The Bloodstone’s Secret and the Coming-of-Age Duel

Mmm~

Noren leaned back in the bathtub, surrounded by a misty veil of steam.

The water’s surface swirled with unseen currents, mirroring the turmoil beneath; she repositioned her arms along the tub’s edge. Her skin, thick yet sensitive, made the heat almost unbearable, but the warmth also induced a pleasant expansion, a surging of blood and qi, ensuring her ‘Plucking Flower’ technique practice remained unbroken.

She picked up the Bloodstone, a smooth, rounded gem set into an exquisite silver necklace.

The blacksmith had crafted the necklace during Noren’s illness, demonstrating a weaving and carving mastery that truly befitted a grand artisan; she often wondered how many other trades the blacksmith secretly pursued.

Cupping water in her hands, she poured it over the deep crimson gem, watching the droplets cascade off its surface, leaving a faint, shimmering luster. Ever since acquiring this stone, she had sensed an inexplicable connection to it, one she couldn’t quite articulate.

Noren clasped the Bloodstone in her palm, clearing her mind and shedding all extraneous thoughts—

After a short while, a peculiar sensation of rising emanated from the Bloodstone, her consciousness seemingly enveloped by a warm, elastic, gelatinous substance.

Her hand slowly opened, revealing a translucent membrane of energy surrounding the Bloodstone, gently swaying with her movements, much like a sphere of water possessing its own central gravity.

The young woman gasped in surprise, lightly poking the membrane with a slender finger. To her astonishment, it began to throb violently, as if angered. She quickly withdrew her hand, and the membrane, after rippling twice, settled back into stillness.

“What… is this for?” Noren had barely voiced her question when, as if struck by divine inspiration, she instantly understood how to control it.

She directly inserted her finger into the membrane, grasping the Bloodstone. The gelatinous substance encased within the membrane churned, then spread, creeping up her finger and palm, eventually enveloping her entire arm.

“Oh~! It’s so cool.” The young woman exclaimed.

Unexpectedly, the membrane encasing her arm abruptly retracted, shrinking back to the Bloodstone. It compressed as if gathering power, then shot out with explosive force.

The tendril-like membrane lashed out, striking the wall before limply sliding down. It then dragged itself across the floor, inching and wriggling back towards the Bloodstone.

Noren mused, “It’s probably about 2 to 3 meters. I wonder if that’s its maximum range. It also can’t detach from the gem itself; if I pull it too far, I get dizzy, hiss~ perhaps it’s due to mental control.”

The young woman embraced the transparent tendril; it was soft and pliable, remarkably pleasant to the touch.

“Heh heh~” A sly smile suddenly crept onto her face; she had an excellent idea.

‘What if I used this to practice the Plucking Flower technique? How efficient would that be?’

She cradled the Bloodstone in her palm. The tendril twisted twice before shooting high into the air, then plunged back into the water, splashing tiny droplets.

“Ugh~ No good!” Her waist arched sharply, nearly overturning the bathtub. She quickly pressed her hands against the tub’s rim, and once her posture stabilized, the Bloodstone tendril retracted under her control, dissipating.

She sighed with a touch of regret, “Alas, my cultivation is still too shallow. The Plucking Flower technique always feels superficial, as if I dare not truly ‘break through the door’. Even for such superficial practice, using the Bloodstone is still too premature for me.”

Rising, countless water droplets shook off her skin. She stepped out of the tub, stretching like a cat, her entire body emitting a series of soft cracks.

“Knock, knock—”

A knock on the door, followed by Freya’s youthful voice: “Sister Noren, it’s about to begin.”

“Right!”

Drying herself, she donned her clothes, bit open a willow branch to meticulously clean between her teeth, then put on her soft armor, tightening her greaves and belt. All preparations complete, she was ready to face her coming-of-age ceremony!

****

The Blacksmith’s Backyard

The expanse of grassland was wide and open, its soft soil ensuring that even if one were thrown to the ground, no injury would be sustained.

Noren stepped into the arena, where she saw the blacksmith clad in a full-face chainmail helmet, heavy lamellar armor, and strapped plate vambraces and greaves. His armor bore countless marks of blades and swords, and his proud, great beard was concealed by the iron helmet, allowing only his fiercely shining eyes to be seen.

All the adult Norsemen of Hradetz had gathered, each fully armed with a long axe in hand and a sword at their hip. They stood alongside the carpenter’s family on either side, forming a wide aisle down which she was expected to walk to receive the rites.

