Two winters was enough time for the world to decide Anders Skjold was no longer simply early.
He was wrong.
He walked now without hesitation—short strides, careful balance, but confidence in every step. He could cross the packed earth of the longhouse without stumbling, could weave through tools left carelessly in his path, could carry small loads of wood or leather without tipping over. His speech came in short phrases, clipped and clear, words chosen with intention rather than noise.
"I do it," when help was offered.
"Not yet," when something was unfinished.
"Again," when effort failed.
The clan had stopped laughing.
Children among the Shatter-Shield grew hard early, but Anders did not move like a child discovering his limits. He moved like someone measuring them.
Training had become routine—so routine that the longhouse adjusted around it. At dawn, before voices rose and before the fire was fully stoked, Anders worked his body. Push-ups first: palms spread wide, elbows tucked, chest lowering under control. His arms shook, but he did not rush. When he failed, he rested. When the shaking passed, he continued.
Crunches followed—slow lifts, breath timed, no flailing. Squats after that, deep and careful, feet planted, back straight. Sometimes he tipped and fell. He rose every time.
No one taught him this.
That truth unsettled the clan more than the sight itself.
Astrid watched from the edges, pride braided tightly with worry. Erik watched longer than he admitted, recognizing something familiar in the way Anders returned to effort without frustration.
The pressure came on a frost-heavy morning.
It settled into Anders' chest like a stone dropped into deep water—quiet, undeniable, and heavy with expectation. He paused mid-squat, breath steady, muscles burning.
The blue light appeared.
Clearer than ever before. Sharper. Intentional.
New Quest Initiated
Objective: Arm Yourself
No instruction followed. No guidance. No gift.
The screen vanished.
Anders stood still, understanding immediately.
Weapons were not toys here. Even children knew that. Blades were hung high. Shields were stacked with care. Iron was respected, feared, and maintained.
He could ask.
Erik would give him something small. A blunted blade. A child's shield. Something symbolic. Something safe.
The pressure tightened at the thought.
Borrowed strength did not satisfy the system.
Given weapons did not count.
He needed to make them.
Anders did not announce his intent. He did not ask permission. He began instead to observe.
He watched how shields leaned against the wall—how their weight pulled slightly forward, how the grips were offset, not centered. He noticed the layering of wood, the way cracks formed where boards were joined poorly, the way leather straps were cut wide to distribute force.
He listened when men complained about balance. When they cursed a shield that pulled the arm too hard after long use. When they spoke quietly about which ones felt right.
At night, he traced shapes in the dirt with a stick, sketching circles that were not quite round, adjusting size again and again until the proportions felt correct for his body.
He scavenged carefully.
A cracked shield discarded after the raid yielded usable boards once pried apart. He dragged them behind the longhouse, piece by piece, resting often, refusing help. He gathered scrap planks from broken stools and shattered crates. He bartered for leather offcuts with stubborn silence and persistence until someone laughed and gave them to him just to see what he would do.
The first shield failed.
He layered the wood poorly, binding it too tight while the boards were still dry. When he lifted it, the weight pulled unevenly. When he dropped it, the layers split with a sharp crack.
He stared at the pieces for a long time.
Then he pulled them apart and started again.
This time, he soaked the wood first, letting it drink water until it flexed instead of snapped. He layered thinner boards instead of thick ones, offsetting the grain. He wrapped the grip with leather soaked and stretched tight, fingers aching as he pulled it taut and bound it with cord.
His hands blistered.
Splinters lodged beneath his skin. One festered until Astrid noticed and cut it free with a knife while Anders watched without flinching.
He cried once—sharp and brief—when the blade slipped and bit too deep.
Then he kept working.
The shield took three days.
When he lifted it this time, it sat right against his arm. Not perfect—but balanced. Light enough to move, heavy enough to matter. He struck it with a stick experimentally. The sound was dull and solid.
He smiled once.
The sword came next.
He chose a single length of hardwood, knot-free where he could manage it. He carved slowly, carefully, letting the blade remain thicker toward the tip. Balance mattered more than symmetry. He wanted resistance. He wanted the weight to punish careless swings.
The handle was too thin on the first attempt. It twisted in his grip when he swung it.
He shaved it thicker. Wrapped it in leather. Tested again.
Better.
He practiced swings in the dirt, correcting his stance instinctively. He fell. He adjusted. He learned how the uneven weight forced his shoulders to work harder, how it punished speed without control.
When he finished, both weapons lay before him—crude, scarred, unmistakably his.
The system watched.
Training changed immediately.
Anders strapped the shield to his arm and returned to his routine. Squats now burned deeper as the shield pulled his balance sideways. Push-ups ended with sword strikes into empty air, forcing him to stabilize before moving. He walked uneven ground deliberately, shield shifting weight, sword demanding control.
He fell more often.
He rose anyway.
The clan noticed.
At first, it was curiosity. Then silence. Then something like unease.
The elder watched without comment, staying longer than necessary. Erik's pride shifted into something heavier. Astrid felt a tightness in her chest she could not name.
That night, as Anders slept hard beneath the furs, muscles screaming quietly beneath warmth, the blue light returned.
It did not flicker.
It presented.
Name: Anders Skjold
Level: 1
Strength: 24
Endurance: 30
Agility: 11
Perception: 24
Will: 50
Honor: Known
Reputation: Clan-Neutral (Shatter-Shield)
Anders stared at the numbers, understanding them without explanation.
He had not advanced.
He had been expanded.
Strength had surged far beyond the rest—twentyfold. Endurance followed close behind. Will towered above everything, an anchor that refused to bend.
This was not power.
This was capacity.
Preparation.
The screen faded.
The next morning, Anders stood outside the longhouse, shield strapped tight, wooden sword resting against his shoulder. Frost glittered on the ground beneath his feet.
He was two years old.
He still looked like a child.
But he was no longer unarmed.
The clan watched.
The gods watched.
And the system—silent, patient, unyielding—continued its work, shaping him not for today's fights, but for a future that had not yet learned how dangerous he would become.