightness he hadn't realized was there. His breathing slowed, his irritation fading with each weakening pulse from the soldier's severed artery.

A choked sob broke the silence. A young soldier—barely more than a boy—had his fist pressed against his mouth, eyes wide with horror. "Tomas," he whispered. The dead man's cousin.

The others stood rigid, faces contorted with poorly concealed revulsion and fear. One man's hand moved to his sword hilt before a comrade grabbed his wrist, squeezing in silent warning. Another trembled visibly, tears freezing on his cheeks.

"Anyone else feeling clumsy today?" Northking asked, voice soft and almost dreamy as he watched the last twitches of life leave the soldier's body.

No one spoke. The only sound was the quiet gurgling from the dying man's throat and the muffled weeping of his cousin.

"Clean that up," he ordered, wiping his blade on his cloak with deliberate slowness. "Now."

He turned and walked away, already calculating how much the delay would cost them. His boots crunched in the snow, each step a reminder of how much he hated this place, this mission, these people.

Two more days until they reached the main camp. Four days after that to the border. A week and he'd be back in the warm halls of the palace, with actual food and women and all the comforts a man of his position deserved.

Maybe he'd visit that brothel near the eastern gate. The one with the twins. Or perhaps he'd call on Lady Cressida. Her husband was away on diplomatic business, and she'd made her interest clear at the last imperial ball.

He wondered what she felt lik-

A gust of wind suddenly cut through his cloak, chilling him to the bone. Gods, he hated the cold.

"Lord Ravencroft." It was Duvall again. "The men are requesting a short break to warm themselves. Several are showing signs of frostbite."

Northking stared at him. "Did I not make myself clear about the timeline?"

"You did, my lord, but—"

"Then why are you bothering me with this?" He leaned in slightly. "Do you know what frostbite reminds me of, Commander? Weakness. And do you know what I do with weakness?"

"I... I understand, my lord."

"Good. Now get those useless maggots moving before I decide I need a new commander."

Duvall retreated, shouting orders with renewed vigor. Northking watched with mild satisfaction as the soldiers scrambled to obey, their movements frantic despite their exhaustion.

He glanced up at the sky. Still clear. At least there wasn't another storm coming. Small mercies.

Something caught his eye. A small dark speck against the blue. A bird, perhaps?

No. Too small, too fast. It seemed to be falling directly toward the camp.

Northking narrowed his eyes, tracking the object as it descended. A pebble? From where? There were no cliffs nearby that could—

The pebble vanished.

One moment it was there, hurtling downward, and the next it simply wasn't. In its place, impossibly, was a man.

A man falling from the sky.

Northking opened his mouth to shout a warning, but before he could make a sound...

BAM.

*****

Aaah. This felt good.

Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

Adom flexed his fingers inside the war gauntlet, feeling the metal plates shift and recalibrate around his knuckles. The Northking lay sprawled in the snow at his feet, jaw hanging at an unnatural angle. Blood leaked from the corner of his mouth, staining the pristine white with crimson.

Around them, chaos erupted.

Soldiers scrambled for weapons, shouting orders that contradicted one another. Some had already awakened their Fluid, colored auras flickering to life around their bodies—emerald green, burnt orange, electric blue.

"Surround him!" someone yelled. Probably the stocky commander who'd been conversing with Northking moments before Adom dropped from the sky.

Adom glanced down at the Northking. The man's eyes were still open, glazed with pain but conscious. A gurgling sound escaped his broken jaw as he tried to speak.

"You're still moving?" Adom tilted his head. "How tough. Like a cockroach."

The gauntlet hummed as Adom channeled Axis into its core. The plates glowed faintly blue, steam rising from the metal as the enchantments activated.

WAM!

His fist slammed into the Northking's chest. Ribs splintered with a sound like kindling being snapped. The Northking's back arched, a strangled scream tearing from his throat.

BAM!

Another strike, this time to the legs. Bone fragments pushed against skin as the femurs shattered. The Northking's eyes rolled back, consciousness finally fleeing.

The soldiers froze, weapons half-raised, as their commander went limp in the bloodstained snow. Their Fluid flickered uncertainly, courage faltering at the sight of such casual violence.

Adom straightened, turning to face the ring of soldiers that had formed around him. Now twenty, maybe thirty men, all with awakened Fluid, all armed. Their auras cast shifting colors across the snow—a rainbow of impending violence.

"He killed Lord Ravencroft," someone whispered, voice tight with fear.

"He's still breathing," Adom corrected, nudging the unconscious Northking with his boot. "Unfortunately."

The commander found his voice. "Kill him! Now!"

They attacked as one, Fluid blazing as they charged. Blades gleamed, arrows flew, battle cries rose into the cold air.

Adom frowned. All this for this man?

He raised one hand, palm outward. The energy coalesced, dense and heavy, pulling from the ambient magic that saturated the valley. His eyes glowed briefly as the spell took shape.

