Chương 1

"Is it time already?" Only a few lone rays of sunlight still made it through the hut's roof and onto the scroll. No wonder his eyes were dry. Hakon's fingers brushed the pyre torch beside him but paused. No matter how much he wanted to continue, could he handle the consequences? If he chose the old writings over the Rite, his father would kill him. Literally. He could already imagine it–his father's fingers closing around his throat in an iron-tight grip, lifting him high for the tribe to see.

His neck snapped to soothe the Ancestor spirits. Taking a deep breath, his moves slow and meticulous, Hakon closed the hide scroll. Today he did not want to give his father a reason to loathe him. Or the Ancestors for that matter. He rose from the creaking chair and slid the scroll onto the sparse shelf beside a dozen others. No one in the tribe owned so many. Most people had no use for scribbled lines they neither wanted nor could understand. Of course, that excluded the Shaman. His stock was far greater.

Or so he claimed.

"Later," Hakon muttered. He had been close, so close, to understanding one of the big words. The kind that felt important. As if it might untangle the rest of the mishmash without the Shaman's help. Stepping out into the open room, a familiar shadow blocked the entrance. A towering frame filled the doorway; wide as it was tall, built from muscle and decades of constant battle.

"You are nervous." The gravelly voice of the chieftain, Hakon's father, echoed through the hut. Sharp. Judgmental. Dark eyes flicked past Hakon to the shelf.

"The scribbles again?" The air grew heavier and cracked.

"You should have trained before the Rite," his father said, disappointment cutting deeper than anger.

"Instead, you read?" Hakon opened his mouth, then closed it. He had no excuse.

"The Shaman has arrived," the chieftain continued.

"Do not be late." That was an order, not a request. His father's jaw tightened when Hakon didn't move right away, and, without another word, he turned and left.

"You need a good fight," Hakon muttered after him.

"Raid the Pearot Tribe or delve into a Fracture." The words went unheard. That was probably for the best or the chieftain would have given him a beating, Rite or not. Father had been tense – ever since the next Rite had been announced by the Shaman. It had been cycles since the last Rite in Taskur, and with each passing season, doubt had crept deeper into the tribe. Were the Ancestors angry? Had they turned their backs? This cycle would change everything. The young would undergo the Rite and awaken as warriors.

The Ancestor spirits would judge them and, if worthy, remove the first seal of the curse the Fallen had cast upon the tribes. So it was told. And the chieftain expected his son's Rite to be special. He expected Hakon to follow his footsteps and become a real warrior. Hakon wanted that as well. After several disappointing cycles, it was time for him to awaken and become his father's equal. To take the first stride into surpassing the chieftain. That thought made him smile.

His father had become even more impatient over the last few years, as Hakon had grown into his frame. Maybe his father knew that once Hakon finished the Rite, things would change. Oh, how they would change. Hakon could scarcely wait. He pulled the fur from his shoulders, exposing his bare chest – shaped by blood, sweat, and cycles of relentless training. Scars crossed his skin, each one earned in a bloodbath. His fingers lingered over them before closing around the necklace resting against his collarbone.

A Wind Wolf's fangs. A Nightshade Panther's claws. The same claws that had torn into his flesh. The same fangs that had nearly ripped out his throat. Those were his trophies. His greatest possession. A sign of power. A promise to the Ancestor spirits. Hakon did not rush. He fixed the trophy necklace's position, then secured his axes and bone daggers with the practiced movements of a hunter.

"The Lifeblood within me stirs," he quoted one of the old tales with a chuckle, hand pressed over his pounding heart. Excitement coiled tight in his chest. After cycles of waiting, the day had finally come. He stepped out of the hut in long, confident strides, and the tribe noticed him. Several residents, each tall, towering, and covered in muscle, turned to him and smiled. They eyed him, their expressions widening as they noticed the necklace. The trophy necklace was that special.

