Chapter 4: A Dream of Thunder and Steel

The first dawn of their three allotted days arrived not as a promise of hope, but as a cruel reminder of time ticking away. The cold, grey air hung heavy over the village, carrying with it a thick scent of fear. Villagers gathered in the open area, their faces pale in the morning light, looking at Loki with a mixture of fragile hope and deep doubt. They had chosen him. Now they waited to see if their choice would lead to salvation or swifter ruin.

On the edge of the crowd, Gorm stood alone, isolated. His arms were crossed, and his eyes, filled with resentment, watched Loki's every move. He was a ghost from the clan's past, waiting for the right moment to haunt their future.

Loki wasted no time on speeches. Words wouldn't build defenses or sharpen swords. His first act had to be a foundation, a pillar of belief that could not be shaken. He walked through the crowd, who parted for him, his gaze fixed straight ahead, his destination singular: the Healer's Hut. Freya, axe at her side, followed him without hesitation, her loyal shadow.

Inside the dimly lit hut, the scent of sickness and death was thick. On a straw bed lay Sten, a respected old warrior whose leg had been crushed in an accident some time ago. His breaths were shallow, his skin grey with an unyielding fever. His daughter, a young girl named Runa, slept beside him, her face wet with dried tears.

Loki gently touched the girl's shoulder. "Go outside. Get some food."

Runa looked at him with swollen eyes, then at her dying father, and nodded in resignation before stepping out listlessly.

Loki turned to Freya, who looked at him questioningly. "What are you going to do?"

In response, Loki accessed his system inventory. A small bottle made of unknown crystal appeared in his hand. Inside, a viscous golden liquid pulsed with its own soft light, illuminating the gloomy hut.

Freya's eyes widened. She could feel a faint power emanating from the bottle, something pure and not of this world.

"Hold him," Loki said.

He forced open Sten's drooping jaw and carefully poured the golden liquid down the old man's throat. For a moment, nothing happened. Then, the miracle began.

A warm golden glow started to shine from beneath the dirty bandages on Sten's leg. There was a faint but distinct clicking sound, as if shattered bones were reassembling themselves. The burning fever that scorched Sten's skin subsided in seconds, replaced by a healthy complexion. The lines of suffering on his face smoothed out. His breaths, previously shallow and rapid, now became deep and regular.

A moment later, Sten, the man who had been on the verge of death, opened his eyes. He stared at the hut's ceiling, then at Loki, his eyes clear and full of confusion, no longer clouded by pain.

The news spread faster than fire. Runa, seeing her father sitting up and speaking, ran out of the hut weeping with joy. Within minutes, the entire village knew. Loki had not only brought them treasure; he had cheated death itself. The last vestiges of doubt in their hearts shattered, replaced by a loyalty bordering on worship.

With his now undisputed authority, Loki gathered his newly revitalized clan. He spread a large piece of hide on the ground, and with charcoal, drew a rough map of the village and its surroundings.

"Time is our enemy," he said, his voice sharp, cutting through the air. "We will not work aimlessly. We will be a machine."

He divided everyone capable of working into three groups.

"Freya!" he called. The shieldmaiden stepped forward. "You will lead the 'Wolf's Fangs'. Take the ten strongest. Your task: dig trenches on the east side, fashion hundreds of sharpened stakes, and build barricades at the main entrance path. I want this ground to thirst for Harald's blood before they even see our longhouse."

"Jon!" A quiet, burly man stepped forward. "You will lead the 'Iron Hands'. Your task: set up the smithy here," Loki pointed to a spot on the map. "After that, every axe, every sword, every spearhead must be repaired and sharpened. I want our weapons to bite deeper than a wolf's teeth."

"Harek!" The man who had returned with him from the cave stepped forward, his posture more confident. "You lead the 'Raven's Backs'. You are the blood for this machine. Gather wood, stone, food, and water. Ensure the Wolf's Fangs and Iron Hands never stop working."

The commands were clear. The objective absolute. The panic among the villagers transformed into focused energy. They were no longer victims waiting to be slaughtered. They were part of a plan.

Loki personally oversaw the construction of the Smithy. With blueprints from his system, the simple wooden and stone structure stood in less than an hour, an impossible feat. Loki stepped into the hot smithy with Jon and his group. He opened the forging notebook.

"See," Loki said, pointing to a sketch. "We don't have time to make new swords. But we can make our old ones deadly."

He picked up a dull, scarred battle axe blade. Using the knowledge flowing into his mind from the book, he showed them how to re-heat the blade until it glowed red, then fold it with a hammer over the anvil.

CLANG!

The sound of the first hammer striking hot steel echoed throughout the village.

CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!

It was a new rhythm. No longer the sound of axes felling wood for survival. This was the music of war. The sound of resistance. An echo of the steel oath they had just sworn. Every villager who heard it felt a new strength coursing through them.

The sun began to set, painting the sky in shades of blood orange and purple. Loki stood on a large rock, looking at his village, which had transformed into a bustling anthill. On one side, the first trenches were taking shape. On the other, the pile of wood for barricades grew higher. And from the smithy, black smoke continuously billowed, accompanied by the tireless clang of hammers.

He felt an immense weariness creeping into his bones. This body was still weak. But as he looked at the fruits of their labor, his eyes burned with a determination harder than the steel they were forging.

