A spear tore through his armor, piercing his stomach. The inferno of the battlefield swallowed him among the piles of the dead. He was in pain—a torment straight from hell. The pain was not the spear, nor the slash on his back from a battle axe. The pain was something else, something worse—in his head, scorching, bleeding into his eyes.

  Lying against a rock, Olmer gazed at the evening sky, and his eyes caught a butterfly fluttering towards a safe haven. “The sky is so beautiful today, don’t ya think?” he said, blood mingling with his words as he spoke to a dead warrior lying next to him.

  The battlefield was a living hell. Blood drenched the earth, the air thick with the iron stench of death. Swedish warriors hunted down the Danes Carving a path for Sweden’s rise—surpassing Denmark’s influence in Scandinavia. It was the dawn of a new era.

  But for Olmer there was no future left to see.

  A rain of arrows showered down upon the battlefield, slicing through the air mercilessly. One arrow pierced Olmer’s left thigh, but he only chuckled. The pain was nothing compared to the crushing weight of his sins and regrets that haunted his mind.

  The images of those weaklings who begged to live, their heads pressed against Olmer’s sword, swirled in his mind, along with their words. Words which he had once sliced through as easily as their necks. But now, those same words cut deeper into him—deeper than any sword ever could.

  A shiver of agony ran down through his spine, his breath hitching as he clenched his fists around the spear. He exhaled slowly, forcing his gaze onto the dead warrior next to him. With blurred vision, he couldn’t tell whether the dead warrior was a friend or foe, but in the end, it didn’t matter to him.

  “So, did ya find it?” His voice was hoarse, barely a whisper. “Which is it

  —is it Valhalla, or just another hell to atone for the sins we committed here?”

  A glint of curiosity flickered in his weary eyes, as though he truly expected to hear back.

  “Guess I’ll join ya shortly—whichever it is!” A grin tugged at his lips as he shifted his gaze into the vast sky.

  The battlefield was silent now—at least to him. His body refused to move, and the cold crept into his limbs.

  “You think strength is just about cutting men down?” His grandfather’s voice surfaced from the depths of his mind, unbidden. “Bah! Any fool can swing a sword. Any coward can kill the weak. But strength—true strength—is knowing when to hold back.”

  “This—” His grandfather lifted the scythe, its blade dull with rust. “This feeds a village. This keeps people alive. That sword? It only takes.”

  Olmer’s fingers tightened around his sword. The blade refused to budge. It was heavy—too heavy. It was the same blade that had been entrusted to him by his uncle to someday avenge his father.

  The old man had turned then, cutting through golden wheat with his scythe. “Strength isn’t in what you kill, boy. It’s in what you choose to spare.”

  The blood on his right hand reeked, its warmth fading against his skin. His old scar throbbed, as fresh as the day he slew the ferocious wolf in his teens.

  That day, the wolf had only been protecting its family. Yet he had severed its head without a trace of regret, while the grownups stood paralyzed with fear. His name spread far and wide, and from then on, he was known as 'the Wolf Slayer’.

  Olmer’s breath shuddered. The past had never felt so loud before.

  He was always the complete opposite of his grandfather. Olmer never shared a glass of wine with weaklings. He despised them. He despised weakness. He always pushed himself to be the strongest, refining his blade, to prove something—or someone—wrong. With a clear motto, he aimed to become the greatest warrior.

  With the sword in his hands, he had hunted down those who begged, pleaded for mercy, whose existence meant nothing more than that of insects—their limbs shattered, waiting to be crushed beneath his feet.

  But today he was the insect with broken limbs, waiting to be crushed.

  His eyes widened, and with a startled look on his face, Olmer no longer seemed the indomitable Wolf Slayer he once was.

  "Ya know… My grandfather, he was too kind for this world. In his eyes, a warrior was a ferocious animal that hunts not for food but for fun. He used to tell me never to become that mindless beast, never to touch the sword." He let out a breath, shaking his head. "If only he was alive…" His voice caught, the words sitting heavy on his tongue. "Maybe I would’ve never touched this."

  He grew numb, lying among the dead, still paralyzed, motionless as the images in his head grew stronger.

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  Einer, an old rival and once a good friend of Olmer, had disobeyed the king's orders. Instead, he had spared a few weak, harmless survivors. Looking at him kneeling before the king ready to be executed. He couldn’t understand why he would sacrifice his own life just to save a bunch of women and children. Einer glanced into Olmer’s eyes, his eyes were sharp, no fear nor regret as if he was not about to die. In that moment Olmer saw a completely different man—one he had never known. Something in his gaze stirred unease within Olmer, cracking his beliefs. The king’s silent command sealed his fate. Without hesitation, Olmer swung his blade—severing his head and silencing his doubts. He told himself it was his weakness—nothing more. And in a world ruled by the strong, weakness had no place. The only true strength was the sword, and true pride lay in the status it brought.

