After hours of drifting alone at sea, meeting another human felt… strange.
Not because I had forgotten how to speak, but because for the past eight hours, this world consisted only of water, currents, and faint whispers from the depths. So when I saw that wooden ship — and the human faces upon it — I immediately realized one thing.
They were standing on the brink of ruin.
The Deep Ones never attacked without reason. If they had already climbed onto the deck, it meant this ship had been dragged far enough into a territory that should never have been touched. Had I arrived a little later, the outcome would have been different.
I pushed that thought aside and focused on what was in front of me.
Their gazes were fixed on me — a mixture of relief, confusion, and caution. Understandable. It wasn't every day someone appeared in the middle of a storm and drove back sea monsters as if it were nothing unusual.
I cleared my throat softly.
"Ahem… sorry for my inconvenient arrival."
Silence followed.
Then a dry laugh came from the ship's captain. He wasn't laughing because it was funny, but because the tension had finally found a way out.
"Hahaha… no, no," he said, shaking his head. "If not for you, we would've sunk by now. Are you… a mage?"
I shook my head slightly.
"Hm… no," I answered honestly. "Let's just say I'm a traveler."
He looked at me for a few seconds, then nodded as if that was the most reasonable answer in the world.
"Alright, Mr. Traveler," he said at last. He straightened his back, then bowed slightly. "On behalf of this ship's crew, I thank you for saving us all."
I raised my hand a little, signaling that he didn't need to be that formal.
"Yeah… I'll also be troubling you," I said while glancing at the sea that was still lightly heaving. "Where are you headed?"
"Iceland Island."
"Hah!?"
The word slipped out before I could stop it.
My chest tightened. Iceland. That name was far too… specific. Too real-world. For a moment, my mind was filled with unanswered questions.
'Am I still in the same world Or is the Tower simply copying places I know?'
Because this was clearly still inside the Tower.
The captain frowned. "Is something wrong?"
I shook my head slowly, inhaling, calming the thoughts that had leapt too far.
"No," I finally replied. "In fact… I'd like to ask. Would you accept one more passenger?"
Some of the crew exchanged glances. Then the captain chuckled lightly.
"After what just happened?" he said. "We'd be glad to have you with us."
I nodded slightly.
And that was how it happened.
I boarded that medieval wooden ship as a traveler, and sailed toward an island called Iceland.
...
The next few days passed without major incidents.
The sea grew calm again, as if the encounter with the Deep Ones had been nothing more than a nightmare too vivid to forget. The ship moved steadily, sails fully unfurled, and the crew worked with a rhythm far more cautious than before. They no longer joked much, yet their gazes toward the sea were no longer filled with panic — more like composed vigilance.
At last, land appeared on the horizon.
The island was… green.
When the captain first mentioned its name, I imagined plains of ice, black stone, and biting cold winds. But instead, I saw rolling grassy hills, dense forests hugging the shoreline, and towering cliffs coated with green moss.
The ship entered the harbor slowly. A long wooden pier stretched ahead, filled with other trading vessels of similar shape and size. The scent of sea salt mixed with damp wood and faint smoke from the distant settlement.
When the anchor was dropped, the heavy rattle of its chain echoed — marking the end of the journey.
The crew moved quickly, tying ropes, checking cargo, making sure the ship no longer drifted. Parts of the hull were damaged — splintered wood and puncture marks from tridents that had yet to be repaired. Traces of the Deep Ones' attack remained, even if the danger itself had long been left behind.
The captain approached me.
He handed me a small pouch of coins, its weight noticeable in my hand. "As a token of gratitude," he said. "Without you, we wouldn't have only lost our cargo… we might never have reached this place."
I glanced at the pouch briefly, then nodded.
"Thank you," I replied simply. Money wasn't the reason I came to the Tower, but refusing it served no purpose either.
Some of the crew members also expressed their thanks before returning to their duties. There was no dramatic farewell. To them, I was just a passing traveler — and that was enough.
I stepped off the ship and walked into the harbor.
My footsteps carried me away from the sound of waves and dockworkers' shouts, toward the denser settlement. Wooden and stone buildings stood close together, their roofs slanted to resist rain and wind. People passed by in thick clothing, some carrying goods, others chatting lightly.
Now, there was only one thing I needed to do: find where Jörmungandr was.
If my memory was right — and the Tower rarely gave coincidences without reason — the creature should be on the Stone Island. A place whose very name sounded unwelcoming, let alone its contents.
And as always, the best place to start gathering information was the same.
A bar.
