In the days that followed, Barnett led his Viking warriors across the land, raiding and plundering. His mission from the system sprite was to conquer all Viking tribes within a 200-kilometer radius, which meant—for the time being—he couldn't attack outsiders. Instead, he had to turn his sword against his own kin. That didn't bother Barnett much. After all, in this era and on this continent, the strong preyed on the weak, and infighting among tribes was common.
After successfully conquering five tribes and seizing their wealth and people, Barnett actually found himself enjoying these internal campaigns. To be fair, he wasn't truly one of them—he had come from North America in his previous life and wasn't a Viking by blood.
With wealth, everything became easier. The Vikings, now flush with loot, eagerly anticipated the next conquest. Barnett, thanks to his "bug-like" system, took half the spoils without worry. Any jewelry, silverware, or other valuables he didn't need were instantly converted into gold via the system's trade function. In just five days, he raked in five thousand gold coins—instant nouveau riche.
Getting rich through plunder was far more efficient than earning an honest living. Here, robbery wasn't even illegal. If you had the strength, you could take whatever you wanted. Life was good.
No longer burdened by financial worries, Barnett began developing the town—inns, breweries, carriage shops, pottery workshops, shipyards, stone-paved roads. Even a coastal fishery and small fishing boats were starting to take shape.
He also began expanding his army. War always came with losses; already, a dozen Viking warriors had died in recent battles. To compensate, Barnett recruited two squads of crossbow-wielding militia from among the townsfolk to bolster his ranged capabilities. After all, it was much better to kill from a distance than engage in messy close combat.
The new crossbowmen weren't well-trained, their morale and discipline were lacking, and they wore only light leather armor with daggers for melee defense. Still, as the most powerful ranged weapon of the medieval era, crossbows packed a deadly punch. With two squads—200 men—Barnett now had a capable ranged corps. Further training could come later.
Additionally, he recruited two squads of light cavalry to improve his army's mobility. During previous raids, some enemies had fled into the Black Forest when defeat seemed imminent. Chasing them into the dense forest was impractical.
His personal guard rode heavily armored horses—more like tanks than cavalry. While faster than men, their stamina wasn't suited for long pursuits. The axe riders were fast enough, but they preferred to kill rather than capture. Once they caught someone, they'd hack them down, braid the hair of the decapitated head, and tie it to their belts. Barbarians! Didn't they realize those captives could be ransomed?
After several campaigns, Barnett's town had gained only about 1,500 new residents. But many were needed for farming, fishing, and hunting to ensure food supply. Excluding those, only around 500 were available for other work. With some refugees arriving recently, the population reached 2,800—still far from the 5,000 needed for the next upgrade.
That's why a light cavalry unit for capturing prisoners became essential. Equipped with round shields, short spears, and a few lassos, these leather-armored patrol riders were true light cavalry. They weren't great fighters, and their morale was low, but they were fast. Their short spears could double as clubs. A swift strike could knock a captive to the ground, making them much easier to escort back.
So with two squads of patrol riders (100 total) and 200 crossbowmen, Barnett's military now numbered 1,500—a formidable force by tribal standards.
The next day, Barnett left one squad of axe cavalry behind to guard the town. He also recruited 200 town guards to patrol and maintain order—giving the townspeople a sense of security and reminding them who their lord was.
With all that arranged, Barnett once again led his army out on a grand campaign to plunder more Viking tribes.
But this time, something felt off.
Due to his cautious behavior in earlier battles, the system had tagged him with a "Cowardly Reputation," reducing his army's morale by 1. Perhaps as a result, Barnett had grown more sensitive to danger.
For instance, several patrol squads he had sent ahead suddenly vanished from the holographic map. Was it a glitch? Or had they all been wiped out? Either way, Barnett became alert.
"Slow down the march. Stay alert. Crossbows loaded! Where are the scouts? Why aren't they back yet?" His booming voice put everyone on edge. The Viking troops sensed something was wrong. The crossbowmen quickly set up their weapons, ready for Barnett's signal.
The dense Norwegian forest towered around them. Even on the animal trail they followed, visibility dropped to nothing just ten meters out.
"…Damn it." After a few tense minutes of waiting, Barnett cursed under his breath. Then he remembered he had a monocular—a brass-cased telescope from the system, centuries ahead of this time. Perfect.
He pulled it out, closed his right eye, and peered through with his left, rotating slowly.
Through the lens, Barnett saw fallen patrol riders and their horses lying scattered on the ground. "Damn it," he growled. An ambush.
Scanning side to side, he estimated there were over two thousand enemy fighters lying in wait. Many carried tools rather than weapons—clubs, pitchforks, logging axes—but in a melee, those could still kill.
"Looks like I've stirred up a hornet's nest," Barnett muttered.
Clearly, this wasn't just one tribe. Several—or maybe all—of the surrounding tribes had joined forces. Some survivors must have escaped from the five tribes Barnett had destroyed and spilled the beans about his army's size and strength. Now the others were banding together to stop him.
Normally, these tribes hated each other. But facing a common threat, even enemies could unite.
"What now? They've got more troops than the rumors claimed. And look at that armor—it's like something out of a legend. Are we really going to fight them?" whispered one tribal leader hidden in the woods.
Just then, the poor guy was beheaded by a swinging axe.
"What the—why'd you kill our chief?!" his guards shouted, ready to retaliate. But they stopped dead in their tracks, cowed by the imposing presence of the attacker.
"I said we fight, so we fight. The ambush is blown. We'll meet them in open battle. Cowards don't deserve to be Vikings. Better to die by my axe than theirs."
The speaker wore heavy chainmail and wielded a massive double-headed axe. His long, blood-red hair, matching beard, and crimson, bloodshot eyes made him look like a demon in human form.
He was a berserker—a true Norse warrior elite. A terrifying force even among Vikings.
Berserkers weren't mindless killers. They were a fusion of fury and discipline. To earn the title, a Viking had to achieve something incredible.
In this era, Viking raiders were feared across the world. Far fiercer than later Caribbean pirates. When two rival Viking ships met at sea, they didn't swarm each other. Instead, they drew close, laid down planks, and dueled one-on-one. When one fighter died, another stepped in. This continued until one ship had no men left.
A berserker was born from this tradition: the first to step onto the plank, killing dozens in single combat without being defeated. That earned him the title and all the glory that came with it.
But very few could achieve this. After all, Viking warriors were already the strongest and fiercest in all Europe. A super-Viking among Vikings—that's what it took to be called a berserker.