Chapter 3: The Seer-Blade Is Named
Paul woke with his skull feeling like it had been used as an anvil. The great hall spun gently around him, and every heartbeat sent spikes of pain through his temples.
[MANA RECOVERY COMPLETE: 12/12 MP]
[WARNING: SEVERE MANA DRAIN CAUSES TEMPORARY DISORIENTATION]
[EFFECT DURATION: 2-4 HOURS]
"Great. A magical hangover to go with my regular one."
The hall was mostly empty—warriors had departed for morning training, leaving only the die-hard drinkers and Paul himself. Sunlight streamed through the gaps in the walls, carrying the scent of smoke and salt and the constant background promise of violence that seemed to permeate everything in Kattegat.
Paul hauled himself upright and immediately regretted it as the world tilted sideways. But he was alive, he was (relatively) whole, and according to the conversations drifting in from outside, he was now officially part of Ragnar's crew.
"From nobody to Viking raider in twenty-four hours. That's got to be some kind of record."
He stumbled outside, blinking in the harsh morning light. Kattegat sprawled around him like something from a fever dream—all wooden angles and thatched roofs and the casual brutality of daily life. Warriors sparred in the training yard, their weapons catching the sun in deadly rainbows. Merchants hawked goods from stalls that reeked of fish and tar. Children ran between the buildings, playing games that involved disturbingly realistic wooden swords.
Paul wandered toward the docks, partly to get his bearings and partly because the smell of the sea helped settle his churning stomach. The merchant ship that had brought him was already gone, probably carrying news of the strange southern fighter to other settlements.
"You look like a man who's made questionable decisions."
The voice was cultured, tinged with an accent Paul couldn't quite place. He turned to find a man in simple brown robes watching him with intelligent eyes—too intelligent for a monk, too knowing for a servant.
Athelstan.
Even without the TV show as reference, Paul would have pegged him as an outsider. There was something about the way he held himself, the careful way he observed everything around him, that screamed 'man between worlds.'
"I feel like a man who's made questionable decisions," Paul replied, offering a weak smile.
Athelstan chuckled. "The price of earning Ragnar's attention. I'm Athelstan."
"Paul."
"Ah, the southern seer who danced with death on the beach yesterday." Athelstan's eyes sharpened with curiosity. "Tell me, where in the south did you learn to fight with such... prescience?"
This was a test, Paul realized. Athelstan was probing, trying to understand what Paul was.
Time to see if the system's language gift works.
"Veritas est quod video," Paul said carefully, dredging up half-remembered Latin from high school classes. "I see what is true."
Athelstan's eyebrows shot up. The Latin was probably terrible, but it was recognizably Latin, which was more than any Viking should have known.
"You speak the language of the Church," Athelstan said slowly.
"Learned from southern priests," Paul replied, which was technically true if you counted his Catholic high school education. "Where knowledge is preserved in many tongues."
It was vague enough to be believable, specific enough to satisfy curiosity. Athelstan nodded thoughtfully, filing the information away for later consideration.
"Perhaps we should speak again," Athelstan said. "Men of learning are... rare here."
"I'd like that."
As Athelstan walked away, Paul caught a glimpse of movement in his peripheral vision—shield-maidens training in the yard beside the docks. And there, moving through combat forms with deadly grace, was Lagertha.
Television hadn't done her justice. The screen had captured her beauty and her skill, but it had missed the sheer presence she carried—the way the air seemed to vibrate around her when she moved, the casual authority that made hardened warriors step aside without thinking.
She was sparring with wooden swords against two opponents simultaneously, and she was winning. Her movements were economical, precise, each strike flowing into the next like water finding its level. One attacker went down with a blow to the solar plexus that folded her in half. The other lasted three more exchanges before Lagertha's practice blade found her throat.
Paul found himself staring, and Lagertha noticed. Their eyes met across the training yard—hers cool, assessing, giving nothing away. She nodded once, a warrior's acknowledgment, then turned back to her students.
Something twisted in Paul's chest, a feeling he couldn't quite name.
"Careful. This isn't a show anymore. These are real people with real lives and real consequences."
"Like what you see?"
Paul spun to find Bjorn Ironside grinning at him—barely more than a boy, but already carrying himself with the confidence of someone who'd never doubted his place in the world.
"Your mother is a formidable warrior," Paul said carefully.
