Time stopped announcing itself.
Days no longer arrived with distinction or ceremony. They simply came, one after another, stitched together by routine so consistent it erased the edges between them. Morning bled into work. Work into training. Training into exhaustion. Exhaustion into sleep.
Then it began again.
Anders Skjold was two and a half years old when the rhythm locked in fully.
He woke before the longhouse stirred, not because he needed to, but because his body expected it. The fire would still be low, embers glowing dull red beneath ash. Frost clung to the ground outside, crunching softly beneath bare feet toughened by cold and repetition.
He trained.
Push-ups first. Shield strapped to his back now, leather biting into his shoulders as the added weight pressed him toward the earth. Small hands planted wide, elbows tucked. Down. Hold. Up. Each repetition burned deeper than the last, the shield refusing to let him cheat, forcing his core to stabilize, his arms to bear the truth of effort.
When his arms shook too badly to continue, he did not stop.
He rested.
Breathing slow. Controlled. Then he resumed.
Crunches followed—shield removed, sword laid across his chest for weight. He lifted his torso inch by inch, muscles screaming, breath measured. He did not rush. Speed was meaningless. Control was everything.
Squats last. Sword held overhead now, uneven weight pulling him off balance if he lost focus. Down. Hold. Up. He sank lower than most grown men bothered to, hips dropping until his thighs burned and his balance wavered.
He fell sometimes.
When he did, he rose without comment.
The system said nothing.
That silence mattered more than praise ever could.
By midmorning, the longhouse woke around him. Voices rose. Tools were lifted. Work began. Anders did not stop training because others were watching. He stopped when his body reached the line where effort would become injury.
That line moved slowly.
Pain became familiar—not sharp, not frightening, but constant. A companion rather than an enemy. His muscles ached even when still, a deep soreness that never fully faded. He learned to move through it, to accept it as the cost of progress.
This was not new to him.
He did not think of his past life often. Not in images. Not in longing. But discipline had a shape, and he recognized it. Wake. Work. Train. Recover. Repeat.
The Marines had taught him that once.
They had stripped excuses away until only action remained.
Here, in a world of wood and iron and cold earth, the lesson held just as true.
Erik began to intervene.
Not often. Not loudly.
Sometimes, Anders would be mid-squat when Erik would step behind him and nudge his heels wider with a boot. Or press two fingers against his back, wordless correction that said straighten. Anders adjusted immediately, without argument or confusion.
Other times, Erik would adjust the angle of the shield on Anders' back, tightening a strap so the weight sat differently. Anders would feel the difference instantly—harder, more demanding.
Erik never explained.
He didn't need to.
Father and son trained together without ever calling it that.
The clan adapted.
At first, Anders' presence during drills had drawn comment. Then silence. Now it drew space. Men moved around him without interrupting. Women watched from a distance, hands busy, eyes alert.
Children stopped imitating him.
Something in Anders' movements had crossed a line—from impressive to unsettling. He did not play at strength. He worked at it.
The elder watched more often now, lingering near the edge of Anders' routines. His eyes followed every movement, every correction, every fall and recovery.
He still said nothing.
Weeks passed.
Anders grew denser rather than taller. Muscle defined itself beneath his skin, not large, but tight and efficient. His balance improved. His falls became intentional—tests of limits rather than accidents. He incorporated the shield into crawling drills, dragging it behind him across dirt and stone, shoulders burning as he pulled against resistance.
The wooden sword never left his reach.
He practiced strikes slowly, deliberately, focusing on form over force. The uneven weight punished careless swings, yanking his arm forward if he lost control. He adapted, shortened his motions, tightened his core.
Every movement became deliberate.
The system remained silent.
No quests appeared. No screens intruded.
Anders understood now that this was no absence.
This was accumulation.
Six months passed like this.
Six months of repetition without acknowledgment. Six months of discipline without reward. Six months of rising before dawn and collapsing into sleep with muscles trembling beneath skin.
On the final night before his third winter, Anders trained longer than usual.
The shield bit into his back. The sword felt heavier than ever. His breath came ragged, his vision narrowing at the edges as exhaustion crept in.
He finished anyway.
When he finally lay down, the pressure—constant for so long he had stopped noticing it—vanished completely.
Not eased.
Gone.
Sleep took him instantly.
He dreamed of nothing.
When he woke, the blue light filled his vision.
It was brighter than ever before. Heavier. Not hovering—but present, as if the air itself had become the interface.
Name: Anders Skjold
Level: 1
Strength: 38
Endurance: 42
Agility: 24
Perception: 36
Will: 62
Honor: Known
Reputation: Clan-Neutral (Shatter-Shield)
The numbers stabilized.
No slow increments. No gentle climb.
Each stat had surged—ten, twelve, fifteen points at once—reflecting months of effort finally counted. Strength remained dominant, but endurance pressed close behind. Will climbed higher still, unyielding, anchoring everything else.
Anders felt it immediately.
Not explosive power—but density. Weight packed into muscle. Breath settling deeper into his chest. Balance tightening until movement felt precise instead of forced.
He was still Level 1.
Still untested where it truly mattered.
But the foundation beneath him had thickened.
This was not a reward.
This was recognition.
The system did not congratulate him. It did not explain what came next.
It recorded.
The light vanished.
Anders lay still, heart pounding, body humming with strength tightly bound under discipline. He did not feel invincible.
He felt prepared.
When he stood later that morning, the world felt subtly different. The ground seemed firmer beneath his feet. The shield lighter. The sword easier to control.
Erik watched him move and said nothing.
The elder lingered longer than ever before.
Anders Skjold turned three years old that day.
Six months of effort had been counted.
And whatever came next would not be gradual.