The feast lasted three days.
Three days of celebrating. Of retelling the story of how an eleven-year-old boy killed a Danish war chief. Of toasting our freedom with ale bought with monastery silver.
I barely participated.
While the village drank and sang and laughed, I sat by the harbor. Watching the water. Thinking about the man I'd killed.
He'd had a name. A history. People who cared about him. Probably children waiting for him to come home.
Now he was just a corpse we'd burned on the beach before his men sailed away.
"You're brooding," my father said, sitting down beside me on the rocks.
"I'm thinking."
"About what?"
"About whether this is who I want to be."
He was quiet for a long time. Around us, the celebration continued. Music and laughter carried on the wind.
"You saved everyone," he said finally.
"By killing someone."
"Yes."
"It's getting easier," I admitted. "That's what scares me."
The first monk I'd watched die had haunted my dreams for weeks. The Danish chief barely registered. Just another problem solved with violence.
"The system is changing me," I continued. "Making me into something efficient. Practical. Cold."
My father studied my face in the dim starlight. "Are you still my son?"
The question hit harder than I expected. Was I? Did the boy who'd been reborn in this world still exist? Or had he been replaced by something else entirely?
"I don't know," I said honestly.
"Then we'll figure it out together."
[New Skill: Self-Reflection lv1]
Even doubt was being tracked and quantified. The system measured everything about me. Even the parts that questioned its influence.
The next morning brought new complications.
A messenger arrived on a small fishing boat. Young man from a village three days north. He looked exhausted. Desperate.
"I seek the one called Njal," he announced to the gathering crowd. "The giant slayer."
Word traveled fast among the scattered settlements. My victory over the Danish chief was already becoming legend.
"I'm Njal," I said, stepping forward.
The messenger studied me with obvious surprise. "You're just a child."
"A child who killed Bjorn the Red in single combat," my father said firmly. "What do you want?"
The messenger's expression shifted to respect. "My village is under siege. Raiders from the eastern kingdoms. They've demanded tribute we cannot pay."
"And you want me to do what exactly?"
"Come with me. Fight for us. Save us like you saved your own people."
The request hung in the air like a challenge. Around me, I could feel the villagers watching. Waiting to see what I would do.
"How many raiders?" I asked.
"Maybe sixty men. Two longships. They've given us a week to decide."
Sixty professional warriors. Against a child with supernatural strength and growing combat skills.
The smart move was to refuse. Our village was safe. We owed these strangers nothing.
But I could see the desperation in the messenger's eyes. The same desperation our people had felt facing starvation. Facing conquest.
"I'll need supplies," I said. "And a boat."
"You can't be serious," someone protested. "It's not our fight."
"It's exactly our fight," I replied. "Today it's them. Tomorrow it might be us again."
My father stepped up beside me. "If my son goes, I go with him."
"And me," said another voice. Olaf, one of the veterans from the monastery raid. "Could use some excitement."
Others volunteered. Not many. Most had families to protect. But enough.
By evening, we had a crew of twelve men and one small fishing boat. Not much of an army. But it would have to do.
"This is madness," my mother said as she packed supplies for the journey. "You just became the hero of our village. Why risk it for strangers?"
"Because someone has to," I said.
She stopped packing and looked at me with tears in her eyes. "You're growing up too fast."
"The world doesn't give children time to be children."
"No," she agreed. "It doesn't."
That night, I lay in my bed and stared at the ceiling. Tomorrow I would sail to another village. Face another group of raiders. Risk everything for people I'd never met.
It felt right. And that worried me.
[New Title: Wandering Champion]
[New Achievement: Call to Adventure]
The system approved. Encouraged this path. Made it seem natural and heroic.
But I wondered if I was becoming addicted to the violence. To the power. To being needed.
Was I helping people? Or was I just looking for excuses to fight?
The distinction was getting harder to make.
We launched at dawn. Twelve men in a fishing boat heading toward another desperate village. Another impossible fight.
The journey took two days. Two days of rowing through gray waters while the messenger told us about his home.
"Fishing village, like yours," he explained. "Maybe two hundred people. We've never had trouble before. Kept to ourselves. Minded our own business."
"What changed?" my father asked.
"The winter was hard everywhere. Lot of villages didn't make it. The survivors are turning to raiding to replace what they lost."
The cascade of consequences. The monastery raid had fed our village. But it had also inspired others. Violence breeding more violence in an endless cycle.
"These raiders," I said. "What do you know about their leader?"
"Calls himself Magnus Iron-Arm. Big man. Carries a two-handed axe. They say he's never lost a fight."
"They always say that," Olaf commented. "Until they lose."
But I could hear the uncertainty in his voice. Facing one Danish chief had been risky enough. Now I was seeking out another legendary warrior.
The messenger's village appeared on the third morning. Smaller than ours. More exposed. Built around a natural harbor that offered no real protection.
And anchored in that harbor were two longships. Dragon-head prows. Rows of shields along the sides. The ships of professional raiders.
"There," the messenger pointed. "Magnus made camp on the beach. Said he'd wait for our answer."
I could see the smoke from their fires. The movement of armed men. Maybe sixty warriors like the messenger had said.
All of them between me and the village I'd come to save.
"Last chance to turn back," my father said quietly.
"No," I replied. "It isn't."
We beached our boat a quarter mile down the coast. Hidden it behind some rocks. Approached the village on foot through the forest.
The plan was simple. Walk into their camp. Challenge their leader. Win or die trying.
The same plan that had worked before. But Magnus Iron-Arm wasn't Bjorn the Red. And I'd used up my element of surprise.
This time, they'd be ready for me.
[Battle Instinct skill increased to lv3]
[New Skill: Tactical Analysis lv1]
The system was preparing me. Giving me every advantage it could.
