The Veiled Man
patreon
The Barbarian Awakening - Chapter 4
🕑 Added 2025-03-13 11:13:42 +0000 UTCChapter 4: Coming of Age Ceremony
Toddies and games, huh? Is that what my life has come to?
From my memories, I recalled that people were obsessed with ‘betting’ in these games. Trinkets, food, or even hunting rights. These barbarians didn’t gamble for gold; they gambled for survival. This was how life was here.
And I must leave it all to find my mother.
After agreeing to come, I headed toward my hut. My hut was a crude structure made of thick wooden beams lashed together with vines and covered by woven thatch that let the occasional draft slip through. The floor was packed with dirt, cold and firm beneath my feet, though a few animal skins had been laid out to soften the surface. Small gaps here and there in the walls let slivers of sunlight peek in, and the smell of damp earth and smoke lingered in the air.
I leaned against the wooden frame, staring at the patchwork of gaps that let sunlight peek through.
Here, stripped of distractions, I couldn’t escape the questions. Who was I now? What did I want from this life? The hut didn’t answer, of course. It only stood there, silent and unyielding.
I wanted to leave, but I had no option to do so. In simpler terms…
This was home for now.
****
The stars hung low in the night sky, their light shimmering faintly over the encampment.
Around the communal fire, laughter could be heard, and the sweet, sharp aroma of toddy was passed around in crude clay mugs. The brew was warm, heady, and potent, a drink that could loosen even the stiffest of tongues.
“Thorvyn!” Haldrek bellowed, sliding a mug toward me with a grin. “Stop sittin’ there like some sour old man! Drink up!”
I caught the mug before it tumbled to the ground, the liquid sloshing dangerously close to the rim. I stared at the drink, unsure about its quality. Toddy… came from palm trees, such as coconut palms.
Building my courage, I brought it close to my mouth. The first sip was surprisingly smooth, a mix of fermented fruits and something that burned faintly as it slid down my throat.
“Mhm! Not bad,” I muttered, though my modern palate found the drink a bit too sweet. Still, it wasn’t beer from a can but alcohol.
Haldrek laughed. “Hah not bad, he says! This knock you flat til sunrise, you fool!”
I chuckled in response. The barbarians laughed, and I raised my mug as if to toast their shared mirth. Around me, the group was sprawled in various states of relaxation.
Ragna leaned back against a log, her mug already empty, her eyes darting to a group of men huddled nearby. A few other girls were near her, chatting away as they observed the incident before them.
A game was unfolding before us all.
They were deeply engrossed in the game involving small, hand-carved bone pieces and a circular board scratched into the dirt.
“What’s the game?” I asked, nodding toward the group.
“What?” It was Venir who answered, smirking like a fool. “This guy dumber than rock. You never play before?”
“....”
A few other barbarians laughed at me, but Hakdrek frowned. I didn’t let it bother me. “Kekek… Stop it guys, Thorvyn not like manly games much.” He looked at me with a smug grin. “This is the Bone Caster’s Gamble. Toss the pieces, make a circle, and win the pot. Simple enough for even you, eh?”
I remembered now.
The game was more primitive than poker but had the same spirit.
The players slapped down their wagers, which included shiny trinkets, carved beads, and even strips of dried meat. Each roll of the bone pieces seemed to carry the weight of fate, and cheers or groans erupted depending on how the pieces fell.
“C’mon, Thorvyn,” A barbarian named Jarl urged, nudging me with his elbow. “Afraid to lose your pride? Or just scared of losing to Venir?”
I scoffed. What type of childish taunt is this? Even as I wondered, Venir was laughing at me with his buddies.
My body moved on it's own as I set my mug aside. “Alright, fine,” I said, moving to join the group. “But don’t cry when I win your dinner.”
The barbarians hollered in approval as I crouched next to the game board, the bone pieces warm from the last player’s hand as they were passed to me.
I studied them briefly, trying to make sense of the scratched symbols on their surface. They felt oddly weighty, as if they carried more significance than their crude design suggested.
“Roll ‘em and pray to the gods,” one of the girls said, motioning for me to hurry.
