Stormkeep, the Barony of Stormcrow, the Northern Kingdom.
Sat on a rocky mountainside, Stormkeep was known for brutal winters and its fierce warriors, who protected trade routes across the frozen lands. The fortress itself had three main sections: the crowded outer markets, the middle district with barracks for soldiers, and the royal district at the center where nobles lived.
Around the central castle of the keep was the royal district—cleaner than the rest, with wide paths swept of snow. Guards in fur-lined cloaks stomped their boots to stay warm as they patrolled. Servants hurried past carrying firewood or baskets of food to warm stone houses with smoke curling from their chimneys.
But within this privileged district, there was a shack that stood as an ugly outlier.
A young man, inside the shack, shivered.
His eyes snapped open.
Where am I…?
He had just freshly graduated from Blackridge SpecOps Academy with the highest honors. The academy had taught him how to endure Arctic survival drills, warfare simulations, and psychological conditioning.
Did I somehow get entangled with some mob gang from the north?
What happened to me?
He sat up and staggered toward a tarnished bronze mirror hanging askew from the wall.
The reflection staring back was a stranger’s—
He has a gaunt face, all sharp angles and hollows with sunken eyes that flitted away as if too timid to confront even themselves. His frame slouched even in stillness, shoulders curled inward as if apologizing for existing. Bruises shadowed his collarbone in violets.
This was the body of a soul that had never learned to stand straight.
Memories of the original host now surfaced in his brain.
His name was Eirik.
The third son of Cedric Stormcrow—the Baron of Stormkeep and Lord of House Stormcrow.
Except…
Eirik was a bastard.
To be more specific, Eirik was born to a barbaric woman that Lord Cedric Stormcrow had taken captive from the Northern Wastes.
His mother died in childbirth, and his father, Lord Cedric, wasn’t the empathetic type. Cedric provided food, shelter, even education, yet when he found Eirik to be of a rather weak personality, Cedric stopped caring all that much about Eirik at all.
To say that he grew up in a hostile environment would be an understatement.
People called Eirik “half-blood” when feeling charitable, “mudborn” when not. He ate meals cold from the kitchens after nobel born children threw bread at his head. He slept in tower rooms where frost painted the mortar cracks each night. His sole companions were his half-siblings who’d sooner kick him down the stairs than speak with him.
People even gave him a nickname:
Eirik the Spineless.
“Young Master Eirik! You’re awake!”
A servant girl in woolens stained with soot shoved open the wooden door, carrying a tray of bread and what looked like lumpy gruel.
Eirik stared.
More memories filled his mind.
The girl was Marta, his only servant girl.
He should feel a bit of warmth as she brought him food and greetings. Yet what he found was the feeling that the original host’s body swelled up in his body towards Marta.
How strange…
It wasn’t the feeling of superiority, or even the comfort a master had for his servant.
No… it was a mixture of distaste and bitterness, and…
Suspicion.
Marta dropped the tray onto a rickety table.
“Eat. Young Master.” She turned to leave, then paused with a smirk on her face. “Oh, and Lord Garrick wants his dagger back.”
Eirik’s throat tightened.
Dagger?
Memory surfaced again: his brother Garrick cornering him in the armory, pressing a blade into his hands, then bellowing for guards.
“Thief! Bastard Filth!”
The beating had left him bedridden for three days. The fever followed.
The most disgusting fact was that they did not even bother to take the dagger away, but rather pushed it into his hands as the “evidence” that would be required for a later “trial of combat.”
And that trial date—Eirik looked at Marta, who was pretending to care about his well being—seemed to be today.
Garrick Stormcrow.
The firstborn son, heir of Lord Cedric Stormcrow.
Yet despite the title, he was by all standards a good-for-nothing spoiled boy except for his penchant for drinking and sparring.
