Hero of midgard 2 a litr.., p.7
Hero of Midgard 2: A LitRPG Adventure, page 7
Not like a leader at all. Not like a Jarl who had slain trolls and restored walls. But like a boy, chasing the girl who had stolen his heart.
Pathetic, Fenrir muttered inside him, though there was almost amusement in the god-wolf’s tone. Kings do not chase. They are followed.
Karl didn’t care.
He ran harder.
6
HOMEMADE COOKING
To no one’s surprise, the villagers of Visby cheered when Glær crested the rise. The white elk hauled five sledges of timber behind him as if they were twigs, his chest held high, his antlers glowing faintly like stars caught in daylight. Not a tremor of strain touched him, though the other horses came in heaving and foaming from half the burden.
Beside him walked Kara.
Her hood was pulled low, her bandaged arm hidden in the folds of the Rauðvarg Cloak Karl had draped across her shoulders. She did not return the greetings of the shieldmaidens who rushed forward to welcome her home. Her lips pressed tight, her eyes fixed ahead. Karl caught up quickly, slipping an arm around her to shield her from the press of villagers who reached too eagerly. One look at her face told him she was not in the mood for questions, and he made certain none drew near.
Behind them, Björn, Thorstein, Egil, and Mýra stayed back to oversee the unloading. The palisades had gaping holes where the Draugr and wolves had struck earlier during their showdown with Skadi and Fenrir. Charred timbers leaned like broken teeth. With the lumber finally here, repairs could begin.
“It’ll take till the end of the day at least,” Thorstein told Karl as they reached the gate. The Werebear’s vast claw landed on his shoulder, heavy but steady. “We’ll see the palisades set right. You… should take a moment to speak with the widows of the men we lost. They’ll be needing it.”
The words struck like a hammer to Karl’s gut. Four men. He had not thought of their families—not until now. Their faces blurred together: laughing in the snow, raising axes, until they collapsed under troll clubs, their gore smearing the snow. His chest tightened with guilt, but he nodded wearily.
“Rest at the tavern for now,” Karl murmured to Kara as Thorstein departed. “I’ll bring you something warm in a bit.”
“Don’t be long,” she whispered, slipping away with Glær. The elk bowed his antlers in farewell, then let himself be led off toward the stables.
Karl lingered at the gate. Mýra tended the lathered horses, rubbing them down and feeding cubes of sugar from her palm. Ratatoskr perched smugly on her shoulder, sneaking one of the treats between his paws. To Karl’s surprise, she allowed it. The squirrel did not need sugar—if anything, it only added to his mania.
The widows waited near the square. Word had outrun him—his men must have spoken before he returned. Four women, cloaked in grief, clutched one another beside the bundled logs. Their faces were pale, lined with fresh tears. Karl’s throat closed as he walked toward them. He wanted to speak, to say something of comfort, but no words came.
He opened his mouth, fumbling, but Björn stepped in.
“They died with honor,” Björn said, his voice steady as an oaken beam though sorrow lined his face. “Rest assured—they feast in Valhalla now. I have seen it myself, not long ago, with my father and brothers. They drink better mead than we have here, and fight battles worthy of their courage.”
The widows’ shoulders eased, if only slightly. They wept still, but nodded through their tears.
Karl blushed, shame rising in his cheeks. The role should have been his. But in the same breath, he was grateful Björn had taken it. He forced himself to add something, however clumsy. “They fought well,” he stammered. The words felt thin, brittle against the depth of their loss. But the women bowed their heads, accepting them all the same.
Karl stood there, heart heavy, wishing he could believe the comfort himself.
Karl left the widows with words that felt hollow, his chest aching. The village was alive again as children ran laughing across the slush, men hauling timber toward the battered palisades, and women shouting orders from stoops as cauldrons steamed. Yet when the people saw him, their work paused as they rushed to celebrate him.
The praise should have heartened him. Instead, he felt their eyes.
Not all were welcoming. Some looked at him with awe, others with something colder—fear, maybe even reverence. His name passed in murmurs through the crowd, but it was the word werewolf that followed more often than not.
