The Coming-of-Age Ceremony (Part 2)
A hulking barbarian warrior was encircled by a hundred foes.
He stood entirely alone, without even a modest weapon in his grasp. Yet not the faintest trace of fear or hesitation betrayed his stride. As the man took a bold step forward, it was his enemies who flinched and fell back in dismay.
A single warrior, braver than the rest, surged from the ranks with a flashing blade. Effortlessly, the man caught the cold steel in his bare palm, then swung his other hand in a savage arc across the warrior's head. With brutal velocity, the severed skull went sailing into the sky, leaving a geyser of crimson spurting from the ruined neck.
Drenched from head to toe in gore, the giant unleashed a thunderous war cry and plunged into the throng.
Terrified, the surrounding warriors slashed their weapons in reckless frenzy, caring nothing for whether they cut down their own comrades in the chaos. Keen blades carved through the man's flesh, tearing into muscle and sinew, yet none could extinguish his life. If anything, the wounds only seemed to stoke a boundless fury, driving him into a blood-drunk frenzy. Scorning the discarded weapons scattered among the corpses, he pulverized foe after foe with unyielding fists alone.
At last, towering at the center of the battlefield atop a carpet of the slain, his bloodstained silhouette took on an aura that bordered on the divine.
"Heh."
A light chuckle escaped the giant's lips, and he abruptly turned around.
Ivan knew exactly who he was looking at.
A one-man army, the living legend of the frozen north, and the God of War who had shattered human limits to ascend into divinity.
The young Baldr stared straight through Ivan's soul.
"Peeping around like a sly little rat, are we? If you've seen your fill, piss off."
Before Ivan could squeeze out a word in protest, Baldr gave a dismissive wave of his hand—and that was that. Even heroic might proved utterly useless in that strange, ethereal soulscape. In the next breath, Ivan's consciousness snapped back to reality.
"...Ah."
That petty old bastard, seriously. Ivan cursed inwardly as he rubbed his aching temple.
Beside him, Havel asked with a curious tilt of his head, "You've been muttering in your sleep for a while now. Have an entertaining dream?"
"No. A goddamn nightmare."
"...They say the worse a dream is, the better the omen. Still, it's a real shame. If it were up to me, I would've jumped into the ring with you."
Ivan shot Havel a look of utter exasperation. "Like hell you could. You nearly bled out like a stuck pig just a few days ago."
"Haha, fair enough. Either way, fight well. Go knock every last one of them flat on their backs, Ivan."
"Don't worry. I'll make sure to send a few friends to keep you company in the sick bay."
Mulling over whatever hidden meaning that vision might have held, Ivan strode forward and shoved open the doors. Beyond the threshold, a sea of gathered tribal warriors flooded his vision. The rhythmic, orderly thud of their boots sent deep tremors through the frozen earth.
Standing before the assembly, the High Priest desperately averted his eyes from Ivan's gaze as he raised his arms and shrieked to the heavens, "O mighty Baldr, look down upon your servant!"
No sooner had the invocation left his lips than the warriors fanned out, locking into a colossal ring with Ivan at its dead center. Scores of eyes locked onto him, burning with curiosity, animosity, competitive fire, and raw anticipation. Ivan felt neither intimidated nor burdened by the weight of their scrutiny. Instead, he jutted his chin out with proud defiance and flashed a wicked, savage grin.
The Coming-of-Age Ceremony had begun.
A man strode proudly out from the encircling crowd. He was an enormous specimen, standing broad-shouldered and heavy enough to hold his own against Ivan's towering frame of nearly two meters.
"I am Bjorn, son of Blotan."
"Ivan."
Ivan gave him a casual once-over. Judging by the swagger in the man's posture, he was clearly someone used to throwing his weight around the village.
Bjorn sized up Ivan in return, a smirk playing upon his lips. "Do you know? The Coming-of-Age Ceremony has very little to do with fairness. In truth, it depends almost entirely on luck."
"Oh? Isn't skill all that matters?"
Bjorn shook his head with an air of seasoned wisdom. "Skill is important, of course, but what matters far more is the caliber of the adversaries you face. In that sense, your luck is thoroughly rotten."
"Because you're my first opponent?"
"Aye, you catch on quick. In the last ceremony, I fought and triumphed in ten consecutive bouts. You don't stand a chance."
An entertaining clown right out of the gate. Ivan had to summon superhuman self-control just to keep from bursting into laughter, his shoulders quivering under the effort. Mistaking Ivan's desperate restraint for trembling terror, Bjorn puffed out his chest.
"Shaking already, are we? Don't fret over it too much. There's no shame in falling to the strong. I'll yield the first strike to you, so hit me with everything you've got."
"...Really?"
"A master always gives a handicap to an amateur. I won't go back on my word."
"Well, if you insist..."
Careful to rein in his monstrous power, Ivan extended a deliberately sluggish jab.
Watching the slow punch drift toward him, Bjorn sneered in his heart. A pathetic coward who can't even seize an opportunity handed to him on a platter. As if a strike that slow could ever—
Thwack.
The instant Ivan's fist grazed his chin, Bjorn plunged into a deep, uninterrupted slumber.
Shrugging as if he had merely swatted an annoying fly, Ivan called out in a deadpan voice, "Next."
"......?"
A stunned hush swallowed the ring.
In all the long, brutal annals of the northern tribes, a match had likely never ended on such an anticlimactic note.
"...Useless bastard. Just wait until you wake up." An older warrior—presumably Bjorn's father—muttered under his breath as he dragged the limp, unconscious heap across the dirt. In his wake, the next challenger stepped into the clearing.