I pushed open the door of a low building marked by an old wooden signboard. The hinges creaked softly as it opened. The smell of alcohol, damp wood, and warm food greeted me at once. The place was fairly lively — some people sat at rough tables, laughing quietly, while others spoke in low, serious tones. Oil lamps hung from the ceiling, casting a warm yellow glow that contrasted with the cold air outside.
I walked up to the bar counter.
The owner was an old man with a thick gray beard and sharp eyes — the kind of eyes belonging to someone who had heard too many strange stories to be easily surprised. Yet there was still alertness in them, as if every newcomer carried the possibility of trouble.
I placed a few coins on the table.
"One beer," I said softly.
He smiled faintly, took a large wooden mug, filled it to the brim, and set it down in front of me with a heavy thud.
"Are you a newcomer?" he asked while wiping the counter.
I glanced at him briefly. "You can tell from my face."
"Hahaha!" He burst out laughing. "True enough. Outsiders rarely come here. So, what brings you to a remote place like this?"
I lifted the mug, took a small sip, then set it back down.
"I came here to look for the Stone Island."
In an instant, the bar's atmosphere changed.
Laughter vanished. Conversations stopped mid-sentence. Even the sound of burning wood in the fireplace grew clearer than before. I could feel several pairs of eyes turning toward me.
The bar owner froze.
His expression changed — not angry, not afraid, but surprised in a way he himself clearly never expected to appear on his face.
"Wait a moment," he said quietly, his tone dropping a few levels. "What are you planning to do in that cursed place?"
I looked straight at him.
"Exactly what you're thinking," I replied calmly. "I want to see Jörmungandr."
Reactions erupted instantly.
Someone in the corner of the bar swore under his breath. A wooden mug was placed on the table too hard, its contents spilling a little. Several broad-bodied men — clearly Vikings from their clothing and posture — exchanged glances wearing expressions that mixed disbelief and anger.
"This guy's insane," someone muttered.
"No sane man speaks that name carelessly," another added.
A blond-haired Viking rose halfway from his seat, his body tall and broad, an old scar running across his arm. His gaze stabbed straight toward me.
"Stone Island is not a sightseeing spot, outsider," he said coldly. "It is a place even the sea itself hesitates to approach."
I nodded slightly, accepting his words without arguing.
"That is precisely why I'm going there."
The bar fell silent again.
This time, it wasn't a silence born from shock — but from weight. As if everyone in the room realized that this conversation had touched something that should have remained buried.
Then a chair was pulled back.
Someone stood up.
He was a middle-aged man with a body full of dense muscle, his skin covered in faded Nordic tattoos worn down by age. One of his eyes was damaged — an old scar kept that eyelid half-closed forever. But the other eye… sharp, alive, and full of the experience of war.
He stood straighter than the rest.
Instinctively, the people in the bar gave him space.
"What do you want to do there?" he asked, his voice low yet heavy. "This isn't just sightseeing, is it?"
I looked back at him.
For some reason, there was something about his presence that reminded me of Azazel — not his face, but his aura. A leader used to making dirty decisions in order to survive. The difference was, this man felt far more feral.
"This has something to do with the Deep Ones," I said honestly.
"The fish-men?" he narrowed his eyes.
"You could call them that."
He fell silent for a moment, then exhaled slowly through his nose.
"Hm. They've been active lately," he muttered, more to himself than to me. "As if they're preparing something."
That sentence had barely finished sinking in when—
CLANG—!
A bell rang from outside.
The sound was harsh, rushed, and full of panic.
The bar door burst open hard, almost slamming into the wall. A young man rushed in, gasping for breath, his face pale, his breathing broken.
"Ragnar!" he shouted. "The Deep Ones are attacking the harbor!!"
My heart pounded harder.
Ragnar?
I turned quickly toward the tattooed man.
"—Wait a second," I thought. "Don't tell me…"
"Tch…" the man rubbed his face with one hand, clearly suppressing his frustration. "This is exactly what I was worried about."
He turned to the people in the bar, his voice shifting into command.
"Wake the boys!"
"Yes, sir!" several voices answered at once.
Chairs were pushed back, weapons taken. The bar that had previously been filled with murmurs was now transforming into a battlefield staging ground. Ragnar strode toward the door, his intention obvious — straight to the harbor.
I moved and blocked his path.
"Wait," I said. "Can you tell me your name?"
He paused for a moment, glancing at me with a raised brow.
"What?" he said, baffled. "I thought I was famous enough in Midgard."
He smirked faintly.
"I am Ragnar Lothbrok."
That name echoed inside my head heavier than it should have.