He waved awkwardly, forcing a smile. Children darted to glimpse him, then hid behind their mothers’ skirts. Old men tugged at their beards, muttering to each other as though they saw omens in his shadow. And why wouldn’t they? Rumors already spread like wildfire—that Karl Svensson, and now Kara too, could change into wolves whenever they willed.
After the massacre wrought by the cult of the Eternal Night, people had reason to flinch. Rome’s curse would not be so easily forgotten.
They are right to fear you, Fenrir whispered, his voice seething in Karl’s skull. They sense the truth. A wolf wears no mask.
Karl clenched his jaw and pressed on. His mind flicked back to Hakon, the blacksmith, and how quickly the people had turned on him when they learned of his curse. He had been beloved once—until they saw the wolf beneath.
“The might of a werewolf is indeed strong,” Hakon had warned, eyes haunted. “But it is a darkness that cannot be tempted or restrained. Open that door, and you will not be strong enough to resist.”
Karl stewed on those words as he pushed into the tavern.
Heat engulfed him the moment he entered. Smoke hung thick above the rafters, curling around the beams. The firepit in the center roared, spilling sparks. Tankards clanged from the dozens of very drunk patrons, their laughter rattling against the walls. The smell of venison stew and strong mead filled Karl’s nose until his stomach tightened with hunger.
Noise, warmth, food—it almost felt normal.
And normal meant cooking. Whenever the burden pressed too heavily, whenever he doubted himself, Karl always returned to the one thing that gave him peace. Cutting and seasoning or grilling, the small rituals where the world bent into order again.
The tavern erupted when he entered. Vikings cheered, pounding the tables and shouting his name, while a few clapped him on the back. They wanted him less as a Jarl than as a cook, the man who—alongside fiery-haired Sigrid—had turned rare beasts into meals that overflowed with flavor and the System-enhanced effects.
Karl scanned the hall, searching instinctively for Kara. But neither her blond hair nor her solemn gaze was here. Not even Glær’s white form stood at the door. His stomach sank.
He turned to leave—until a massive hand clapped his shoulder.
“Are you Jarl Karl?” a voice thundered.
Karl turned to see a mountain of a man, thick with hair, his beard wet with mead. Tattoos glowed faintly blue across his arms and chest. His dark hair was cropped close, streaked with gray at the temples, and when he grinned, one tooth caught the light, almost making him puke: it was gray and lifeless.
“Uh… yes,” Karl said, startled by the man’s forwardness.
“At last!” the stranger roared, raising his mug high. “I’ve longed to meet the wolf-Jarl after the stories I’ve heard. I am Harald Bluetooth—blood of Gorm, unifier of Denmark!”
Karl froze. The name hit him like a jolt. Bluetooth. He actually knew that one—from history class back in Sweden, the king who united the Danes and converted them to Christianity, whose runic initials had been borrowed for the tech logo on every phone. And here he was, larger than life, tattoos glowing with faint runes that looked unnervingly like that same logo.
“Oh,” Karl said carefully. “Uh, nice to meet you.”
Harald laughed loud enough to rattle the mugs on the table and dropped back into his chair. He tore a venison pie apart with his hands, grease running down his wrists. “Don’t look so pale, lad. You’ve the blood of wolves on your hands and gods in your shadow. You’ll forgive a king for wanting to see it for himself.”
“You… really are the Harald Bluetooth?” Karl asked.
“The very one,” Harald said around a mouthful of venison. “God’s hammer now, not Thor’s. A thousand years gone, and still I chase storms for His glory. Old habits die hard.” His grin widened, that dead tooth catching the firelight again. “They say you slew the Wolf of the End. I wanted to see what sort of beast-slayer walks Midgard these days.”
Karl folded his arms, uneasy. “You just arrived?”
Harald nodded, gulping down mead. “Not the only one, either. I sail with the Adventurer’s Guild now. Word spreads fast when a wolf-god falls. Surely there must be some excitement here for us.”
Karl forced a thin smile. “Glad to have you,” he muttered, almost saying Bluetooth as he edged away. Isolation had shielded Visby these past weeks. But now ships would come. Newcomers meant new trade, but also new eyes and threats. He thought of the Æsirbound, of Skadi’s witchfire. The thought made him uneasy.
Wolves do not fear storms, Fenrir teased. They thrive in them.
