Four months. That’s how much time David had until he was sixteen. Four months until his coming-of-age ceremony. Until the greatest challenge of his life. He would have to slay something mighty to be recognized by the gods. He’d begin his hunt two months before the ceremony proper, to give him plenty of time to succeed. Now if only he knew what to hunt...

  Perhaps a Wyvern, or a Wyrm. Or maybe he’d tame a Drake, nobody had managed that in centuries. He’d need to be cunning and strong in equal measures if he had any desire to succeed in any such task. His magic and martial skills alone would not be enough, so he’d used what his mother had taught him, and what little he now knew of runes, to design traps.

  He’d settled on three designs as the best fit for his needs. One was a basic pitfall trap with a bunch of spikes at the bottom. Another, a roll of bear-skin leather with the runes for an elemental explosion stitched on one side. The last, a rudimentary ballista loaded with a bolt laced with a paralytic. The last was the least practical of his options.

  He was still going to forge the bolt, though he may not use the ballista; he’d prepared the paralytic after all. Of course, seeing as he couldn’t wield his mithril blade, he’d need to forge a few expendable weapons, which is what he was now doing.

  The fire crackled and danced as more coal was placed within it. Sweat ran down his skin in rivulets, his clothes were practically soaked in it. The clang of steel on steel thundered through the smithy as his hammer descended to meet the red-hot metal of a blade he had pulled from the fire. His muscles ached and groaned.

  He had been at it since early morning, it was midday. A pile of defectuous blades lay in one corner of the smithy, a far smaller pile of good blades rested upon a nearby workbench. The defective blades would be melted down to make more, the rest would be given a hilt and pommel and used. He placed his current one in water to let it cool and watched the water steam and bubble. A closer inspection of the blade once it emerged showed it lacked significant defects, so it went onto the bench. This had been his routine for several weeks now, in preparation for his hunt, but today, he’d forged the last blade he might need.

  His hammer descended one final time, to rest upon the anvil. A pull of a cord sealed the forge, starving the fire of oxygen, and extinguishing it. A pull of another and the shutters opened, letting the sun’s light into the smithy. He moved to the workbench and began pulling materials from their place within a crate beneath it. Wood, leather strips, adhesive, the materials required for a hilt.

  He’d forged six dirks and spears, for stabbing and throwing, two seax blades, a nice pair of arming swords, and even a bearded battleaxe that he probably wouldn’t end up using. He’d forged the pommels for all, he merely needed the hilts or, in the axe’s case, shaft, to complete the weapons. He began to whittle the hilts for his weapons as his father had taught him, carefully shaving away the bark to meet his measurements. A blade’s hilt had to be comfortable in its wielder’s hands.

  He finished a pair of dagger hilts and began to bind them in leather, attaching it to the hilt’s wood with adhesive. The hilts proper were hollow, made to wrap around the blade’s tang, a smaller metal protrusion from the blade proper, like a hilt. Once the hilts were in their rightful place, he hammered the pommels onto their end. He’d made the pommels in the classic circular style that he’d seen his father use, and that the echoes of his two lives knew to be common.

  Once the pommel was attached, all that was missing was to sharpen the blades, so he took them to the smithy’s grindstone. Before he could get to work, however, his vision was suddenly and spontaneously obstructed by a pair of gloved hands covering his eyes.

  “Guess who.” A voice he did not recognize said. It was obviously a woman’s voice. There was a fond, playful tone to it, but the words were spoken as if in a language foreign to the speaker. Clearly not a native speaker. Certainly not one he recognized. He decided to pick the safe option, someone he’d never heard speak and was friends with.

  “Runa?” He guessed. They’d grown a lot closer in the time they’d known each other, though he still felt the odd resonance whenever he looked into her eyes. At this point he figured it was one of the mythical bloodlines people so coveted.

  “Yes! How did you know?” His vision returned to him; her hands had been taken from his face. When he turned around, she was jumping in excitement, dressed in a cloak and some light leather armor.

  “Just a guess. Anyways, since when do you speak Nordic?” he asked, astonished. In fact, he had no idea she could speak at all, he’d thought her mute, like his father.

  “I’ve been learning!” Said she “The system finally granted me the skill.” In a blink, she’d left his side and manifested at his workbench, inspecting the blades he’d crafted. “These are nice. You must have the bladesmith skill.”

  “I’m not old enough to use the system.” He stated before being struck by a sudden realization. “Wait. How old are you?”

  “Sixteen and three months, why?” She asked from where she now stood, before the anvil.

