The third day at sea was when everything went wrong.
We'd been making good progress. The weather had been calm. The boats stayed together. Everyone was starting to believe we might actually make it home.
Then the storm hit.
It came out of nowhere. One moment we were rowing under gray but peaceful skies. The next moment the wind was howling and the waves were trying to swallow our boats.
"Hold together!" my father shouted over the noise.
But the storm was too strong. The boats scattered like leaves in a gale.
Within an hour, we'd lost sight of the other vessels. Our boat was alone on a dark ocean with waves twice as tall as a man.
The five of us left in our boat fought to keep it upright. Bailing water. Wrestling with the sail. Praying to whatever gods might be listening.
I'd never been so scared in either of my lives.
The storm lasted two days.
Two days of thinking we were going to die. Of watching massive waves crash over our bow. Of wondering if this was punishment for what we'd done at the monastery.
When it finally ended, we were somewhere completely different.
The coastline we could see in the distance wasn't familiar. Rocky cliffs and pine forests. Could have been Norway. Could have been Denmark. Could have been somewhere else entirely.
"Where are we?" one of the younger men asked.
My father studied the shore with tired eyes. "I don't know."
Those were the worst words he could have said. If he didn't know, none of us did.
We were lost.
The other boats were nowhere to be seen. Either they'd made it home without us or they were at the bottom of the ocean.
"What do we do?" the younger man asked.
"Find fresh water," my father said. "Then figure out where we are."
We rowed toward shore. Found a small inlet between the cliffs where we could beach the boat safely.
The land was empty. No signs of human settlement. Just wilderness.
But there was a stream running down from the hills. Clear water that tasted like life itself after days of salt spray.
We made camp on the beach. Built a small fire. Ate some of the dried fish from the monastery stores.
"Are we going to die here?" the younger man asked. His voice was barely a whisper.
"Not if I can help it," my father replied. But he didn't sound convinced.
The reality was harsh. We had enough food for maybe a week. No idea where we were. No way to signal for help.
If we couldn't find our way home soon, we'd starve on this empty coast.
That night, I couldn't sleep. I kept thinking about our village. About my mother waiting for us to return. About the families who'd sent their fathers and sons on this desperate mission.
Were they still alive? Had the other boats made it back? Was our village celebrating survival or mourning the dead?
[Your Status is]
[Name: Njal]
[Strength: 28]
[Endurance: 18]
[Intelligence: 23]
[Skills]
[Listening lv4] [Learning lv5] [Norse lv7] [Wood Cutting lv3] [Strength Training lv2] [Combat lv6] [Fishing lv4] [Sailing lv1] [War Preparation lv1] [Looting lv1]
[Titles]
[The Giant] [Wood Pecker] [Wolf Tamer] [First Blood] [Monastery Raider]
[Achievements]
[First Raid] [Survivor's Burden]
The numbers felt meaningless now. All that strength and combat skill wouldn't help if we starved to death on an unknown shore.
My sailing skill was still pathetically low. Level one. Barely better than complete ignorance.
But maybe that was enough. Maybe I could learn faster than normal people because of the system.
Maybe I could get us home.
The next morning, I approached my father with an idea.
"Let me try navigating," I said.
He looked at me like I'd suggested we try flying. "You're ten years old."
"And you're a fisherman, not a navigator. But one of us has to figure this out."
He considered this. The other men gathered around to listen.
"What do you know about navigation?" the oldest man in our group asked.
"Not much," I admitted. "But I learn fast. And we don't have many options."
My father was quiet for a long time. Staring out at the empty ocean.
"Teach me everything you know about these waters," I finally said. "All the old stories. The landmarks. The currents. Everything."
"Why?" he asked.
"Because I remember things. Better than most people. If you tell me enough, maybe I can piece together where we are."
It was a desperate plan. But we were desperate.
My father spent the rest of the day telling me everything he knew. Stories his father had told him. Old navigation tricks. How to read the color of water. How to follow bird flights. How to use the stars.
[Skill Gained: Navigation lv1]
[Skill Gained: Star Reading lv1]
The system was tracking my learning. Each piece of information became part of a growing database in my mind.
By evening, I had a theory.
"I think we're north of home," I said. "The cliffs look like the formations near the Lofoten Islands."
"If you're right, we're maybe three days from familiar waters," my father said. "If you're wrong, we're completely lost."
"Only one way to find out."