Karl ignored him and turned to leave.
“Where are you going?”
Sigrid’s voice cut sharply through the smoky air. She leaned from the kitchen, red hair half-unbound, apron stained with flour, broth, and something berry-dark. She pointed a wooden spoon at his chest as if it were a weapon.
“Uh… I—” Karl stammered.
“Just because you’re Jarl,” she said, “doesn’t mean our deal disappeared.”
Her eyes flashed, daring him to argue.
Karl’s lips tugged upward, the first real smile since the forest. Of all the weight on his shoulders, this at least was familiar. He stepped toward the kitchen, into the heat of steam. He would be glad to lose himself in the work.
For some reason, Sigrid always reminded Karl of someone. The thought hovered at the edge of memory, close enough to tease but too far to grasp. Whoever it was, he obeyed her the same way without thinking. That unsettled him almost as much as it comforted him.
He wove through the tavern, past drunken patrons roaring over dice throws and arm-wrestling contests. Mead splashed all over the tables as the men cursed and laughed. Karl’s mind, though, was elsewhere. He wanted nothing more than to go after Kara, to run out into the streets and find her. But she had withdrawn. Maybe she needed space. He would give it. Still, he had to do something for her. A meal, at least, as pathetic as it sounded, was all he knew. Even though they were “dating,” he still sucked at speaking to girls. But he did know how to cook.
“You’re not going to wear all that while we cook, are you?” Sigrid asked, nodding at his Dökkálfar Archer armor.
Karl glanced down. Black leather glistened with faint runes, no bloodstains this time—thankfully. Yet the thought of troll ichor near a chopping board was hardly appetizing. Sigrid didn’t look much better, her apron spattered with flour, mead, and whatever else she had spilled in a week of endless work. She never washed her hands either, though Thorstein never seemed to mind.
Karl smirked and reached into his pack. “Would you look the other way if I gave you these?” He dropped the spoils onto the cutting board: Troll Marrow Broth, Meadskin of the Matron, Blackened Troll Claws, and one gleaming Eye of the Matron.
Sigrid’s eyes widened. She touched the marrow broths with reverence, as though the jars were relics instead of grisly trophies. “For today,” she said, her grin breaking wide.
“Then let’s make potage with this,” she continued briskly, tying her apron tighter. “And more pies. The newcomers won’t stop begging for them. Kara will want one too—especially with this.” She pressed two steaming mugs into his hands.
Item: White-Stag Snow Milk 2x (Epic) — Sleep without nightmares. +20 HP, +20 Stamina restored overnight.
The clay cups looked plain enough, but the liquid glowed faintly gold. Honey and nutmeg swirled through, with thin ribbons of cloudberry syrup curling beneath ice. When Karl tipped in a handful of snow, the drink hissed, steaming with vapor that rose into antler shapes before dissolving. Even the nearby carpenters paused, muttering about the White Stag bending its neck to Visby’s hearth.
Karl lifted one to his lips. The taste unfurled in layers: first the sweet, grassy richness of goat’s milk, then pine honey’s mellow warmth, then the sharp kick of nutmeg. Cloudberry lingered at the back of his tongue, tart and bright. Cold and heat braided together, fire and frost in a single cup. He sighed as it slid down, soft and buttery at the finish, leaving comfort clinging to his chest.
Nothing beat system-enhanced food.
Every nerve in his body begged him to drain the whole mug. Instead, he forced himself to set it down, covering it with a plate to trap the essence. “This will help her,” he murmured, thinking of Kara’s restless nights. He set the mugs aside as carefully as relics, then turned to the work at hand.
The cauldron boiled with snowmelt, steam rolling in heavy clouds. Karl unstoppered the troll marrow broth. The smell made him wince. It was sour, like rotten cheese and vinegar. Green swirls shimmered inside, cloudy with the magic of whatever life the troll had once carried. He poured it in anyway.
The stench lifted into the rafters, making nearby patrons wrinkle their noses. “Gods above, that’s foul,” one muttered, but Sigrid ignored them, her cleaver flashing as she chopped venison into neat, meaty chunks.