I tossed the pieces, and they clattered against the dirt, spinning and bouncing before coming to rest.
The group leaned in, murmuring as they calculated the outcome. My roll had landed in my favor—barely. A cheer erupted as I raked in a few small trinkets from the pot, including what looked like a polished tooth.
“Beginner’s luck,” Venir said, though the popping veins in his forehead betrayed his rage. I almost wanted to see him try picking a fight.
Venir’s laughter grew more forced with every round. Every win I raked in, every trinket added to my pile, I saw his fingers twitch.
“...Your luck today strong,” he said.
I followed with another roll. Another win.
Venir’s grin twisted into something sharp. “Now you just messing with me.”
“Sour loser,” I laughed at his face. The night wore on, the fire crackling louder as the crowd thinned. The toddy loosened our nerves, and the game continued as I kept winning. It was fun.
For a brief moment, I forgot the absurdity of my situation. About my new goal.
For a brief moment, I felt like I belonged.
But we couldn't have good things, could we? Some stupid bastard had to ruin it.
A furious shout cut through the crowd’s laughter. “This not make no sense!” Venir shouted. “No! You never good at this! You cheat, coward!”
He surged to his feet, knocking aside bone pieces and half-finished mugs of toddy. His eyes blazed with anger as he leveled a finger at me.
“Calm down, Venir…” one of the girls tugged at his arm, but he shoved her aside.
“I never seen you play that good before, and you barely ever played the game!” he spat. “You worthless, white-haired freak! Let see how you fare without bones in your hand.”
He lunged forward, fist raised and ready. The barbarians around us scuttled back, giving the two of us space for the inevitable clash.
Even in a civilized society, people barely tried to stop a fight. Here? It was game for all. Ragna didn't try to stop it either, even as she crossed her arms and frowned at Venir.
A jolt of adrenaline spiked through my veins as my brain processed the situation. The old Trevyn might have flinched. But this me did not hesitate.
My body moved on its own, thanks to years of Earth-bound training merging with Thorvyn’s barbaric strength.
He was called weak by the tribe’s standards, but he was a freak of nature by my human standards. Especially compared to my sick body…
Back on Earth, I had an illness that was practically migraine on steroids. Idiopathic intracranial hypertension, to be exact. It limited me in many ways, including how much strength I could exert before hurting my brain and almost killing me.
I had to leave the military when it got too bad. So I was grateful for Thorvyn’s crazy strength, and I had hundreds of ways to use it better than he ever had.
In ways Venir could never imagine.
Venir swung hard, aiming a wild hook at my jaw. I slid to the side—a classic Lateral Evade from basic CQC—then redirected his momentum with my left arm.
His grunt of surprise filled the night air.
He stumbled but recovered fast. These barbarians didn’t go down easy, even if shock painted his face. With a snarl, he charged again, unleashing a flurry of brutish punches.
I blocked two, feeling the sting rattle up my arms. The man hit like a truck. Still, his technique was amateur at best.
I stepped in close, hooking my right foot behind his ankle. My elbow found his ribs with a sharp crack.
Venir gasped, staggering, and I finished with a swift knee strike to his solar plexus, driving the air from his lungs. “Argh!”
He collapsed to his knees, coughing. The crowd watched in silence—some in awe, some in disapproval. But Venir refused to yield. With a roar, he tried lunging upward for one last hit.
I pivoted, hooking my arm around his neck in a Guillotine Choke.
The movement was smooth—Earth’s MMA training plus this new body’s raw power at its finest show. He flailed, muscles bulging, but it was no use.
A few seconds later, he slumped. Unconscious.
“Whoa, that’s crazy!”
“Holy fuck.”
Ragna laughed. Someone else whispered, “Venir lost?” The tension snapped like a bowstring, and the crowd erupted into hushed murmurs.
“But… but Venir is–”
“He’s Level 21, right?!”
“How did Thorvyn get this strong?!"
Everyone looked at me with wide eyes. A System Notification popped into my vision, crisp and bright.
[You’ve gained experience points!]
[You’ve leveled up!]
[Level 20.]
For a moment, I was scared that he was dead. But it turned out that I could earn experience points through battles too, although not as much.
