"This village belongs to us now," the enemy leader declared. "Give us your gold, your livestock, and your strongest men, and we may spare the rest of you."
The boy's father stepped forward, his axe held high. "You'll get nothing from us," he said, his voice calm but resolute. "Turn back now, or face the wrath of our gods."
The raider leader laughed, the sound sharp and mocking. "Your gods are silent," he said. "And your warriors are few. We'll take what we want, whether you yield or not."
"Have it your way then," he said, his voice low and deliberate, cutting through the air like a blade itself. His hand moved with the certainty of a man who had drawn steel a thousand times before. "My sword or the gods—either way, death is all you'll find here."
The hiss of steel echoed as he drew his blade, its polished edge catching the faint light like a shard of the heavens themselves. The men recoiled instinctively, their confidence faltering. They had expected defiance, maybe even desperation—but not this. Not a calm, measured promise of their end.
He took a step forward, the sword steady in his grip, and his gaze bore into them, unyielding. The silence stretched, the weight of his words hanging like a death knell.
Ok
"Who's first?"
He tilted the blade slightly, its tip glinting like the edge of an unspoken curse. His voice dropped lower, colder, as he added, "Tell the dregs in Hel it was Regnar who sent you."
The air crackled with tension as the father stood firm on the rocky shore of the fjord. The cold wind tousled his hair, carrying the distant cries of gulls and the rhythmic lapping of waves against the rocks. Before him stood the enemy—dozens of armed men, their weapons catching the pale light."
From their ranks, a man stepped forward, his battered armor bearing the weight of countless battles. His sword was drawn, steady in the grip of one who had survived on cunning and steel. But even Captain Ingvar, hardened by war, paused as realization struck. What shook him wasn't the man's stance or his calm demeanor—it was his name.
"Regnar?" the captain said, as if tasting the name on his tongue. "The Regnar?" His gaze swept over the man before him, as if searching for proof of the legends he'd grown up hearing—the Viking who'd toppled warlords, who'd left fields littered with the dead and seas stained red.
"I don't believe it," the captain continued, his voice louder now, attempting to mask his doubt. "You stand here alone, on the shore of a forgotten fjord, with a few farmers behind you—and claim to be him? Regnar the Undefeated?" He laughed, but the sound was hollow.
Regnar said nothing. He merely stood, his sword resting at his side, its edge catching the faint light. His expression was calm, his blue eyes like shards of ice.
The captain's smirk faltered. He drew himself up, raising his sword for his men to see. "I call you a liar! And if you're not…" His voice dropped into a growl. "Can you kill all of us? I've six dozen men here. I'm willing to gamble."
With that, the captain unsheathed his sword and raised it high. The raiders roared their approval, the sound echoing off the cliffs. Their boots pounded against the earth as they rallied aroundu their leader, their confidence bolstered by their overwhelming numbers.
Regnar stood alone, his breath steady, his blade gleaming in the dim light. His mind was calm, calculating. Even with their numbers, they can only come at me four at a time. One from each direction. This isn't seventy versus one—it's a series of one-on-four fights.
Regnar finally moved. He took a step forward, his boots crunching softly against the frozen earth. His voice, when it came, was low but carried like thunder. "Come, then."
The first raider charged, a bearded man wielding an axe. He moved fast, but not fast enough. Regnar sidestepped, his sword arcing in a blur of silver. The raider's head fell before his body hit the ground. Blood sprayed across the rocks, steaming in the cold air.
A second man came from the left, spear thrusting. Regnar twisted, his blade slicing through the shaft before driving into the raider's chest. He pulled it free with a sharp jerk, the motion as natural as breathing.
A third attacker lunged from the front, sword raised high. Regnar deflected the blow, his blade singing as it struck, then spun and severed the man's leg at the knee. The raider screamed as he fell, silenced a moment later by a precise strike to the throat.
The fourth and fifth came together, one from each side. Regnar ducked low, their weapons clashing where his head had been. He surged upward, driving his sword into one man's stomach before wrenching it free and slashing across the other's neck in a single, fluid motion.
By the time the sixth man fell, the rocky shore was slick with blood. The villagers behind Regnar stood frozen in stunned silence, their fear mingling with awe. His movements were precise, efficient—a master of life and death, wielding the power to decide fate with every strike. Each step was measured, as though the earth itself carried him forward.
"Press him!" the captain barked, rallying his men. "Don't give him space! Surround him!"
