Chapter 1:
The last thing Anders Skjold heard was gunfire.
Not real gunfire—digital, sharp, clipped through his headset. His fingers danced across plastic keys, muscle memory honed by hundreds of late nights. The map was familiar. The enemy predictable. His heart was hammering anyway, that familiar mix of adrenaline and focus that came when the match was tight and victory was close.
Someone shouted in his ear.
Then the sound warped.
The world seemed to stretch, like audio dragged through water. His vision tunneled. The screen blurred—not lag, not frame drop, but something deeper, wronger. His hands felt numb. Heavy. As if they no longer belonged to him.
He tried to blink.
Darkness swallowed everything.
There was no pain. No impact. No sense of dying.
Just the abrupt certainty that something had ended without asking permission.
⸻
Warmth came first.
Not the gentle warmth of a blanket or a room heater—but a living heat. Breathing heat. Fire.
Anders became aware of sensation before thought. His skin tingled, overly sensitive. The air was thick, heavy with smoke and unfamiliar scents—sweat, wool, wood sap, iron. Something animal.
He tried to move.
Nothing happened.
Panic flared. He tried again, harder, sending the command down to muscles that refused to answer. His limbs felt short. Weak. Uncoordinated.
His chest hitched.
He tried to speak.
A cry tore out of him—thin, raw, helpless.
The sound shocked him more than anything else.
That wasn't his voice.
He opened his eyes.
At first, everything was blur and firelight. Shapes swam in amber and shadow. The ceiling above him was too high, crossed by thick wooden beams darkened by smoke. The light flickered, alive, throwing dancing shadows across carved pillars and hanging shields.
A face loomed into view.
A woman. Broad-shouldered, strong-jawed, her hair braided tight against her head. Sweat glistened on her brow. Her arms were corded with muscle, scarred and steady as they held him close against her chest.
She was smiling.
"Strong lungs," she said, her voice rough but warm.
Anders' mind reeled.
He was being held.
He tried to lift his hands—saw instead tiny fists flailing weakly in the air, red and trembling. His legs kicked uselessly, wrapped in coarse cloth and fur.
No.
No, no, no.
This wasn't possible.
He tried to scream words. Tried to demand answers. Tried to ask where he was, what had happened, why—
Another cry came out.
Around him, voices laughed.
A deep one boomed from nearby, rich with pride. "Hear him! Already he shouts like a warrior."
A massive man leaned into view, his beard thick and braided, his face split by a grin that showed worn teeth. His arms were tattooed with symbols Anders didn't recognize but somehow felt. The man rested a hand on a round shield propped against the wall—its surface painted with a weathered sigil of interlocking lines.
The man's eyes were bright.
"He'll be called Anders," he said. "And he will be strong."
The name struck Anders like a hammer.
They said it like it belonged here.
His thoughts raced, crashing into each other. He remembered his apartment. His chair. The glow of his monitor. He remembered his hands—adult hands—fast, capable. He remembered his world.
And yet here he was.
A newborn.
Somehow, impossibly, his mind was intact. Clear. Adult. Terrified.
He scanned the room as best he could through infant eyes. Weapons lined the walls—axes, spears, swords of dull iron. Fur cloaks hung from pegs. The floor was packed earth strewn with rushes. A fire pit burned in the center of the longhouse, smoke curling up through a hole in the roof.
This was not a set. Not a dream.
The people spoke in a language that wasn't English—and yet, somehow, he understood the meaning if not every word. It settled into his mind like something remembered rather than learned.
Understanding without explanation.
His panic crested, then stalled, smothered by exhaustion. His tiny body shook with effort he didn't remember making. His eyelids grew heavy.
As sleep tugged at him, a sound cut through the longhouse.
A chime.
Sharp. Metallic. Clean.
Utterly alien.
It did not come from the fire. Or the people. Or the world around him.
It rang inside him.
Time seemed to freeze.
The laughter dulled. The crackle of fire faded into silence. The woman's breathing slowed, suspended. Anders felt suddenly alone—isolated in a bubble of awareness while the world held its breath.
And then he saw it.
A translucent blue screen shimmered into existence before his eyes.
It hovered, perfectly still, unaffected by smoke or flame. Crisp lines of light formed letters he recognized instantly.
Modern.
Impossible.
Host detected.
Anders' thoughts screamed.
Compatibility confirmed.
This wasn't real. It couldn't be. He had played games long enough to know interfaces, HUDs, menus—but this wasn't projected. It wasn't imagined. It was there.
Supreme Viking System initializing…
His heart—tiny, fragile—pounded in his chest.
A system?
Like a game?
Another line appeared, brighter than the rest.
Host Anders Skjold has been chosen.
Chosen.
The word echoed through him as the screen faded, the blue light dissolving like mist.
The sounds of the longhouse rushed back all at once. Fire roared. Voices moved again. The woman shifted him gently, humming low in her throat.
Snow tapped softly against the roof outside.
Sleep claimed him before he could form another thought.
But somewhere beyond gods, beyond men, beyond the firelit world of shields and blood—
The system finished loading