It was proof the wearer ventured into the wild to hunt creatures only those who should have already undergone the Rite were meant to best. Hakon escaped death by a hair's breadth more often than he could bother to count, but it was all worth it. For today. To show everyone what he was capable of. That he did not need his father to be a real warrior. He might be the chieftain's son, but the trophy necklace earned him respect that was, for once, not inherited.

They respected him for his strength and achievements, not his blood. He soon reached the masses gathered around the Tribehold's center. Marked by colossal stone statues from the Ancestors' era stood the heart of the tribe, the Monolith. A black structure made of indestructible material. Not even the strongest warriors could scratch its surface. It was the greatest gift the Ancestors had left behind, with the promise to grant the strength needed to survive and shed blood for them.

"The Zeldron," Hakon mused, glancing at the statues. Neither time nor nature's wrath had managed to wear them down. They stood as tall as he remembered, guarding the Monolith, protecting the Ancestors' gift. His smile widened, only to crack as he caught wind of Ulfur and his friends. If one could call them that. They followed Ulfur everywhere. Not because they liked him but because he too left the tribe to hunt.

He was strong, his potential as promising as Hakon's, and their parents' rivalry only fueled the competitive fire. So did the tribesmen. They too wanted to see who was going to become the next chieftain. Would a new family rise to claim the tribe or would Tribe leadership remain in the Taskur family? Hakon was willing to give everything to make sure Ulfar would not defeat him. Not now, not ever.

People gathered around Hakon as soon as they noticed him, but he waved them off until only Björn the Bear and Astrid Ironheart remained.

"Skincrawler?" Björn asked with a bright smile. He was as tall as a bear and just as hairy. Most of his body was covered in thick brown hair, though it did little to hide his hulking muscles. He was strong, his trophy necklace adorned with a single paw–a bear's paw.

"I am ready. Have been for several cycles," Hakon said, shaking his head. Astrid stood quietly by their side. She greeted Hakon with a slow nod, the faintest hint of a smile tugging at her lips. If Björn was a normal member of the Taskur tribe, Astrid was… well, Astrid. She was different from anyone Hakon knew. Astrid was short for a tribewoman. She wore her long golden hair in an intricate braid for the occasion. Her pale skin was marred by a few scars. Too few for all the claws and fangs adorning her necklace.

Most of her prey could not compare to the Nightshade Panther, but Astrid was deadly. On the surface, she looked like she might break easily. Those who grew up with her knew better. The finger of a Pearot tribesman attached to her necklace made clear what happened to those who underestimated her. Thinking back to her encounter with the lusting man of the Pearot tribe, Hakon could only smile. Astrid showed everyone what she was capable of that day. She nudged Hakon in the side and motioned toward the Monolith.

The Shaman had arrived, his bare body covered in tattoos that moved with his every motion. It was as if the intricate designs on his skin were alive. Some tattoos appeared oddly familiar. They resembled something Hakon had seen before. Somewhere. The Monolith! His eyes flicked past the Shaman, locking onto the engravings of the Ancestors' gift.

"That look." Björn grunted, pointing directly at Hakon's face.

"Again?" Astrid asked quietly, shaking her head. Somehow, that bothered him more than Björn's finger jabbing toward him.

"The Rite," she added before he could say anything. Lips sealed, Hakon watched the Shaman as if bewitched, his gaze drifting from the engravings on the Monolith back to the lifelike tattoos. He only faintly noticed the first of Ulfar's people stepping toward the Monolith, until the man blocked his view.

"Only blood earns remembrance," the Shaman intoned as the man cut his palm with a bone dagger. He pressed his bleeding hand against the Monolith, blood running down his wrist. A single droplet trickled to the ground, the sound of its splash barely audible beneath the low hum reverberating through the tribehold's center.

"May the Ancient guide you," the Shaman ushered, pressing his own palm against the Monolith as it began to emit a faint, semi-translucent glow. His eyes turned white, his expression impossible to read. Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.

