"Ivar Gorgonoff. Son of Wolfhead Kashyrn."
"Young man of the Stonegar Tribe who scaled Arrowhead Cliff the fastest."
"You have now passed the trial. Take up your warrior's name in accordance with Ishkar's will."
Honestly, at first, I had no idea I'd been dropped into another world. I thought I'd just been born into some nomadic tribe on the vast steppes, like in the late Goryeo era.
The land was barren, the winters brutal, and wars with those so-called civilized folk never let up. But once I learned that the animals our tribe's warriors dragged back as food were beasts cursed by the gods—magic beasts, that is—I realized this wasn't Earth.
My options were limited. Born in a small tribal settlement up north, I naturally blended into their way of life.
The Stonegar Tribe were true savages of the plains. If someone committed a crime, they'd shove clubs into both sides' hands first thing.
If you got sick, they'd call a shaman to pray to the gods, and for the coming-of-age rite, they'd shove kids off cliffs.
After surviving countless brushes with death like that, I finally came of age and earned the right to venture out as a full-fledged tribal warrior.
It had been five years since my possession.
"Ivar, wanna go hunting?"
"Gonna fetch water."
"Housework's for women. Come spar with me instead!"
Having taken over Ivar's body after he suffered a childhood fever, the tribesfolk treated me like one of their own. But gaining full acceptance wasn't easy.
I'd gotten used to chewing raw magic beast meat and drawing weapons at the slightest provocation, but hygiene and a few other things were non-negotiable.
Naturally, I drew stares as the weird one, marking me as different from "us."
An existence they couldn't afford to turn their backs on—one who could send them to death anytime. To dispel that prejudice, I had to work tirelessly.
"Spar later. I'm busy."
"You turned me down in autumn too! Holing up all day staring at that toilet paper..."
"It's a book. And the shaman visiting the village today needs clean water for her divinations."
"Coward! And you call yourself Ishkar's warrior?!"
Harald was the chieftain's son. He could shatter a boulder hauled by seven horses with his club and proudly wore a necklace of bones from the magic beasts he'd slain.
Me? I was a fresh young warrior who'd just finished my coming-of-age rite, without notable feats or a second name denoting a true warrior's pride.
The brawl erupted out of nowhere. The outcome was surprisingly anticlimactic.
"Guhk...!"
"I-Ivar took down Harald!"
"Ancestral Power burst forth! He's been chosen by the War God Ishkar!"
"We haven't even fought the ones hiding behind the walls yet... Ivar's been a true warrior since birth!"
An intangible force crushed the back of Harald's neck, dropping him. The onlookers erupted in cheers.
I could wield the power granted by ancestors in battle more naturally than others. It was the result of my efforts to understand this world.
A single book rolling around in some tribesman's hut. No way one of our illiterate folk made it.
Seemed like spoils from imperial folk. Strangely, I was the only one who could read it.
Translating it revealed instructions on handling this bizarre ability. What we called Ancestral Power, they understood as mana.
The original owner had torn out pages for toilet paper, so most were lost. But I traded a kid goat for some paper.
After that, I scoured for imperial goods to learn more about the world, but adults rarely indulged a young warrior's requests, so no luck. Still, practicing what the book described paid off.
I extended both hands to the fallen Harald. A gesture of respect—laying down arms and honoring his pride. I didn't want to fight the chieftain's son.
"Harald. I'm not avoiding our duel—I'm just waiting for the plains' sheep to fatten."
"The sheep?"
"Winter's coming. Grak said even young warriors like me will join this war."
When the winds shifted and food ran low, the plains tribes united southward. Their target: food and weapons hoarded by the rats behind the walls.
"If you want a contest, let's see who fells more cowards there. Fighting now and getting hurt would just stupidly forfeit our shot at Doomhelm."
The great land reachable only by warriors slain in glorious battle.
Harald eyed my outstretched hands, pondered, then grinned broadly. He tossed his club and clasped my hands, laughing heartily.
"Hah! Deal, clever Ivar! From today, you're my brother!"
"Thanks, brother."
"Nice technique! Teach me if you get the chance!"
"Help with the water, and I'll teach you before winter hits."
Bit by bit, I built trust among the tribe like this. Clever Ivar, sharp Ivar, sly Ivar...
