{Welcome, Jarl. Enter Your Name.}
A name. He had a name. His name was Thomas Vance. But Thomas Vance was an adult film actor who had just died a ridiculous death on set. Thomas Vance was the body lying on the studio floor with a smashed head. That name belonged to a ghost.
He wasn't a Jarl. He was a cosmic joke.
His mind reeled, searching for an anchor. This was like starting a new game. The most realistic survival game. And every new character needed a name. The names of heroes he knew from TV series flashed through his mind. Ragnar. Bjorn. Rollo. They all felt wrong, like wearing a costume too big and too clean for his messy, absurd situation. He didn't feel heroic. He felt like the victim of a very elaborate prank.
A prank. A trick. Chaos.
A name surfaced from the depths of his mind, born of bitter irony. Loki. The trickster god. The name felt right. It was an acknowledgment of the absurdity of his fate, a cynical laugh at the gods who might be watching and amused.
But "Loki" alone felt incomplete. Too conspicuous. He needed something to complement it, something rooted in his old world and his new one. He remembered the theme of his last film, the fabricated Norse mythology. He needed a name that sounded strong, a name a gamer would choose for their avatar.
Thorson. Son of Thor.
The combination felt perfect in its chaos. Loki, the trickster, claiming to be the son of the righteous god of thunder. It was his private joke, a last bastion for his sanity.
He took a deep breath, feeling the cold air fill his lungs and clear some of the fog from his brain. He had made a decision. To survive here, Thomas Vance had to die completely.
"Loki," he said, his voice hoarse from disuse. He cleared his throat, then repeated it more firmly. "Loki Thorson."
The letters on the virtual panel flickered for a moment, as if processing. Then, the text vanished, replaced by a simple new line.
{Status Updated: Jarl Loki Thorson. Population: 1.}
The panel faded slightly, now settling in the upper corner of his vision like a heads-up display in a game. The new status didn't bring warmth. The wind picked up again, bringing a bone-chilling cold. Loki hugged himself, realizing how little clothing he wore. The tight leather pants from the film set offered no protection from the Scandinavian wilderness. A faint hunger began to gnaw at his stomach.
Panic, which had momentarily subsided, now threatened to return. This was real. This cold was real. This hunger would become real.
Yet, something else rose to counter it. A mindset honed over thousands of hours in front of a monitor. His gamer brain took over, pushing aside useless emotions and replacing them with cold logic.
Analyze, he thought, as if starting a new level. Objective: Survive. Immediate threat: Hypothermia. Solution: Fire and shelter. Resources needed: Wood and stone. Units needed: Labor.
The logic felt calming. These were problems to be solved, a series of tasks to be completed.
Loki focused on the system panel in his corner of vision. With a thought, the panel expanded, displaying the main menu he knew so well. There were tabs for buildings, technology, and clans. His eyes fixed on the Clan tab. There, a large, inviting button glowed softly.
{Summon Villager}
Below the button, there was smaller text.
{Cost: Free (Remaining: 5)}
His heart beat a little faster. Five free summons. Five "units" to start. That was more than enough in the game. But before his virtual finger could press the button, a wiser thought stopped him.
This power, whatever it was, was a miracle. An anomaly in a world that felt so real and ancient. If anyone else saw him conjuring humans from thin air, he wouldn't be seen as a Jarl. He'd be seen as a demon, a monster, or something worse. Something to be eradicated.
Secrecy was his top priority.
With stiff, careful movements, Loki stood up. He ignored the aches in his chilled muscles. He scanned the forest around him, his eyes moving from tree to tree. He listened intently, trying to catch any sound other than the rustle of the wind and his own heartbeat. No footsteps. No snapping twigs. Just the vast silence of the forest.
Once he felt reasonably sure he was completely alone, he looked back at the virtual panel. His hand trembled slightly, not from cold, but from anticipation. This was his first action in this new world. The moment that would define everything.
His index finger, in imaginary form, pressed the virtual button steadily. Once. Twice. Three, four, five times.
