Regnar stood at the edge of the clearing, leaning against a weathered tree trunk, his arms crossed as he watched his son. The boy moved through the forms with quiet determination, the new blade catching faint glimmers of sunlight with each swing. It was a fine sword—not overly heavy, perfectly balanced, made for precision rather than brute force. He had chosen it carefully, just as he had chosen this path for his son.
He's learning quickly, he thought, nodding faintly as the boy corrected his stance, just as he had been taught. But skill alone isn't enough. The boy's strikes were growing sharper, his movements more fluid, but what the man wanted to instill was far more complex than technique. He didn't want his son to simply be a killer; he wanted him to be something rare in this world—a blade that could protect, that could take life only when there was no other choice, and even then, with a heart that mourned the necessity of it.
His jaw tightened as his thoughts began to drift, unspooling memories of the path that had led him here. He saw flashes of his own youth—reckless, hungry for battle, his sword an extension of his fury rather than his will. He had not always seen the world this way. In his twenties he had been a force of raw violence, a man who struck without hesitation or remorse. Battle was life, and death was merely its currency. He had thrived on the chaos, drunk on the roar of victory and the fear in his enemies' eyes. But there had been a moment—one moment—that had shattered the illusion and made him question everything.
In his raider years, battle had often been a fever dream, a kaleidoscope of blood and chaos fueled by the wild grip of the mushrooms they consumed before combat. It was common practice among warriors—ingesting the fungi to dull fear and heighten their frenzy, to turn men into something more primal, more feral. But on that day, the mushrooms had done something different. Instead of blurring his mind into the haze he was accustomed to, they had sharpened it, turning every sensation into a razor's edge. Colors seemed too vivid, sounds too loud, and his thoughts spun in endless loops, each strike of his blade accompanied by a sudden and terrifying clarity. It was as though the chaos around him had become a mirror, forcing him to see not just the battlefield, but himself—and he did not like what he saw.
It was during one of his last raids, a fierce battle on the shores of a foreign land. He had led his men with ruthless efficiency, cutting through the enemy like a storm. The enemy leader, a proud and defiant man, had been the final obstacle. They had clashed on the blood-soaked ground, and his superior skill had quickly overwhelmed the other man. The leader fell to his knees, his sword clattering uselessly at his side, and the he had raised his blade for the killing blow.
Out of nowhere, from the chaos, something pierced through the haze of blood and steel—a cry, sharp and raw, cutting to his core. He turned, his blade still poised to strike, and there she was. A girl, no older than his own son, emerged from the carnage like a thread of life weaving through the tapestry of death. She flung herself between him and her father, her frail arms outstretched as if they could hold back the tide of his violence. Her eyes, wide and burning with fear and fury, met his, not with the defiance of a warrior, but with a desperate, unyielding love—a kind of courage he had never faced. Her voice, trembling but resolute, broke through the din: "Please, no more."
The weight of those words, her presence, hit him like a thunderclap. In her face, he saw no hate, no vengeance, only a plea for something he had never given thought to: mercy. It was not the look of a defeated enemy but of someone clinging to something far more precious than pride or victory. Her small frame trembled, her chest heaving with sobs she refused to let escape, but her feet held their ground, rooted like the mightiest oak against the storm of his blade.
He froze. The world around him seemed to fall away—the clash of swords, the screams, the stink of death—all of it dissolved. All that remained was this child, a fragile being who had the audacity to stand against him, not with a weapon, but with the sheer force of her will. In that moment, his reflection stared back at him through her eyes—not the man he believed himself to be, but the monster he had become.
And his ego broke. A deep, resounding crack within him, as though the foundation of everything he had built his life upon—strength, conquest, ruthlessness—was crumbling to dust. His hand faltered, the blade lowering as though it had grown too heavy to wield. For the first time, he saw the battlefield for what it truly was: a pit of endless suffering, feeding on lives and leaving behind nothing but hollow victories.
In her, he saw the futility of it all, but also something else—something he had forgotten existed. Life. Fragile, fleeting, and worth more than all the blood he had spilled. A sudden clarity washed over him, sharper than any blade, as if he had transcended the chaos, risen above it. His breath slowed, his body stilled, and in the quiet of his mind, an epiphany took root.
He stepped back, lowering his weapon completely. The girl didn't move, still braced as if expecting the blow to come. Her father, kneeling behind her, stared in shock. The man looked down at the trembling blade in his hand, and sheathed it. Without a word, he turned and walked away, leaving behind the battlefield, the carnage, and the man he had been.
The world around him had seemed to shift, as though the very air had changed. His breath slowed, his mind cleared, and he felt a calm he had never known before. The battlefield, once a blur of chaos, became sharp and focused. He saw every movement around him, every twitch of a blade, every shift of weight. It was as if the violence had unlocked something within him, but not in the way he had expected.
In that moment, he realized the true depth of his power—something far beyond brute strength or honed skill. He could see the movements of his enemies before they made them, as if the flow of battle had slowed just for him. He knew exactly where to strike, how to disarm a man with nothing but his bare hands, his actions faster than thought itself. His instincts were no longer just reactions; they were something deeper, an almost preternatural awareness of the energy around him. Every movement felt precise, deliberate, as though the chaos of battle was nothing more than a puzzle he could effortlessly solve. Yet, with this newfound power came an overwhelming stillness within him, a strange and profound clarity that made the act of killing feel almost beneath him. The desire for blood, the craving for violence that had driven him for so long, was gone, burned away like fog under the rising sun. What was left was not weakness, but a strength so complete it no longer needed to destroy to prove itself.
He had ascended—stepping onto a path uncharted, a higher plane of mastery that no teacher he knew of could impart and no battlefield could define.
His men had watched in stunned silence, unable to understand why their leader, a legend among warriors, had chosen mercy. Many had left him after that, unwilling to follow a man who no longer sought blood. He hadn't cared. He had seen the futility of it all, and he couldn't go back.
In the months that followed, he sought out the fjord he had glimpsed on a raid years before, drawn by a memory of quiet beauty. It was there he found her—the woman who would become his wife. And as the years passed, his old life began to feel like a dream, a past self that no longer belonged to him.
Now, watching his son, he felt the weight of his choices pressing heavier than ever. He wanted more for the boy—not just the skill to wield a blade, but the wisdom to do so without losing himself to the abyss that had swallowed so many warriors, himself included. His goal was not merely to teach the boy to fight, but to guide him toward the level of mastery he had reached—a place where strength and clarity coexisted, where power could be wielded without the stain of bloodlust. It was an unorthodox path, one few could understand, but he believed his son could walk it. To rise above the violence without being consumed by it, to become a warrior who could protect what mattered most without sacrificing his soul—that was the legacy he hoped to pass on.
The boy stumbled slightly, his footing off as he adjusted his grip, and the man stepped forward, his voice calm but firm. "Not strength," he said, placing a steadying hand on the boy's shoulder. "Control. The blade is an extension of you. Let it move with purpose."
The boy nodded, adjusting his stance, and the man stepped back, folding his arms once more. A blade that protects, not destroys, he thought. That's what I'll forge. And maybe, just maybe, he'll never have to see the world as I did.