Garrick was perpetually outshone by Cedric’s second son, Rurik, who was much superior both intellectually and physically. The existence of Rurik caused Garrick constant pent-up rage and humiliation that he had to swallow rather than release… until he had found one thing he could dominate:
Eirik.
The spineless bastard who never fought back.
Having familiarized himself with the relevant memories, Eirik glanced at the dagger sheathed on the wall—his “stolen” prize. The blade was cheap iron, a tool for gutting fish, not a battle knife that was actually worth anything.
Maybe it was chosen specifically to symbolize his current status.
Eirik sighed, his breath whitening into fog.
“Take the food away. I don’t feel like eating right now.”
For some reason, he did not want to trust this food that was being brought to him.
“But Lord Cedric insisted…”
“Now.”
Marta shot him a rather surprised look, then took the tray from the table, and left without another word.
As Marta closed the door behind her, Eirik suddenly stood up.
This wasn't the great start he’d hoped for.
Eirik had no power, no network of influence; Even his servants were doing shady things he could not yet figure out…
However…
if he had no one who cared about him at the court, then he must move elsewhere to start afresh!
No more being pushed around, beaten up and humiliated at others’ whim. Even though Eirik was new to this world, he refuses to live as Eirik the Spineless.
He’d rather be a king among worms than a coward at a royal court!
Given his background training at Blackridge, perhaps being a king isn’t too far-fetched for him to achieve in this world.
Yes, he would become a King, whatever it took!
Squeak—
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The door suddenly burst open again, interrupting his thoughts.
The draft wind hit Eirik’s face before he saw the man.
Garrick Stormcrow.
“Look who’s not dead! The bastard!”
Three guards flanked him. One snickered. The others stared at Eirik like he was dung on a boot.
Marta stood on their side, this time her attitude carried a sense of reverence that she never showed—even if just pretending it—toward Eirik.
Eirik’s lungs seized.
The original host’s body reflexes swelled up again—he remembered Garrick’s knuckles against his jawbone, his ribs snapping like kindling, and the coppery taste of blood pooling beneath his tongue.
Fear.
So raw, so real, the sense of fear had his body trembling against his will.
Stop!
His body wouldn’t listen to him as more memories showed up in his mind: Garrick’s fist cracking his ribs last winter, and the time he’d made Eirik lick spilled wine off the floor.
Then he remembered the words from his past life, from a wise old man who loved to read him medieval stories:
“The only time a man can be brave is when he’s afraid.”
A quote that had helped him countless times during his training at the Blackridge SpecOps Academy.
Eirik locked his knees, pressing fingernails into palms until the pain drowned out the great fear he'd been currently experiencing.
Garrick stepped closer and pointed to the dagger hanging from the wall.
“You’re still holding onto your ‘spoils,’ huh? Or are your pants too wet to return it to the armory?”
The guards chuckled. Even Marta couldn’t hold back a smirk.
Garrick took the dagger from the wall, and turned to look at Eirik.
“Thief. What do you say in your defense? ”
Erirk raised his head up.
He had never met his brother’s eyes before—always staring at boots, at floor stains, at the middle distance where his inferiority would not stare back at him.
Yet, this time, his gaze pinned Garrick like an arrow through a hare.
“I didn’t steal it.”
The guards’ snickers died mid-breath. Marta’s smirk collapsed into uneasy silence. Even the draft seemed to pause.
They’d never expected Eirik the Spineless would say something like this.
He’d never ever resisted, after all.
“What did you just say to me?” Garrick’s grin faltered.
“I. Didn’t. Steal. It.”
Garrick’s face flashed a moment of uncontrollable rage, then morphed into a twisted smile.
He leaned in, his rotten breath hot on Eirik’s face.
“Since when did our little worm grow a pair of balls?” He turned to his guards, showing his back to Eirik, the guards laughed in response. Garrick turned again to face Eirik, this time showing a much more ferocious expression.
“Do you know I’ll KILL you for what you just—”
Eirik’s knee slammed upward.