The raiders surged forward, attempting to overwhelm him with sheer numbers. Four men attacked at once, their swords coming at him from every angle. He deflected two strikes in a single motion, twisting his body to avoid the third. The fourth blade grazed his side, but before its wielder could press the advantage, Regnar's sword found his throat.
They came at him in waves, but Regnar was a storm. His movements were seamless, calculated, each strike a lesson in mastery. One by one, the raiders fell, their cries mingling with the clash of steel and the roar of the wind.
By the time twenty bodies littered the ground, the battlefield stilled. The surviving raiders panted as they backed away from the bloodied figure standing amidst a sea of corpses. Regnar's chest rose and fell with steady breaths, his blade dripping red.
The captain stepped forward, his sword lowered slightly. "Are you really Regnar?" he asked, his voice quiet now, almost reverent.
Regnar's gaze locked onto him, cold and unflinching. "What do the dead care about such things?"
The captain stiffened as a wave of killing intent radiated from Regnar. It was so potent, so visceral, that even the most hardened raiders felt their knees weaken. Whispers spread through the ranks, doubt flickering in their eyes. Some took hesitant steps back, their grip on their weapons faltering.
There was no anger, no hesitation—only the promise of death.
The captain clenched his jaw, steeling himself. He was no fool—this was the strongest enemy he had ever faced. But he could not afford to falter.
"You're a legend," he admitted, his voice steady despite the tension in his shoulders. "The greatest warrior of your time," he added, his voice tinged with grudging respect. "But even legends die."
He raised his sword high, rallying his men once more. "He's just a man! Swarm him! Take him down!"
For every man who fell, another stepped forward. Seventy men were an overwhelming force—but to Regnar they were eighteen battles to win. Four versus one, one enemy in each direction. And he was half way there. He cut through them with cold efficacy, leaving only blood and silence in his wake.
But numbers had their cost. As Regnar cut down the thirty sixth warrior, blood poured from a dozen wounds, each one sapping a little more of his strength. His breaths grew heavier, his movements just a touch slower than they once were. The ache in his muscles and the sting of old scars reminded him that even the strongest are not untouched by time.
If I fall here, what becomes of them? The thought struck like a hammer against glass, sharp and splintering. My son—too young to fight, too young to protect them. My wife… He clenched his teeth, refusing to let the thought finish. My daughter… His chest tightened, his breath catching for a moment. No. I cannot fall. I will not leave them to the mercy of men like this.
His grip on the sword tightened, his knuckles white against the hilt. The ache in his body screamed for rest, but he shoved it aside. They need me to stand. I must stand.
Each movement sent fire through his limbs, but he pressed forward. One step. One strike. One breath. I'll end this. I must.
The captain, watching like a wolf circling an injured stag, seized his moment. With a savage roar, he lunged forward, his sword arcing toward Regnar's chest. Regnar moved faster—his blade a blur as it surged upward, cutting through the air faster than the captain's desperate swing.
The counter was perfect. It should have ended the fight.
But as Regnar's blade closed in on the captain's throat, pain exploded in his back. The arrow struck hard, tearing through muscle and sending a searing shock through his body. His sword passed just short of its mark, leaving only a thin red line across the captain's neck—a cruel mockery of the killing blow it was meant to be.
The captain's eyes widened in shock before his bloodlust surged. His own blade, already descending, met no resistance. It struck true. Blood sprayed in a vivid arc as the legendary warrior collapsed, his sword slipping from his grasp and clattering onto the blood-soaked ground.
When the chaos settled, the battlefield was silent. Forty men lay dead, their bodies a testament to his skill and willpower. Blood stained the ground, mingling with the seawater lapping at the shore.
The captain stood over Regnar's lifeless body, his chest heaving, his sword heavy in his hand. His own blood mingled with his sweat, and his face bore a grim expression.
He touched his neck, his fingers brushing the thin line left by Regnar's blade. Blood smeared across his hand as he pulled it away, and for a moment, he just stared at it. That should have been it, he thought, his chest tightening. A hair closer…
His hand trembled as the weight of it settled. It wasn't skill that saved me. It was luck. Nothing else. His gaze shifted to Regnar's body, still and bloodied on the ground.
"That," he said quietly, "was a man worthy of killing."
As one, the remaining raiders bowed their heads in respect, their weapons lowered. The captain stepped forward and knelt beside Regnar's body, his hand resting briefly on the man's still chest.
"You'll be remembered," he murmured.
The wind howled through the fjord, carrying with it the whispers of a legend now passed into history.