The next morning, we launched the boat again. This time with me giving directions.
"Southeast," I said, pointing toward what I hoped was home. "Follow the current but not too closely. Watch for the color change in the water."
The men looked skeptical. But they rowed where I pointed.
[Navigation skill increased]
[Star Reading skill increased]
Every hour brought new information. The way the waves moved. The smell of the air. The types of birds we saw.
Piece by piece, I was building a mental map of where we were.
By the third day, we saw something that made everyone's heart jump.
Smoke on the horizon.
Human settlement. Maybe home. Maybe not.
"Could be raiders," someone warned. "Could be hostile."
"Could be salvation," my father countered.
We rowed toward the smoke. Slowly. Carefully. Ready to turn back if we saw danger.
What we found was a small fishing village built around a protected harbor. Norse longships pulled up on the beach. Familiar dragon-head prows.
"Do you recognize it?" I asked my father.
He studied the buildings. The layout. The way the harbor was shaped.
"Skarvik," he said finally. His voice was filled with relief. "We're fifty miles north of home."
Fifty miles. Close enough that we could make it in a day if the weather held.
The villagers welcomed us cautiously. Fed us. Gave us fresh water. Asked about our journey.
My father told them we'd been fishing when the storm hit. Got separated from our fleet. Lost our way home.
It wasn't entirely a lie. We had been separated. We had been lost.
He just didn't mention the monastery. Or the silver hidden in our boat. Or the blood on our hands.
"Rough season for fishing," the village elder said. "Many boats lost to the storms."
"Yes," my father agreed. "Very rough."
We stayed the night. Slept on solid ground for the first time in over a week.
The next morning, we set out for home. Following the coastline south. Staying close to shore in case another storm hit.
[Navigation skill increased to lv3]
[Sailing skill increased to lv2]
The system was learning along with me. Each successful decision making the next one easier.
By evening, we could see the entrance to our fjord. The familiar cliffs. The protected waters where our village waited.
"There," my father pointed. "Home."
We rowed through the narrow channel that led to our harbor. Past the rocky outcroppings that had protected our people for generations.
The village was there. Still standing. Still alive.
But something was wrong.
Too many boats pulled up on the beach. Too many people gathered around the water's edge.
"The other boats," someone said quietly. "They made it back."
But as we got closer, I could see the truth in the faces of the people waiting for us.
Not all of them had made it back. Maybe not even most of them.
My mother was standing on the shore. Tears streaming down her face. Not tears of joy.
Tears of grief.
"How many?" my father called out as we beached our boat.
"Eighteen men," the village elder replied. His voice was heavy with sorrow. "Lost in the storm."
Eighteen out of forty-three. Almost half.
The raid had been a success. We had the treasure and food our village needed to survive.
But the cost had been higher than anyone expected.
Families were broken. Children left fatherless. Wives left widowed.
All for a few sacks of grain and handfuls of silver.
"Was it worth it?" I asked my father as we unloaded our boat.
He looked at the celebrating villagers. The children who would eat tonight because of what we'd taken. The families who would survive the winter.
Then he looked at the women in mourning clothes. The children who would grow up without fathers.
"Ask me next spring," he said quietly. "When we know who lived and who died."
That night, there was both celebration and mourning in our village. Feasting and weeping. Joy and sorrow mixed together like ingredients in some bitter recipe.
I sat by the fire, watching it all. Thinking about the choices that had brought us here.
The monks were still dead. The treasure was still stolen. The storm had still claimed eighteen good men.
Nothing could change any of that.
But we were alive. Our village would survive. That had to count for something.
[New Achievement: The Long Journey Home]
[New Title: Navigator]
[Navigation skill increased to lv4]
[Experience gained: 500 points]
The system tracked it all. The skills gained. The achievements unlocked. The experience points earned.
But it couldn't track the weight of what we'd done. The cost of survival. The price of necessary choices.
That was something I'd have to carry myself.
For the rest of whatever life I had left in this harsh world.
As I finally fell asleep that night, safe in my own bed after weeks of danger, I thought about the future.
I was stronger now. Smarter. More skilled.
But I was also different. Changed by violence and loss and the brutal arithmetic of survival.
The question was: what would I do with these new abilities?
What kind of man would I become in a world where strength was the only currency that mattered?
I didn't know yet.
But I was beginning to understand that the choice would be mine to make.
And that choice would define everything that came after.