But advantages only mattered if I was good enough to use them.
As we crept through the trees toward the enemy camp, I wondered if this would be my last day alive.
The thought didn't scare me as much as it should have.
That scared me more than dying.
The raiders' camp was organized. Professional. Sentries posted. Weapons stacked but ready. These weren't desperate farmers turned raiders. These were career killers.
Magnus Iron-Arm sat in the center of it all. Exactly what the messenger had described. Massive. Scarred. Carrying an axe that looked like it could split a tree trunk.
He was talking to several village elders. Negotiations. Threats. The usual pre-conquest diplomacy.
"Time to make an entrance," I said.
We walked out of the forest in loose formation. Twelve men approaching sixty. The raiders noticed us immediately. Hands went to weapons. The camp tensed.
But they didn't attack. Professional curiosity. Wanting to see what we thought we were doing.
"Magnus Iron-Arm," I called out as we entered the camp. "I challenge you to single combat."
The big man looked up from his conversation with obvious amusement. "Do you now? And who might you be, boy?"
"Njal the Giant Slayer. Killer of Bjorn the Red."
That got his attention. And the attention of every warrior in the camp.
"Bjorn the Red is dead?" someone asked.
"By my hand," I confirmed. "In fair combat. Just like Magnus will be."
Laughter rippled through the gathered raiders. But it was nervous laughter. They'd all heard of Bjorn the Red. If he was really dead...
"You're just a child," Magnus said. But he was studying me more carefully now.
"A child who's killed better men than you."
The insult hung in the air. In a culture built on reputation and respect, it couldn't be ignored.
Magnus stood up slowly. All seven feet of him. The axe in his hands looked like a toy despite its massive size.
"Single combat?" he asked.
"Winner takes all. You win, your men can sack this village. I win, you leave and never come back."
"And if I refuse?"
"Then everyone here knows you're a coward who won't face a child."
The trap was set. Accept the challenge and risk death. Refuse it and lose face in front of his men.
Magnus smiled. "I accept."
Just like before, the raiders formed a circle. Just like before, I stood in the center facing a legendary warrior.
But this time felt different. Heavier. Like the weight of too many fights was finally catching up to me.
"Ready?" Magnus asked, hefting his massive axe.
I drew my sword and shield. "Ready."
"Then let's see if you're as good as they say."
The battle began.
And immediately, I knew I was outmatched.
Magnus was faster than his size suggested. Stronger than seemed possible. More skilled than any opponent I'd faced.
His axe whistled through the air with deadly precision. Each swing designed to end me. Each movement calculated and efficient.
I barely managed to dodge the first attack. The second one shattered my shield. The third opened a cut along my ribs that burned like fire.
[Combat skill increased to lv10]
[Battle Instinct skill increased to lv4]
The system was trying to help. But I was still losing.
"Not bad," Magnus said approvingly. "But not good enough."
His next combination was devastating. Axe work that flowed like water. Each strike setting up the next. No wasted motion. No unnecessary flourishes.
Just perfect, economical killing.
I gave ground. Looked for openings. Found none.
This was what a real champion looked like. What decades of professional fighting produced.
My sword scraped uselessly off his armor. My speed meant nothing against his reach. My strength was nothing compared to his experience.
Blood was running down my side. My left arm wasn't working properly. The crowd of raiders was cheering for their leader.
I was going to die.
And strangely, that thought brought clarity.
If I was going to die, I might as well die trying something desperate.
I stopped retreating. Stopped being defensive. Dropped my useless shield and gripped my sword with both hands.
[New Skill: Berserker Fury lv1]
The system responded to my desperation. Fed me power I didn't know I had.
Magnus saw the change immediately. "There's the killer," he said with satisfaction. "Now we have a real fight."
I came at him with everything I had. No technique. No strategy. Just raw fury and supernatural strength.
My sword met his axe in a shower of sparks. The impact jarred my arms but I held on.
He pushed back. I pushed harder.
For a moment, we were locked together. Strength against strength. Will against will.
Then something gave way.
Not his weapon. Not mine.
His confidence.
For just an instant, Magnus Iron-Arm realized he might actually lose this fight.
That instant was enough.
My sword found the gap between his armor plates. Slid between his ribs. Pierced his heart.
He staggered backward, looking down at the blood spreading across his chest.
"Well fought," he said. Just like Bjorn the Red had. Just like they all did.
Then he fell.
The circle of raiders stared at their dead leader. At the child who'd killed him.
At me.
"A bargain is a bargain," the new leader said finally. "We leave."
"Just like that?"
"Just like that. You're building quite a reputation, boy. Word will spread. Might make our work harder if every village thinks they can hire you."
Within hours, the raiders were gone. The village was saved. The people were celebrating.
But I felt worse than ever.
"Two champions in two months," my father said as we prepared for the journey home. "You're becoming quite the legend."
"I'm becoming quite the killer," I corrected.
"Is there a difference?"
The question haunted me as we sailed back to our village. Back to safety. Back to the life I was supposed to be protecting.
But protecting it was changing me. Each fight made me stronger. Each victory made me more willing to fight.
The system was turning me into exactly what this world needed.
I just wasn't sure it was what I wanted to be.
[New Title: Champion of the North]
[New Achievement: Twice-Proven]
The numbers kept growing. The power kept building.
But the boy who'd been reborn in this world was disappearing.
Replaced by something harder. Colder. More efficient.
Something that killed when killing was needed.
Something that might not be entirely human anymore.
As our village appeared on the horizon, I wondered if that was such a bad thing.
In a world built on violence, maybe monsters were exactly what was needed.
Maybe I was becoming what I was supposed to be.
The thought should have worried me more than it did.