Chapter Two: His Name is Ragna

When the being once known as Salazar awoke, the first thing that struck him was the stark change in his surroundings. Gone was the blinding white light, and with it, the ethereal sense of his consciousness floating in a void. Now, he was fully aware of his environment, his senses alive and hyper-sensitive to the cool air around him. He could hear faint sounds, smell the faintest scents, and feel the pressure of his own skin, delicate and new. As he expelled fluid from his mouth, he felt no overwhelming urge to cry, unlike most babies. Instead, his attention was drawn to the person holding him. A woman's face loomed before him, her brown hair cascading around her shoulders. Her expression was a mixture of sternness and shock, staring at him with wide eyes. Salazar—no, Ragna—instinctively called upon his mental force. He extended his internal senses, scanning himself and his surroundings, only to be struck by an overwhelming realization: he was a baby. His heart pounded in his chest as he examined his tiny, helpless body. But more than that, he felt something stirring inside him—an unsettling sensation that washed over him like an icy tide.

The woman's shock and curiosity tugged at him, but before he could probe further, he instinctively retracted his mental force. He wasn't sure if she could sense it, but there was something about her—an innate power—that seemed on the verge of responding to his presence. He withdrew, not wanting to alarm her. A baby with such abilities would undoubtedly be unprecedented, and he didn't want to risk revealing too much just yet. The woman passed him to another, a second figure with striking beauty. This woman had golden hair that seemed to shimmer in the soft light, fair skin, and sky-blue eyes that gleamed with warmth and love. As she cradled him gently in her arms, a feeling of comfort washed over Ragna. The warmth of her embrace stirred a deep, unfamiliar feeling—a connection as if something buried deep within him was being awakened.

This presence... it feels so familiar... Ragna thought, though he couldn't place it. There was a strange comfort in her presence, one that reminded him of something—or someone—from the darkness he had left behind. The woman gazed lovingly at the baby in her arms, her eyes softening with affection as she looked at the child she had just named. Her voice was soft, a mixture of tenderness and emotion as she spoke: "His name is Ragna. Ragna Lothbrok."

A bittersweet tear welled in her eye as she said his name, and a pang of something—perhaps nostalgia, perhaps sorrow—flashed through Ragna. It was as though the name, the identity, was now his to claim. It felt like an anchor in his new life, something he could grasp to ground him in this unfamiliar world. Ragna... He felt the weight of the name settle deep within him, and as he accepted it, there was a strange sensation—a tug, almost as though something deep inside him was being rewritten. His mind and soul burned with the force of it. He could feel the old identity slipping away, but there was something more—a transformation, subtle but profound.

His memories of the past life, those vivid experiences that had shaped him into the being he once was, began to blur. The vivid emotions that had once clung to those memories faded, leaving behind mere shadows of the events. It was as though he were now watching his past life through a film screen, the distance between him and those memories growing with every passing moment. Yet there was something that lingered—something powerful and unshakable. The emotions tied to his death, the sense of betrayal from Arkus and Lilin, and the burning desire to become a god—they hadn't dissipated. If anything, they only seemed to grow stronger. Ragna felt a searing, almost painful heat in the pit of his stomach. The longing for vengeance—no, the need for it—was as clear as day. It had been buried beneath the layers of time, but now it surged to the surface, more potent than ever before.

"Look at his eyes. He has my eyes... and my father's." Bestla's voice was soft but filled with pride.

Aksel, standing beside her, nodded in agreement. "A sign that he'll make a great warrior."

Bestla's heart swelled with emotion as she gently pulled her baby into her arms, holding him close. She felt an overwhelming wave of gratitude for whatever forces had spared her child's life.

"Mama's going to raise you to be a strong and mighty warrior, my baby boy," she whispered, pressing a kiss to his forehead.

****

Eight years later…

POW!

The sound of wood slapping against metal echoed through the air as the tip of Ragna's staff collided with the hilt of Bestla's sword, sending it flying from her hand. The eight-year-old boy twirled the staff around with the precision and fluidity of a seasoned warrior, his small frame moving with surprising agility. Bestla couldn't help but smile, her heart swelling with love and pride as she scooped him into a bear hug. Ragna, though he had anticipated the move, couldn't quite dodge his mother's embrace. He felt her arms tighten around him, pressing him to her chest. Despite his grown mind and the unfamiliarity of the situation, Ragna felt no discomfort. To him, Bestla Lothbrok was his mother, no matter the circumstances that had brought him into this world. Yes, he had reincarnated into this new life with the memories of his past still intact, but that didn't erase the blood connection they shared. The universe itself ran on reincarnation, after all. Everyone, in one way or another, was a reincarnation of someone from the past. What made Ragna different was that he remembered. And he had come from a world entirely different from Midgard.