"Bloodbearer," he declared, his tone deeper – more – than it had been moments ago, the word echoing through the tribehold.

"Thank the Ancestors!" the newly awakened warrior roared, flexing his muscles as his body expanded. The excitement died seconds later. His expression distorted to one of unbearable pain: sickening crunches resounded, his skin tore open, and blood spilled from his orifices all at once.

"What an idiot." Hakon shook his head. While not exceptional, Giant Blood was powerful. Anyone awakening it would grow considerably, their physical might rise greatly depending on the synergy with their Barbarian Physique. Physical traits like Giant Blood worked well with the tribes' Physiques, especially the Blood of Zeldron the Barbarians of Taskur were known to awaken. Even better, there was a history of Giant Blood among Bloodbearers among the older warriors. They would guide the young warriors.

The idiot would fare well in the next hunt, assuming he didn't kill himself by using Giant Blood before his body could adapt.

"So much lust," Björn grunted, eyes fixed on the women of the tribe. They stared at the idiot, who had yet to suppress the potency of his power, with naked desire. Greedily. That came as no surprise. As stupid as the man was, he was the first in many cycles to awaken a power. Nearly ten cycles had passed, and the women could sense the strength resting within him. It was just waiting to erupt.

"Are you a skincrawler now, or do you want to be like him?" Hakon asked half-mockingly. When Björn glared at him, he added, "Don't worry. They'll calm down once a few more Bloodbearers awaken." The first Awakening of a Bloodbearer after ten cycles of drought carried the same thrill as returning successfully from a hunt after a season of misfortune–It was intoxicating, but fleeting. The excitement would fade once the same 'miracle' happened several times in quick succession.

"That fool is nothing. I am better!" Björn growled, pushing through the masses toward the Monolith. To make a point. To awaken a great power and show Hakon.

"You had to do that, didn't you?" Astrid asked, shaking her head. Though the smile on her lips widened.

"Yes." Hakon shrugged, moving closer to the Monolith as well.

"He'll be fine. I doubt the Ancestors would bless him with a failed power."

"Rootkeeper!" The Shaman's voice thundered through the tribehold once more. Hakon froze for a moment before his head snapped toward the Monolith. Björn was nowhere near the Monolith just yet. It was one of Ulfar's friends who'd awakened the power of a Rootkeeper. Rootkeepers were no warriors. Those bearing the power of Rootkeepers would never match their peers in battle. Still, the power was vital – tending the tribe's fields, sustaining it through the longest winters.

As long as someone stood beside them in defense, all would be well. And one of the women joining the Rite was very eager to do so. She approached the Monolith in large strides, eyes lingering on the cursing Rootkeeper. She slashed her palm open and slapped it against the stone, licking her lips greedily.

"Bloodbearer!" Her muscles bulged as dormant power roared to life, though she didn't trigger it. Instead, she turned toward the Rootkeeper with a predatory smile. She could protect his fields–if she wished. And from the look on her face, she very much did. The Rootkeeper didn't seem pleased. Not because of the Bloodbearer woman, but because he would never become a true warrior. Combat brought honor. Power. Authority. Survival. To rely on others was… pathetic.

He would live, and he could fight if he chose to seek battle, but his path lay elsewhere. The Ancestors had different plans for him.

"He looks decent enough," Astrid commented lightly, noting several women casting interested glances toward the handsome young man.

"Interested?" Hakon joked, but the glare she shot him promised certain death. Even then, looking like death incarnate, Astrid remained as beautiful as ever.

"Some people look too good," Hakon added after a moment, slower now.

"Only fair the Ancestors do not waste the power of legends on such idiots." That earned him a raised eyebrow.

"Be careful what you wish for," she said quietly, her words carrying a meaning he failed to grasp.

"Did you say something?" Hakon asked, already refocusing on the Monolith.

"Nope."

