Hero of midgard 2 a litr.., p.22
Hero of Midgard 2: A LitRPG Adventure, page 22
Gold: 80
The numbers didn’t lie. Visby was stable, but barely. The damaged trade port choked most of their income, and gold trickled in at only eighty a day. Not nearly enough for a growing town or the enemies that waited beyond it.
So much for an easy life, Karl thought. Buying businesses might help the economy, but it wouldn’t be enough. He’d still have to raid bandits, finish quests, and—most importantly—not die to Viktor. Nothing in this world came easy.
He scrolled through the new purchase menu Ratatoskr had mentioned earlier. He immediately skipped past the brothel without hesitation. He’d seen enough depravity for one lifetime, anyway. Besides, he already knew which place mattered most.
Wealth (-2500): 3,166 Gold
Business Purchased: Sigrid’s Hearth
Kara glanced over his shoulder, reading the text. “Sigrid will love you for that,” she said, taking his hand. Together they walked through the lamplit streets, Glær padding behind them while Ratatoskr clung to one antler and swayed with every step.
“I know,” Karl said, smiling. “She’s been begging to expand the kitchen. Now she’ll have the gold to do it.”
They passed a few Viking mothers with children in tow, the women nodding politely to their Jarl. The smell of sweet bread drifted through the lanes, and laughter echoed from the workers still decorating for tomorrow’s feast. For the first time since Klintehamn, Visby felt safe.
Kara slowed, a grin curving her lips. “Come on,” she said, tugging his arm. “There’s something I want to show you.”
Before he could ask, she darted away down the road. Her speed startled him—faster than most men could sprint. He laughed and gave chase, earning a few curious looks from villagers as they raced past.
The scent of metal grew stronger as they reached the forge. Beneath it lingered the subtle, burned scent of magic, of hot iron steeped with something that belonged to another universe. It reminded Karl of Kara’s touch, the promise she’d made earlier about reforging his armor. His heart kicked faster.
The forge belonged to Knut, son of Hakon—the man Karl had tried and failed to save during the Mímir quest. The thought still stung. Knut stood waiting outside, arms crossed over his chest. His dark eyes met Karl’s, and for a moment, there was nothing but quiet understanding between them.
Then, wordlessly, the blacksmith stepped aside.
What stood behind him took Karl’s breath.
The armor glowed from within, each plate pulsing faint amber as if alive. His old dark-elf leathers had been reforged into something sleek, light as silk but breathing heat. Veins of molten Dwarven steel ran across the surface, glimmering like veins of fire trapped in shadow.
Karl reached out. The surface was warm to the touch, and the System’s text shimmered before his eyes.
Item: Moltenveil Tunic (Epic) — +15% Accuracy while aiming from stealth; +20% Fire Resistance.
Item: Moltenveil Bracers (Epic) — Stealth arrows deal +25% Damage; apply Molten Brand (–10% enemy armor for 6s).
Item: Moltenveil Cuirass (Epic) — +15% Movement Speed in dim light/darkness; +10% Fire & Magic Resistance.
Item: Moltenveil Greaves (Epic) — +20% Movement Speed while crouched; next shot after dodge +15% Damage.
Item: Moltenveil Boots (Epic) — +10% Stealth in natural or volcanic terrain; immune to terrain burn damage.
Item: Moltenveil Cloak (Epic) — –15% Rune Glory cost; +20% Fire & Lightning Resistance.
“Try it on,” Kara said, her voice bright with pride. She lifted the tunic with her left hand, the sleeve of her severed arm tucked neatly against her side.
Knut rolled his eyes but said nothing as Karl stripped off his stained white tunic. The food-stained fabric stank with the smell of bread and long work hours in the kitchen. His muscles caught the forge light—harder now, sculpted from weeks of System-enchanced training. He caught Kara’s eyes on him, unblinking and full of hunger. Through the Pack Link, her desire became very clear to him.
Worth the wait, she teased.
A sigh echoed in Karl’s mind—Fenrir, unimpressed. You two are exhausting.