He’d just been not in the mood for Garrick to finish his theatrics.
YAAAAAAAAAAAGH—
A guttural, animal scream that clawed up from Garrick’s belly as he doubled over, blood streaming from the corner of his mouth.
This was a trick Eirik learned in the Blackridge SpecOps Academy from countless drills in riot control—a close-quarters strike designed to collapse an aggressor’s diaphragm. The body he inhabited now was frail, but even a half-starved knee driven upward with precision could inflict tremendous pain.
Every face in the room turned white.
Marta’s tray hit the floor with a clang, sending gruel splattering across the stones.
Blood… was that blood?
Eirik the Spineless drew blood on Garrick Stormcrow, was this a dream?
As Garrick stumbled forward from the knee strike, Eirik pivoted and slipped behind him.
The chokehold.
His favorite move from the SpecOpsc Academy melee training.
In a situation when the enemy was much more powerful and bigger in size, the chokehold would allow Eirik to use the enemy’s weight against them, thus giving him the upper hand despite the physical disadvantages.
The guards lurched forward, grabbing their sword hilts but froze mid-way when they realized it’d already been too late.
Eirik snaked one forearm beneath Garrick’s jaw in a vascular restraint and made sure the crook of his elbow was crushing his older brother’s carotid artery while his other hand reinforced the pressure.
“Re… Release me! Now!”
Garrick clawed at the arms locking his windpipe, but Eirik’s strategic positioning turned Garrick’s thrashing weight against himself.
The guards gaped like fish hauled onto riverbanks. Never in their years of helping Garrick tormenting this cringing bastard had they seen Eirik’s spine uncurl in such an agile and deadly strike.
“Hhwwuurgk—glurk-hworrkh——k-k-khee…”
Garrick’s face purpled, veins bulging at his temples as his boots scuffed wild arcs across the floor. A wet, wheezing gurgle escaped his throat. His clawing grew sluggish, fingers slipping uselessly against Eirik’s forearm.
“One inch,” Eirik stared at the guards over Garrick’s sagging shoulder. “One inch further, and your lord heir will die by having his neck snapped.”
The guards shot each other a look in silent dread.
By the Frost Mother… Since when did this worm learn how to fight?
They froze in utter shock. To admit they’d failed to protect the heir from a sickly mudborn would earn them lashings, but to suggest that Eirik had somehow pinned Garrick down like a predator to a helpless prey… that might get them hanged for madness.
Eirik eased his chokehold by a hair—just enough to let a ragged gasp hiss through Garrick’s throat.
“You… *wheeze*… dung-eating… *cough*... mongrel whore’s sp—”
Eirik’s forearm crunched upward, silencing the threat mid-snarl.
“Squirm again.” Eirik brushed his lips on Garrick’s ear, “and I’ll let your guards explain to father how his firstborn suffocated on his own entitlement.”
Garrick bucked harder. “I’ll skin you a—!”
The chokehold snapped tight again.
Garrick’s threat dissolved into wet, animalistic gagging.
“Last. Warning.” Eirik adjusted his hold for one last time.
“Y-You whoreso—son,” Garrick wheezed, “Rot in… H—”
“Shhhht—
Eirik’s made a subtle shushing sound to Garrick, yet the entire room had heard it loud and clear.
CRACK—
A sickening crunch echoed.
Everyone’s mouth was wide open as they saw Eirik just grab a fistful of Garrick’s greasy hair and slam his face into the floor.
“MUH N-NOSE! Hrkk—YOU FUCKING CUNTSPAWN, M—MY NOSSSE!”
Blood bubbled from Garrick’s flattened nostrils, painting serpentine trails down his chin as he writhed.
The guards’ faces paled to the hue of corpse flesh—they couldn’t even bear what Lord Cedric might do to them for allowing his son and heir’s nose to be shattered in front of their eyes.
Marta’s face now showed pure and primal terror, as if witnessing a mouse suddenly sprout fangs and swallow a wolf whole.
