The Iron Rod and the Enraged Father

Anna settled down in Ostrava Village, making it her permanent home. As there was no castle built yet, Noren still referred to Ostrava as a village, just as before. She figured it wouldn’t be too late to change her terminology once a proper castle was erected.

Noren watched her aunt cling to her father day and night, and a bitter taste settled in her heart.

It wasn’t just the impropriety between her father and aunt; an unsettling feeling gnawed at her.

Perhaps influenced by 21st-century Han culture, Noren viewed the intimacy between her father and aunt as a monstrous flood. She constantly felt it was a ticking time bomb, liable to explode with a sudden ‘boom’ at any moment.

Everyone would be shattered to pieces.

“Hmph, I’m worrying for nothing!” The blonde woman flicked her long spear, rapidly jabbing three times like lightning to sever the falling leaves.

The three oak leaves split into six halves, then drifted down onto a small mound of green foliage.

“Tsk, still not good enough.” Noren’s frustration mounted.

Her spear technique showed no improvement, much like her swordsmanship. She always relied on bullet time and the strength of ‘Hercules’.

Her skill remained stagnant.

Noren kicked the oak trunk again, sending leaves rustling and then falling in clusters.

Her fair, jade-like hand tightened its grip, the thick, hard spear shaft darting forward with lightning speed. The green leaves in the air split in two, yet only a single one impaled itself on the spear tip.

“This is infuriating! I can’t pierce them. I’m done practicing!” Noren huffily tossed aside the great spear.

With a flick of her foot and a slap of her hand, the great spear swayed its tail in the air like a fish, settling smoothly back onto the weapon rack.

Those who knew Noren understood that she usually adored practicing hand-to-hand combat.

As for bladed weapons, she only practiced throwing javelins on her days off. She considered swords, shields, and axes to be external objects, often not at hand, and far less reliable than her own fists and feet.

Yet today, she was uncharacteristically practicing with a long spear.

Not for any other reason, but because she suddenly felt the urgent need for a suitable long-handled weapon.

Ever since witnessing the ‘Giant’ wielding its massive club, her cherished sword suddenly felt inadequate.

While a war sword boasted a long blade, its nearly three-foot edge guaranteed a hit, unlike an axe or hammer which, if distances weren’t perfectly judged, might only strike with the wooden shaft.

But war swords were simply too short!

An inch longer, an inch stronger. This was evident with the giant spruce log the ‘Giant’ had wielded.

Her physique and reflexes were already at the peak of human capability, weren’t they?

Yet, facing the ‘Giant’s’ bizarre ‘spruce’ weapon, she wasn’t entirely helpless, but she had been forced to leap and scramble, appearing quite disheveled.

In the end, she had relied on her skill with a thrown javelin to finish the ‘Giant’.

She wondered if, with a suitable long-handled weapon in her grasp then, she might not have lost in close combat.

And so, she began practicing with the long spear.

Svein had once taught her how to use a spear; Norse warriors excelled with various types of spears. However, Svein’s philosophy was simple.

As long as one could stab quickly, fiercely, and accurately, any fancy moves were useless. On the battlefield, especially within dense formations, there was no room for elaborate techniques.

To train with a long spear meant holding it steadily, striking accurately, knowing the effective range to hit an enemy, and mastering its attack distance. Only then could one be considered proficient.

She had already achieved this step, but she remained unsatisfied.

She yearned to wield it with effortless grace, to impale leaves onto the spear tip. Yet, whenever her speed or power increased, the leaves invariably split in two.

In short, after a full day of training, the results were far from ideal.

“Sis, aren’t you bored, playing with leaves like a child?” Frey had nothing to do today; ever since their aunt arrived, his chores had been taken over.

He was quite idle.

Noren ignored Frey’s jab and turned to walk away.

Frey followed, shamelessly cupping his hands as he asked, “Sis, when will you tell me the stories of the ‘Stone Monkey,’ the ‘Golden Cicada,’ and the ‘God with a Lump on His Head’ again?”