  “You’re about seven months older than I am.”

  “Oh. Anyways, Elder Bertha said that you could teach me how to use my daggers.” She said, unholstering a pair of dirks from her thigh.

  “I can, yes, but I’m no expert. I only know what Aunt Ethel taught me.” He began to rise as he spoke, leaving the dirks he’d been working on by the side. It was a good thing Ethel was trying to teach him everything she knew…

  “Teach me. I know even less than you do.” She said, once more by his side.

  “Alright, let’s head ov-” He was being pulled away before he’d even finished speaking. She’d latched onto his arm and was now running in the direction of the training yard, pulling him in her wake.

  They got a few odd looks along the way, apparently it wasn’t often you saw the smith’s son being dragged along by a lass. Especially not the adopted daughter of the entire village. People had grown fond of her, and that put a bit of extra scrutiny on their friendship.

  It wasn’t long before they’d arrived at the training yard, with all its training dummies and bow targets and other training apparatuses. There were a few people there, a guard practicing his cuts on a dummy, another honing his aim, and three doing exercises. It was practically desolate. They both picked up a pair of wooden daggers from the weapons racks and made their way to the nearby combat pit, this might hurt.

  He began demonstrating the basics of dagger use, watching Runa repeat them, and couldn’t help but notice a key detail... She was nimble. She moved with an absurd grace, never once stumbling or making a movement that wasn’t absurdly smooth. She was fast. She would be able to outrun him handily, without needing to use the obvious movement skill she’d been using in his smithy.

  She caught on quickly. She’d mastered the basics of dagger use in minutes, followed by the footwork required, and then the rest of what he could teach her shortly thereafter. It’d only been an hour by then. She’d exclaimed that she’d unlocked the dagger skill at some point during their training, so perhaps that was why, or perhaps she was just a fast learner. His decision to spar after she’d learned the skill would certainly be one he’d feel the consequences of for the next few days, though.

  He’d switched his daggers in favor of a shield and hammer for the sparring match, though he quickly found the shield to be useless. Runa was like a phantom, slipping through his fingers as if she could go right through matter. She dodged his attacks effortlessly and struck like a mantis, fast and nimbly, always returning to a spot just out of range of his attacks.

  She’d landed blow after blow while narrowly avoiding his own. He’d decided that something had to change. Remembering his lessons in life magic, he began to distribute energy throughout his body with one intent: to enhance. And soon enough his bones felt harder, his muscles stronger, his mind keener, and his organs more effective. He began to be able to move faster, now capable of blocking Runa’s attacks and forcing her into longer dodges.

  No longer could she just narrowly evade his hammer, she had to move greater distances to dodge. But when she triggered her movement ability... It was like returning to square one. The gulf between someone with the system and someone without was too great. She had become too fast for him to battle, to fully perceive while in movement.

  He had to do something to bridge it, to close the distance. So, he shunted more energy into his brain, to let him register her movements, and his muscles, for greater strength and faster movement. He wouldn’t be able to match her blow-for-blow, but he would be able to react to her movements. When she next bolted in for an attack, he was ready. His hammer was discarded, and his shield narrowly deflected her attack as he brought his free hand to her neck. His enhanced musculature allowed him to lift her up into the air above him and they made eye contact. He shivered as he felt the resonance.

  A wry smirk manifested upon her features, and he braced himself for whatever trick she had up her sleeve. No such trick manifested. “Harder, Davi.” She joked and, suddenly and inexplicably bashful, David let his grip slip, and she fell upon her back. “Ow. I didn’t mean ‘drop me’.” she said as she sat up.

  “You’ve been able to speak with me for one day, and this is the first joke you make?” David asked as he collapsed into a sitting position. His enhancement dropped and his muscles suddenly ached, he was definitely going to be feeling that for a while.

  A sudden blast of light drew their attention to another side of the combat pit, where an armored skeleton had manifested. “Summon Skeleton Warrior, level two.” someone said from somewhere nearby.

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” David bellowed as he jumped to his feet. He placed his shield before him and began to draw upon his magic, whatever form of it he used. Power flooded from his heart, or somewhere near it, to his right hand, manifesting in a crimson light on the surface of his skin. The skeleton charged them. It held a maul up above its head as it charged. Skeletons weren’t exactly the brightest creatures.

  He extended his hand towards the skeleton and bellowed. “Magebane!” In response, the energy within his hand transformed, becoming a ball of blue flame that flew at his target, impacting its chest. The skeleton stopped in its tracks, and began to fall apart as the spell that animated and held it together was consumed by the fire.

