章節 2: Chapter One: Hello, Ymir
Resurrection.
That's what should have happened to Salazar after his death. As an immortal, his soul was tied to the material plane, tethered by an unbreakable connection that should have allowed him to return to a new body. Yet, fate had other plans. In an expanse of unyielding darkness, a golden orb of light drifted, its glow faint and wavering. Within this orb, a self-aware consciousness stirred—the being once known as Salazar.
How did I end up here? he wondered, disoriented. Centuries of delving into the esoteric forces of the universe had familiarized him with this path. This was the Reincarnation Cycle, the liminal plane where souls wandered, awaiting an unknown force to pluck them into a new life. But Salazar's presence here defied all reason. He vividly recalled the moment of his death: swallowing the Divine Resources and wielding his soul's power to unleash a sacrificial attack against his enemies. He had intended to destroy them, even at the cost of his life. Yet, instead of returning to the material plane as he should have, he found himself cast adrift in this void. The silence of the Reincarnation Cycle pressed in on him, oppressive and unyielding, until something shifted. A faint pull—subtle at first—began to tug at his core. Time, if such a thing existed here, magnified the force of the pull with each passing moment.
Instinctively, Salazar resisted. His semi-transcendent soul surged with defiance, a power he thought unmatched. But something—a force beyond comprehension—interrupted his resistance. The pull grew stronger, relentless, and all-consuming. Panic seized him as questions filled his mind. What could overpower the natural laws of the universe? He strained against the inevitable, but just as realization began to dawn, a blinding white light exploded against his senses. And then, nothing.
****
In the world of Ymir in the continent of Scandavia, the last habitable continent of Midgard, life thrived despite the broken realm's scarcity of ambient energy. Amid the five kingdoms of this vast land, the Kingdom of Norland stood strong, its borders brushing against Denland and Swedland. Nestled between them was the village of Kattegat, ruled by the formidable Earl Bestla Lothbrok. At the heart of Kattegat stood the Earl's residence—a towering structure of intricate craftsmanship. Its silvered roof gleamed faintly under the stormy sky, and rune-marked walls reinforced its wooden frame against both natural and supernatural forces. The three-story building housed the Earl's administrative quarters on the ground floor, but tonight, all attention was focused on the second floor. In one of the chambers, chaos reigned.
"Push, my lady! Push!" urged the Volur, a healer gifted with an elemental connection.
Bestla Lothbrok writhed on her bed, her golden hair disheveled, her fair face flushed with agony and rage. Lightning flashed outside as thunder rattled the walls, the storm mirroring the turmoil within. Bestla cursed the gods—those absent Aesir who had long abandoned their realm.
The Volur's voice trembled with urgency. "My lady, you must push harder!"
"I AM PUSHING!" Bestla roared, her scream laced with psychic energy that rippled through the room. Outside, the storm intensified. Rain lashed against the windows, winds howled like wild beasts, and even the rune-carved buildings groaned under nature's fury. The Volur could feel it—the disturbance in Midgard's broken elements. The storm was no mere coincidence; it resonated with Bestla's labor. Her essence stirred chaotically, her runes glowing brighter with each contraction.
What in the name of Aesir is happening? the Volur thought, fear creeping into her heart. She had witnessed countless births, but none like this. If the chaos continued, there was a risk of Eitir poisoning, a corruption that could drive even the strongest minds to madness. But Bestla was no ordinary woman. A descendant of the Aesir and a warrior of unmatched strength, her will was unbreakable. With a final, guttural scream, she channeled her psychic power, forcing the forces around her to yield.
The baby was born.
The Volur quickly severed the umbilical cord, her hands trembling. The chaos outside began to subside, though the air still crackled with residual energy. Something about the child was... unusual. The baby did not cry. Instead, the Volur swore she felt a faint psychic fluctuation emanating from the newborn. That should have been impossible.
The door burst open, and Aksel Ingstad, clad in leather armor, stormed in. His rugged face was etched with concern. Having just returned from culling rune beasts that had gone rabid in the nearby forest, he had no explanation for their sudden frenzy—only a grim determination to protect his home.
His gaze softened as he approached the bed. "Bestla…" he whispered, awe and relief washing over him. Bestla gestured for the Volur to hand her the baby. The healer obeyed, her unease lingering. The newborn was quiet, unnervingly so, but Bestla cradled him with fierce determination.
"He's beautiful," Aksel murmured, crouching beside her.
Aksel was not the child's father—everyone in Norland knew that. Bestla had been pregnant before their marriage, and the identity of the father remained a mystery she guarded closely. Yet Aksel had never cared. He had loved Bestla since their youth and had willingly accepted her challenge for marriage, even though he lost to her in combat. Now, he was here, devoted as ever, ready to raise her child as his own. Bestla held the baby close, her golden hair framing her weary yet radiant face.
"His name is…"
"His name is…" Bestla's voice faltered, the weight of her decision hanging heavy in the air. Her hand gently brushed over her son's forehead, and she paused, looking down at the quiet child, her golden eyes filled with both wonder and uncertainty. Aksel's eyes softened as he gazed at her, waiting for the name that would shape the child's destiny.
Before Bestla could speak, a sudden disturbance jolted the room. The Volur, still kneeling at the foot of the bed, gasped, her eyes wide as she stared at the baby. She wasn't sure if it was a trick of the dim lighting or a product of her unease, but there was something... unnatural about the child. She could feel it, faint but undeniable—a presence, an essence that wasn't supposed to be there. Aksel noticed her unease and stepped forward, his rugged hands hovering near his wife's, unsure whether to comfort her or investigate the healer's sudden shock. The Volur slowly backed away, her face pale.
"I—I don't understand…" she muttered, shaking her head as if trying to dismiss what she had felt. Bestla's grip on the child tightened. "What do you mean?" Her voice was cold, commanding. She had fought too long and too hard for this moment to have it overshadowed by doubt.
"I felt… something," the Volur said, struggling to find words. "There's a psychic... fluctuation. A disturbance in the essence of the child."
Bestla's expression hardened, her warrior instincts flaring up. "Are you telling me there's something wrong with my son?"
"No, no," the Volur stammered, her hands raised in a placating gesture. "It's just… it's unlike any birth I've attended. The child doesn't cry. And his essence—it's… there's something about it that doesn't belong here. It's as if…" The Volur's voice trailed off, uncertainty creeping into her words. "It's like his soul doesn't quite align with the natural flow of things. It's faint, but it's there." Bestla's brow furrowed, her grip tightening around the baby.
"I don't care what it is. He is mine. And I will protect him."
Aksel, too, was silent. His mind was racing, trying to make sense of the words that had just been spoken. Was it possible? Could there be something more to this child than met the eye? Just as the tension in the room reached its peak, a sudden gust of wind slammed against the building, rattling the windows. Aksel and the Volur exchanged worried glances, sensing the storm outside had not yet passed. In fact, the air felt charged, as if the entire world was waiting for something.
每周推薦票狀態
-- 推薦票
榜單 
-- 推薦票