Light coalesced in the hands of a furious warrior as soon as he stepped back from the Monolith"Lightcaller!" Booming laughter resounded through the tribehold, only fueling the warrior's fury. But there was little he could do against it. He had awakened an unsuitable power. Words of ridicule spilled from the mouths of those fortunate enough to awaken as Bloodbearers. They reveled in their comrade's misfortune.

"How exactly did you attract the Ancestors' ire?" Ulfar guffawed, his voice loud enough for everyone to hear.

"Was it because you slept with the butcher's whore?"

"That was uncalled for. They will fight." Astrid tore her gaze away from the Lightcaller and fixed it on the butcher, who looked particularly enraged. He had always had a short temper, and Ulfar knew it.

"Zask is going to kill his wife once he's butchered Eren," Hakon growled, glaring at Ulfar–who only looked more pleased at the discord he had sown. Had awakening Behemoth Blood not been enough for him? Eren was no friend of Hakon, but everyone knew he'd had a rough childhood. Worse still, he had been raised by the butcher and his late wife.

"Savage boy," Björn shook his head.

"To fuck Zask's wife after all he did to help him." He snorted.

"The Ancestors made the right call. Eren deserves to be punished." When the commotion around the Monolith grew too loud, the Shaman cleared his throat. It was a simple act–yet it silenced everyone. Even Zask's fury dimmed. He still glared at Eren with hatred, but even the butcher knew better than to interrupt the Rite.

"Continue," the Shaman said quietly. Björn responded by charging toward the Monolith while the others were still distracted. He cut his hand and pressed his palm firmly against the stone in one smooth motion.

"Blessing!" the Shaman announced.

"The Blessing of the Bear!!" Björn's laugh resounded like a thunderstorm, cutting the Shaman's announcement short. He ignored the Shaman's glare as he walked back, several firm hands clapping down on his shoulders while dozens of warriors congratulated him. The issue between Zask and Eren faded from the crowd's attention–except for those involved. Up to this point, only two awakenings had been truly unfortunate.

Everyone else had gained physical traits, most of them Bloodbearers–Giant Blood of varying potency, to be precise. If the tribe had its way, they would continue down that path. Stronger warriors meant better odds in the coming raids. Astrid was the first to move. She brushed past Björn without a word and completed the Rite in a silent second.

"Blood–" the Shaman halted mid-sentence, his eyes widening slightly.

"Blood Fury!" A cacophony of cheers erupted across the tribehold.

"She really had to outdo me," Björn grumbled. Blood Fury was a curious power. One of the few non-physical awakenings the Barbarians took pride in. Many wished for Blood Fury over Giant Blood–some even valued it more than Ulfar's Behemoth Blood. It was the power of legends.

"The Ancestors favor her," Hakon said, smiling as her eyes met his. Astrid's strength was written in blood. Every wound, every kill fed her power–whether the blood belonged to her enemies or herself. The scrolls Hakon possessed spoke of legendary figures drenched in slaughter, warriors pushed beyond mortal limits through bloodshed alone. Used properly, Astrid would become one of them. She did not need a warrior to guide her, for the blood of her enemies would teach her all she needed to know.

The masses gathered around her as she returned, her expression empty, unreadable.

"Your turn." She stared straight into Hakon's eyes.

"Skincrawler?" Björn asked again, grinning brightly.

"No. I am ready." Hakon strode toward the Monolith, confidence in every step, the trophy necklace swaying against his chest. After cycles of waiting, all he wanted was to awaken. Keeping pace with the legendary powers of Ulfar and Astrid would be ideal–but Giant Blood would suffice. It was a solid power, well-suited to him. He was not as wide as most Barbarians, yet that had never bothered him. Those who mocked his 'lacking' mass had been challenged–arms broken, faces shattered. His gaze flicked to his father.

The chieftain stood unmoving, stoic, his eyes cold and devoid of emotion as they settled on Hakon. Watch and see. A roar echoed through his mind as he stepped before the Monolith. This was his time to shine. The first step toward surpassing his father. The Shaman's voice rang out, but he failed to understand a single word. He removed his blood dagger, cut deeper into his palm than necessary, and slapped his bleeding hand against the Monolith. Something stirred within Hakon.