“Get lost!” The girl, in a foul mood, shoved her brother away with a shoulder and elbow.

Frey tumbled to the ground with a soft thud, then dusted himself off and stood up, muttering, “You’ve piqued my interest, and now you won’t tell me? You’re mean!

I really want to know how that ‘Stone Monkey’ managed to lift the iron pillar and use it as his weapon…”

A ‘clang’ sounded in the girl’s mind. She spun around. “What did you just say?”

“Huh?” Frey raised an eyebrow, a hint of surprise on his face. “The ‘Stone Monkey’!”

“No, the part after that!”

“Iron pillar?”

“Aha!” Noren slapped her palm, a sudden realization dawning. “Why didn’t I think of that?”

Joy blossomed on her face, dispelling all her previous vexation.

She clamped her elbow around her brother’s head, vigorously ruffled his golden hair with her left hand, then pinched his cheek and shook it hard.

She exclaimed with delight, “Even my silly brother can come up with good ideas!”

With that, her long legs moved so fast they became a blur. In the blink of an eye, the blonde girl vanished.

Only her bewildered brother remained, standing rooted to the spot.

He belatedly mumbled under his breath, “Will she still tell me stories?”

****

****

The Blacksmith’s Forge

Svein was plunging an iron bar into water to cool it, producing a piercing ‘hiss’. Beside him, Henry, shirtless, his pectoral muscles rippling like two solid rocks, watched on.

“Absolutely not!”

Svein sternly rejected his daughter’s audacious request, drawing frequent glances from Henry, who was assisting in the workshop.

“Please, Father!” His daughter pleaded, her hands clasped above her head. “I’ll pay you!”

“No means no!” The old man remained unmoved, reheating the iron bar and then wielding his blacksmith’s hammer to strike it repeatedly with a resounding ‘clang-clang-clang’.

“At least give me a reason why not! This and that are impossible—am I not allowed to spend my own silver coins?” His daughter was growing annoyed, convinced her father was being utterly unreasonable.

Likewise, Svein believed Noren was indulging in a pipe dream.

He declared, “Do you have any idea how heavy a seven-foot-long iron rod is? Such a thing is utterly impossible to wield in combat!”

“Of course it is!”

“It’s not!”

“It is!”

“It’s not!”

Daughter and father argued incessantly.

Noren believed that with her ‘Hercules’ strength, she could easily lift an iron rod. With her formidable power of 900 pounds, an iron rod would be child’s play.

Svein, however, thought differently. Noren’s mother also possessed immense strength, yet she had never wielded a weapon heavier than 20 pounds. A seven-foot iron rod, weighing 40-50 pounds, might be suitable for training, but for actual combat, it was absolutely out of the question!

Medieval warriors typically used war swords weighing only 1-2 pounds; weapons of 4-5 pounds were already considered heavy. What did she intend to do with a 40 or 50-pound iron rod?

Seeing her father as stubborn as a rock, Noren realized that a direct approach wouldn’t work. She gritted her teeth, a flicker of fierce resolve in her green eyes, as if having made up her mind.

First, she shot a harsh glare at Henry, who was watching the spectacle. “Get out! Don’t stand around here!”

Henry pointed to himself, his expression surprised, but the young lady’s words were not to be ignored. He promptly left.

Once the bothersome person was finally gone, a blush rose to Noren’s cheeks. She cleared her throat, her smile as radiant as a flower, and cooed, “Oh, Fatherrr~ Please, please, please~”

But Svein, it turned out, was impervious to both hard and soft tactics.

His face darkened to an inky black, as if dripping with ink. Veins bulged on his bald forehead, and at some point, he had dropped his blacksmith’s hammer.

His fist, large as a sandbag, clenched tightly. His aged, withered right arm instantly swelled, muscles coiling and flexing.

His eyes fixed on the blonde girl with a malevolent glare, as if she were a sworn enemy.

