63.
63.
There is a saying: pull the horns off a live ox while it's still hot—strike while the iron is hot.
As someone who was a 200% match for that saying, I had the kind of personality that, once I fixated on something, I had to see it through to the bitter end.
The target currently caught on the radar of my obsession was the religion of this land.
Not ASS, but the Aesir gods and the Vanir gods; the fairies and giants of the Nine Worlds besides; the chief god who sees the future, the chief god's wife who wields magic; the fantastic gods who handle lightning and wield demonic swords; the place that only the most valiant warriors may enter, and so on.
As with any land, most of it was oral tales cobbled together in every corner to suit the teller's taste, and things that grew ever more lurid at the hands of bards who lived off people's interest and attention—until at some point they were recorded or passed down by word of mouth and remained as myth.
Believing in that was the current religion of the North.
Therefore, since there was no guidebook like a Bible, this primitive religion—where the world-view shifted a little every time you crossed a stream, every village had a different favorite, and the power-inflation of the gods also varied depending on the speaker—had to be smashed to pieces and rebuilt anew.
Why?
Why did I have to do such troublesome work?
The answer was simple. Because these people were now my people, and the land these people lived on was now all mine.
I didn't think the gods had sent me into this world bearing some mission. Personally, I believed that I had become Helgi Ragnarsson due to some unknowable cosmic action.
And so I believed I had at least that much right. In any case, rather than kneeling and begging day after day for the permission of gods who didn't so much as cast a shadow, I would cut off the heads of the countless evils and sins committed in this land by borrowing their world and their names.
The gods of the North would be reborn in my hands.
And I would make them grateful to me. For I would breathe into these rough people of the North the virtues of human reason and upright morality.
"..."
...It was with such grandiose intentions that I had come to Uppsala, but the great gathering of northern shamans summoned by the meteor that split the sky had descended into a chaos that defied imagination.
"—Last night I offered nine raven eyeballs to Odin and cast a divination..."
"Fingernails, we must hide all fingernails...! The star that fell a few days ago is surely the wrath of Hel...! When she comes to this world...!"
"What nonsense is that!? When Hel's Great Warrior is with us...!?"
"You are all wrong! The meteor flew from the east and set in the west, which means that soon the armies of gods rising in the east will engulf the west! We must prepare for war! We must hold a blood-sacrifice!"
I had left Björn and Erik in Árós, and together with my mother Asta, who was also the High Priestess of Hel, I had once again visited Uppsala's great hall, where all manner of shouts and incomprehensible incantations were running wild.
'What on earth is this...'
I had indeed received advance warning from Björn, but still, wasn't this a bit much?
The seat of honor where my father had once sat was empty, but the people surrounding it were all draped in animal hides, and the worst of them were even carrying staffs decorated with skulls, obtained from who knows where.
'A druid, a necromancer, and that one... why is he completely naked? Goodness, that one is even drinking blood?'
Only a few days before, I had scoffed at Árpád of the Magyars, mocking terms like military chief and divine army that I had only seen in history books... but it turned out we were not so different, and a feeling of shame tightened in my chest.
The Godi from the Árós and Uppsala area who sat close to the empty throne had, under my rule, largely shed their superstitions, but those who had come from far away still wore their raw, unrefined guises.
'What should I do...?'
Even though my mother and I had arrived in the hall, the Godi were so wrapped up in their own heated debate that they kept chattering, and though the faces of Seutorolpeu and Refil gradually reddened, my mother stepped forward before my subordinates could explode.
[Jeobeok- jeobeok-]
"—O great mountain. Sacred mountain. Please look down upon us... Hmm?"
"—In the name of Tyr and the divine sword he carries... please watch over us..."
The clamorous voices of the Godi, who had been summoning not only the gods but now even mountain spirits, gradually faded, and the moment all gazes shifted from my mother, who was walking with calm steps, to me, everyone who had been sitting hastily rose to greet me.
"Konungr Helgi, the strongest one."
"Helgi Ragnarsson, Great Warrior of Hel."
"The one beloved by all the gods."
The incomprehensible incantations the assembly had been reciting all at once changed into a multitude of titles for me, and when even my subordinates hesitated before the strange fervor that the religious men gave off—so unlike that of other warriors—my mother's low voice rang out.