[Graviton Pulse]

The air seemed to compress, then explode outward in a perfect circle. Snow, weapons, and bodies were flung like leaves in a hurricane. Some soldiers simply crumpled where they stood, internal organs rupturing under the sudden pressure. Others flew backward, limbs flailing uselessly before they slammed into trees or rocks with bone-shattering force.

A few—the strongest—managed to remain standing for a fraction of a second, their Fluid creating a temporary barrier. Then that barrier collapsed, and they joined their comrades in death.

Silence fell, broken only by the soft whisper of disturbed snow settling back to earth.

[You have slain 29 humans.]

Adom glanced at the notification hovering at the edge of his vision, then dismissed it with a thought. He felt no guilt for these men. In his past life, he'd seen Northking's soldiers at work—watched them rape villagers, slaughter children, and laugh while doing it.

Everyone knew Ravencroft's philosophy for recruitment: "Give me men who enjoy the work."

He didn't select soldiers for discipline or skill—he chose them for their capacity to inflict suffering without remorse. His personal units were filled with sadists, rapists and killers who would have faced execution in any civilized nation.

He looked around at the aftermath. Bodies scattered across the snow like discarded toys. Blood spreading in widening pools. Steam rising as the warmth leached into the cold air. Among the human remains lay the massive carcasses of dire wolves, their gray fur matted with blood and snow, yellow eyes now dull and lifeless.

One figure remained intact amid the carnage. The Northking, broken but alive, his chest rising and falling in shallow breaths.

Adom cracked his neck, the tension releasing with a satisfying pop. He bumped his gauntlets together, the metal singing softly as the enchantments resonated. From his pocket, he withdrew a small disk marked with complex runes—a binding artifact he'd been saving for a special occasion.

He slapped it onto the Northking's chest, where it adhered like a leech, the runes glowing faintly blue. Insurance, in case the man woke up before Adom was finished.

Beyond the carnage, the hidden entrance to the base yawned open, dark and uninviting. Inside would be more soldiers, more weapons, more answers.

"Mikael," Adom called in the communication crystal. "Stay hidden. If I'm not back in an hour, use Sam's crystal."

He didn't wait for a response. With one last look at the Northking's broken form, Adom stepped over bodies and walked toward the entrance. Alone.

*****

Adom stepped into the camp, boots crunching on the hard-packed snow.

The place was a flurry of activity—or had been, until he appeared.

About fifteen soldiers froze mid-task, staring at the intruder. A trio of dire wolves stopped gnawing on something that looked like a pig. In the corner of the camp, a mountain troll paused while lifting a crate, its warty green skin glistening in the cold light.

The silence was absolute.

"I just killed everyone outside," Adom said, his voice carrying easily in the still air. "Everyone except your commander. We'll interrogate him later in Arkhos."

A soldier with a lieutenant's insignia reached slowly for his sword.

"I wouldn't," Adom said. "I've had a long day, and I'm really not in the mood to clean blood off my boots. Again."

The lieutenant drew his blade anyway. "You're outnumbered, outsider."

"Did you not hear me saying how I killed your..." Adom sighed. "My father always said to give inferior enemies a chance to live. It saves me scars in the long run. And it saves your life. Don't you want to live?"

"We're the Ravensguard," the lieutenant snarled, stepping forward. "We don't surrender to—"

Adom flicked his fingers.

The snow beneath the lieutenant's feet instantly melted, superheated, and reshaped itself into a razor-thin blade of water that shot upward through the man's groin, torso, and finally neck. For a moment, the lieutenant stood there, a puzzled expression on his face—then his head slid sideways and toppled to the ground. His body remained upright for another second before splitting in a spray of blood.

The water splashed back to the ground, steaming slightly.

"This man was stupid. Anyone else feeling stupid?" Adom asked, looking around at the remaining soldiers.

They stared at their fallen comrade, then back at Adom. No one moved.

"Good," he said, though a small part of him felt disappointed. He'd been hoping for more resistance. More chances to make the Ravensguard pay for what they'd done.

In his past life, there was an event in a farming village near a place called Redbrook.

Bodies strung up on trees. Children impaled on fence posts. Dogs skinned alive for sport. The Ravensguard's calling card at the start of the war: leave no survivors, not even animals. Make examples of those who resist.

"Drop your weapons," Adom commanded. "All of them."

Swords, knives, and bows clattered to the ground. The soldiers raised their hands, faces pale.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of binding artifacts identical to the one he'd placed on the Northking.

"Catch." He tossed them to the nearest soldier. "One for each of you. Put them on. Now."

The soldier fumbled with the disk, then pressed it against his chest with trembling hands. The runes glowed blue as it adhered to his flesh. The others followed suit, no one daring to resist.

One of the dire wolves growled, hackles rising as it sensed its masters' distress. The largest of the three—an alpha with a scar running across its muzzle—began stalking toward Adom, yellow eyes fixed on his throat.

"Control your beasts," Adom warned the soldiers.

"They don't listen well when they smell fear," one admitted, voice quavering. "And right now, we're all terrified."

The alpha wolf lunged, powerful haunches propelling it through the air.

