"How much for this?" a young man asked a merchant, pointing at a pendant.
"You have a good eye, young man! That would be twenty silver coin."
"Okay, give me one," he replied, retrieving coins from his pocket. The merchant was a little surprised that the transaction proceeded without any resistance.
"Is this for your girlfriend?" the merchant inquired, attempting to pry.
However, the young man just smiled and walked away.
"What a snobbish young fellow... Hmm, he seems familiar. I think I've seen him somewhere before, maybe in another city," the merchant mused, touching his chin as he watched the young man's back recede into the crowd.
"Probably not. I'm just overthinking it."
The young man's name was Alaric. This was his first time wandering through this part of the city. As he navigated the crowded market, he suddenly felt a sensation in his ear—a shockwave without sound, yet painful and disorienting, akin to the feeling of falling from a great height.
Then, loud noises erupted from the crowd. Worried faces began to swarm, and as he looked up, he saw balls of fire descending from the sky like shooting stars, all heading toward the earth.
Panic ensued. People screamed and ran for cover, fearing they might be struck by the fiery projectiles.
Alaric, however, felt more amazed than afraid.
"Help!" a voice cried out, snapping him out of his awe.
A little further ahead, an old lady lay on the ground, unable to stand after someone had knocked her off balance. She was reaching for her cane.
Alaric quickly ran toward her, but luck seemed not on their side—a ball of fire was heading straight for the spot where she lay.
He glanced at the incoming fireball, then back at the woman.
"I can make it. I can save her," he thought.
He pushed against the flow of the fleeing crowd, running with all his might. Upon reaching the old lady, he grabbed her.
"Everything's going to be alright, ma'am. Let's go!" he assured her.
As they stood, he suddenly heard a sound—a soaring, falling noise. Instinctively, he shielded the old lady with his back.
"Shoowwwsss…baammmm"
A loud sound echoed as the open market was enveloped in dust. The ground shook momentarily, then quieted after a few seconds. All the fireballs had landed. Some people were unlucky.
One of them was Alaric.
*****
"Am I dead? Finally... at least I died saving someone rather than—"
He smiled, then chuckled a bit.
"Regardless, I'm still going to hell, that's for sure."
A raindrop landed on his nose. More followed. He sat up from his lying position, turned around, and saw it—a flood. A tsunami, even. Panic rushed over him. He quickly stood up and tried to run, and—
"Cough... cough!"
He woke up after someone splashed a bucket of water on him.
"What are you doing!" the old lady he had saved shouted at the man who threw the water.
"Waking up your savior, old lady!" the man replied with a proud tone, as Alaric slowly woke up and began to sit up.
'What happened?' he wanted to ask, but the words wouldn't come. A huge crowd had gathered around him, and he felt overwhelmed. He clearly wasn't used to this kind of attention.
"Are you okay, boy?"
"So it's not deadly after all."
"We were scared for nothing."
"Right? I heard the others who got hit stood up with no problem."
"Maybe a burn or two, but still in one piece."
Comments like these, and more, flooded his ears. The crowd's presence grew heavier, their voices melting into noise. He couldn't make sense of them anymore. He felt like blacking out.
'I need to go. Where's the necklace?' he thought, panic rising—whether from the crowd or the thought of losing that valuable necklace, he wasn't sure.
Then he heard a smooth, soothing voice.
"Are you looking for this?"
The old lady he had saved earlier held out her hand, the necklace resting in her palm. He simply nodded, a sigh of relief escaping him—not just because he found the necklace, but because her voice soothed the anxiety building inside him.
"Thank you," he whispered, a phrase he wasn't entirely comfortable saying.
"I should be the one thanking you. You saved me, young man," she said warmly.
"What can I do to repay you? Where are you from, so I can send something your way?"
Hearing that, he suddenly panicked again. He stood up and started walking away, disappearing into the crowd as if dodging the question itself.
"Wait, young man! Can I at least know your name? So I can pray to God to bless you!"
He stopped momentarily. His face turned somber, as if a painful memory flashed through his mind. But he didn't turn back. He just walked away.
*****
After hours of riding, Alaric finally arrived home. His house was in a secluded area. It wasn't extravagant, but clearly owned by someone of decent status. Built with stone and wood, it had a gabled roof and three rooms. Its design was simple yet balanced, symmetrical in its layout. The ground floor was made of stone, while the second floor was wooden.
As he entered the premises, a massive wolf ran toward him, greeting him with enthusiasm.
"Hello, 21," he said, petting the wolf with his left arm.
He entered the house, exhaustion washing over him like a wave. He placed all his belongings on the table, locked the door, went upstairs, and immediately attempted to lie down on his bed.
"Ahh..."
A soft groan escaped him as the burn on his back made contact with the rough fabric of his sheets. He slowly turned onto his side—his desire for rest stronger than the pain.
Moments after closing his eyes, he drifted into sleep, like a boat slowing under the weight of night.
*****
"Congratulations, boy. You're one of the lucky ones."
A raspy voice crept into his ears. A lantern's glow approached. An old man in a ragged black hood appeared. His face was pale, his teeth black, his eyes completely white.
Alaric just stared, oddly calm.
"What is this dream this time?" he asked.
"I'm here to explain that you've been chosen—a contender in the war to decide the next God of War."
Alaric remained confused as the old man continued.
"The burn on your back is a seal. A gift from the gods. In three years, it will break. And your power will be awaken."
"What power?" Alaric asked.
"That's the fun part. It's yet to be seen. The strength—or weakness—of your power will depend on key conditions."
"What conditions?"
"Who, and how many, you've killed."
"The more powerful and numerous your victims, the stronger you'll become. In three years, the unsealing begins. I'll see you then. Until that day—just kill as many as you can."
The old man laughed maniacally, the sound echoing until both he and his lantern vanished into the dark.
*****
Alaric opened his eyes.
The burning sensation on his back remained, now accompanied by a pounding headache.
'Another dream about killing, huh?'
It wasn't the first time—but this one felt more real than the others.
He sat at the edge of his bed, looking at the weapons hanging on the wall in front of him—two one-handed axes, one massive battle axe, and countless knives and swords.
Then he looked out the window toward the rising sun.
"Enough of that. It's about time."
He got up, went downstairs, prepared his meal, then gathered everything he needed. He returned upstairs and grabbed a heavy axe. Despite its age, it was sturdy and well-kept. Names were engraved into it—but his was not among them. Not yet.
Though the weapon was meant for two hands, his muscular frame made it look easy to lift with just one.
"Now it's my turn.
My turn to go to hell."
ALARIC, Son of HAGEN—
EXECUTIONER.