Karl ignored him. The armor slid over his skin like liquid metal, molding perfectly to his frame. It flexed with his breath, the runes glowing brighter with every heartbeat. He could feel the Brokk core pulsing through it, alive, almost sentient if that were possible. Each inhale made the plates expand as though the armor itself were breathing beside him.
“You’re going to need it tomorrow,” Knut said, his deep voice catching him off guard.
Karl frowned. “Why’s that?”
Knut’s mouth curved into a thin smile. “There’s going to be an archery competition. I set it up myself. Should be… lively. Maybe even dangerous—if you’re interested, my Jarl.”
Karl opened his mouth to answer, but Kara’s look of encouragement said it all.
He smiled faintly. “Guess I’m competing, then.”
21
VIKING FEAST
Karl woke late. His body was heavy as he got up from his warm furs, and his mind was slower than it should have been. The sunlight through the shutters carried a hint of smoke from the feasting fires outside. He’d stayed up far too late with Kara, and Glær had been none too pleased about it—snorting each time their laughter woke him from sleep. The memory made him grin despite the exhaustion.
He rubbed his wrist, tracing the lines of the Mark of Sæhrímnir tattoo that stretched from his back. The ink, though ivory thanks to his high honor, was dull. Still on cooldown. Guess passion doesn’t count as rest, he thought.
Let’s hope your bully doesn’t visit you today, Fenrir rumbled from the dark corner of his mind, tone almost gleeful.
“I’m sure you’d love that,” Karl muttered aloud, dragging on his shirt.
He opened his stats and blinked at the new numbers. The tavern’s profits had rolled in overnight.
Wealth (+120): 3,286 Gold
The added income was a small but welcome victory. Between Sigrid’s management and Visby’s recovering trade, the town was finally breathing again.
When Karl stepped outside, he was hit by a riot of colors and sounds from the feast, which had already begun. Garlands of flowers looped from rooftop to rooftop, and the air smelled of roasting meat, ale, and freshly cut flowers. Children chased dogs through the square, their collars braided with vines and bright ribbons. It was almost enough to make Karl not feel nervous about the tremendous task before him.
Almost.
He nearly tripped over a pack of giggling toddlers as he made his way through the market lane. Beyond them, the skalds’ voices carried above the crowd as they boasted of legendary Viking poems. Egil stood among them, hands spread in a theatrical flourish while his red beard gleamed in the sunlight.
Karl slowed as he realized what Egil was performing.
It was about him.
The Skald’s voice rolled with practiced rhythm, every word louder than the last. He told of how Karl had healed the mute girl, how he had brought light to Visby’s curse, and—apparently—how he had descended straight from Valhalla bearing Odin’s wisdom for mankind. The crowd gasped at the right moments and laughed at the others, all applauding as if he were some hero.
Karl could only stare, face burning. What in Hel’s name—
Ratatoskr appeared mid-verse, leaping onto Karl’s shoulder with a slab of golden meat clutched in both paws. Grease dripped down his fur as he gnawed on what Karl recognized as one of the prized Golden Elk Ribs.
“This guy really loves his own voice,” the squirrel said through a mouthful, flicking sauce onto Karl’s armor.
“Stop that,” Karl hissed, brushing him off.
By the time Egil finished, the crowd had swelled. Dozens of burly men—Jarls by their bearing and the guards at their backs—stood among the onlookers. When the final verse ended, they rose to their feet, clapping and cheering. Some even wiped their eyes.
“Well done, Jarl Karl!” one of them roared, striding forward to clasp his hand. “Truly, Visby stands blessed!”
Karl’s cheeks burned hotter. He managed a polite smile and shook hands until his knuckles ached, murmuring thanks he barely heard himself say. Compliments rained down on him like confetti, though he didn’t know what to feel about them. He never liked being the center of attention. Not like the Trickster, who basked in the glory and added his own “contributions” as the people praised Karl.
At last, Karl reached Egil. He opened his mouth, ready to scold him for turning him into some divine caricature—but then he caught sight of the crowd around them. The skalds were patting Egil’s back. The Jarls were nodding, impressed. And for the first time, Karl saw pride flicker through Visby’s people, replacing the fear they felt of their unstable werewolf Jarl.