Eirik snatched the fish-gutting dagger from the floor, fingers closing around the hilt as he hauled Garrick’s head backward by his blood-slicked hair.
He pressed the dagger tip against Garrick’s left eyelid.
“Anyone moves,” Eirik growled, “he loses an eye.”
Garrick screeched,"KI-KILL HIM!"
The guards stood paralyzed.
After seeing what they just saw, no one dared to provoke the monstrosity that now inhabited Eirik’s body.
Eirik leaned close to Garrick’s ears.
THUD.
The door burst inward.
“Master Eirik, I—”
An old guard, over fifty years old, staggered down the corridor and collided with the three of Garrick’s personal guards blocking Eirik’s chamber door.
Eirik recognized him immediately.
He was Harkin, Eirik’s houseguard.
He was supposed to retire a long time ago, given his age and physical conditions, yet it seemed that he’d been the only type of guard that Eirik could afford.
An hour ago, Harkin had received an errand task from Marta, who told him to fetch mint from the market, so he had been totally unaware of what just took place.
And the scene before Harkin made him freeze.
Garrick Stormcrow, heir to Stormkeep, knelt on the floor, nose shattered, with a dagger at his eye. Eirik’s forearm locked around his throat like an iron vise.
“Perfect timing,” Eiri said with a chilling calm. “You'll witness my brother's... sincerity.”
“You—” One guard recovered from the collide, and leveled his sword at Harkin, “Get out, or—”
“Sheathe that steel.” Eirik jabbed the dagger down Garrick’s cheek.
The guard froze.
Eirik shifted his weight, grinding Garrick’s broken nose harder into the floorboards.
“Your lord's life hangs on my mercy—and right now, you're irritating me.”
He pinned the guards with a glacial stare before hissing into Garrick’s ear again:
“My dear brother, I offer you two options. Think wisely now.”
“Option one: you confess that you framed me with the dagger.”
“Option two…” He twisted the dagger, “I take your both eyes and leave this hell with your pupils as my lucky charm.”
“LIAR!” Garrick screeched. “YOU’D NEVER DAR——”
Eirik pricked the eyelid.
The room held its breath as a bead of blood oozed from Garrick’s left eye, which twitched violently under the blade.
“OPTION ONE! I PICK OPTION ONE!” Garrick yelled. “I’ll confess! Just stop!”
Eirik kept the dagger at Garrick’s eyes while pinning his torso to the ground with his body.
“Announce it. Now. Loud.”
Garrick sniffled blood. “I… I planted the dagger! Eirik’s innocent!”
The words hung like execution bells.
The guards stared open-mouthed. All knew Garrick framed Eirik—but hearing him confess? That'd been unheard of.
“Good dog.” Eirik tossed the dagger on the ground while releasing him. “Go tell father now.”
Garrick scrambled up, clutching his face.
“You’re dead! DEAD!” He fled, guards trailing like whipped pups.
Marta stood in paralysis like she had just come from another world.
Eirik looked into her eyes.
“I’m hungry. Bring me meat this time.”
She fled.
Eirik’s eyes fell on the bloodstained floor.
His ribs still ached from the adrenaline rush, and he’d certainly been not looking forward to what’s going to happen after he just injured the heir to the barony.
But he did not regret even for one second what he had just done.
If he had to live like Eirik the Spineless, then he’d consider death a better fate. Not to mention in this frozen world where warmth was luxury.
Still, he needed to deal with the aftermath.
Garrick would make his case to father. What would he say to Lord Cedric Stormcrow? That he was being framed? Would that appease his rage?
A sharp ping echoed in his skull.
[LOADING SYSTEM…]
For today and tomorrow, I'll be releasing every three hours until I get to Chapter Seven; after which, I'll switch to a daily release schedule until Chapter Twenty-One; after which, I will be releasing two chapters a week (Wednesdays and Fridays) until the finish of the first book.