  Runa was engaged with one behind them, that had apparently already fallen apart and put itself back together, as reanimated skeletons tended to do. The only way to truly ‘kill’ an animated skeleton is to either damage it so severely that reassembly was impossible or disrupt the magic that animates it. He didn’t have the mana for another magebane, but he did have a hammer laying on the ground beside him and enough mana to enhance himself once more.

  So, he picked up his hammer and charged, slamming into the skeleton with his shield and knocking it down. He followed that up by pulverizing its skull with a crushing hammer-blow. Then he slammed his shield into the ribcage, shattering it completely. “No getting up from that one.” He stated.

  This book is hosted on another platform. Read the official version and support the author's work.

  “Well done!” Someone exclaimed from beside them. Whatever spell they’d been using to stay concealed dropped suddenly, to reveal the most frightening treant David had seen so far. Its bark was like bleached bone, its figure thin and nimble (compared to the other treants), its leaves were black as night and only present on the treant’s chest, head, like a long mane of hair, and forearms. Its facial structure resembled that of a bat’s skull.

  “Well done.” The treant repeated, unshifting. Its voice was like shifting leaves in the night, sibilant, compared to the creaking of the others. “I am Shadeleaf, sprout of Ashbark. I am the watcher of the forests around this training yard. Elder Bertha asked me to test you.” He pointed at David as he said the last part.

  “David, son of Armod.” David stated, introducing himself. “You mentioned that Elder Bertha sent you to test me, why?”

  The treant huffed and shrugged. “I do not know. I owed her a favor; I paid it back. No questions asked. Perhaps...” It gave a thoughtful hum. “Perhaps it is because of your magic, it is of a type I have seen but a few times before, and not in the last four centuries. Additionally, you two have an… interesting relationship.”

  David and Runa laughed in unison. Neither looked at the other. “I know the elders are trying to figure out why I declined to be betrothed to Hilde, but it’s certainly not because I’ve fallen for my best friend!” David chortled. “Hilde is just plain unpleasant. Why would I waste my time being around her, when I could spend it with a far more pleasant person?”

  “Davi, do you think he can help us train for your coming-of-age?” Runa asked, he got the impression she wasn’t fond of the topic of Hilde.

  “There is no need to ask the human, I will help.” The treant said, and one of its hands became a blade.

  _________________________________________________________

  Three months later, David had found his prey, a young wyvern. The brown scales and stone-like protrusions marked it as a common earth wyvern. Incapable of spitting flame, common earth wyverns were instead given the ability to adhere stone and dirt to themselves and use it as armor. They, unlike other wyverns, also tended to burrow. For this reason, they were granted a larger body and thicker, almost shovel-like claws. Their club-like tail also provided additional offense.

  He’d initiated their engagement with an enhanced spear throw that simply bounced off the blasted thing’s stone armor. A spiked pitfall trap had had little effect. An overcharged spell had been ignored thanks to the beast’s stone armor. He’d gone so far as knocking a tree down on it. All to little effect.

  So now he’d decided he was going to break out the big guns, he’d lure the beast to a clearing on the edge of a wide and shallow river, where he’d set up a barrage of elemental explosion runes to be triggered by the wyvern. Then he’d lure it into the water nearby. But first, he needed a lure. Bait.

  He’d need something big, something that wyverns normally ate. Alas, he did not know the forest, not like his mother, or the treants. But he could not ask for help. So, he shadowed the beast on its day-to-day. An entire week, it took, but he eventually found the beast’s favorite prey, the giant wild rams native to the region.

  He whiled away his time for five days before beginning preparations for his final encounter with the wyvern. Four rams were brought down and dragged to the trap circle, butchered and set upon a pyre. Six spears he’d tied with rope to trees by the riverside, to hold the wyvern there above the river. Ten runes of elemental release he’d carved onto the rocks and charged fully with mana.

  He anointed the pyre with animal fat, from the beasts he’d hunted to feed himself. An arrow wrapped with cloth soaked in oil and fat is set aside. And from afar, the pyre is ignited. The wyvern flies above, once, twice, again and again it flies over the site, enticed by the pyre’s scent, until it eventually decides to land. And as it feeds, its fate is sealed. David triggers the runes.

  An explosion of force engulfs the clearing.

  The air is displaced in a thunderous roar, trees and rocks fly, the pyre’s flame is extinguished. In the explosion’s wake, the beast roars, it had seen him, in his place across the river, and begins its flight towards him. Its armor has been stripped, its scales are torn, and a leg is limp. Yet still, the beast, enraged, flies to its next battle.

