The pressure returned at dawn.
Not the familiar, testing weight of daily endurance—this was broader, heavier, like a storm settling over the longhouse before anyone smelled rain. Anders woke with it already present, a low insistence that did not push or prod, but expected.
The blue light came without ceremony.
It hovered, precise and cold, steady against the wavering glow of the fire.
Weekly Trial Initiated
Objective: Get Stronger
No timer.
No instruction.
No mercy.
The screen vanished.
Anders lay still for a long moment, breathing slow, letting the meaning sink in. Strength was not abstract here. It was not metaphor or future promise. Strength was the difference between living and being carried. Between being protected and being useful.
He turned his head and watched the longhouse wake.
Vikings did not linger in softness. They did not savor infancy as something precious and fragile. Children were expected to grow hard, to grow fast. The clan did not speak of it often, because it did not need to be spoken. It was stitched into everything—into the tools leaning against the walls, into the scars worn without comment, into the way pain was acknowledged and then set aside.
Anders knew this world now well enough to understand the truth beneath its rhythms.
Comfort was temporary.
Strength was required.
His body was six months old.
That mattered.
It mattered because it defined the limits of what he could attempt—and because the system did not care about those limits. The system cared only about strain.
He rolled onto his stomach.
The movement was deliberate. He placed his palms against the packed earth, fingers splayed, elbows bent. His arms shook immediately, thin muscles trembling with effort. His head wobbled. His breath came faster.
He pushed.
His chest lifted an inch from the ground before his arms buckled and he collapsed, cheek pressed to dirt and rushes.
The burn flared—sharp, surprising.
Anders did not cry.
He rested. Counted breaths. Let the shaking fade.
Then he pushed again.
Around him, life continued. Someone laughed. Someone cursed as a pot tipped. Astrid moved past him, glancing down with a small, puzzled frown that softened when she saw him trying to crawl. She assumed that was what he was doing.
He was not.
He was training.
The second attempt lasted longer. Not by much—but longer. His arms locked for a heartbeat before giving out. He fell again, lungs burning, jaw clenched.
The pressure did not ease.
It waited.
Anders dragged himself forward an inch. Then another. He planted his knees beneath him, shifted weight, tried to push his body upward again.
Failure.
Rest.
Try again.
By midmorning, his arms trembled even when still. His shoulders ached in a way he had never felt before—deep and raw, a burn that spoke of fibers tearing and rebuilding. He could feel his heartbeat everywhere now, pounding in his ears, in his fingertips.
He pushed again.
This time, his chest lifted higher.
Not much.
Enough.
Something in him answered.
Not joy. Not pride.
Recognition.
The system did not speak, but he felt its attention sharpen, like a lens turning.
Endurance and strength braided together. He was not becoming powerful—he was becoming capable.
That mattered more.
Someone noticed.
At first, it was a passing comment. A chuckle. A shake of the head.
"Look at him," a woman said. "He doesn't stop."
Astrid paused beside Anders, watching him struggle to bring his knees beneath him again. He rocked forward, overcorrected, fell, then tried again with a tiny grunt of effort.
Her brow furrowed.
This was not play.
Infants pushed themselves up sometimes. Crawled early sometimes. But not like this. Not with focus. Not with the strange, measured pauses between attempts.
She knelt and extended a hand, ready to help.
Anders shook his head.
It was a small movement. Barely perceptible.
But deliberate.
Astrid froze.
She did not help him.
The hours passed.
Anders crawled across the longhouse floor in jerks and starts, arms and knees scraping, muscles screaming. He paused often, resting his forehead against the ground, breathing through the ache. Each time he resumed, his movements grew steadier. More controlled.
By afternoon, he could push himself upright on hands and knees and hold it.
For several breaths.
Men began to notice.
They paused mid-conversation, watching the child rock forward and back, arms trembling as he held himself up. One laughed at first, then fell silent when Anders did it again. And again.
"He doesn't cry," someone muttered.
"He should be tired by now."
Erik watched from near the fire.
He did not speak.
He saw what others did not—the refusal. The way Anders failed and returned to effort without frustration. The way he seemed to understand something about persistence that no child should.
Erik had led men under pressure. He recognized that look.
It was the look of someone who did not expect victory—but worked anyway.
Anders collapsed onto his side at last, chest heaving. His arms twitched uncontrollably, nerves firing uselessly. His whole body buzzed with exhaustion.
The pressure eased.
Not gone—never gone—but satisfied enough to retreat.
Night fell slowly. Food was shared. Stories were told. Anders slept hard, muscles aching, dreams empty and deep.
When he woke, the pressure returned.
Get stronger.
He rolled onto his stomach again.
The second day was worse.
The soreness had settled into him overnight, thick and unyielding. His arms protested immediately. His movements were slower. Sloppier. He failed more often than he succeeded.
He kept going.
He crawled until his knees burned. He pushed until his arms gave out entirely, leaving him face-down on the floor, breath rasping. He rested longer now between attempts—but he did not stop.
Astrid watched constantly now.
She did not interfere.
This was the way of their people. Strength was not given—it was revealed.
But unease crept into her chest all the same.
By the third day, Anders could push himself upright and shift weight—forward, backward, side to side—without collapsing immediately. He began experimenting, adjusting his hands, spreading fingers wider, using leverage instead of brute effort.
He did not know the words for what he was doing.
But his body learned.
The system observed.
On the fifth day, Erik knelt beside him.
Anders pushed up, arms shaking, eyes fixed on the ground beneath him. He held for a breath. Two.
Erik did not touch him.
He watched.
When Anders finally collapsed, gasping, Erik exhaled slowly.
"The gods favor him," he said.
He did not mean it as proclamation. It came out half-thought, half-observation.
The longhouse stilled.
Astrid looked up sharply.
Words like that carried weight. Blessings were not light things. They drew attention—expectation. Burden.
Anders felt the shift immediately.
The pressure returned—not heavier, but different. Measuring something new.
Not strength.
Interpretation.
That night, as Anders lay wrapped in furs, his muscles screaming quietly beneath the warmth, the blue light appeared once more.
Weekly Trial Completed: Get Stronger
No flourish. No praise.
A faint internal adjustment followed—subtle, but unmistakable. His arms felt… denser. His recovery quicker. His breath deeper.
Permanent.
He closed his eyes, exhaustion dragging him under.
Erik's words echoed faintly in his mind.
If the gods truly favored him, they would demand more than effort.
They would demand proof.
And the system—silent, patient, unblinking—was already preparing the next weight.