When I stepped into the ring, the crowd laughed at my request for a spear. "A spear? Do you mean a stick with a pointy end? No, fight like a real Nordic warrior!" they jeered.
But I stood firm. Sigurd, with a nod of approval, sent my spear flying into the ground beside me. "Here, Yacha! Fight with all you have. Show them the respect they deserve."
With a few graceful spins of my spear, I entered the fray. One after another, they came at me, warriors with swords, axes, and shields, and one after another, they fell. Knut, Bjorn, and more, all introduced themselves before falling to the ground, disarmed and defeated.
Then Ursang stood, and Sigurd handed him his massive sword. He stepped into the arena, a playful smirk on his lips. "I, Ursang, challenge Yacha," he declared.
I smiled back, "I, Yacha, accept."
Under the snowy sky, we stood face to face, the crowd buzzing with anticipation. I moved first, my spear alight with fire magic, flames flickering at my feet. I lunged, fast as lightning, but Ursang's sword met my strike with a deafening clang, his strength steady like the earth beneath him.
We circled each other, our weapons singing as they clashed. My steps were swift, infused with fire and thunder, but Ursang, calm and focused, blocked every strike with ease. Frustration built in me, and with a roar, I unleashed a burst of flame, expecting to overpower him. But in an instant, Ursang sidestepped, his sword sweeping low in a move faster than I'd ever seen.
Before I could react, the blunt edge of his sword struck, knocking me off balance and sending me sprawling into the snow. The crowd gasped as I stared up at Ursang, shocked. He extended a hand, his usual serious expression softened by a victorious smirk.
"I didn't expect this," I admitted, acknowledging his newfound strength.
He chuckled. "You didn't think I'd stay weak, did you?"
As the crowd roared with excitement, we all felt the weight of something strange and powerful. Sigurd's voice boomed, cutting through the noise, "Outstanding fight! But now, it's my turn."
A murmur of disbelief spread through us as Sigurd's presence changed. Around him, the ground began to shift, needles of hardened earth rose from the ground, transforming into iron that crackled with thunder magic. My heart pounded, as did Ursang's. Beside me, I could see the shock on Speira and Elin's faces.
Sigurd, grinning like a wolf, launched the needles in every direction, lightning sparking around his feet. "I, Sigurd Normen, challenge Ursang."
Ursang's voice trembled as he stepped forward. "I...I, Ursang, accept."
What followed was beyond anything I'd seen. Sigurd moved with blinding speed, his power was immense and terrifying. Ursang dodged the first strike, but before he could react, Sigurd was upon him, landing a devastating kick to the back of his neck. Ursang crumpled to the ground, buried in the dirt, unconscious as the crowd stood in stunned silence.
The earth beneath us cracked slightly from the force of Sigurd's attack. I could barely breathe as I looked upon him, my mind reeling. We had no idea Sigurd wielded such immense power, a force far beyond what we could have imagined.
YACHA POV.
Under the canopy of snow, the air crackled with energy, thick with the aftermath of battle. Sigurd placed his hand on Ursang's back, a soft glow of mana gathering around his palm. With deliberate control, he released the magic into Ursang's body. Slowly, Ursang stirred, his eyes fluttering open. He sat up, trembling, his face a mixture of fear, confusion, and disbelief.
"What just happened?" Ursang muttered, still reeling from the force that had felled him.
From afar, Oscar's voice echoed through the air. "You didn't think you stood a chance against *Thor's Hammer*, did you? That's Sigurd's special move."
Sigurd reached out, helping Ursang to his feet, his grip firm yet reassuring. "You did well, kid," he said, though the battle had been swift. Ursang, however, didn't seem to share the sentiment. He walked away, frustration evident in his clenched fists, the sting of his quick defeat still fresh.
I, on the other hand, was in awe. The precision, the sheer power Sigurd had demonstrated—his absolute control over his mana was unlike anything I had ever seen. Not a drop of magic had been wasted. My eyes widened with admiration, and without thinking, I muttered aloud, "That was so cool…"
Sigurd noticed my excitement and chuckled softly. He summoned a large axe into his hand, its surface etched with glowing runes, and rested it on his shoulder. Approaching me, he placed his other hand on my head. In that moment, I felt something unexpected—a sense of warmth, as if I stood beside a father I had never known.
"You've got potential, son," he said, smiling gently. "If you put your heart into it, you'll reach this level and beyond."
He motioned for me to follow him, and I hesitated for a moment, fear creeping into my mind. Did he know where we came from? Was our cover blown? My heart raced as thoughts of betrayal and death filled my head, but I obeyed. We walked in silence, my footsteps heavy with dread, until we reached his makeshift throne. Two massive wolves, Geri and Freki, lay beside it, their eyes ever-watchful.
"Stand up," Sigurd commanded, his voice firm. The wolves rose instantly, their attention now fixed on Ursang's retreating figure. "Follow him," Sigurd continued, "and protect him if danger arises."
