[Location: Wildwoods, Midgard]
When my consciousness came back, I was already back inside the hut of Faye.
'I should not make a habit of this, being hauled back—this is already the second time.'
The thought rolled in my head as I blinked up at the familiar ceiling of woven timber and smoke-stained beams. The crackle of fire in the hearth was steady, rhythmic, like the breathing of the hut itself. A sharp smell hit me—pine resin, crushed herbs, and something metallic. Blood. My blood.
Groaning, I shifted, but my body resisted. Every muscle screamed as if I'd fought for a hundred days and lost each one. My arms were wrapped tightly in fresh linen, soaked faintly pink. Across my torso, bands of cloth bit into my ribs, layered with some poultice that burned like fire and cooled like ice at the same time.
"You are awake."
Her voice.
Turning my head slowly, I caught sight of her. Faye.
She sat cross-legged near the fire, her serene blue eyes reflecting the flames like polished ice. The flicker of light brushed against her face, illuminating the pale strands of hair that had slipped free from her braid. Her posture was calm, but her shoulders were taut.
Faye wasn't simply watching me. She was studying me.
"You have a habit," she said softly, her tone edged with something between exasperation and worry. "Of throwing yourself into death's arms and daring him to take you."
I swallowed, my throat parched. "...And yet he keeps failing."
Her lips pressed thin, neither smile nor frown. "That is nothing to boast of."
I tried to laugh, but it came out as a rasp. My chest burned where the cloth bound me. Faye rose smoothly and moved to my side, dipping a cloth into a bowl of steaming water mixed with herbs. She dabbed at my forehead, and the coolness sent shivers down my battered body.
"I stitched your side," she murmured, matter-of-fact. "Reset your arm. Your bones will mend fast, faster than they should. Not surprising… considering what you are."
Her words lingered. Not who. What.
I stared at her, but her gaze never faltered. She had already guessed, perhaps even known, that I wasn't like the others who wandered these woods.
"Tell me," she finally said, wringing the cloth, "what were you planning to accomplish, alone against a troll of all things— while not fully healed from fighting hordes of Draugr and Raiders?"
Her words cut sharper than the troll's club had.
I wanted to look away, to roll over and ignore her like some stubborn child, but my body refused me even that dignity. All I could do was lie there, wrapped in poultices and bindings, while her voice pressed down heavier than any boulder.
"What was I planning to accomplish?" I rasped, my lips twitching into something halfway between a grin and a grimace. "Entertainment."
Her brow arched. "Entertainment?"
"Yes." My voice was raw, but sarcasm gave it strength. "What else is a man supposed to do when fate insists on sending oversized corpses and lumbering idiots after him? Sit and knit?"
Faye's hand froze halfway to the bowl of water. Her eyes narrowed, ice-hard, and for a moment I thought she'd shove the cloth into my mouth instead of against my skin.
"You think this is amusing?" Her tone sharpened. "You nearly died. Again."
"Nearly," I corrected, closing my eyes. "Not quite."
She went quiet. I felt her gaze, heavy and unyielding, measuring me like a smith measuring flawed steel. The silence stretched long enough that I wondered if she had finally decided not to waste her breath on me. But then—
"Do you even realize what you're doing to yourself?"
The words weren't angry. They weren't soft either. They were worse—gentle, quiet, the way rivers sound before they become waterfalls.
I cracked one eye open. "I'm alive, aren't I? That's all that matters."
Her lips pressed thin. She wrung the cloth hard enough that water dripped down her wrist, pattering against the floor.
"No."
The word struck like a hammer.
"No?" I echoed.
"Alive isn't enough," she said flatly. "You stagger into fights half-broken, bleed yourself dry, and pretend the wounds don't matter. You think strength is only measured in how much you can endure, how many times you can fall and rise again. But one day, Asura—" she leaned forward, eyes glinting, "—you will rise too slowly. And then it will not be you who pays the price. It will be everyone else."
Her words dug deeper than I wanted to admit.
For a second, just a heartbeat, an image flashed—A battlefield drowned in fire.A thousand screams swallowed by thunder.And me, standing amidst the ruin, fists drenched, heart hollow, too late to save anyone.
My fingers twitched against the blanket. My jaw clenched.
"…Déjà vu," I muttered without thinking.
Faye tilted her head. "What?"
"Nothing." I forced a breath, the weight in my chest heavier than the bandages. "Just… feels like I've heard this lecture before."
"Then clearly you didn't listen the first time."
That earned her a low chuckle from me, ragged but real. "You've got a tongue sharper than any blade, woman."
