Chapter 6: First Blood in Wessex
The longships ground against English sand with the finality of dice thrown across a gaming table. Paul stepped onto foreign soil with his Dane Axe in hand and the taste of destiny bitter on his tongue.
Wessex stretched before them—rolling green hills dotted with sheep, ancient stone walls marking boundaries no Viking recognized, and somewhere beyond the treeline, Saxon warriors who would either flee or die. The air smelled different here, cleaner somehow, touched with the scent of flowers Paul couldn't name and earth that had never known the bite of Nordic frost.
"This is it. The raids that make legends."
Ragnar was already moving, his tactical mind engaged with the practiced efficiency of a man who'd turned violence into art. Warriors spread out in loose formation, shields ready, eyes scanning for threats that might emerge from the peaceful-looking countryside.
"Scouts," Ragnar commanded, pointing toward the treeline that crowned the nearest hill. "I want to know what's waiting for us before we move inland."
Paul's morning Daily Vision flickered through his memory—Saxon soldiers crouched among the trees, watching the landing, preparing to carry word to their commanders. He'd seen them clearly: leather armor, iron spearpoints, faces painted with the particular determination of men defending their homeland.
"They know we're here," Paul said quietly, moving close enough to Ragnar that his words wouldn't carry. "Scouts in the trees, northeast. I saw them watching us land."
Ragnar's eyes sharpened. "You're certain?"
"I saw them. They'll report to their commander unless we stop them."
Ragnar studied Paul's face for a long moment, weighing prophecy against tactical necessity. Whatever he saw there convinced him.
"Lagertha," he called. "Take five warriors. Clear the trees of anything that breathes and doesn't serve Odin."
Lagertha nodded once and melted into the forest with her chosen fighters, moving with the fluid silence of predators who'd learned their craft in a world where mistakes meant death. The rest of the warband waited, weapons ready, while the sounds of brief violence drifted down from the hills.
She returned ten minutes later with two prisoners and blood on her blade.
"Three dead," she reported. "These two were trying to run."
Ragnar smiled with genuine pleasure. "Your sight saves us the advantage of surprise, Paul. The Saxons will know we've landed, but not how many or where we're heading."
"Each correct prediction cements my position. But also raises questions I'm not ready to answer."
The prisoners were questioned with the efficient brutality Paul had expected. Saxon soldiers, part of a larger force stationed near a monastery two days' march inland. King Ecbert's men, armed and armored better than the raiding parties were used to facing.
"The English are learning. Adapting."
By midday, they'd encountered the first Saxon military response—a formation of fifty soldiers in mail and leather, shields locked in a wall that spoke of training and discipline. Not the panicked farmers and terrified monks of earlier raids, but actual warriors who'd come to fight.
The shield walls met with the sound of thunder made flesh.
Paul positioned himself in the second rank, knowing his stats made him useless in the grinding melee of the front line. Around him, Vikings roared their battle cries while Saxons answered with their own defiant shouts. Axes bit into shields, spears thrust between gaps, and blood began to paint the English grass red.
"This is chaos. Pure, deadly chaos."
Paul activated Odin's Whisper.
[ODIN'S WHISPER ACTIVATED]
[DURATION: 120 SECONDS]
[MANA COST: 100% CURRENT MP]
[REMAINING MP: 12/12 (RESERVE)]
The world split in two.
Reality continued—the crash of shield against shield, the screams of wounded men, the spray of blood that painted abstract art in the air. But overlaid on top of it, Paul saw the next two minutes unfolding with crystalline precision.
Twenty seconds from now, a Saxon soldier would break through the Viking line three positions to Paul's left. The man would thrust his spear at the back of Torstein, one of Ragnar's most trusted warriors. Torstein would die with iron between his ribs, and the breach would widen, and the entire left flank would collapse.
Unless Paul acted.
Paul moved before conscious thought engaged, stepping left and raising his axe in a guard position that looked casual but placed him exactly where he needed to be. The Saxon broke through precisely as the vision had shown—desperate, skilled, driving forward with the fury of a man fighting for his homeland.