Alarm bells screamed in Noren’s mind. A palpable sense of danger was brewing right before her, and she knew exactly where it originated—

An enraged old man!

“Whumph~” The sandbag-sized fist swung, a white sonic boom seemingly encircling it. Immense kinetic energy surged forward; a normal person struck by such a brutal blow would surely be gravely injured, if not killed.

‘Damn it, first time I’ve ever acted like a brat and tried to be cute. Didn’t expect it to backfire!’

Noren cursed inwardly, crossing her arms to block the full-force strike with her elbows.

“Thud!” Fist and elbow met, emitting a dull impact.

A sharp pain shot through Noren’s elbow as immense force penetrated to her bones, numbing her arms. It was truly unpleasant.

Svein felt no better. His fist seemed to have struck solid metal, his knuckles throbbing faintly. But how could a single punch possibly quell the raging inferno within him?

He retracted his fist, his toes digging into the ground, and his spine twisting as his body rotated… delivering a devastating Rising Dragon Punch!

Noren had assumed her father would cease after retracting his fist, but to her surprise, an even more vicious blow followed immediately!

She pressed her palms together and down, attempting to clamp down on the uppercut, hoping to restrain the old man’s heavy punch with ‘Hercules” formidable strength.

She blocked it, but the girl had overestimated her own weight.

“Eh?” Her feet found no purchase. The girl’s beautiful eyes fluttered, wide with a hint of confusion.

The commentator slammed the table: “Excellent! Noren has been launched airborne by Svein! What will he do next… Oh my goodness! He’s unleashed a combination of punches while Noren is airborne, absolutely merciless… Dreadful! Our contestant Noren has been sent flying over ten meters away!”

“Don’t let our contestant Svein’s 56 years of age fool you; he covered that ten-meter distance in less than two seconds!”

“Our contestant Noren is currently in a dazed state after her aerial fall. Svein has her pinned to the ground and has delivered another heavy punch to her head!”

“Contestant Noren can only passively defend, clutching her head with both hands!”

The commentator lamented: “It seems the middleweight has no advantage against the heavyweight! Without external intervention, this medieval brawl will conclude with contestant Noren’s defeat!”

“Oh! Look! Officer Anna has arrived! It appears our street brawl can take a momentary halftime break…”

“This is your professional commentator Lan—*static*—welcoming you—*static*—next time…”

Anna rushed over, startling the canary-like commentator perched nearby, and pulled the old man off the girl. She then delivered a resounding slap to Svein’s face!

“Svein! What in the world are you thinking?!” Anna was furious. Her pores tightened with anger, and the hairs on her neck and face bristled, making her look precisely like a mother bear protecting her cub.

Svein was jolted awake by the powerful slap. He looked at his sister Anna, who had appeared so suddenly before him, his mind somewhat bewildered.

He asked, “Anna, what are you doing here?”

Anna put her hands on her hips and tugged her brother’s ear. “Svein, Svein, have you gone senile?”

Or rather, he’d been drained into senility. Nights of revelry had hollowed out many a hero who succumbed to wine and women.

Svein finally noticed his dust-covered daughter on the ground. He reached out to help her up, only for his hand to be sharply slapped away.

“Don’t touch me!” Noren’s hair was disheveled, her face smudged with dirt. The sleeves of her arms were torn, and her fair, white arms were bruised with purple and blue punch marks.

She stumbled to her feet, brushed the dust from her clothes, said nothing, and turned to leave.

‘I’m such a pathetic fool. I swear I’ll never act cutesy again. I shouldn’t have held back and taken those hits like an idiot. I should’ve just punched that sadist to death… Stupid Northerner, stupid Middle Ages…’ the girl thought, her feet never stopping as she strode away.

Svein reached out in the direction his daughter had left, opening his mouth to speak, but after a moment, he curled his fingers back, clenching his fist.

He said indignantly, “I’ve been harmed by wine and women…”

“Starting today, I’ll abstain from…”

“Hmm?” Anna narrowed her eyes.

“Ab-abstain from wine…”