  It flies to its death.

  He picks up a spear, empowers himself, and launches it right at the beast’s flank. It stumbles in the air. He repeats the process. It is repeated five times, and the beast impacts the ground. It rears up roars and flares its power, commanding the stone to armor it, but it does not respond. Water intervenes with earth magic.

  He pulls his battleaxe from its place upon his back and charges. He cannot take a direct blow from the beast. He cannot allow it to break the enchanted ropes. Its tail flies at him, he barely slides beneath it. He sidesteps a claw swipe and brings his battleaxe forth, across the beast’s wing-arm, the claws fly off.

  He ducks beneath its head, as it attempts to swipe at him, and jumps into a descending slash with his axe, which bounces off. He jumps back to avoid a bite and begins to empower his body with all of his magic. A low swipe with its tail is bypassed with a jump, another head swipe is ducked. The beast rears up to fall upon him and he barely dodges out from under it.

  A snap, and a roar shakes the trees, one of the ropes had snapped and jostled one of the spears within the wyvern’s side. Its roar of pain has left it open, however, and David charges in to deliver the final slice. An upwards cut from his axe, and the wyvern’s head soars, and its body falls limp. But slaying the wyvern, young and wounded though it may have been, was only the first part of his tribulation.

  He must now, as a self-imposed trial, transport the beast’s entire body back to the village. He ties hooks to ropes and stabs them into the wyvern, ties the beast’s head to its back, grabs hold of the ropes, and pulls. Over the course of the next day, he pulls the wyvern’s body through the forest and towards the village, stopping only to rest and recover the pieces of the wyvern’s armor. He takes his time, for there is no fear of reprisal from another wyvern.

  Earth wyverns, like flame wyverns, and much unlike their wind-aligned and coastal cousins, are solitary beings. They do not flock, they do not share, if two are found in the same territory it is because they are either mating, or because one is the other’s offspring and just about ready to leave. This is contrary to griffons, which are commonly found in mated pairs and will become a royal pain in the arse if one of them is slain and the other is not. But, alas, he has no reason to fear reprisal and will not be challenged by any of the woodland’s native creatures because few of them are willing to risk earning the attention of whatever slew a wyvern. It’s a shame, he’d hoped to bag a larger haul than a single wyvern.

  Then again, trying to slay more than one may have killed him. He’d had to weaken the one he’d slain significantly before the fight, and the beast still took everything he had. And he had no idea how he’d even transport them all, the one he was currently pulling took the full power of his enhanced body to pull, very slowly, because it weighed about as much as a pair of bears, and this was a young specimen. Still, eventually, and after much sweat and effort, he manages to pull his haul to the village’s western gate.

  “Bloody-! Vilkas, open the gates!” He hears someone bellow from atop the wooden wall. There are a few yells of “he’s back” and “he’s here” before there’s a clunk and the gates slowly open. He drags the wyvern through.

  “By my beard, lad, how did you manage this?” Elder Amos asked from the forefront of a crowd of guards.

  “With some cunning, and a lot of effort.” He responded. “Also, a good bit of magic firepower.”

  “Of course, I’d expect nothing less, I just didn’t imagine you’d bring back a wyvern. May I?” He asked, gesturing to the wyvern’s corpse, David just nodded in response. “This is a marvelous beast; I can tell he was very healthy; I mean just look at the luster of his scales, lad. He would have been a magnificent bastard, had he grown to adulthood. Still, he’ll be a useful beast, especially his-”

  “Amos, stop rambling, have your men pull the beast aside and let me see the lad.” Said Healer Tala, pushing through the crowd. She came to a stop before David, kneeling to inspect him. Her eyes were glowing green, likely from her usage of healing magic to see his injuries. “The blood you’re covered in is not your blood. You’re surprisingly uninjured, mostly just bruising, and those claw marks on your chest and back, likely from some big cat... or canine...”

  “Let the lad rest, healer.” Said Shadeleaf, emerging from David’s shadow. “He has not slept in two days.”

  “You’ve been in my shadow all this time?” David asked incredulously.

  “Yes, and your mother has followed from the treetops." The treant stated.

  “Dammit, whatever, I need sleep, and a bath.” David stated as he departed towards his home. He was congratulated by everyone he passed, though the person he wished to see most was not amongst them. He arrived home promptly and hurried through the process of scouring his body of the draconic blood that covered it before diving onto his bed and into sleep until the next day’s noon.