With swift grace, the wolves vanished into the forest, leaving only the faint sound of snow crunching beneath their paws.
"Come closer, son. I don't bite," Sigurd said, patting the ground next to his throne.
I hesitated but reasoned that if he had wanted to kill us, he would have done so already. Slowly, I sat beside him, watching the warriors of Skara Brae celebrate, their laughter and cheers filling the air. Despite the chaos, there was a strange peace at the moment.
After a long silence, Sigurd spoke. "I assume the four of you are magic attribute users?"
"Yes, Sigurd," I replied quietly, catching myself before I nearly called him *father*.
"And you won't cause any trouble in my village?"
"No… we won't," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
"Good to know."
Another stretch of silence passed before Sigurd shifted, placing a heavy hand on my shoulder. My breath caught in my throat. The weight of his touch was more terrifying than comforting, especially given the nature of our mission. Were we here to kill him?
His voice was steady, almost soothing. "Nightmares… how long have you had them?"
"Nightmares?" I asked, unfamiliar with the term.
He let out a hearty laugh. "You don't know what a nightmare is?"
Annoyed at his amusement, I frowned. "No…"
"They're the dreams that shake you awake in fear," he explained, his tone softening. "A reflection of your worst experiences… or a trauma buried deep."
I stared at him, wide-eyed. How could he possibly know this? The nightmares, the fear—they were things I had never shared with anyone.
"How…?" I began, but he interrupted.
"Thunder attribute," he said, leaning back against his chair. "It's an ability that manifests in those who've fought a curse from within. It begins when your magic core is unlocked, expanding your mana pool."
His words hung in the air, and for a moment, I was speechless. "Now I understand…"
"Understand what?" he asked.
I shifted in my seat. "I'm the only thunder user among my peers. I thought I was the only one until I met you."
He chuckled, patting his knee as if recalling an old memory. "I once thought the same. But you're not the only one. There was another thunder user I encountered."
My curiosity piqued. "Another? Where is he?"
Sigurd's expression darkened, and the smile faded from his face. "Dead. By my own hand."
I didn't press further. Whatever had happened, it wasn't something Sigurd wanted to dwell on. And besides, other questions weighed heavier on my mind—questions about the curse, about the nightmares.
"It's time to rest," Sigurd said, standing as the wolves returned, flanking Ursang. "We'll continue this tomorrow. My children need their sleep."
We followed Leonera and her children back to the house, where she prepared our sleeping space near the fire. The warmth was a welcome relief from the biting cold outside. As I lay there, staring at the ceiling, my mind raced with thoughts of Sigurd's words. The curse, the nightmares, the thunder attribute—it all seemed to be connected, but I couldn't piece it together.
"Can't sleep?" Ursang whispered from his side of the room.
"No," I replied.
"Me either…" he sighed. "You've gotten stronger, Yacha."
"Not strong enough," I muttered.
"Feels like a suicide mission, doesn't it?"
We lapsed into silence, the crackling fire the only sound between us. Eventually, we began reminiscing about the orphanage, old memories of a simpler time. I drifted off to sleep.
But the nightmares returned.
The same woman, weeping and pleading for mercy. Her arms around me, shielding me from a Seiken soldier as he raised his sword. And then—her head falling, rolling across the ground. In another flash, the soldier was stabbed, and I saw my own reflection in his dying eyes. The scene shifted, the soldier now me, and a child stood over me, screaming in rage.
I woke with a start, my heart racing, vision blurred. The knocking continued, not part of the dream but real. I shook off the remnants of sleep and followed the sound outside.
There was Sigurd, chopping wood. He didn't turn to face me, but I knew he sensed my presence. "Another nightmare?" he asked, his voice carrying over the steady rhythm of the axe.
"Yes… unfortunately."
"Good."
I frowned, confused. *Good*? What was good about that?
Sensing my bewilderment, Sigurd paused and glanced over his shoulder. "Confused? It's a way of fighting the curse. The nightmares, are tied to something deeper within you. They're strong because the curse is strong—etched into your memories."
His words struck a chord. I had long suspected the nightmares were more than just dreams, perhaps fragments of a past I couldn't remember, a past before the orphanage. But Sigurd's certainty unnerved me.
As he resumed chopping, I watched him carefully, noting the precision in his movements. Despite the weight of the axe, he wielded it with the ease of a seasoned warrior, those are not moves of an amateur, those are moves of years and years of training.
"You want to learn?" he asked, catching my gaze.
I nodded eagerly. He tossed an axe my way, and I approached him, eager to understand more about the weapon and, perhaps, about myself.
Sigurd explained the nuances of using the axe, particularly for someone with a thunder attribute. The axe, unlike others, was made entirely of metal, allowing thunder magic to course through it freely. He demonstrated how to fuse magic into the weapon, turning it into an extension of the body. The way the energy traveled through the blade, transmitted its power, and further explanation of how thunder effectiveness is tied to the type of materials the weapon is made from.