In his previous life, Ragna had spent millennia studying the Arcanic and Esoteric forces of the cosmos. He had learned that the universe was vast—not infinite, as many believed, but vast enough that higher beings could carve out territories and create their own material worlds within it. Midgard, the world into which Ragna had been reborn, was one of those many worlds. Yet, this world was far from the pinnacle of strength that his own world had represented. In his past life, Ragna had reached the peak of his powers, but now, in this new world, everything was different. He sighed as he thought of the new world he was now in.

Ymir... this world is dangerously different.

Bestla let go of Ragna and ruffled his golden hair, smiling as she picked up her sword. She returned it to the pile of weapons stored nearby, her motions fluid and graceful. Ragna, though still a child, stood at a height of five feet—remarkably tall for an eight-year-old, especially among the Norsemen of Midgard. Here, at this age, children began their combat training, a tradition that had persisted for generations. The reason behind this training was simple: Midgard was a broken world. A world filled with dangers Ragna had barely begun to comprehend. With a quiet thought, he extended his mental force, tapping into the energy that resided within his mind. His internal senses reached out, expanding outward in search of something... anything.

Once again, he encountered the same unsettling absence that had plagued him since his arrival in this world: there was no trace of World energy. In his former life, World energy had been a constant—a powerful, ambient force that permeated the atmosphere of a planet, a force made up of the natural, esoteric, and fundamental powers of the world. This energy had been the key to cultivating one's soul, converting it into Mana, and unlocking the potential for magic. But in Midgard, there was nothing of the sort. Instead, Ragna's senses met what felt like an empty space, a void where the energy was meant to flow. The channels that should have carried World energy seemed to be dried up, leaving the world static and inert when compared to the vibrant, flowing forces of his previous world. He couldn't help but grumble in frustration. With his mental abilities, he should already be on the path to awakening his soul core, ascending through the realms of cultivation. But in Midgard, he was stuck—his progress halted.

In my past life, I was already awakened at six, Ragna thought bitterly. How far I've fallen.

"What's the matter, sweetheart?" Bestla asked, her voice warm as they left the training hall.

As they passed by the warriors still training, Ragna noticed their respectful bows and awed glances. They revered Bestla, and by extension, they seemed to reverence him as well. Ragna couldn't understand why. Was it because of his mother's reputation? He didn't like the attention. He wanted to forge his own path, to be recognized for his strength, not simply for his lineage. But the truth was, he was weak—at least, for now.

"I want to go to the forest with Aksel," Ragna said, repeating his request for what felt like the seventh time.

"You know my answer," Bestla replied, a firm but loving tone in her voice. "No, Ragna."

They climbed into the carriage that would take them home. The massive, six-legged horse pulling it trotted steadily through the village of Kattegat, a strategic port town for the Kingdom of Norland. The village was surrounded by mountains on one side and water on the other, with the forest serving as a vital route to the rest of Norland. Once a seafaring society, the Norsemen now feared the dangers lurking in the waters surrounding their supermassive continent. It was the warriors of Kattegat's duty to ensure that nothing from the seas threatened the kingdom. Ragna was curious about these dangers, but his mother's refusal to let him explore the forest had put an end to those plans. It didn't matter. There were ancient books in their home, and Ragna had already learned the language of the Norsemen, along with how to read and write. His mother had once called him a genius for that, and he was determined to find the answers on his own.

When they arrived at their estate, Ragna quickly excused himself to wash up before dinner. The indoor plumbing, with its refreshing wash, was one of the few luxuries he appreciated about this world. It reminded him of the vast differences between Midgard and his former world. His previous life had been one of immense progress and technological advancement, but Midgard, though not undeveloped, was still firmly rooted in a more primitive, Victorian-era-like state. After cleaning up and dressing for the evening, Ragna made his way down to the dining hall, where Bestla was waiting for him. Aksel, his stepfather, was already seated at the table.