Paul saw the spear thrust twice—once in perfect future, once in approaching present—and sidestepped with economical grace. His Dane Axe caught the Saxon across the throat in a spray of crimson that painted Paul's face with another man's death.
First kill.
The second Saxon was already charging, his vision-self moving through motions Paul had already witnessed. The man's sword swept down in an overhead strike that would have split Paul's skull, but Paul was no longer there. He'd stepped inside the Saxon's guard, his axe blade opening the man's chest from collarbone to sternum.
Second kill.
The third Saxon tried to flank around the growing melee, seeking to attack the Vikings from the side. But Paul was waiting, his blade finding the gap between helmet and mail, the point of his seax sliding between vertebrae with surgical precision.
Third kill.
Two minutes of perfect precognition. Paul moved like water, killed like lightning given form, each motion flowing into the next with an inevitability that transcended normal combat. He existed between heartbeats, in the spaces where cause became effect, where knowledge of the future became mastery of the present.
Then Odin's Whisper ended.
Paul staggered, the weight of what he'd done crashing down like a physical blow. His hands shook uncontrollably, his vision grayed at the edges, and his stomach lurched with the particular nausea that came from complete mana depletion.
"Three men. I killed three men in two minutes."
"Little seer!"
Rollo's voice boomed across the battlefield as massive hands hauled Paul away from the front line. The big man was laughing, his face split in a grin that showed blood-stained teeth.
"The gods give you sight, but they do not give you stamina! Three kills in two minutes, then you shake like a newborn fawn!"
It wasn't mockery—Paul could hear genuine respect in Rollo's voice, admiration mixed with amusement. The kind of response a veteran warrior gave to someone who'd proven themselves in a way that mattered.
"You tipped the breach," Rollo continued, setting Paul down behind the relative safety of the shield wall. "We hold because of you."
Paul barely heard him. The adrenaline crash hit like a freight train, and he doubled over, vomiting onto the blood-soaked grass while the battle raged around him. His entire body shook with reaction, his mind struggling to process what he'd done.
"I saw them die before they died. I knew exactly where to put my blade to kill them most efficiently. What does that make me?"
The Vikings won, driving the Saxons back in a fighting retreat that left a dozen bodies scattered across the field. Paul sat staring at his hands—still trembling, still stained with blood that wasn't his own—while warriors around him celebrated their victory.
Lagertha found him there as the sun began to set, sitting beside him without speaking. Her presence was a anchor in the storm of his thoughts, solid and real and understanding.
"First time?" she asked finally.
Paul nodded, not trusting his voice.
"It never stops being hard," she said quietly. "That's how you stay human."
"What if I see their deaths before they happen?" Paul's voice cracked like a teenager's. "What does that make me?"
Lagertha was quiet for a long moment, considering the question with the seriousness it deserved.
"Lucky," she said finally. "And burdened. Both."
"Lucky and burdened. The story of my life."
That night they made camp among the Saxon dead, and Paul lay awake listening to warriors laugh and boast about their victory. He'd killed three men today with perfect efficiency, each death choreographed by visions that showed him exactly where to strike.
Tomorrow there would be more battles, more deaths, more moments where he danced to music only he could hear while other men bled and died around him.
"Odin's Whisper makes me feel less like a warrior and more like an executioner following a script."
But Ragnar was alive, the raid was succeeding, and Paul was one step closer to understanding what he was supposed to accomplish in this strange new world.
He closed his eyes and tried not to dream of Saxon faces he'd never see again.
[SYSTEM POINTS EARNED: 150]
[TOTAL SYSTEM POINTS: 50]
[ACHIEVEMENT UNLOCKED: FIRST BLOOD IN BATTLE]
[STATS UPDATED: +0.1 STR, +0.1 AGI]
[MENTAL STRAIN: MINIMAL - CONTINUE MONITORING]
+1 CHAPTER AFTER EVERY 3 REVIEWS
MORE POWER STONES == MORE CHAPTERS
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