He closed his mouth. “Thank you for the poem,” he said quietly.
Egil grinned, bowing slightly. “Good for morale,” he said. Then, leaning closer, his tone dropped. “Also helps convince the Jarls to stay on our side.”
Karl couldn’t argue. Even if the words were exaggerated, the effect was real. The people needed belief—and if that belief wore his face, so be it.
“I hate how he didn’t include me,” Ratatoskr complained, licking his claws clean. “Do you know how much I’ve risked for narrative cohesion?”
“I’m sure he’ll include you next time,” Karl said, smirking.
“He’d better,” the squirrel huffed. “Now let’s get more food.”
They made their way toward the pavilion at the center of town. Beneath its green canopy, Sigrid and Thorstein were serving from long tables piled with steaming dishes. There, the wolf pottage, golden ribs, and Valkyrie bread fresh from the ovens steamed with scents too wonderful. to resist. It was no wonder that a horde of Vikings gathered around to get their plate.
Thorstein noticed Karl’s approach and nodded. “Still no word from Harald or his band,” he said, frowning. “They were supposed to be back by dawn. Could just be delayed.”
Karl’s smile faltered. “Let’s hope so,” he said.
But as the music rose again and laughter filled the air, a knot of unease settled in his chest. Something told him the hunt hadn’t gone as planned.
Despite this quiet dread, the feast continued to roar with life. Tables creaked under the weight of food, mead horns clashed in endless toasts as almost everyone got drunk, and laughter carried from one end of the square to the other. Every time someone complimented the dishes, a proud Visby villager would raise their cup and shout, “Our Jarl Karl made it himself!”
Karl smiled through the praise, offering handshakes, nods, and modest thanks with the practiced grace of a politician. Each word of gratitude earned him another flicker of warmth from the System.
Charisma (+10): lvl 2 (20/30)
Glory (+20): 1,100
Level: 31 (30/320)
“You’re pretty natural at this,” Kara teased as she approached, Glær trotting behind her.
Karl shrugged, laughing. “I’m just saying ‘thank you’ over and over. Apparently, that’s how leadership works, I think.”
She grinned, taking a plate from one of Sigrid’s helpers. “It’s working.”
Nearby, Ratatoskr was being his usual menace. The squirrel leapt from Karl’s shoulder to a nearby table, where he snatched a dripping mead horn right out of a visiting Viking’s hand. The man, too busy flirting with a shieldmaiden to notice, didn’t even react as the Trickster scampered away with his prize.
A thunderous roar cut through the air—followed by a crash of mugs and cheers from the competition yard. Björn had just nailed a trick shot at the throwing range, and his audience was losing their minds. Ale splashed across his beard as the men doused him in celebration as if he were some soccer player winning a tournament. Mýra stood nearby, smiling quietly, though Karl noticed how her tail coiled close, wary of the newcomers’ stares.
“Are you going to join them?” Karl asked Kara, nudging her lightly.
She hesitated, eyes darting toward Björn, then smirked. “I think I am.”
Before he could reply, she was already moving, her blonde braid swinging behind her as she cut through the crowd. Karl followed with a grin. Behind them, a group of children had surrounded Glær and were decorating the majestic elk in a cascade of wildflowers. The elk stood perfectly still, eyes half-lidded, while the little ones whispered shy prayers around him.
“Gosh, get a shrine already,” Ratatoskr said, burping mead bubbles.
Karl couldn’t resist a laugh as he trailed after Kara into the throwing ring.
The crowd parted for her entrance. “Move over, Ironside,” she said, stepping between two Jarls to take her spot.
Several of the men chuckled, including one Karl recognized—Eiríkr, the balding Jarl with a red curly beard. Thorstein had mentioned him that morning: already aligned with Viktor but not beyond persuasion. Gold—or pride—might still sway him.
Kara didn’t seem to care about politics. She grabbed one of the heavy axes with her left hand, her severed right tucked behind her back. The weight didn’t seem to bother her. Her eyes narrowed, steady and calm.