That's what my brothers called me, nameless as I was. And then the first winter after coming of age.
In the bone-chilling cold that killed even horses, we allied with other tribes to assault the fortress. It didn't go well. Many died in battle.
Harald survived, but lost an eye and an ear.
"Thirty-seven! You got six, right? I win the bet, Ivar!"
Too young for frontline combat, I only tangled with imperial scouts lurking outside the walls. They knew fighting us on open plains gained them nothing, so there weren't many.
"No need to mope about not scaling the walls. You're young—plenty more chances."
"Not disappointed, brother."
I had no complaints about the chieftain keeping me back. Experience and skill were lacking, after all.
It could've been my chance to see what world I'd fallen into and how those behind the walls lived. Still, I gained some spoils, so I was content for now.
"Nice. From one of the rat pups?"
"Yeah."
A vicious axe dripping crimson blood from its blade nonstop. Didn't know the rank, but it was treasured by some enemy commander.
Good iron quality. I'd use it till it broke.
"Their leader's cunning, though."
"You mean the one called the Winter Witch? Tough fight?"
"Felt like slogging through mud against the Swamp Lord. But her Ancestral Power was dangerous most of all."
The Swamp Lord was one of the magic beasts the tribes feared. Swamp Lord, Flower Lord, Night Lord, Blood Lord—four calamitous beasts haunted this land.
The empire didn't build that massive wall just to fend off winter raiders. Even our elders warned against them, yet imperial subjugation forces ventured out several times a year, only to get wiped out routinely.
"What do you think, Ivar?"
"About what?"
"Does the Winter Witch have mighty ancestors too?"
"Maybe..."
They'd stationed a competent commander up north. No fools, naturally.
Anyway, I returned home with mild regrets. Just one battle, but my Ancestral Power had noticeably grown.
"Incredible!"
"You think?"
"Never felt this much power in any warrior your age. You'll be a great warrior for sure, Ivar!"
"Appreciate it."
Shaman Aiter, who visited occasionally, cheered. Wearing a magic beast pelt like a white mountain goat and a face mask, her writhing looked eerie.
Usually she healed battle wounds or divined via prayer, but today she ground unfamiliar red powder in a mortar.
"What's that?"
"To etch a rune that lets you handle Ancestral Power better. Once it settles in your body, you'll move faster and jump higher."
Ah, like the mana circuits from the book. Some tribal warriors had runes tattooed on them.
Bratty kids got scolded for mimicking with magic beast blood. Skeptical of superstition, I'd never bothered.
'So it wasn't just myth or show.'
Anyway, more power? Welcome. I stripped and bared my back willingly.
"Hit me with the strongest one."
A beat later, a small shriek came from behind.
"Eek!? I-Ivar..."
"What's wrong?"
"I don't choose the rune type."
"Then?"
"You voice your desire, and the ancestors grant it."
Aiter adjusted her mask, sprinkling red powder over mucus from Clawfen Swamp. Peering through the round eyeholes, she asked.
"What do you want, Ivar? What do you want to become on these plains, where stars pause in their journey?"
Never thought about it. Too busy surviving in this world far from my old one.
But now with power, awakened mana, and tribal acceptance, one riddle remained unsolved.
What was this world really? What lay beyond the walls our tribes couldn't breach?
I was curious.
"I-I see...!"
"Why surprised?"
"Thought you'd say chieftain or great warrior. All warriors so far did."
Great warrior? Just a title for good hunters and fighters—not a fixed job.
And chieftain? More busywork than it looked.
Neither appealed. My goal was singular.
To learn more about this world—including why an illiterate like me could read imperial script on sight.
As if answering that yearning, the rune slowly took shape. Aiter carefully etched it onto me.
"Done. It'll take a month to settle, so hold off on using Ancestral Power till then."
"Thanks."
"N-No problem! You... fetched water for me every day..."
Finding clean sources on magic beast-infested plains was tough.
She remembered me hauling it from afar, enduring tribesfolk's teasing. Truth was, I wanted clean water myself.
After my first rune, I busied myself hunting magic beasts with my axe to prep for winter.
And 11 months passed.
"Warriors, are you prepared...!"
Year six of possession.
The cold winter of my second battlefield.
I'd finally earned the right to scale the walls.
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