{Summons used: 5. Free Summons Remaining: 0}
The air before him shimmered. Not a violent tremor, but a subtle distortion like ripples in a calm pond, spreading from a single point in the middle of the clearing. There was no sound, no dazzling light. Just a silent strangeness that lasted for a few seconds.
When the air returned to normal, they were already there.
Five figures stood before him. Three men and two women, all dressed in simple garments of rough wool and leather, clothes that looked natural in this era. They didn't appear confused. There was no panic in their eyes or questions about how they came to be there. They simply stood tall, their eyes all fixed on Loki with calm, expectant expressions. As if they had merely walked through the trees and arrived at a pre-arranged meeting place.
Loki felt goosebumps rise on his skin. Their lack of reaction was far more unsettling than if they had screamed in terror. This was the clearest proof of the unnatural power he possessed. They were human; he could see their breath misting in the cold air, but they were born from a system, with loyalty and purpose already ingrained within them.
One of the men, the broadest with wide shoulders and a thick beard, stepped forward. He placed his fist on his chest in an ancient yet fitting gesture of respect.
"Jarl," he said, his voice deep and clear, without a hint of doubt. "We are ready to work."
There was no room for hesitation or error. They saw him as their leader, and he had to act like one. Loki suppressed his own horror, forcing his back straight and adopting a calm expression that he hoped conveyed authority.
"Your name?" he asked, his voice steadier than he expected. He pointed to the stout man in front of him.
"Einar, Jarl."
"Good, Einar," Loki said, nodding briefly. "You, and the two of you," he gestured to the other two men, "your first task is wood. Chop the smaller trees around here. We need wood for fire, for shelter, for everything."
As he spoke, he focused his mind on the system. He envisioned an axe, the most basic tool. In response, three crude but functional stone axes simply appeared on the damp ground between them. The three men, including Einar, picked them up without the slightest surprise, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Loki then turned to the two women. One of them, who had been observing him with sharp eyes, gave him a small nod. "You two," Loki continued. "Find flat stones and dry branches. We will make a hearth in the center here. Warmth is a priority."
Both women also nodded and immediately dispersed, moving with quiet efficiency.
There was nothing more to say. Orders had been given. Einar and the two other men walked towards the edge of the small forest, and moments later, the first sound of an axe hitting wood echoed, breaking the ancient silence of the place. The sound was rhythmic, steady, and purposeful.
Loki Thorson stood alone in the center of the clearing, listening to the first symphony of his nascent clan. The sound of hard work. The sound of hope. He was still cold and scared, but for the first time since he opened his eyes in this strange world, he didn't feel alone. He was a Jarl. And these were his people.
Hours passed in a steady, efficient rhythm of work. The sun began to dip westward, its golden rays piercing through the forest canopy, casting long shadows on the slowly transforming clearing. Loki leaned against a large pine tree, arms crossed over his chest, observing the progress of his first settlement with the gaze of a strategist.
On one side, neatly cut logs piled higher and higher, the tireless work of Einar and the other two men. Each swing of their axes sounded regular and strong, a clear testament to their productivity. In the middle of the clearing, Astrid had finished arranging a perfect stone circle for the hearth, with a pile of dry branches and coconut fibers ready to be lit beside it.
A cold, measured sense of satisfaction enveloped Loki. This was going exactly as he planned. Exactly like the opening strategy he always used in his hundreds of hours of gaming. Their efficiency was optimal. With this rate of resource gathering, he could establish a makeshift Town Hall before nightfall.
He analyzed everything from a distance, his mind busy calculating and planning. He didn't see Einar as a man with a family or a past. He saw him as his best wood-chopping unit. He didn't see Astrid as a capable woman. He saw her as an efficient general-purpose unit for basic tasks. Everything was part of a machine he was building, and he was its operator. This world, with all its brutality, could be understood and conquered through the game logic he mastered.
Loki was just about to step away from the tree he was leaning against, to check the pile of stones Astrid had gathered, when a wrong sound broke the harmony of their work.
It wasn't the rhythmic sound of an axe. Nor was it the heavy sound of breathing. It was the sharp, dry, and very loud crack of wood, as if a giant's bone had snapped. The sound was immediately followed by a short cry of surprise and pain.