"I am Ketil, son of Skagi. ...Don't expect things to go as smoothly as they did against that idiot."
"Is that so? You don't look all that different to me."
"How dare you—!"
Evidently finding the retort an unbearable insult, Ketil flushed beet red and threw a wild, heavy haymaker. Ivan didn't even bother looking at the fist, casually tilting his neck to let the strike whistle through empty air.
"See? Not different at all."
Putting just a fraction of his weight behind a front kick into the man's gut, a resounding boom cracked through the air. Ketil launched straight into the sky like a catapulted stone.
"......!!"
Crashing hard against the frozen dirt, Ketil curled into a fetal position, clutching his stomach and groaning in agony.
"Next."
Two bouts, two single blows. A ripple of sheer shock swept across the faces of the onlookers. A single victory might be chalked up to a fluke, but two consecutive one-hit knockouts spoke of cold, inevitable reality. Neither of the challengers had been weak—it was merely that Ivan's overwhelming strength warped everyone's perception of normalcy.
As the unsettled murmuring refused to die down, Ivan chimed in to stoke the flames. "What's the matter? Nobody coming up? Did a gathering of warriors turn into a pen of cowards today?"
The taunt struck a nerve. Almost immediately, another challenger stepped forward. A hardened man with a long, jagged scar running past his eye answered in a gruff, clipped tone.
"Vendil, son of Brunda. Grant me a bout."
The moment the words left his mouth, Vendil dropped low, shooting forward in an explosive low tackle. Facing that monstrous strength head-on was pure suicide, but if he took out his legs from beneath him...
He wrapped his arms around Ivan's thighs, throwing his entire body weight into the takedown. Yet Ivan didn't budge an inch.
"What in the..."
Vendil felt as though he had crashed into an immovable fortress wall. Uprooting an ancient ironwood tree with his bare hands would have been an easier task.
"Hey, old-timer. You're not half bad."
Before the frozen Vendil could react, Ivan hoisted him effortlessly into the air and slammed him spine-first into the dirt. As the billowing cloud of dust settled, it revealed Vendil embedded in the cracked earth, completely unconscious.
"Next."
Though nobody dared voice it aloud, a single certainty rooted itself deeply in every spectator's mind: today, for only the third time in the recorded history of the North, a warrior was about to conquer the full Coming-of-Age Ceremony.
By now, not a soul harbored the delusion that Ivan could be overcome by luck. Instead, the warriors began stepping forward one after another, treating the match not as an impending humiliation, but as an invaluable trial of honor. These were men renowned across the clan for their martial prowess, yet the outcome remained unyielding. They unleashed the techniques they had forged through years of relentless training, saw them dismantled in an instant, and collapsed into the dust.
By the time he flattened his ninety-ninth opponent, Ivan wiped the sweat from his brow, his thoughts churning.
Holding back is way harder than I thought.
Accidentally killing a kinsman here would sour the entire mood and invite unwanted tribal vendettas. Still, thanks to ninety-nine live sparring dummies, he had gotten a decent grasp on calibrating his physical output. It had been a thoroughly productive session.
The sun still hung high, beating down with oppressive warmth. At this point, fatigue and boredom were setting in; he just wanted to wrap things up and head home.
Hurry up and step out already.
Ivan cast a lingering glance toward the Great Chieftain. He would have loved a crack at testing his mettle against the clan's strongest warrior, but Eirik showed no sign of moving. With the prestige of the chieftaincy on the line, the man couldn't easily risk stepping into the ring for a ceremonial bout.
Instead, the man standing beside the chieftain took up the challenge. He was a middle-aged warrior whose bald head gleamed brilliantly beneath the blazing sun.
"I am Vald, son of Thorir. I have a proposal for you, lad. Care to hear it out?"
"Sure, let's hear it."
Vald cleared his throat with practiced poise before continuing. "We all know you are strong. I doubt a single man present would dare question your might. However, lingering doubts must remain regarding your endurance and resilience. ...If you don't mind, why not put it to the test?"
"So what you're saying is... you want to take a free swing at me?"
"Precisely. Of course, if you feel uncomfortable, you are well within your rights to refuse."
Though his tone sounded courteous, Vald looked entirely confident that Ivan's warrior pride would never allow him to turn down the offer.
Look at this guy angling for a free ride.
No wonder he went bald. Ivan glared at the polished scalp for a second before the blinding glare forced him to look away. Still, giving the man his free shot might be the cleanest way to shut up any future naysayers.
"Sounds fine to me. Go ahead and take your best shot."
"Then pardon me."
A sly grin crept onto the bald warrior's face. No matter how monstrous a man's physique might be, the human body possessed critical vulnerabilities that no mortal could condition. Cocking his fist far behind his shoulder, Vald unleashed every ounce of his weight and momentum straight into Ivan's exposed chin.
"......!!"
Pain violently distorted Vald's features. The impact had been so jarring that he felt bones fracturing across his own knuckles. Yet after absorbing a blow like that, there was no way the kid could remain standing—
Except he was.
"Finished?"
Ivan offered a relaxed, leisurely smirk. Compared to the earth-shattering fists of that cursed old god, the strike felt like a gentle breeze. Even so, the audacity of the scheme called for a proper tax. Putting just a hint of personal spite into the swing, Ivan brought his open palm down across the gleaming bald crown.
CLANG!
A sound like a bronze bell tolling echoed across the clearing. Vald's eyes rolled white as he dropped like a felled log, completely dead to the world.
Ivan looked down at the massive, perfectly rounded bump swelling atop the polished scalp.
Looks like a snowman.
And with that final blow, the Coming-of-Age Ceremony drew to its triumphant close.