Super Cowards
Vikings. True warriors of the North Sea, crossing cold and brutal waters for an honorable death. Any real man can't help but feel the romance. Looks like I'd been reborn as one of them.
"Jarl! It's a boy!"
"Hahaha! What a thunderous cry—truly Drengr-like!"
Everything felt awkward at first, but when in Rome, do as the Romans do. Born as the firstborn son of the Jarl—tribal chieftain and noble—I trained to become a true Viking.
Was it because I had knowledge of how to train my body effectively? Or because this world had real mystical powers? By twenty, no one in our tribe could beat me.
Crack!!!
"The winner!! Ulfrik!!!"
"Is there anyone else who wants to challenge me?!"
"I'll go!!"
"Come at me!!"
The challenger threw a punch right from the start. But I took it straight to the head, then fired back a counter uppercut. He dropped in one hit, and the crowd roared.
"Hahaha! That's my boy! Fifteen straight wins in this sparring match!"
"Thanks, Father!"
"Drengr—it's like the word was made for you!"
Despite my young age, I earned the title of Drengr: the bravest, most honorable warrior. This gave me the justification to join raids, even as the Jarl's son.
Now it really begins! A Viking life full of glorious battles—!!
"Huff, retreat!!!"
"Ruuun!!"
"Gaaaaah!"
"Huh?"
But life doesn't go according to plan. On my first raid, I witnessed something shocking. These guys who called themselves true warriors? The moment the Empire's army intercepted us, they screamed retreat.
No, they didn't even think to fight—they turned tail and charged back, shrieking like women?!
"This isn't the Vikings I know!!!"
"U-Ulfrik?!"
"The Drengr's gone mad!!"
In a world where Vikings aren't Vikings, what's the point of living long and thin? I grabbed an axe in each hand and charged forward.
Arrows rained down on me like a storm. Time seemed to slow as I batted them all away with my axes. Slipping between the panicking Empire soldiers, I tore through them like a bear crashing into a deer herd.
Seeing my reckless charge must've lit a fire. "Chaaaarge!!!" "Follow the Drengr!!!" "Wooooaaah!!!"
These super-coward Vikings—too good for the name—found their courage. The Empire army, morale shattered, chose retreat.
**********
Thanks to my carry, no casualties in that fight. The raid was a success, leaving the village stripped bare. And with the Empire failing to intercept, we scored heaps of loot.
We should've all been grinning ear to ear. But...
"Um... Ulfrik?"
"A-Are you okay?"
"No. I'm not."
They knew they were pathetic—these bearded uncles stood before me with glum faces. I wanted to beat the lot of them, but duty first. Gritting my teeth, I led the plundering.
Then, an unexpected catch.
"Ulfrik! We nabbed a priest!"
"He looks worth a ransom!"
A fat priest who couldn't run on his own two feet. No, a pig who'd hidden and got caught.
"Release me, you barbarians!!"
"What a squealer."
"You...?"
I ignored him, talking to the raiders instead. Normally, ransoming him to his church would've been efficient.
"But after a raid like that, do we deserve such rewards?! Fetch me a double-headed battle axe—now!"
"Ha!"
The execution happened on the spot. The panicked pig tried flashing his authority to sway me.
"I'm a high priest of the church! Touch me, and God will punish you!"
"Nice repertoire. But don't you go to heaven when you die?"
"W-Well, yes..."
"And if an infidel like me kills you, don't you get some sins forgiven?"
"Huh?"
From another angle, this wasn't execution. It was nobly putting him on a lifeboat from a sinking ship.
"Escape this world first!!!"
"W-Waaaait!!!"
Slash—!!!
Anyone could see it was brutal, but the priest got all his sins forgiven.
************
Plunder done, we returned home. As tribesfolk marveled at the massive haul, I headed straight to Father, expecting cheers—and to claim one right as Jarl's heir.
"You want to train the warriors yourself?"
"Yes, Father!!"
I spilled everything. Suddenly, Father's eyes welled up.
"It's no wonder you're disappointed."
"D-Don't tell me you...?"
"This generation's warriors aren't warriors!!"
Bam!!!
"These young punks don't give a damn about honor—they just want to save their own skins! That's no warrior!"
"I agree!"
"Ahh... my son! You get me!"
"Father!!!"
"Son!!!"
Hug!
Father shared my gripe against these MZ warriors. The elders had generational beef too, so I got what I wanted.
Night fell. A festival celebrated the raid's triumph. Father announced what we'd discussed.
"My son, Ulfrik Ragnarson, will now be the Bearclaw Tribe's training instructor!"
I'd proven my might and honor. No real opposition. Well, except...
"Any complaints? Step up now!!"
"Wooooaaah!!"
I rallied the tribe rationally. As official instructor, they chanted my name, stomping.
Thud thud thud!!
"Ulfrik!! Ulfrik!! Ulfrik!!"
It looked like the Vikings I imagined. But I'd seen the truth—they were just ordinary folk.
So I bellowed my declaration.
"Who wants honorable death with me?! Glory in endless battle?! Mountains of gold and silver?!?"
"Ha!!!"
"Then come to me!!"
The path to true warriorhood is always open!!
*************
The long festival ended, daily life returned. But my speech drew raiders—and tribe men—to the training grounds in droves.
I'd said it in anger, but now... a bit lost. Then a flash: use "that organization" from my past life?
This place buys into superstitions hard.
"Ulfrik! All set!"
"Good. Let's go."
The men eyed me expectantly. This was the turning point.
I claimed a training method to make them all strong.
"R-Really?"
"But compared to Empire knights' techniques..."
"Hmm..."
They doubted, naturally. But add MSG?
"Not curious why I'm so strong?"
"N-No way..."
"A revelation from ancestors?!"
"Right. That dream made me this strong."
True sea soldiers enduring fiery hells of absurdity. I wove Marine tales into myth.
Expected reaction: "You inherit that legend here?!" "Ancestors help us!" "Fate calls!"
Marines and Vikings overlap plenty—and their system crushes this place. Foundation laid, I roared.
"Who volunteers? Scream it!!!"
"Wooooaaah!!"
Bearclaw Tribe's true Marine-spirit training began.
****************
Ragna Bearhandson, Jarl of the Bearclaw Tribe, fully trusted his firstborn, Ulfrik Ragnarson. But the kid was young for such responsibility—plus, it'd been a rash call—so he checked the grounds with elders.
They were stunned.
"You little... Kiyol!!"
"N-Noooo!!"
Ulfrik spoke, and the trainees mobbed one guy. But after exactly ten seconds, they snapped into perfect formation—eerie.
Ulfrik bellowed from the platform.
"Last slogan omitted! Shout it, and it's double reps—got it?!?"
"Yes!!"
"High jumps—ready!"
"Yes!"
"Messed up at ten—now twenty. How many?"
"Twenty!!!"
"That all you've got? Fifty! How many?!?"
"Fiftyyy!!"
All moved as one. Ragna and elders never dreamed this generation had such unity.
Then someone bellowed the last slogan.
Air turned ice-cold. Furious Ulfrik spoke.
"You little... Kiyol!!"
"Gaaaaah!!"
In Ulfrik's ongoing drill training, dropouts woke up. Seeing youths bound for true warriorhood, Ragna and elders teared up in awe.