Karl worked beside her, his hands steady as he peeled parsnips slick with snowmelt, trimmed leeks, and sliced dill sprigs until the air smelled sharp and clean. Each root went into the pot in careful order, his instincts guiding him as he did the parsnip first, barley second, and leeks last. He stirred with a long ladle, waiting until the broth thickened to add vinegar—the sour bite cut through, neutralizing the troll’s toxins.
The shift was immediate. The sickly green cloud burned away, leaving the broth brighter, cleaner, and shimmering faintly as if it had been purified. Which it was, thanks to Karl’s high Cooking skills.
Karl exhaled, relieved. His muscles still ached from the fight, his arm throbbed where the troll’s club had crushed it. The System’s regeneration had mended most of the damage, but phantom pain still lingered.
Let it heal slower, Fenrir growled from the back of his mind. Pain reminds you what you are.
Karl ignored him and reached for the next step. He opened his Legendary Andhrímnir’s Cookbook, its pages glimmering with faint script. It whispered of secret tricks: the exact moment to add rendered troll fat so it mended wounds instead of poisoning blood, the right herb to balance marrow’s bitterness. So much wisdom.
He followed every instruction. Venison browned, fat sizzled, and Sigrid’s hands kept pace with his, their movements an unspoken rhythm. She kneaded dough for pies while he stirred the potage, each of them weaving flavor like seasoned pros.
Steam rolled thick, heavy with the scent of venison, herbs, and troll marrow tamed by vinegar and the sharpness of dill. Karl’s shoulders loosened as the rhythm settled. Here, he could breathe from the insanity of this System world.
For the first time since the forest, he felt almost human.
Oddly, something flickered in Karl’s mind as he stirred the pot. A noise like static brushed against his thoughts, faint as wind through pine. For a moment, he thought he heard Kara’s name, though it wasn’t spoken aloud, but pressed against his skull. Along with it came a sharp ache and the smell of oiled steel. His hand jerked. The ladle nearly slipped from his grip and splashed broth across the hearthstones.
“You alright?” Sigrid asked from across the kitchen, her hands knee deep in cutting more venison.
“Yeah… I think so,” Karl said, rubbing his eye. Whatever weirdness he suffered was pushed aside at his new dish.
Item: Troll-Marrow Healing Pottage (Rare) — Restores 35 HP, 35 Stamina. Grants Wound Mending. Duration extended 50%
Karl tasted it cautiously. The broth coated his tongue, rich and heavy, its flavor deeper than he expected—earthy marrow softened by parsnip, honey clinging sweet at the end. His knees wanted to buckle with relief. It was so tempting to drain the whole bowl then and there.
It tastes better raw, Fenrir rumbled inside him. With blood still steaming from the bone.
Karl’s stomach turned, though with Karl’s new nature, Fenrir’s idea wasn’t totally repulsive. He swallowed the broth anyway, letting the warmth settle in his gut.
He carried bowls into the hall, steam rising in twisting ribbons. The smell spread quickly. Patrons pressed forward with coins, gold clinking into his palm as fast as he ladled the broth. The first sip burned tongues, but they downed it anyway, their faces alight.
Harald Bluetooth slammed back his portion in less than five seconds, ignoring the scald. “The legends were true!” he roared, slamming the empty cup on the table. His crew shouted with him, young and rough-faced men who claimed Norway as home, their voices thick with Norwegian accents.
With their appetites whetted, Karl returned to the hearth. He buried himself in pies, kneading coarse rye flour with skyr and a trickle of honey. His hands worked too fast, though, tearing the dough.
“Gentler,” Sigrid scolded, leaning over his shoulder. “The dough isn’t a troll’s throat.”
“Sorry.” Karl slowed, trying to temper the strength that no longer felt like his own. Even in the kitchen, his werewolf’s power haunted him. He started over, pressing carefully, folding instead of crushing.
When the dough finally yielded, he minced venison with godlike speed, the knife flashing until the meat was a neat pile of ruby shards. Ten pies filled, folded, brushed with egg and honey, lined on the slate by the fire. The scent of baking filled the kitchen and the tavern, golden crusts rising faster than they should, a benefit of both his enhanced skills and the System.
After about three hours of cooking, his skill increased.
Health (+30): lvl 7 (50/80)
Glory (+60): 1,035