One day gone, he thought. Two days left.

From the shadows near the old longhouse, Gorm observed it all. He saw how his once sluggish and desperate clan now moved with terrifying purpose under this stranger's command. His face showed nothing, but in his dark eyes, the fire of hatred and envy burned fiercely.

That night, Loki found no rest. After ensuring all groups were working according to plan and sharing the last of the food rations with Freya near the hot Smithy, exhaustion finally claimed his body. He lay down on a pile of rough straw in a corner of the longhouse, the clang of hammers still echoing in his ears. Sleep swallowed him in an instant, but it was not an escape to peace.

It was a forced withdrawal into chaos.

BOOM.

A tremor.

BOOM. BOOM.

His heart. No, deeper. Shaking his bones.

BOOM. BOOM. BOOM.

He opened his eyes. Dark. Wet. The wooden floor swayed violently beneath him. All around him, a black ocean raged. Hail and spray lashed his face. In the air, an ancient chant began to seep in, born from the storm itself.

A chorus of deep, salt-roughened male voices.

Haf... vindr... (Ocean... wind...)

War drums pounded relentlessly, each beat vibrating in his chest cavity, driving out fear and replacing it with a burning fervor.

Stål... blod... (Steel... blood...)

Dozens of other Viking longships danced on the waves with him, their dragon-carved prows rising and falling dramatically. On the mastheads, black banners fluttered wildly.

KRA-KOOM!

Lightning struck, blinding. For a moment, the horizon lit up, revealing a grim coastline. Challenging stone fortresses and wooden towers. The chant grew louder, now filled with thirst.

Land... Vårt land... (Land... Our land...)

The world spun. Warm. Boisterous. The smell of ale, sweat, and roasted meat. Inside a long hall, dozens of warriors laughed, clanking their drinking horns.

"SKÅL!"

A man in a golden helmet brandished his axe.

"TILL ÆRE!" (To Glory!)

A roar of approval shook the thatched roof.

Then in a flash, back to the biting cold. The warriors' faces were now hard as steel. Their hands gripped their shields. Their eyes burned. The chorus in his head was now a magnificent hymn.

Odin... ser oss... (Odin... sees us...) Thor... styrker oss... (Thor... strengthens us...)

WHOOOOOOOOSH!

The long, piercing sound of a horn trumpet tore through the air. The ships slammed onto the beach.

"R-A-A-A-A-A-GH!"

A battle cry erupted from hundreds of throats. Warriors leaped into the water, storming ashore. Loki was now in their midst, swept along in the human wave. The chaos of battle consumed him.

CLANG! CRASH! SLASH!

The shriek of steel against steel. Wooden shields shattered into splinters.

"ARGH!"

"FÖR ODIN!"

"NYAAAARGH!"

"SKJOLDBORG!" (Shieldwall!)

A giant swung a war hammer. CRACK! Shield and ribs crushed together. Axe throwers unleashed a volley of their weapons. SWISH-SWISH-THUNK! Axes embedded themselves in flesh and wood.

The war song was now an uncontrollable roar.

DØDEN ELLER ÆRE! (DEATH OR GLORY!)

"DRAP! DRAP! DRAP!" (KILL!)

In the midst of it all, a Warchief moved. His black armor absorbed the light, his war hammer dancing in swings of death. CLANG! He parried a knight's sword. WHOOSH! He spun.

CRACKK-SPLINTER!

The hammer struck the knight's side. The sound of crumbling metal and snapping bone was clear even amidst the din. The knight fell.

The music reached its crescendo. The chorus roared, drums pounded madly. The battle turned into a slaughter. Fire devoured the city.

The Warchief stood in the corpse-strewn square. He raised his blood-soaked war hammer to the sky, and let out a roar of triumph that overcame everything.

"HAAAAARGH!"

And then the helmet turned. From its eye-slits, that gaze pierced through the dream, through time, and plunged directly into Loki's soul.

...silence.

Total silence. Deafening.

Loki gasped, his eyes wide open. He was back. Lying on the rough straw, beside the remnants of a dying bonfire. His heart pounded wildly, his breath ragged. Cold sweat drenched his body.

He sat up slowly, holding his head. The echoes of the "DRAP!" shouts and the "DØDEN ELLER ÆRE!" chant still rang in his ears. It wasn't just a dream. It was a lesson. A blueprint of violence.

He looked at his trembling hands, then at his small, pathetic village, struggling to prepare itself in the darkness. One smithy, one shallow trench. Thirty frightened people.

Yesterday, the threat of Jarl Harald's army felt like the end of the world. Now, after witnessing an armada of ships and an army conquering a fortified city, that threat felt... small. Insignificantly small.

The dream didn't frighten him. After the initial terror subsided, a cold, clear realization dawned. This system hadn't brought him here just to survive. The scale of this world was much larger. The true players in this world weren't fighting greedy small Jarls. They led armies. They sang war songs. They burned cities.

He stood and walked to the longhouse door, staring at the paling sky. The weight on his shoulders now felt ten times heavier, yet there was a clear purpose behind it. Harald's army was no longer a threat to be feared.

They were his first test. His first prey. The first step on a very long and bloody path, a path accompanied by war drums and chants of death or glory.