Loki's head shot up instantly. Calculations and strategies vanished from his mind, replaced by a cold, piercing premonition. He turned. He ran. His bare feet felt no pain as they stepped on sharp twigs and pebbles. Adrenaline erased it. He focused only on the direction of the sound.
Tree branches whipped his arms and face as he burst through the small forest. The roar of his own blood filled his ears. He broke through the last line of trees and arrived at their work site.
The sight made him stop abruptly.
The two other woodcutters stood stiff as statues, their axes fallen to the ground. Their eyes were fixed downwards with expressions of horror. On the ground, amidst wood chips and leaves, Einar lay. Across his leg, a large branch, almost as big as his own body, lay, its broken end sharp and jagged.
The momentary, freezing shock broke, and Loki forced his legs to move forward. Every movement felt heavy, as if he were walking underwater. The narrative pace in his head slowed to an agonizing crawl as he approached Einar.
The silence that followed the cry was now filled with another sound. A low, suppressed groan escaping through Einar's clenched teeth. The man's face, which a few hours ago had seemed strong and vibrant, was now pale beneath a layer of cold sweat.
Loki's eyes moved down from Einar's face to his leg, and his stomach lurched. The branch had fallen squarely on his lower shin. He could clearly see how the leg was bent at a completely unnatural angle. But that wasn't the worst part.
At one point, the pressure of the impact had shattered the bone inside. A sharp, jagged white shard of bone had pierced through the thick wool fabric of Einar's pants. Its pointed tip glistened wetly, surrounded by the dark red of blood that continued to seep out, creating a small, sticky puddle on the damp forest leaves.
The distinct metallic smell of blood began to fill the air, mixing with the sharp scent of pine sap from the broken branch.
All the game illusions Loki had built in his mind to protect himself shattered in an instant. This wasn't a red status icon. This wasn't a health bar that could be refilled with a potion. This was bone piercing flesh. This was real suffering.
And this was his fault.
He had sent them here. He had given the orders, obsessed with efficiency and resource gathering, without the slightest thought for the real dangers of this world. He never thought to warn them about fragile dead branches. An oversight born of a gamer's arrogance. A sour wave of nausea rose in his throat.
Loki's presence seemed to snap the other two men out of their shock. Exchanging panicked glances, they both moved in unison to lift the large branch from Einar's leg. Their muscles tensed as they exerted all their strength.
The branch lifted. However, the movement shifted the broken bone inside Einar's leg.
Einar screamed. Not a suppressed groan as before, but a hoarse, primal shriek filled with unbearable pain. The sound tore through the forest's silence and jolted Loki from his paralysis.
Just then, Astrid arrived, moving quickly through the trees. Her face was pale but her eyes were sharp and focused. Without wasting time, she immediately knelt by Einar's side, ignoring the blood staining her knees. With quick, decisive movements, she tore the lower end of her worn tunic, folded the fabric into a thick pad, and pressed it firmly against the wound where the bone protruded to try and staunch the bleeding.
Loki could only watch, feeling so small and useless. He was their Jarl. He was supposed to lead. But here, in the face of real suffering, he didn't know what to do. He had no medical knowledge. He couldn't heal broken bones or stop bleeding. The leader persona he had tried to build felt like a pathetic joke.
In his desperation, his mind turned to the only tool he had. His only source of unnatural power. The System.
He closed his eyes for a moment, focusing on the virtual panel only he could see. With a chaotic mind, he opened the building menu. He scrolled past familiar icons, his eyes frantically searching for a solution. And there, among the basic buildings, he found it.
{Healer's Hut. Cost: 20 Wood, 5 Stone.}
A spark of hope flickered. He glanced at the piles of wood they had gathered and the stone circle Astrid had prepared. Enough. They had enough materials.
"Bring him to camp!" Loki ordered, his voice coming out louder and more strained than he intended. "Careful! Bring him!"
He pointed at the two men who were still standing in confusion. "You two, leave the trees. Take your axes and follow me. We'll build a place for him. Now!"
He turned quickly, not wanting anyone to see the expression on his face. He walked back to the clearing, no longer a confident gamer, but a scared, desperate leader clinging to the only hope he had.