"All you wise Godi present here, greet your Konungr."
No matter how famous a Godi was in their own region, who could defy the words of the High Priestess, who was said to receive the direct care of the goddess? Those who would have, I had crushed their heads long ago...
I walked among them as they all bowed their heads, briefly brushed off the throne of Uppsala where my father had originally sat, beside my mother, and then seated myself on that comfortable leather chair.
[Seureuk- kkiik-]
A chair made of nothing special, just wood and leather.
The chair, which barely withstood my weight, was an inanimate object without any meaning at all, but at this moment, by my sitting in it, it took on special significance.
The throne where the ruler of all Norsemen sat.
The Godi, having prostrated themselves once more, slowly raised their heads. Refil and Seutorolpeu took their places behind me, and when the hall showed signs of having calmed a little, I opened my mouth.
"O wise ones, you who are called by the gods. Is the reason you have gathered here because of the meteor that streaked across the sky some days ago?"
"It is, Konungr."
The priests answered in unison. Pleased by their orderly response, I then, like a true Norseman, blurted out what I thought without holding back.
"Then I shall tell you the reason. The meteor that split the sky some days ago was not the intention of any god. It was the result of the laws that compose this world we live in and the world beyond the sky. It is a natural principle, just as waves rise on a windy day and seeds sprout when you sow them and give them fertilizer."
"..."
Was my speech a little difficult?
Toward the priests who had fallen silent with blank expressions in an instant, I delivered a somewhat simpler sentence.
"On the night the meteor fell, I wandered through the domain of Goddess Hel in a dream and came to know one truth... which was, 'God is dead.'"
"...?"
"Huh...?"
Of course, I had never dreamed such a thing, and I didn't actually know whether the gods were dead or alive. This was, so to speak, a White Lie. A well-intentioned lie. A lie to reshape the Norse faith to my taste. My taste would be far milder than yours.
"Do you understand what I have said? Since God is already dead, things like human sacrifices and offerings are all in vain."
What I had dropped was a nuclear bomb.
The atmosphere in the hall, swept up in the aftermath, went beyond silence and descended into a sea of shock.
*****
This was shock therapy. Not coaxing or persuasion, but a method of smashing through the obstacle.
"...Uh—"
"...Th—"
Gazing at the priests who had collectively developed a speech impediment, I pressed on without giving them a moment to breathe.
"Setting aside the gods who are already dead, in the end, for all beings born into this world—gods, humans, animals, the water and the wind, even the rocks... there is but one single thing that is fair to us all, and that is death."
To the priests who were now jumping at my every word, at every syllable, I delivered my declaration as if driving nails into a coffin.
"Therefore, only Hel, who rules over death, remains by our side to watch over us. We humans must approach all things beyond death solely through reason and rationality. I mean to say that the absence of the gods must be filled by the intellect of man."
This was Helgi Ragnarsson's version of Ragnarok.
Just like the term Viking, this was an era in which the concept of Ragnarok—the fate of the gods, the final end—did not yet exist.
I resolved to strike down with a single blow the world of these people, who, by the nature of their warrior society, possessed only the simple logic that if one died bravely, one went to Valhalla.
And as if in answer to my resolve, as if begging me to smash their heads open myself.
Countless Godi all leaped up at once. "I cannot believe it—!" "I tell you, I have clearly felt the presence of Odin and Thor—!" "The gods shall be wrathful—!"
Outcries of that sort.
So I decided to vent a little of the pent-up resentment I had always harbored, now that the opportunity had come.
If the gods truly existed, if my awakening in this world had been their mischief, then even as a feeble human, did I not at least possess the right to be angry, the right to rage?
"If my words are false, then let Thor strike down a thousand bolts of lightning upon my head this instant! Let Odin carve out my heart with his spear! Go on!"
[Bam!]
I stomped the ground hard and rose, stretching out both hands as I roared toward the heavens.
My bodily abilities, having shed yet another layer in Rome, now rendered even my voice nigh unto the sound of thunder itself. The clamor within the hall died down in an instant, and only my voice rang out, echoing.
[Come on—! Come on—! Come on— come on— come on...!]
Among the priests, paralyzed with terror, their gazes darting back and forth between my figure and the roof of the longhouse. A stretch of silence passed within that flesh-crawling tension, but fortunately—and most regrettably—
Nothing happened after all.
