AD 793
The heavy axe wedged into the enemy's skull. A streak of crimson blood shot out, splashing onto Einar's pale cheek.
This was the last Slavic warrior guarding the village. Planting a foot on the head that resembled a burst blood-bag, Einar pulled his great axe free, then kicked open the village gate with one swift motion.
Two cries were heard simultaneously from inside and outside the gate. One was a cheer; the other, naturally, a scream of misery.
The cheers came from the Vikings behind Einar. They had followed Jarl Bernard's fleet, riding the wind and waves for thousands of miles, all for this very moment. Twenty-odd fully-armed clansmen raised their axes and charged into the village. Only Einar himself turned his head to look at the kinsmen who had fallen in this cruel battle.
"One, two, three..." To occupy this village, he had lost another five of his subordinates.
Ever since his father passed away two years ago, Einar had shouldered the heavy responsibility of leading the village. His village, "Coldwater," was situated in the cold mountains of the Scandinavian peninsula. It was the smallest branch among the nobles of the river valley lands ruled by Jarl Bernard.
The entire village had no more than forty-two households, and a population of just over one hundred and seventy. The small population was one aspect; on the other hand... the village was located on a rocky hill. Outside the village were only a few acres of barren land.
In this era, a village of such a small scale was practically destined for extinction. They lacked the manpower to cultivate enough land and the strength to defend themselves. The only way to survive was to follow a powerful Jarl, becoming his vassal and joining his raids to plunder. Plundering was the Vikings' way of life.
The sounds of slaughter within the village gradually faded, replaced by the victorious shouts of his clansmen. Einar, however, felt no joy. He was a Transmigrator. Twenty years ago, he had been an ordinary university student from China, only to wake up one day in the body of a newborn Viking baby. He was given the name "Einar."
"Damn it, coming to this place where not even a bird would shit every year, can't we just raid a different village?" Inside a dilapidated wooden house, a tall Viking warrior was rummaging through chests and cupboards in the kitchen.
Einar gently shook his head. In the medieval world, feudal superstition was the mainstream ideology. In this savage era where ninety-five percent of humanity was illiterate, only the two words "the gods" could explain all the problems they encountered. To become a God-Chosen, one needed to hand over a considerable amount of wealth to the "Storm Acolytes" who guarded Valhalla. In the eyes of a modern person, this matter looked very much like an ancient multi-level marketing scheme.
Walking slowly through the dilapidated village, a tall Viking youth kicked a wooden door to pieces with a bang. He forcefully dragged a withered, thin old man in a coarse cloth robe out of the empty granary. The old man was quite advanced in age; he raised his hands, speaking in a foreign tongue. Yet, these two unremarkable-sounding sentences were like a clap of thunder in Einar's ears!
The old man had spoken two standard English words: "please" and "don't."
Twenty years had passed, and this was the first time he had heard a language from his past life in this other world.
"Wait!" Einar shouted, rushing through the crowd.
"Let him go," Einar commanded, his eyes fixed on the old man. "This one... is mine."
He grabbed the old man and dragged him into a nearby hut. Inside, Einar tried to calm his wildly beating heart. He looked at the old priest's belt and saw a small, leather-bound book. He snatched it and flipped through the pages. Something fell out—a folded piece of parchment. It was a map.
It was what was written in the book that truly made his blood run cold. Tucked in the appendix was an atlas, written in traditional Chinese Kaishu script.
Atlas of All Domains Under Heaven.
The book was a Bible that had belonged to the Italian missionary Matteo Ricci. It had been passed down through generations until it ended up in the hands of this English priest, Willan.
"Get lost!" Seeing the old priest extend his withered hand to grab for the atlas, Einar kicked him to the ground again. He clutched the book to his chest. This was his chance to change his destiny. His chance to become a king.