Noren stood at the entrance to the throng, the Norsemen on either side watching her with indifferent gazes, utterly silent.

The blacksmith slowly spoke, “Come forward, Noren.”

A sudden tension seized her; the gazes cast by the Norsemen felt like daggers, spears, and halberds, impossible to ignore. She advanced slowly towards the blacksmith, the rustle of crushed grass beneath her feet unnervingly clear.

Overcast skies loomed above, while cawing crows circled, observing the spectacle. The atmosphere was heavy and oppressive, and a great drum seemed to beat in the distance.

No, that was her own heart.

She felt utterly overwhelmed, wanting to turn and flee immediately, to abandon this wretched coming-of-age ceremony altogether!

Noren — Stress +20

The young woman’s breathing grew heavier and heavier. Just as she believed she was about to break, on the verge of mental collapse, suddenly!

The sky ripped open, and a single beam of sunlight pierced through the parting storm clouds.

The sunbeam painted a circle of light directly before her, patiently awaiting the person standing there to step into its embrace.

Without hesitation, the young woman stepped into the light. If the gods themselves had provided a spotlight, she had no reason to refuse.

With swift, confident strides, the beam of light followed her, her spine gradually straightening, her head held ever higher!

Finally, the light beam stopped before Svein.

The Norsemen were utterly dumbfounded. They had witnessed countless nobles, kings, and dukes; they had seen wealthy merchants transform themselves to ascend to the Roman throne; they had slain fellow Normans, cut down Seljuk cavalry, and quelled military rebellions. Yet, never had they witnessed such a divinely bestowed glory, as if ordained by the gods themselves.

Simultaneously, a single, undeniable truth solidified in the hearts of all present Norsemen—

Noren, daughter of Svein the “Wise,”

Her glory was heaven-ordained!

Noren lowered her head, meeting her father’s gaze, and a palpable strength flowed between their connected eyes.

“By tradition, choose: duel, solitary vigil, beast hunt, or scar!” Svein’s voice boomed like a great bell, and the Norsemen bowed their heads in silent reverence.

Everyone expected her to choose the most familiar option, the beast hunt. To their surprise, Noren instantly drew her sword, held it upright before her chest, and slowly declared, “I choose…”

The crowd leaned forward in eager anticipation.

“Duel!”

The sword’s tip pointed directly at Tolruk. The carpenter, Tolruk, grinned widely; this was exactly what he desired.

‘Let me test you, Noren!’

The crowd encircled the field, leaving a clear ring in the center.

Freya fastened a pre-woven leather lamellar vest onto Noren, letting out a soft sob. “Noren, don’t kill Father.”

Noren squeezed her little face, then turned her gaze towards the carpenter, who was clad in scale armor. Tolruk was helping him tighten the leather straps of his bracers and greaves.

Tolruk the “Berserker,” an East Roman mercenary, earned his name for his ferocity.

Observing the palpable excitement of those around her, Noren noted how years of farming life had done nothing to extinguish their thirst for blood. This spectacle of combat, akin to watching beasts fight, made Noren reflect on the Norsemen’s savagery.

‘No, perhaps it’s a Roman tradition.’

The two stood approximately thirty feet apart, a human wall forming behind each of them.

Noren bounced a few times, warming up.

“Ready, Noren?” Tolruk grinned, revealing a mouthful of yellowed teeth, his blood already boiling with anticipation.

The moment she nodded, a throwing axe whizzed towards her. She quickly bent down and raised her shield to block, but the axe blade pierced through the shield, narrowly missing her forearm.

“Ooh-ooh-ooh!” Seeing her perfectly deflect the sudden attack, the barbarians let out shouts of astonishment.

‘Sneaky old bastard!’ the young woman cursed inwardly.

Dropping her shield, Noren found Tolruk already upon her. His furious, storm-like assault immediately forced her onto the defensive.

“Hey, Dad, they won’t get hurt, will they?” Frey asked, worried.

The blacksmith’s brow, already furrowed, creased even deeper at Frey’s words. “Do you know why I don’t let you go hunting?”

“Ah! Noren threw her shield!” Frey, captivated by the intense battle, casually replied to the blacksmith, “No idea.”

“Because you act like a woman. Warriors duel, yet you worry about them getting hurt.”

“Huh?” This was the first time Frey had heard his blacksmith father evaluate him in such a way. Astonished, he turned to see his father’s eyes fixed on his sister in the center of the arena, not even bothering to offer a glance of disdain during his reprimand. Frey couldn’t quite articulate his current feelings.