  _____________________________________________________________________

  He was awoken by the sound of a horn trumpeting out from the mead hall, it was the iconic horn of celebration, that which informed the entire village of a forming feast. In this case, it was his coming-of-age feast that it was heralding. He barely had time to dress himself up before his siblings were trying to break down his door to wake him. “I’m awake!” he bellowed “Stop trying to break down my door!”.

  The second he’d opened his door he was practically picked up and carried down the stairs, his sister lambasting him for sleeping all day and his brother harrying him with questions about the hunt. His father waited at the bottom of the stairs with a scabbarded sword in hand, which he handed to David. “It’s yours, you’re worthy of it. I am already making you a better scabbard and armor from the wyvern. Go and feast.” He said.

  And feast David did. The Mead-hall was packed, the entire village was present. The tables were piled with meats and fruits and meat, or occupied by feasting villagers, and flagons of mead were being ferried about to anyone who could drink. Even he received one. It was the greatest drink he had ever tasted.

  They eventually filed out to the temple of Udren, where his ceremony would take place. They did not, however, stay within any part of the temple he’d known existed, instead going into a massive underground chamber dominated by a glowing green crystalline tree. The wyvern’s head was there.

  Eadric, the resident priest of Udren took stood before the tree. He was dressed in bone armor. His helmet was a giant ram’s skull, his pauldrons were bird skulls, his breastplate was the ribcage of some beast or another that he did not recognize, his greaves and gauntlets too were made of bone. This was the ancestral, ceremonial, garb of Udren’s tribal clergy.

  David had expected, in keeping with the garb, to hear some shamanic chanting or whatnot, instead, he was stood before the tree whilst the priest gave a short introduction.

  “Brothers and Sisters,” the priest began. “We are gathered here today to witness another’s blessing. David Armodson, step forth, and present your trophy.” David did as he asked, presenting the wyvern’s head to the crowd. All the while he searched the crowd for familiar faces and smiled at who he saw, they returned his smile. His friend, Deagan, currently wearing an odd bone mask, gave him a rude gesture in place of a smile, but David knew he was smiling beneath his mask.

  “To become a man, he swore to slay something greater than the foes he slew two years ago. He has delivered! He has slain a young wyvern of the earth element with but himself and his tools! He makes us proud. He makes his ancestors proud, he who has earned the favor of Udren! Favored of the gods, present your trophy to the tree of ancestors, and lay your touch upon the crystal.” Said the priest.

  He stepped up to the tree, placing the wyvern’s head at its foot, watching it disappear in a blue-green glow before he placed his hand upon the tree’s trunk. Light filled his vision, runes danced within the light, flittering to and from, before his sight returned to him.

  On one side of the cavern stood a massive spectral Raven, surrounded by an army of other, far smaller, spectral creatures. The raven’s lone eye glowed crimson, though the rest of it glowed blue. The great creature’s legs were shackled, though the chains were broken, and around its neck was a collar engraved with runes. Its wings were bound in runic chains. It stared down at him with a judging, wizened, eye and then began to speak.

  Interesting, that an ascendant with no relation to me would carry such a link when so few of my offspring do... Then again, I suppose this is not my power, inherited, it is entirely yours, now, and akin to my own only by your own making. I am Huginn, brother to Muninn and Badb, once-thrall of Woden. You, David, have earned the notice of quite a few gods and goddesses. Your status as an ascendant has excluded you from the system that was created to help mortals utilize magic, that means you will have a harder time of things than most will.

  The others looked on in stunned silence at the raven, though David had a feeling that they did not hear the Raven’s words as he did.

  While I cannot provide you with access to the system, I can make it look like you have access to it for the purpose of maintaining a facade of normalcy. You will need it. The servants of the others will find you and attempt to use you for the causes of their divines. You must not allow that to happen, unless you wish to serve another. I will also bestow a gift. Good luck.

  Upon the conclusion of his message the raven’s beak opened one final time and a wisp of light flew out, floating right into David as the spectral beasts faded away. Nothing happened. He felt no difference in his power or knowledge or capability. Nothing had changed.

  Words appeared upon the tree’s surface. ‘Paladin of the Self’ they read. There was a brief cheer from the gathered crowd before they surged forward, sweeping him up and then back to the mead hall. They celebrated for two days. They had good reason to, for they had seen one of their patron deities in the spectral flesh. They feasted, drank, and sung and brawled merrily, without stopping, for two days.

  And when the celebration finally ended, David went to a sleep he’d later wish he’d never woken up from.