She smirked faintly. "And still you walk into death like it's your long-lost brother. Perhaps I should sew your tongue shut along with your ribs. At least then you'd stay still."
I laughed again—then groaned, clutching my side as pain flared. "Gods—don't make me laugh, or I'll split your fine stitching."
Faye shook her head, exasperation returning like an old friend. She pressed the poultice firmly against my ribs, her touch steady, precise. The burn seeped into my flesh, biting before it soothed.
I hissed, teeth grinding. "You enjoy this, don't you?"
"Immensely," she said without hesitation.
Despite myself, I smiled.
<><><><><><><><><>
Time slipped by like smoke curling into rafters.
In the blink of an eye, three months passed— three months since I got dropped into the God of War world.
First of drop into Muspelheim, right after that got almost eaten by Níðhögg. Then, a Squirrel named Ratatoskr shooed me to Midgard by splitting the space itself.
And surprise! surprise! that motherfu*ker of a squirrel opened the portal directly to the nest of Draugr. Got swamped by them. Punched them. Punched them good. Then the Raiders made their glorious entry, who're cannibals by the way, so I punched them. Punched them good too. But injuries piled in the end, well then Faye entered my life for the first time—hauled my unconscious body to her hut, nursed my injuries.
Then she went to hunt some game, and I got excited by a small breakthrough in my powers. Overestimated myself. Got my ass handed to me by a troll. Punched him. Got destroyed in return. Almost died. Unlocked Vajra Asura Transformation. Punched him into oblivion.
Three months of this madness.
Three months since I woke up in a body that wasn't mine, in a world that wasn't meant for me.
Three months of fists, blood, fire, and the unshakable weight of something ancient grinding its teeth against my ribs.
Now? I sat half-upright on a bed of furs, wrapped tighter than a winter sausage in bandages, glaring at the flames like they were mocking me.
Faye had gone again—checking traps or hunting, she hadn't said. She trusted her wards around this place to keep me safe. Which was ironic, since I was the danger here.
My reflection in the copper basin beside me confirmed it. Tanned skin flushed fever-bright, eyes faintly red-rimmed, spiky hair that is white in colour, strands sticking out as though they refused to obey gravity or reason. My chest rose and fell with that molten rhythm I could no longer silence. Ba-dump. Ba-dump. Always there.
I leaned closer to the water, the faint ripples warping my features. For a heartbeat, I didn't see me.
I saw him.
Six arms. Burning eyes. Wrath made flesh.
The basin trembled in my grip, water spilling onto the floor. My jaw clenched until my teeth ached.
"…Not yet," I whispered. "You're not me. Not yet."
The words didn't convince even me.
...
And no, I wasn't injured to be wrapped in pelts and bandages.
Well, Faye seems to be getting a little too comfortable treating me like some reckless fool who needs constant binding. Maybe she wasn't wrong—but still. I flexed my arm, and the cloth bit in. Too tight. She overdid it.
In fact, the injuries from back then, my body healed in just one week after the fight.
My body even felt stronger after being healed in just a week.
Bones that had cracked now felt denser. Muscles that had torn now moved with sharper precision. The fire in my veins—it didn't settle. It evolved.
That was the dangerous part.
Every injury wasn't just healing. It was refining me. Each scar was being written over with something tougher, sharper, closer to that six-armed monster I saw in the basin's reflection.
And I hated it.
Because it felt good.
I tugged at the bandages again, scowling. "Tch. Woman ties me up like I'm some drunk who fell in the snow."
Snap—
The linen tore in my hand, threads popping under the flex of my fingers. I unwound it in strips, each breath tasting faintly of resin and blood. My torso came free, the poultices peeling off with a sticky, burning sting. Beneath, skin that had been torn open days ago looked smooth. New. A faint glow pulsed beneath the surface, like cracks filled with molten fire.
I clenched my fist. The light brightened, veins burning faint red along my arm before dimming again. My reflection in the copper basin smirked back.
"Yeah… stronger."
The fire whispered approval.
A knock came at the door. Not heavy—measured, deliberate.
I froze.
Faye never knocked.
The latch creaked, and the door eased open. Cold air swept in, snow riding on it. But it wasn't her.
"Heya! Who's the fellow here?" A blue short man-ish, short-legged, foul-mouthed dwarf walked inside with swagger.
A squat figure stepped into the firelight, his skin the colour of hammered steel dipped in frost, a deep cobalt that caught the glow of the hearth strangely. His beard was thick, bristling like wire, his bald head gleaming with the faint sheen of snowmelt.