Noren was oblivious to her brother’s thoughts and cared nothing for the cheers of the crowd. She felt utterly calm, a tranquility she had never experienced before. Killing those two guards had left her trembling, but now…

She seemed to have grown fond of this sensation—the feeling of dancing on a blade’s edge.

Swords sliced through the air, and sweat flew from Tolruk’s face with every movement.

Noren’s footwork was a rapid rhythm, dodging countless swings and thrusts. ‘So fast! Faster than Father’s movements! But…’

‘I can see it!’

She swiftly sidestepped a direct thrust, then, with a movement that belied its apparent ease, delivered a heavy, decisive sword strike.

‘What!’ Tolruk raised his sword to parry, but the impact instantly bent the blade, sending him off balance and toppling to the ground.

He tried to rise, but a rapid succession of kicks robbed him of any ability to resist. He simply lay on the ground, abandoning all further struggle.

Noren stood before him, the dazzling sunlight making it impossible for him to discern the upper half of the young woman’s face.

“Do you yield?” The victorious lioness roared.

“I yield.” The old lion, prostrate beneath her, acknowledged her majesty.

Noren — Aspiring Swordswoman: +10 EXP (Current EXP: 40)

Waaaaaagh! The Norsemen cheered in unison; this young one had proven herself!

“Sister!” Freya leaped forward, embracing her. Noren twirled them around twice in the air, then gently wiped away the girl’s tears with her thumb. A moment later, Freya remembered her old father.

“Father!” His daughter threw herself onto him with such force that Tolruk felt if he were to be crushed to death like this, he would surely be mocked by the Valkyries. He stumbled to his feet, supporting himself as he and Noren walked together to stand before the blacksmith.

The blacksmith removed his helmet, revealing a faint, contented smile. Though his beard obscured much of it, Noren sensed he was indeed smiling.

Without warning, the blacksmith framed the helmet over her head. The chain links caught in her hair, causing her such pain that she nearly cried out.

“If I die, she will lead you! Now, let us cheer!”

The moment the blacksmith’s words ceased, slaves brought forth the prepared food and drink, indicating their intention for an open-air feast.

The men sat on wooden stumps, laughing heartily and drinking together. When the revelry reached its peak, some Norsemen recited epics, others sang praises of Cnut and Ivar’s great deeds, and some even stripped off their clothes to begin wrestling.

These were some of the rare moments of joy in their latter lives.

Noren sat in a corner, quietly drinking. Though she had lived in the Middle Ages for over a decade, she had always felt she didn’t belong. Yet, in this moment, she found herself deeply moved.

“Noren.” Svein held his drinking horn, clearly intoxicated; anyone would be drunk on spirits with such an excess of fusel alcohol.

“Father.” She replied.

The blacksmith, Svein, sat on the grass, his armor now removed. Yet, his stature seemed less imposing than when clad in mail; the muscles on his arms had withered, his waist had thinned, and his back was stooped.

‘When did he get so old?’

“Why did you hold back?” he asked, gurgling down another cup of ale.

“He had already lost the will to fight, I…” the young woman tried to argue.

“I asked why you held back!” He slammed a fist onto the ground, emitting a low growl. The revelers, singing and dancing, paid no heed to their secluded corner.

“You could have easily dodged that throwing axe, so why did you raise your shield, creating an opening for him? Even when he charged at you, with your strength and speed, he should have been decapitated with a single sword stroke.”

“I am fifty-six years old, and Tolruk is fifty. Even the sharpest sword will eventually rust. If you did not kill him this time, he might sicken and die in his bed tomorrow, never, ever reaching Valhalla.” He was drunk, truly and thoroughly drunk. His usually taciturn father had never been so talkative, and every word was a reprimand.

Noren lowered her head, plucking a strand of golden hair and twirling it around her fingertip.

Round and round.

‘Perhaps she was arrogant, believing the Middle Ages were merely populated by barbarians.’

‘But she truly liked it here; at the very least, it offered freedom, free from suffocating air, free from bodies falling from tall buildings and shattering beside her.’

“I will.” Her firm tone seemed to clear a small amount of the haze from her father’s clouded eyes.

“I will. In the next duel, the next battle, I will give my all, without hesitation, without fear, until one side falls.”

She understood now: society dictates values, and each person seeks their own desires. Life itself is inherently painful, and to obstruct others from pursuing what they seek would only cause them endless torment.

“You truly are different from Frey.” The blacksmith staggered into the midst of the crowd, pulling a few people along to join him in a primal Norse dance.