I am five now and my stats have developed significantly.
Four years of growing up in this harsh world had changed me. My body was stronger. My mind sharper. The system had been tracking my progress the entire time.
"Show me my stats," I whispered when no one was around.
[Your Status is]
[Name: Njal]
[Strength: 3.5]
[Endurance: 1]
[Intelligence: 23]
[Skills]
[Listening lv4] [Learning lv5] [Norse lv7]
[Titles] [None]
My intelligence had grown the most. All those years of listening to stories and learning the language. My Norse skill was almost fluent now.
But my physical stats were still pathetic. Three and half strength. One endurance. I was basically still a weak child.
That was about to change.
My dad had returned from his latest raid three months ago. Brought back English silver and stories of victory. He looked older now. More scars on his arms. Gray streaks in his brown beard.
But he was still the strongest man I'd ever seen.
"Son," he said one morning. "Your training will start today. You must work hard to get to the top."
I nodded. I'd been expecting this. Viking children started warrior training young. Some as early as four or five years old.
"We start today with sit-ups," he said.
The training area was behind our house. A cleared patch of dirt with some wooden equipment. Logs for lifting. Targets for spear throwing. A small wrestling circle.
"Okay, father," I said.
My Norse was good enough now that we could have real conversations. Not the baby talk from before.
I laid down on the hard ground. The dirt was cold against my back.
I started with one sit-up. My stomach muscles burned immediately.
Then I did two more.
[Strength increased by: 1.5]
The system notification appeared in my vision. My father couldn't see it of course. He just watched me struggle with basic exercises.
It got easier with my strength stat now at five. But my father made me start over.
"Again," he said. "Do it properly this time."
I started counting out loud.
"One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten."
[Strength increased by: 1]
My muscles were screaming. But I felt stronger already. The system was accelerating my physical development.
"Good," my father said. "Now push-ups."
Push-ups were harder. My arms shook with the effort. I could barely manage five before collapsing.
"Pathetic," he muttered. But not cruelly. Just stating a fact.
After exercises came practical work. Wood cutting.
He handed me a small axe. Showed me how to swing it properly. How to split logs for the fire.
The axe was heavy in my small hands. The first few swings missed completely. But gradually I got the rhythm.
Swing. Split. Stack. Repeat.
My palms developed blisters within an hour. But I kept going.
After two months of daily training, everything had changed.
"Show me my stats," I said one evening.
[Your Status is]
[Name: Njal]
[Strength: 12]
[Endurance: 6]
[Intelligence: 23]
[Skills]
[Listening lv4] [Learning lv5] [Norse lv7] [Wood Cutting lv3] [Strength Training lv2]
[Titles]
[The Giant] [Wood Pecker]
The Giant title made me laugh. Twelve strength was probably impressive for a five-year-old. Most kids my age could barely lift their own body weight.
Wood Pecker was less flattering. But I'd gotten good at splitting logs. Fast and efficient.
These stats were good but I had to keep training to get better. The system was helping but it wasn't magic. I still had to put in the work.
My father seemed pleased with my progress. He'd started teaching me more advanced techniques. Proper stance for fighting. How to hold a spear. Basic tactics.
"Today we visit the village," he announced one morning.
I'd never been to the main settlement before. We lived on the outskirts with a few other farming families.
As we walked the dirt path, I noticed how developed this Viking tribe actually was. They had brick buildings instead of just wood. I'd thought our house was normal but apparently we lived simply.
The village was bigger than I'd expected. Maybe two hundred people total. There were workshops for metalworking. A large hall for gatherings. Even a small market area.
And the people were having fun.
Children played games in the streets. Adults laughed and talked while they worked. Someone was playing music on a wooden flute.
I thought this was going to be different. People in my old world always said Vikings were cruel and didn't have emotions. But I could see that wasn't true.
Sure, they were warriors. But they were also human.
My father was always nice to everyone we met. Other men greeted him with respect. Women smiled and asked about our family. Children waved.
He was clearly important here. A leader people looked up to.
"This is my son," he introduced me to an older man with intricate tattoos on his arms.
"Strong boy," the man said, examining me like I was livestock. "Good shoulders. He'll make a fine warrior."
I tried to stand straighter. Look more impressive.
"He's been training hard," my father said with pride in his voice.
The conversation continued but I stopped paying attention. Instead I watched the village life around me.
Blacksmiths hammering metal. Women weaving cloth. Teenagers practicing with wooden swords.
Everyone had a role. Everyone contributed.
This was the world I'd been reborn into. Not just the brutal raiding and fighting. But also community. Family. Purpose.
For the first time since arriving here, I felt like I might actually belong.
The system had given me advantages. But it was the people who would make this life worth living.