Adom didn't move.

Instead, he reached out with his consciousness, drawing on the druidic connection that linked all living things. He felt the wolf's hunger, its loyalty to its masters, its simple understanding of hierarchy and power.

"STOP," he commanded, not with his voice but with his mind, projecting dominance and strength.

The wolf landed just short of him, skidding to a halt in the snow. It whined. The other wolves sensed it too, tucking their tails and backing away, ears flattened against their skulls.

The troll, however, wasn't so easily cowed.

With a roar that shook snow from the surrounding trees, it dropped the crate it had been holding and charged, massive fists raised.

Adom reached into his pouch and withdrew a small wooden orb, about the size of a plum. The surface was carved with intricate runes—his own creation, based on patterns he'd discovered in the Book of Primordial Runes two years ago.

He tossed the orb upward, directly into the troll's path. As it reached the apex of its arc, just above the troll's head, Adom activated the runes.

In an instant, he and the orb switched places. Adom was now above the troll, looking down at the creature's misshapen head, while the orb hung in the air where he had been standing.

THUNDER SHRIMP

There was a light. Then a shockwave.

The creature's upper body simply disintegrated, vanishing in the flash of light and a cloud of superheated steam. When the light faded, all that remained were two massive legs standing in a smoking crater, swaying slightly before toppling over.

Adom extended a hand, and the wooden orb floated up to him. He caught it, examined it briefly for damage, then tucked it into his inventory.

He turned to the soldiers, who stood pale-faced and trembling, the binding artifacts glowing against their chests. The dire wolves had retreated to the far corner of the camp, whimpering.

"Well?" Adom gestured at the remaining binding artifacts. "What are you waiting for? Bind yourselves. Now."

*****

Adom surveyed the bound soldiers, their faces pale with fear, their bodies rigid with tension. The binding artifacts glowed against their chests like blue fireflies.

"What exactly were you doing out here?" Adom asked, his voice deceptively casual. When no one answered immediately, he pointed at a soldier with captain's insignia.

"You. Speak."

The captain swallowed hard. "Assembling and preparing to test a new weapon, sir."

"A weapon?" Adom tilted his head. "In the middle of nowhere, kilometers from any strategic position? What kind of weapon needs this kind of isolation?"

The captain hesitated, eyes darting to his comrades as if seeking permission.

"I asked you a question," Adom said, his tone hardening.

"It's for use against Sundarian territories," the captain blurted. "A special project from Imperial Command."

Adom went very still. "Don't tell me..."

The captain's shoulders slumped slightly.

"The weapon's name," Adom said. "What is it called?"

"Dragon's Breath, sir."

Adom's expression didn't change.

"Dragon's Breath," he repeated softly. "I see."

Judging by the reactions, his calmness seemed somehow worse than rage. The soldiers exchanged uneasy glances, the silence stretching thin and brittle as ice.

"How advanced is the project?" Adom finally asked.

"We swear we don't know the details," the captain said quickly. "We're early in development. There are components missing, calibration issues to resolve. We're still in the testing phase."

Another soldier nodded frantically. "That's right. We're just grunts. Moving equipment, setting up test sites. The Northking keeps the real information to himself."

"He has all the plans," added a third. "We just follow orders."

Adom studied them, searching for deception. Finding none, he opened his mouth to speak again when a pulse vibrated against his hip. He reached into his pocket and withdrew a small crystal that glowed with a soft blue light.

"Mr. Sylla?" Mikael's voice came through. "Are you alright? I heard a massive explosion and then nothing. I wasn't sure if I should—"

"I'm fine, Mikael," Adom interrupted. "Just wrapping things up."

"Oh. Good." Relief colored the young man's voice. "I was worried when everything went quiet."

"I'm really sorry to make you wait in the cold like this."

"Not at all, sir! I'm perfectly comfortable. Well, not perfectly, but I've got my warming runes activated, and I found a spot where the wind isn't so bad, and—"

"We'll be leaving shortly," Adom cut in. "Be ready."

"Yes, sir. Of course, sir."

Adom tucked the crystal back into his pocket and turned his attention to the soldiers once more.

"Bind the wolves," he instructed. "We're taking everything back to Arkhos. The weapons, the plans, all of it."

"And us, sir?" the captain asked, voice barely above a whisper.

Adom's lips curved in what might have been a smile on anyone else. "You'll be enjoying Arkhos hospitality as well. I hear the cells are quite cozy this time of year."

As the soldiers hurried to comply, securing the dire wolves with the remaining binding artifacts, Adom walked to the edge of the camp and gazed out at the snow-covered landscape. His expression was contemplative, almost distant.

Dragon's Breath. So it had begun again.

He'd known it would. His sabotage efforts six years ago had only delayed the inevitable. But knowing something would happen and actually confronting it were two different things entirely.

It still unnerved him. Even after everything he'd seen and done, the thought of Dragon's Breath being unleashed again sent a cold shiver through him that had nothing to do with the mountain air.

The race had resumed. Just like that.