"The finest in all the northern lands," Bjorn agreed with the fierce pride of youth. "But you—you fight strangely. Like you know what your opponent will do before they do it."
Too perceptive by half.
"Lucky guesses," Paul said.
Bjorn's grin widened. "Then let's see how lucky you are. Spar with me."
It wasn't really a request. In a world where reputation was everything, backing down from a challenge—even from someone younger—would be noticed. Paul nodded reluctantly, and Bjorn led him to a section of the training yard where practice weapons hung from wooden posts.
Paul selected a wooden sword that felt reasonably balanced, trying to ignore the way his hands still trembled from yesterday's mana drain. Bjorn chose a similar weapon and settled into a fighting stance that spoke of years of training.
"I'm about to get my ass kicked by a teenager."
[SUCCESS RATE ANALYSIS ACTIVATED]
[QUERY: PROBABILITY OF VICTORY IN SPARRING MATCH]
[RESULT: 3%]
[MANA COST: 2 MP - REMAINING: 10/12]
"Three percent. Wonderful."
Bjorn attacked without warning, his wooden blade cutting through the air in a pattern Paul's enhanced perception could read but his body couldn't fully counter. Paul managed to get his sword up in time to avoid having his head caved in, but the impact sent shock waves up his arms.
Fast. So damn fast.
They circled each other warily. Paul tried to use Success Rate Analysis to predict Bjorn's next move, burning another 2 MP in the process, but knowing what was coming and being able to do something about it were two different things entirely.
[SUCCESS RATE ANALYSIS ACTIVATED]
[QUERY: BJORN'S NEXT ATTACK PATTERN]
[RESULT: LOW THRUST TO RIBS, FOLLOWED BY OVERHEAD STRIKE]
[MANA COST: 2 MP - REMAINING: 8/12]
Bjorn lunged exactly as predicted—low thrust that Paul barely managed to parry, followed by an overhead strike that would have split his skull if he hadn't thrown himself sideways at the last second. He hit the ground hard, rolled, came up with sand in his mouth and his sword somehow still in his hand.
The watching warriors cheered appreciatively. Blood might be preferred, but competent violence was always entertainment.
"Again," Bjorn said, not even breathing hard.
The second bout went worse. Paul managed to predict three of Bjorn's attacks and counter exactly none of them. He ended up flat on his back with Bjorn's practice blade at his throat and a growing appreciation for just how pathetic his physical stats really were.
"You see it coming," Bjorn observed, offering a hand to help Paul up. "But your body can't keep up with your mind."
Perceptive and honest. Dangerous combination.
"Something like that," Paul agreed, accepting the help.
They went ten rounds. Paul lost every single one, though he lasted longer each time as he began to understand the gap between prediction and execution. By the end, Bjorn was actually offering advice—footwork tips, suggestions for better leverage, small corrections that spoke of a natural teacher's instincts.
"You fight like you learned from books," Bjorn said as they racked their practice weapons. "All theory, no muscle memory. But you have potential. Train hard enough, and that sight of yours might actually keep you alive."
From the edge of the training yard, Paul caught sight of Lagertha watching their exchange. Her expression was unreadable, but she'd been observing long enough to draw conclusions about his character. Whether those conclusions were favorable remained to be seen.
"She's testing me. They all are."
The rest of the day passed in a blur of introductions and careful conversations. Paul met merchants who looked at him with calculating eyes, warriors who sized him up for future challenges, and crafters who seemed genuinely curious about the "southern techniques" he might know. Everyone had heard about the beach fight. Everyone wanted to understand what he was.
Evening brought another feast in the great hall, and with it, Ragnar's test.
"Paul of the illuminating visions," Ragnar called out, his voice carrying easily over the din of conversation. "Tell us—what weather shall we have tomorrow?"
The hall went quiet. Every eye turned to Paul, and he felt the weight of expectation settling on his shoulders like a physical thing. This wasn't casual curiosity—this was an examination, with his place in the crew hanging in the balance.
Paul activated Daily Vision.
[DAILY VISION ACTIVATED]
[MANA COST: 15% - COST: 1.8 MP, ROUNDED TO 2 MP]
[REMAINING MANA: 6/12]
The images flooded his mind with crystalline clarity: rain hammering the settlement, wind strong enough to bend trees, merchants frantically covering their goods, ships pulled high on the beach to avoid the storm surge.