His stomach churned and twisted as something he had never felt before broke free. It was painful, but not unbearable. Even then, it didn't last long, as a soothing warmth spread through his body. Lifeblood. Or "mana," as the Shaman and some hide scrolls called it. It spread through Hakon for what felt like an entire night, but couldn't have been more than the blink of an eye. His mana receded and returned to the mass that had taken shape in his chest. No, it hadn't just appeared.

It was only that he could sense it now. Now that he was a true warrior. A real fighter. Awakened. Euphoria struck even harder than his father's mace. It filled him to the brim, until Hakon recognized what was amiss. There was no power. No surge of power, no ancestral imparting of information. Where was the power he'd always been promised? And then he heard the Shaman–the word that dug deeper than it had any right to.

"The Mind." Roaring laughter resounded almost instantly, led by none other than Ulfar's deep and thunderous laugh. He sure enjoyed himself. Hakon tuned out the laughter and mocking voices that cut in between the cacophony and did something stupid. He looked his father's way. The chieftain didn't grace him with a single glance. Instead, he looked at the group to the left–at Ulfar and the Giant Blood warriors. I disappointed him again…

Clenching his fists, Hakon embraced the pain of fingers digging into his cut-open palm. More blood dripped, crimson droplets splattering and joining those that had come before. Bleeding, embracing the pain, was the only way to let out the frustration and anger bubbling beneath his skin. Yet it didn't change the situation. The Ancestors had decided. They had chosen a non-physical power for him. One with a path no Barbarian would bother to tread. But what exactly had they chosen for Hakon?

A piece of old, half-torn leather adorned with cursive lines forming words coalesced before him. The Ancient Scriptures. A gift of the Ancestors. They revealed the harsh truth. Hakon Taskur – Level 1 Race – Barbarian Ancient Power – Enhanced Comprehension Bloodline– Wildborne Lifeblood At first glance, everything seemed in order. Hakon had to take a second look to note the problem at hand. Ancient Power aside, his Bloodline was wrong. It should have read Blood of Zeldron, not Wildborne Lifeblood. Lifeblood he knew.

He felt it within him, deep in his abdomen. Still, this was odd. Wrong. The Rite continued around him. Laughter resounded in his ears as the Rite came slowly to an end, and for the first time in a long time, Hakon's mind was blank. The Rite changed everything. What now? Before he could clear his mind and focus on the obvious mistake the Ancient Scriptures must have made, or on Enhanced Comprehension – whatever that was supposed to mean – Hakon was interrupted. A heavy pressure settled over him.

It felt old, ancient even, and his head snapped up toward the source: the Shaman. His tattoos glowed and peeled from his skin as he grew in height and width. The pressure intensified until it felt inescapable, as though the weight of a long-lost era pressed down upon Hakon's bones. But it was not force alone that weighed on him. It was much more than that.

"The Rite has concluded, and with it comes the rise of a new generation. The Rite is not an end–it is the beginning. Remember this, young warriors: a dry blade earns no song, no seat at our feasts. Meet death as you would meet your kin, and you shall walk with us, your saga sung beyond the turning of ages. By blood. By fate. Stand unbroken, and fight until you earn death's embrace at last."

The Shaman's voice rolled through the tribehold, the air trembling with every word, each syllable carrying a depth no living lungs should have been able to produce.

"Reveal your power. Revel in the blood of your enemies, and through it, surpass your kin." The voice, one that sounded nothing like the Shaman's, continued even as blood poured from his lips and his eyes, which resembled the stars of the approaching night.

"When the stars fall into their ordained paths, a Warlord shall rise from the blood of his enemies. A Challenge will be called – young blood against young blood – and their names will be carved into the seams of fate. The strong will rise, their deeds recovered will. The weak will fade, forgotten."