The cold wind howled, sweeping snowflakes into the hut through the cracks in the wooden door. The flickering flame of the tallow lamp cast long, dancing shadows of the two men onto the wall. One stood, the other lay on the ground.
Einar's heart pounded violently against his ribs. It wasn't from the thrill of slaughter, nor the joy of plunder. It was a tremor born from the depths of his soul.
Twenty years. For twenty long years in this other world, he had lived like a true Viking, speaking the Norse tongue, eating coarse black bread, and wielding an axe to fight and kill. He had almost forgotten his past life, almost believed he was a native of this barbaric age.
The appearance of the priest, Willan, was like a key, unlocking the memories sealed deep within him. The familiar English words, the Latin script of the Bible, and most importantly, the traditional Chinese characters hidden within its pages—all of it shattered the identity he had built over two decades.
He was not Einar, the Viking of Coldwater Village. He was a transmigrator. A soul from another world.
He took a deep breath, the icy air stinging his lungs, and forced himself to calm down. After the initial shock, a wave of ecstasy washed over him.
The atlas! The Atlas of All Domains Under Heaven! This was his golden ticket!
As a modern man, what was his greatest advantage in this era? Knowledge. But fragmented knowledge was of little use. He knew the Earth was round, he knew of the existence of the American continent, he knew the basic principles of a steam engine. But so what? He couldn't build a globe, couldn't cross the vast ocean, and certainly couldn't forge a steam engine from scratch.
This atlas, however, was different. It was systematic knowledge. It was a tangible tool.
Einar carefully unfolded the parchment map that had fallen from the book. It was a nautical chart. Though crudely drawn, it clearly marked the coastlines, islands, and river mouths of the nearby seas. For a Viking, a nautical chart was a treasure beyond measure. It meant new shipping lanes, new targets for plunder, and new opportunities for trade.
He then turned his gaze to the book itself, his hands trembling slightly. It was a bible, handwritten in Latin. But tucked into its appendix was the atlas, written in Chinese. The cover bore the title, "Atlas of All Domains Under Heaven," in elegant, traditional Kaishu script.
Inside, the atlas contained detailed maps of Asia, Europe, and Africa, along with brief descriptions of the local geography, resources, and cultures. Flipping through the pages felt like Browse a simplified version of Wikipedia from his past life. A note on the final page, written in the same script, caught his eye: "A gift to my friend, the Italian missionary, Matteo Ricci."
Matteo Ricci... The name struck him like lightning. The famous Jesuit priest who had come to China during the late Ming Dynasty!
Einar's mind raced, piecing together the puzzle. This Bible must have belonged to Matteo Ricci. He had somehow combined his Bible with a Chinese world atlas from the Ming Dynasty. The book had then been passed down through generations of missionaries, eventually ending up in the hands of Willan, who was then captured by Vikings and sold here.
It was an unbelievable chain of coincidences, a miracle of destiny.
At that moment, the priest Willan groaned and stirred on the floor. He sat up, his eyes filled with terror as he looked at Einar.
Einar's gaze turned cold. He now faced a problem: what to do with this priest?
Willan was the only one who knew the secret of this book. If word got out that he possessed such a map, it would bring disaster upon him. Jarl Bernard, and perhaps even more powerful kings, would stop at nothing to seize it.
Killing him was the simplest solution. A dead man tells no tales.
Einar's hand instinctively went to the axe hanging from his belt. The cold, hard steel was a familiar comfort. In this world, life was cheap. He had killed many men—Slavic warriors, rival Vikings. Killing one more, a defenseless old man, would be easy.
But as he looked at the priest's terrified, pleading eyes, an intense struggle raged within him. His twenty years as a Viking told him to be ruthless, to eliminate any threat. But the soul of the modern man inside him screamed in protest. This was an unarmed old man, a non-combatant. Killing him would be murder, a crossing of a moral line he had tried desperately to maintain.
"I have a rule: I don't harm women, children, or the elderly," he muttered to himself, the words feeling heavy and hypocritical. He was a plunderer, a killer. What right did he have to talk about moral bottom lines?
Willan, hearing the strange muttering, trembled even more. He crawled backward, pressing himself against the wall.
Einar stood in silence for a long time, the conflict tearing him apart. Finally, he let out a long sigh, his hand leaving the axe. He couldn't do it. Perhaps it was his last shred of humanity from his previous life, a stubborn anchor against the tide of barbarism.
"Listen to me, old man," Einar said slowly in his rusty English. "Your life is mine now. You are my slave. Your god can't save you. Only I can."
He needed Willan alive. The priest was a walking treasure trove of knowledge about this era, a living dictionary who could teach him to read Latin and speak English fluently. He was far more valuable alive than dead.
"I... I understand," Willan stammered, nodding vigorously. To a missionary, being a slave to a pagan was a fate worse than death. But faced with the immediate threat of the axe, survival was the only instinct that mattered.
"Good," Einar said, his expression hardening. "From now on, you do what I say. You teach me your language, you teach me about your world. In return, I will let you live. But if you dare to reveal a single word about this book or this map to anyone..."
He paused, leaning in close so the old priest could see the cold glint in his eyes.
"...I will personally send you to meet your god."