"Rain," Paul said, his voice carrying to every corner of the hall. "Hard rain from the west, beginning before dawn. Winds strong enough to snap rigging. Any ship caught at sea will have a hard time of it."
Murmurs rippled through the crowd. Some skeptical, some intrigued, all watching to see if the strange southerner's sight would prove true.
"We shall see," Ragnar said with that dangerous smile. "The gods will either vindicate you or make a liar of you. Both have their entertainment value."
Paul raised his horn of mead in a mock toast. "To vindication, then."
The storm arrived exactly as predicted.
Paul woke before dawn to the sound of rain hammering the roof like a thousand angry fists. Wind howled through gaps in the walls, carrying the scent of ozone and violence. By the time the hall was fully awake, the settlement was battening down for a full gale.
Merchants ran through the downpour, covering goods with whatever they could find. Ships were dragged higher up the beach by crews of soaked, cursing sailors. The training yard became a muddy lake that made any meaningful practice impossible.
And through it all, Paul sat in the hall and watched Ragnar's expression change from skeptical interest to something approaching awe.
"You see true," Ragnar said quietly when the worst of the storm had passed. "Odin's gift is not given lightly."
If only you knew what I was really channeling.
"The sight comes with a price," Paul replied, which was true enough. "Knowledge of the future is a burden as much as a gift."
"All power comes with a price," Ragnar agreed. "The question is whether we're strong enough to pay it."
As evening approached and the storm finally began to break, Paul found himself cornered by Floki. The boatbuilder approached with that manic grin that never seemed to leave his face, but his eyes were sharp and far too knowing.
"The gods touched you," Floki said without preamble. "But which gods? Your visions taste... wrong. Not Norse. Not quite Christian either. Something else. Something foreign."
Paul's blood chilled. This was exactly what he'd been afraid of—someone perceptive enough to sense that his abilities weren't entirely divine in origin.
"Maybe your gods and mine speak different languages," Paul said carefully.
Floki threw back his head and laughed—a sound like breaking glass and burning ships. "Oh, I like that! Different languages! Yes, that could be it. Or..." His expression grew serious, almost predatory. "Or maybe you're not speaking to gods at all."
He walked away before Paul could respond, muttering under his breath in Old Norse. Paul caught fragments—something about foreign threads and borrowed power and things that didn't belong.
"How long before he figures it out? How long before he decides I'm a threat?"
The feast that night carried an undercurrent of tension that had nothing to do with the weather. Paul was established now as someone worth watching, someone whose predictions carried weight. But with recognition came scrutiny, and with scrutiny came danger.
As the warriors began to disperse to their beds, Ragnar leaned close with the casual intimacy of shared secrets.
"Two days until we sail for England," he said quietly. "Rich monasteries, soft monks, and enough gold to build a dozen new ships. Your sight could be invaluable on such a venture."
The raids that would make history. The beginning of the Viking Age in earnest.
"I'm honored by your confidence," Paul replied.
"Confidence must be earned," Ragnar corrected. "But potential... potential I can see from here."
Paul nodded, understanding the distinction. He'd proven himself capable of basic survival and accurate predictions. Everything else remained to be demonstrated.
That night, as the hall settled into sleep around him, Paul reviewed his situation with the cold clarity of exhaustion. He was alive, he was accepted (provisionally), and he was about to sail into legend with some of the most dangerous people in history.
[SYSTEM POINTS EARNED: 50]
[TOTAL SYSTEM POINTS: 250]
[NEXT MILESTONE: DANE AXE OF FORESIGHT - COST: 800 SP]
Two days until the English raids. Two days to prepare for whatever came next. Two days to figure out how to stay alive in a world where prophecy was currency and blood was proof.
Paul closed his eyes and tried not to think about Floki's words: "Maybe you're not speaking to gods at all."
"Not yet. But at this rate, it's only a matter of time."
The wind outside carried the promise of change, of voyages to foreign shores and battles yet to be fought. Paul drifted off to sleep with the taste of mead on his tongue and the weight of destiny pressing down like a physical thing.
Tomorrow would bring new challenges, new tests, new opportunities to prove himself worthy of the legends surrounding him.
Or die trying.
[DAILY RESET IN 4 HOURS, 17 MINUTES]
[PREPARATION PHASE CONCLUDING]
[NEXT PHASE: ENGLISH RAIDS]
+1 CHAPTER AFTER EVERY 3 REVIEWS
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