The wrathful Thor did not hurl down his thunder, nor did the king of the Aesir tribe thrust his spear into me.
Only the echo of my own voice gradually lost its strength and faded away.
Amidst it all, only my subordinates—long since accustomed to my presence and my voice through countless battles—and my mother, her gaze unwavering, remained in their places as if nothing had happened.
Terror, confusion.
Those who had forsaken the sacred duty of a priest, which was to bridge gods and men and tend to the wounded of heart.
Beastlike wretches who pursued only pleasure and desire.
Those who sincerely revered the gods and strove for their love.
Those who were here simply because they had been born orphans on this land and raised under a priest's care.
As priests of every stripe swam within their own whirlpools of emotion.
I lowered my arms, which had been stretched toward the heavens, and gestured to them, heading toward the outside of the longhouse.
"I shall be your lighthouse. I shall be your proof. All of you, follow me outside."
Behind my back as I strode forward with vigor, my mother, my subordinates, and the priests who had yet to regain their senses followed.
Once we emerged from the longhouse, the people of Uppsala, who had already heard my thunderous voice, had gathered and were watching their king with anxious expressions. Soon, they moved in a line, following the footsteps their king led.
Moving with a conviction stronger than ever before, I arrived before an enormous boulder by the shore, a short distance from the city gate.
It was a rock I had always sought out in my childhood, on those rare visits to Uppsala when I came to see my father.
Before that colossal boulder, large enough to fully conceal my bulk and still have room to spare, I stripped off the garments draped upon my body, one by one.
[Swoosh— thud. Swooosh— thud.]
'O gods of Asgard, Helgi Ragnarsson addresses you.
For these people, your people, to take one step further, for your children to break forth from their shells, I must kill you once.
Yet through that single death, you shall instead become greater.
Please, aid this unworthy descendant. O Hel, please, grant me strength.'
For I intended to leap over the red path that the cross and crescent would tread, in your name.
Help me, O gods.
'Hoo—'
It was the season when spring was slowly approaching. The still-chill wind of the northern hemisphere brushed past my bare body.
Even in the fresh climate, I exhaled deeply several times, and soon, fine beads of sweat formed all over my body, awakening the energy within me.
"Let all who have eyes, behold! Let all who have ears, hear! Let all who have mouths, spread the truth of this day! Death alone is the sole truth, and all else beyond it is naught but superstition!
Hel has spoken to me, saying that we humans henceforth must judge and fight solely through our reason...!"
'Sssssip—!'
I steadied my breathing. Then, drawing in one great final breath and spreading it throughout my entire body, I thrust my fist forward with a bellow.
"This is my proof!"
[Whooong—]
Toward the boulder, at least three times the size of my own frame, my fist advanced slowly.
It had started from my waist. In the instant my fist, spinning forward like an auger, met the face of the rock, what flashed through my mind was not the sensation of hard impact but something else—as if countless other hands had layered themselves atop my fist, as if pushing through something soft, like cotton.
[Boom—!]
"..."
"..."
[Swaaash— slap... Swaaash— slap...]
Silence undulated with the gentle sound of the waves.
In the past, partly to test this body's limits and partly to imitate a comic book I had read in my previous life, I had managed to shatter rocks the size of my fist. But breaking a boulder of this magnitude was something even I had never done before.
The only thing I could trust in was this flesh of mine, which had long since transcended common sense.
A baseless belief that, even if my right hand and left hand were shattered in the process, if I struck hundreds... thousands of times, I could at least leave the imprint of my fist upon the stone.
Even if it came to that, it would be a profitable trade, so long as it could change the perception of the people gathered here. For those who remained unchanged even after witnessing the miracle of abundance over all these years, a more visceral miracle would be needed...
I would certainly shatter the notions lodged in their minds, even if I had to trade both my hands for it.
Surely, it had been with such resolve that I had stripped off my tunic, called upon the names of gods I did not normally invoke, and beseeched their aid.
[Crack—]
It was a fleeting moment, yet I had unmistakably felt it—a sensation that transcended the human.
[Craaack—!]
And as I watched the boulder before my eyes begin to split apart, ironically, in my heart—the heart of one who had declared the gods dead—doubt about the absence of the gods began to sprout.