There were five targets set in a line, each further than the last. Björn’s last throw had landed in the fourth—impressive enough, especially considering he’d hurled it through three spinning hoops that slaves were moving in precise rhythm. The dangerous setup made Karl nauseous, as all it would take was one wrong angle, and someone would die. But the crowd cheered, and no one seemed to care.
Kara exhaled once. Then she threw.
The axe left her hand with a shrill hum, slicing cleanly through the first hoop, then the second, and somehow the third. It hit the fifth target dead center with a heavy thunk, the vibration echoing through the boards.
For a moment, the crowd fell silent. Then the square erupted.
Shieldmaidens screamed in delight, rushing forward to lift Kara into the air. Björn laughed, clapping hard enough to shake his cup. Even Eiríkr let out a grudging cheer, rubbing his beard in disbelief.
Karl stood frozen, smiling so wide it hurt. Through the Pack Link, he felt her triumphant emotions wash through him. In his mind, a faint echo of the System shimmered for her, in which it gave her more Glory for her Valkyrie Quest.
She deserved every bit of it.
Still, as he clapped and cheered with the rest, a quiet ache tugged behind his ribs. Her Valkyrie quest would one day demand ascension, a reward that would take her from him entirely.
The laughter of the feast turned brittle when Eiríkr’s voice cut through it.
“At least she’s better than that whore,” the Jarl spat, face red with drink as he glared straight at Mýra.
Mýra’s head snapped toward him. Her pupils shrank to slits, teeth bared in a hiss that silenced the nearest tables. Björn, who was now very drunk, froze for a second before the rage seized him.
“Keep her name out of your mouth!” he roared, veins standing thick in his neck. His mug clattered to the ground, forgotten.
Eiríkr smirked, hands on his hips. “Aren’t you Ragnar’s son? I was surprised to learn you’re not the Jarl. I suppose it makes sense, coming from a whore lover like you.”
The words had barely left his mouth before Björn lunged. The two men collided, crashing to the dirt. Björn’s fists came down in a blur, causing blood to burst across Eiríkr’s nose.
Mýra didn’t flinch. Her eyes burned as vines burst through the packed soil, snaring the Jarl’s legs and arms so Björn could keep swinging without pause. Each blow cracked bone, spattering the cobblestones with blood and a handful of teeth.
“Björn!” Karl shouted, pushing through the crowd. He grabbed the warrior’s arm, trying to drag him back, but that was a terrible mistake.
Björn spun, still wild-eyed, and slammed a fist into Karl’s face. The world lurched sideways. His Hrimnir’s Crown took most of the impact, but still, the force snapped his head back and sent stars bursting across his vision.
A growl crawled up his throat before he could stop it.
The Moonlight Meter flared.
In an instant, his body exploded into his werewolf form. The pain in his face vanished as he stood on his hind legs and ripped out a fearsome howl.
Björn grinned through the blood on his face. “There’s the real Jarl!” he bellowed, eyes blazing. “You never could control yourself, could you?”
He swung again, catching Karl’s shoulder with a heavy blow that barely moved the werewolf. Karl’s answering roar shook the pavilion. He slammed Björn back, claws tearing at his tunic and teeth snapping centimeters from his throat. The crowd scattered, with some screaming and others shouting encouragement like it was a sport.
Yes, Fenrir whispered inside him, voice thick with hunger. Tear him apart. Prove you’re stronger than him.
Karl’s breath came hard, hot against Björn’s face. Rage trembled through every muscle. But before he could eat him, something… light, like warm gold filled his thoughts. Through the Pack Link, Kara flooded his mind with the memory of the taste of her lips from the night before and the feel of her hand tracing his buff chest. His claws hesitated mid-swing, as something else took over him.
Stop it, he told himself. Stop it.
The Moonlight Meter bled dry. Pain seared through his body as bones shrank and fur withdrew to wherever it came from. In a blink, he was human again, though of course, he was naked, surrounded by stunned villagers and visiting Jarls who stared in horrified silence.
His armor reformed a second later across his skin. Karl bent over, chest heaving, face burning hot with a flurry of emotions. Across from him, Björn sat sprawled in the dirt, nose bleeding, but somehow laughing.
“You throw a hell of a punch, Jarl,” he said, grinning through red teeth. He reached out a hand.