  As he blinked, Einer's grimace flickered before him—lips curled, jaw clenched, eyes cold and piercing. The image was as vivid and as sharp as it had been that day, sending a chill down his spine. His ears rang with echoes of countless people he had hunted, screaming. Pleading for life.

  “Why are you killing me? What have I ever done to you?”

  “Please spare my life! I have a kid and wife waiting for me at home. Please let me go!”

  The voices clawed at him, scraping away something deeper than flesh.

  But why? Why would someone as miserable as them want to live? What joy was there in such a hollow existence? A life without swords, without war—was that even a life at all? Was there truly something beyond this? Is there something more… fun than battle?

  Just what does it even mean to be alive?

  He had never asked them, nor had he ever asked himself. But today, these questions gnawed at him, unrelenting. How could he feel regret for something he once enjoyed and took pride in?

  “They say God forgives your sins if you’re truly guilty bout ‘em. Is that why they claim, ‘A brave warrior who dies in a war will go to Valhalla’?” he murmured. “Or was it just a fat ass lie to lure us onto the battlefield?” he added with a smirk, his voice dripping with bitter irony.

  For the first time, he doubted what he once believed without question. This sensation coiled inside him, slowly unraveling everything he thought he knew.

  “Did it ever hit ya, why the strong always hunt the weak?” His eyes wavered, as if he were searching the sky for an answer. “For silver? For land? For power? What is that invisible force that drives us, that tells us to survive? Just what does it mean to be alive, anyway?”

  His eyesight had worsened. Like a man cursed with strabismus, everything appeared double. The spear and the bow were having their time in his body, tearing him with agony. But the burning questions scorched his insides more than the bow and spear.

  Something new inside Olmer was awakened at that moment. This new feeling—an overwhelming weight that crushed him, sank him to the bottom and made him question his beliefs—was clear to him now: his own ‘weakness’.

  For someone who despised weakness and saw weaklings as nothing but refuse, it was too much for Olmer to accept his own. He wanted to scream out in rage, but he couldn’t—he was too weak to even whisper anymore. He wanted to grab his sword and rampage across the battlefield, but he couldn’t—he was too weak to even lift a finger anymore. This feeling didn't arise today; he just hadn't realized it until now. While reveling in the privileges of strength, he had forgotten his place in the power hierarchy. He was just a pawn to serve those above. A mesopredator, that's all he was. Everything seemed so unfair for the new Olmer, everything was unfair just to the weak.

  “So, this is... how it feels to be a weakling, huh?” he murmured, barely moving his lips as he gripped the spear. No matter how hard he tried, he could hardly budge it. Something inside him—a part of Olmer still pushed him to live, to survive this moment. He wanted to live—he wanted to live even if it meant enduring a miserable existence, just like those weaklings who once begged him to spare their lives. But is there truly any way for the weak to survive in this world?

  With all the burning questions in his mind, he failed to find even a single answer. One last time, Olmer turned to the dead warrior, daring to hope for an answer. For the first time, there was no disdain in his eyes. All he saw was a lifeless man, his head resting against the rock, a faint smile on his face. In his blurred double vision, the image reflected his grandfather. And that smile—soft and unbroken—gave him all the answers he sought.

  The days he spent with his grandfather flashed in his eyes. When watering the plants on a summer day had once been his greatest joy, helping his grandfather cut logs for the fire had been his hardest task. Mornings filled with laughter, and nights overflowed with stories and dreams he longed to pursue. The memories left a burst of mixed emotions inside Olmer.

  He tried to recall his grandfather’s final words, the only treasure he had left for him. “Olmer! You are such a great kid. I wish I could have lived long enough to see you turn into a grown man... Olmer, there are still so many things left for me to teach you. I wish I could teach you this at the right time, but fate doesn’t want that. Reality is harsh, Olmer! I know, once I am gone, there will be no one left to teach you how to live without the sword. Everyone is blind to the balance that governs all life; that is the reality. Olmer! But there is a way to break free from this cycle and to live your life your way. It’s the hardest battle God gives us, but if you win, you’ll find the true meaning of life. And one last time, remember this: true strength is neither your sword nor your status—it never was, and it never will be. It’s in the will to live, to sacrifice, to find happiness even in the smallest things. One day, you’ll understand. And if fate favors you, life may grant you a second chance. Don’t waste it. I know you can find it Olmer, I know you are smarter than your father.”

  His grandfather's words did not resonate with the eight-year-old boy. Back then, he had dismissed his grandfather as nothing more than a weak old fool. But now, those same words left him stunned, frozen in disbelief as the truth struck him like a blacksmith’s hammer against brittle steel, shattering everything he once was. A slow, empty smile crept onto his lips. Tears welled in his eyes, slipping down his face unnoticed.

  “I—I want that second chance... Grandfather!” he choked on his words, whispering. To live again. To live like his grandfather had. To live for more than war. And again, he wondered why fate would give another chance to a man like him.