"Raise yer horns and hail Ragnar to the Vikings!"
"HURRAH!"
Ragnar clenched his fists, grinning widely as he took the emblem of Drakkar, the dragon-headed longships of the Vikings.
He roared into the sky in excitement, feeling the bloodrush of finally achieving his dream.
"Ragnar, take this jug o' mead and choose the wench ye fancy for the day!" the chieftain of the North Wing Vikings pushed a jug in the shape of a snowwoman womb to him.
His calloused fingers pointed at the thralls from the last raid.
"I will take the wine, Chieftain. But the thralls' beds are not for me." He took the jug and emptied it in a single gulp.
Towering above seven feet, Ragnar was an epitome of a man.
Chiseled muscles sharply reflected the moonlight, hair that mirrored the fresh snow, and eyes that seemed to split lightning gave him a rather intimidating appearance.
And yet, the female thralls fawned for his attention.
"Pity, pity Ragnar. All women are the same, thrall or free."
"That is exactly why I do not want them warming my bed, Chieftain."
The North Wing had a fair number of female Wardens. There were even a few Apprentices. But none of them gave the feeling of real fighters.
They reached their current position by bedding with able men of the Vikings.
Those who reached it on their own were content with their current strength, stopping growing altogether.
Ragnar looked down on those women. No, he looked down on all women. Except perhaps one.
"Tsk. Worry not, the others will think you are a sod."
"Then let them think, and let them try."
"Ha! That's the spirit."
Laughs echoed in the small settlement, lasting until midnight. Ragnar staggered out of the tent. The cold breeze from the Snowlands brushed through him.
From afar, the fog-covered Snowlands waited for his arrival.
Ragnar clenched his fists. "Father, Mother. I stand near my goal. Fear not. Each year I will wash your graves in the blood of the Snow bastards. By the old laws, I swear this upon my name."
Ten years. It took him ten years to reach where he was now. After the deaths of his parents, Ragnar lived in the slum streets of Teardrop County.
He faced death multiple times, fought and won each time, and reached where he was now.
All for this moment. Savoring the satisfaction of taking one step toward his goal, he called his system screen.
* * *
Name: Ragnar Frostborn
Age: 17
Title: Sword Initiate
[Path and Skills:]
Path of Sword:
Sword Thrust 10 (Ordinary-Initiate)
Miscellaneous:
Sprinting 8
Intimidation 5
Physical fitness 9
Focus 9
* * *
For a seventeen-year-old to become an Initiate Warden was nothing short of astonishing among the noble houses, but for a slum rat to achieve this, it was special, and Ragnar was proud of his achievement.
Unlike the noble brats with the support of two or three Adept Wardens to level up their skills, Ragnar achieved all with his own blood and pain.
In the Right Wing, he had a nickname: the Madwolf.
When he was merely a beginner without any active skills, he had hunted a snow wolf on his own and peeled its fur to use as a winter cloth to continue hunting.
That kind of man was Ragnar.
He walked through the empty streets of the North Wing. The wings of Vikings were on the shores of Teardrop County, all ready to be the defense line against the Snow Tribe from the north.
The North Wing was strongest among all the wings. Their raid success was almost perfect. Tomorrow would be such a raid.
The thralls caught in Atlantis gave a key detail about a marriage happening in the western tribe of Snowmen, between the tribes of Snow Bear and Winter Wolf.
The North Wing was all ready to unleash full power on them and take down the two tribes in one go. Thinking about savoring the blood of those abominations, an excited grin rose to his lips.
Then recalling the ordered scouting mission to the Alp Mountains, he grunted. For some reason, the Casa de Velverde ordered the North Wing to scout the Alps.
That mountain was lifeless. There was nothing worthy of scouting.
Ragnar preferred sailing to the Snowlands and wasting no time to raid the settlements there. But alas. The noble house ordered the scout.
Even if the Vikings feared no nobles, they were at the end of the day just mercenaries hired by the noble houses.
Their duty was to follow their orders. Unless the imperials asked otherwise, they would never reject the order of a house.
'It's fine. Scouting can finish in four hours at best.'
The North Wing had a total of three hundred Vikings. Among them, the Chieftain was an Adept Warden, and there were ten Apprentices and a total of fifty Initiates like him.
This power was enough to face off against a hell-difficulty rift break.
So Ragnar wasn't particularly worried about the raid in the Snowlands.
He reached his own home. It was a makeshift tent. This was his home for ten years. Tomorrow onwards, he would shift to the Viking barracks.
For this last day, Ragnar wished to sleep here.
* * *
Morning came with the hiss and pop of frost melting from the roof. Ragnar was sensitive to sounds.
After his focus neared the Initiate stage, even a small drop of water could wake him up.
The summer was a week away. The biting snow started to recede. Snow tribes would go into hibernation deep in the Snowlands.
So today's raid would apparently be the last one this year. The Northern continent had rough to mild winters for half a year and summer and monsoon in the other half.
This half year were the best months in Teardrop County. When Ragnar reached the North Wing, the squads for the scout mission had already been divided.
He was appointed to a squad of twenty, along with an Apprentice and five Initiates.
Ragnar didn't know any of the Initiates, but he perfectly knew the Mage Apprentice. Her name was Isabella Velverde, one of the bastard daughters of the Anvil of Casa de Velverde.
The only one to be recognized by the noble house and allowed to have their surname.
"Hey Ragnar." Isabella's voice was cold, but her expression was the opposite of it. Following the Path of Ice made everything about her reek of ice.
If her face wasn't so expressive, everyone would mistake her for a cold beauty.
Everyone in the North Wing was enthralled by her, except Ragnar, who brimmed with fighting spirit every time he saw her.
She was the same as him. Seventeen years old. But her strength was twice as his. There were rumors that she was a dual Initiate! And most above all, she craved more strength, just as him.
What kind of monstrous talent and mentan capability did someone have to have for such a feat? That simple reason made her his motivation.
"Miss Velverde." He nodded, approaching her group.
There was an expression of disbelief on her face after hearing his address. Ragnar knew the reason, and he had his reasons.
He hoped she would understand it and play along, but he failed to consider the characteristics of this woman…
"By the gods, Ragnar! After ye fucked me from dawn 'til dusk that day, ye dare call me 'Miss Velverde'?"
She was pretty hot-blooded for an Ice Mage. And apparently, she had no clue how to use words properly.
Every pair of eyes in the wing was on him after her words. It was one of the rare moments when Ragnar considered being short would be better.