Chapter 39: Walls of Impossibility
The Seine River stretched before them like a serpent's spine, and at its heart, Paris rose from morning mist with walls that belonged to nightmares. Paul stood at the prow of their lead ship, watching stone fortifications emerge from fog like the bones of some dead god, and felt his certainty crumble like sand in a tide.
"Fifty feet. Stone construction the likes of which we've never seen. And three thousand Vikings who think walls are just suggestions written in rock."
Around him, warriors pointed and laughed at what they saw as just another city waiting to be plundered. But Paul's eyes traced ramparts that bristled with defenders, counted towers that commanded every approach, and felt the weight of history's momentum pressing against his chest like a physical force.
Ragnar's voice carried across the water with the confidence of someone who'd never met a wall he couldn't breach. "Look at it, brothers! Gold stacked in stones, waiting for bold men to claim it!"
The fleet erupted in cheers that echoed off water and stone alike. Paul activated Success Rate Analysis with the desperate need of a drowning man grasping for something solid.
[QUERY: PROBABILITY OF SUCCESSFUL SIEGE WITH CURRENT STRATEGY]
[RESULT: 8% SUCCESS RATE]
[FACTORS: DEFENSIVE SUPERIORITY (EXTREME), SIEGE EQUIPMENT (INADEQUATE), NUMERICAL ADVANTAGE (INSUFFICIENT), LEADERSHIP (OVERCONFIDENT)]
Eight percent. Paul closed his eyes and felt the mathematics of slaughter pressing against his skull like iron bands. Around him, three thousand warriors prepared to die for glory and gold while believing they marched toward certain victory.
"I have to tell him. Even if he doesn't listen, I have to try."
Paul found Ragnar at the war council that evening, studying maps spread across rough planks while Floki described siege towers with the enthusiasm of an artist unveiling his masterpiece. The king's eyes held that particular gleam that came before disaster disguised as opportunity.
"The walls are impressive," Paul said carefully. "Higher than anything we've encountered."
"Impressive walls protect impressive treasure." Ragnar's finger traced the river's path around the island city. "Floki's towers will carry us over their stone prayers. Speed and fury, as always."
Paul looked at the siege towers—magnificent construction that would burn under the first flight of fire arrows, carrying their crews down in flames that would light the sky. His Daily Vision had shown him the massacre in crystalline detail: warriors falling like wheat before scythes, blood turning river water red, screams that would haunt survivors for years.
"I've seen tomorrow's assault in visions. The first wave dies completely."
Ragnar's expression hardened. "Then they die with honor. Sometimes the gods demand payment in blood before they grant victory."
"He's going to do it anyway. Pride demands sacrifice, even when sacrifice gains nothing."
Count Odo appeared on the ramparts like a specter summoned by Paul's fears, his figure small but commanding as he moved between defenders with the precision of someone who'd never lost a battle he'd prepared for. Beside him, a woman in rich robes gestured toward their fleet with what looked like amusement rather than fear.
Paul squinted through morning haze and felt his Premonition Sense spike with recognition. Princess Gisla—the prize that would turn Rollo's loyalty into betrayal, love into treason, brother into enemy.
Near the riverside, Rollo stood motionless as stone, his eyes locked on the distant figure of the Frankish princess with an intensity that made the air around him feel charged with possibility. Paul watched threads of fate shimmer between them like heat waves rising from sun-warmed earth.
"It's starting. Every piece moving toward positions that will define the next hundred years of history."
That night, Paul moved through the camp selling system store equipment with the cynical efficiency of someone who'd learned to profit from disaster. Quality rope that wouldn't snap under strain, refined weapons that held their edge through extended combat, reinforced shields that might stop one more arrow than standard gear.
Two hundred system points earned while preparing warriors for slaughter. The mathematics of war economics made his stomach turn, but preparing men for survival mattered more than moral comfort.
His Monthly Vision confirmed what the device had already shown—other system users' activities continuing unchanged despite his location. Sophia's technological integration spreading through Byzantine trade routes, Marcus's conquest patterns accelerating across Far Eastern territories, and all of it converging toward something that felt like inevitability wrapped in steel.
[DEVICE UPDATE: CONVERGENCE 18 DAYS, 7 HOURS]
[MARCUS'S TRAJECTORY UNCHANGED - ARRIVAL IMMINENT]
[TIMELINE STABILITY: 64% AND DECLINING]
Paul closed the device and looked across the river toward walls that would break Viking dreams and forge new realities from the fragments. Tomorrow would bring slaughter disguised as glory, betrayal wrapped in love, and the beginning of changes that would ripple across centuries.
But tonight, he could still pretend that eight percent meant something other than mathematical certainty dressed in false hope.
The torches of Paris burned like fallen stars across dark water, each flame a prayer to gods who might not listen and certainly wouldn't intervene. Paul pulled his cloak tighter and tried not to think about how many of those lights would be extinguished before the sun set again.
"Eighteen days until everything changes. Paris is just the opening move."
In the distance, Count Odo's silhouette moved across ramparts with the confidence of someone who'd already won a war that hadn't started yet. And somewhere beyond the horizon, another ship cut through dark waters carrying a player whose arrival would reshape the very nature of the game they were all playing.
Paul closed his eyes and tried to find peace in the sound of water against hulls and the distant laughter of warriors who still believed tomorrow belonged to them.
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