He wore a leather apron and battered armour over it, tools hanging from his belt instead of weapons—hammers, tongs, chisels, all stained with soot and ash. His hands were calloused, scarred, stained in ways no washing would ever cure.
Amber eyes glinted sharp as steel under heavy brows, sizing me up with the easy boldness of one who feared nothing, least of all manners.
Brok.
My mind immediately connected the dots, the dwarf from the game God of War 2018.
Brok's gaze swept over me, lingering just a second too long on the faint red glow that pulsed along my arms. His nose wrinkled, and he spat to the side, missing the pelt by an inch.
"Well, I'll be damned. Faye wasn't lyin'. You look like death got bored chewin' ya up and spat ya back out."
My brow furrowed. "...And you are?"
"The fuck you mean who am I?" he barked, voice rough as gravel dragged through a forge. "Name's Brok. Best blacksmith in the realms. Don't you forget it." He jabbed a thick thumb against his chest. "I made weapons for gods before you could wipe your own ass."
I blinked. "Congratulations?"
Brok glared. "Congratulations, he says. Gods above, you really are touched in the head." He stomped further inside, boots thumping like a drum against the wooden floor. His eyes swept the hut, lingering on the herbs, the staff, the faintly glowing wards etched on the doorframe. "Hmph. Still got her old tricks."
He turned back to me, squinting like a jeweler inspecting a flawed gem. "So… you're the stray she dragged in."
"Stray?" I repeated, tone sharp.
"Aye," he said, shameless. "Bleedin', broken, reekin' o' trouble. Same as any other stray."
I sat up straighter despite the twinge in my ribs. "I don't recall askin' for charity."
"Good thing you didn't," Brok snorted. "Faye's the one who found ya. Fed ya. Patched ya. If it were me, I'd've left ya in the snow. Save myself the smell."
I clenched my jaw, fighting the sudden urge to show him what my fist could do to that smug, blue face. But the fire in my veins stirred, restless, wanting a fight. I forced a slow breath, tamping it down.
Instead, I smirked. "Big words from a man half my size."
His eyes narrowed dangerously. "Careful, boy. Half my size still means twice your brains."
"Brains don't win fights."
"Neither does stupidity," he shot back without hesitation.
For a moment, the two of us just stared at each other, the crackle of the fire filling the silence like a challenge waiting to be answered. His stance was relaxed, casual even, but there was steel in the way he held himself. Like a hammer at rest—heavy, unyielding, but ready to swing.
Finally, we both smiled at first, which in turn became full-blown laughter.
It wasn't friendly laughter. No, it was rough, jagged, the kind that carried sharp edges beneath its sound. A man and a dwarf, both too stubborn to admit the other had landed a strike without lifting a finger.
Brok slapped his thigh, wheezing. "Hah! Got a tongue on ya after all. Thought you were just some stiff lump what needed nappies changed."
"Sorry to disappoint." I stretched, testing my ribs. Pain flared, but it was dulled now, almost muted, like the heat under my skin was stitching me together faster than it should. "You've got spunk for someone I could toss into the firepit."
Brok sneered, but his eyes flickered to my glowing veins again. He noticed everything. "Try it, boy. See how far you get before my tools rearrange your jaw. I've cracked troll skulls harder than your thick noggin."
The fire popped loudly between us, like it was laughing too.
I let the smirk fade, leaning back against the furs. "So. What's a blacksmith like you doing stomping into a woman's hut without knocking properly? You here to sell her a pot, or did you come sniffin' trouble?"
Brok barked out a laugh. "Sell her a pot? Hah! No, lad. Faye don't buy nothin' from me. She fixes what needs fixin' herself, stubborn as a mule. I came 'cause she asked."
My brows rose. "She asked you to come?"
"Aye." Brok folded his thick arms across his chest. "Said there's a fool in her house who don't know when to stay down. Said he was swingin' fists at things he oughta be runnin' from. Said—"
He jabbed a finger at me, thick and blunt. "—he needed gear before he got himself gutted proper."
I blinked. Then a slow grin spread across my face. "She asked you to make me weapons?"
"Don't get too happy," Brok snorted. "Said I wasn't to give ya anything shiny enough to make your head bigger. Just somethin' to keep you from breakin' your knuckles on troll hide again."
I barked out a laugh, ignoring the stab in my ribs. "She knows me too well already."
"Aye. Poor lass."
I narrowed my eyes. "Watch it."
Brok smirked.
***
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