It was just enough to level up.
[You can now choose a Class.]
My breath caught.
A Class. A real fucking Class.
Thorvyn had dreamed of this day for years. Alright buddy, I’ll make it come true. This was my first real step into becoming something more.
****
The night's events were very refreshing. It felt so good to punch that bastard's face in, and I knew I'd sleep like a baby. So I just returned home instead of checking Class options.
Of course, I raked in my winnings before heading back to my hut.
It was a handful of carved bone pieces, some shiny seashell trinkets, and a small pouch stuffed with dried jerky. The biggest prize was a polished fang—long as my hand and etched with crude runes.
I wasn’t sure if it was decorative or magical, but it looked impressive enough to be worth something.
Cradling them in my arms, I left the makeshift gaming circle, ignoring the sideways glances from the few barbarians still gaping at Venir’s unconscious form. These spoils weren’t exactly gold or paper money, but out here, in this savage world, they were as good as any currency.
The next morning came too quickly. A sharp knock at my hut door jarred me from a restless sleep.
My mouth tasted faintly of toddy, and my head throbbed—not painfully, but enough to remind me of the night’s indulgences.
“Thorvyn!” a voice called from outside. “Get up! The chief’s summoned us!”
I groaned, rubbing the sleep from my eyes. The crude thatch walls let in enough sunlight to make me wince, and my muscles protested as I swung my legs over the side of the straw mattress. The previous night's events blurred in my mind, but the urgency in the voice outside was impossible to ignore.
“Yeah, sure,” I replied, yawning. Day second. If this was a dream, it was taking its damn time to wake up. The ax rested near a bed that was no more than a frame of roughly carved wood, with a mattress of straw stuffed inside an old fur blanket.
The bed was sturdy enough, and last night was refreshing, so it was heavenly to sleep in. Every movement made it creak as if it were on its last legs though. Beside it, a small wooden chest sat at the foot, worn with age and missing a few pieces of its hinges. It looked like it hadn’t been opened in years.
A single shelf mounted on the wall held a few crude clay jars—probably for water and whatever passed for food around here. A few hunting tools were scattered on the floor: a bone knife, an old spear with a chipped tip, and some animal bones likely used for crafting or repairs.
I was fond of luxury, but I accepted my fate when buying that backwater house. But this? This was a lot worse. What the hell is this? I had just woken up, and I felt my morning was ruined.
At least, looking at the loot I gained last night cheered me back up again.
I yawned and picked up the ax, running a finger along the blade. The obsidian edge was sharp, the handle rough and unpolished, but it had a certain crude charm.
“At least, this looks fine. My- Thorvyn's father's weapon, huh…” I said. “I guess Ernest Hemingway was right—there is something beautiful in the simplicity of a weapon; it is stripped of all pretensions, existing purely to fulfill its purpose.”
I smiled to myself at the absurdity of the situation. I was really praising a weapon.
Here I was, a modern man stuck in the body of a barbarian, wielding an oversized stone ax like some caveman. Life sure had a way of throwing curveballs.
It made sense to praise it, though. Back home, I worried about student loans. Here, I have to be worried if my axe was sharp enough to prevent me from becoming dragon takeout.
Still, the ax felt… right in my hands. Maybe that was Thorvyn’s influence, bleeding into me, his respect for his father's last symbol.
I didn’t linger on the thought long. I had more pressing concerns. I knew why I was being called so early in the morning. With the ax over my shoulder, I exited the hut and followed the now-familiar path to the gathering place.
On my way, I found a little kid struggling to carry water, the heavy buckets causing his small frame stumble. It was a cute scene, but his friends were mocking him for it. I shot them a glare. Without thinking, I fashioned a simple yoke from two branches and some vine – a basic tool from Earth farming, but somehow unknown here. His grateful smile was the first genuine connection I'd felt since arriving in this strange world.
By the time I arrived, everyone was already there, standing in surprisingly organized lines.
For a bunch of barbarians, that was very impressive and telling. This meeting was important. They all respected the chief, even the dumbest among them.
In a society where strength ruled, the strongest earned their place at the top, and respect followed. It was the natural rule of this place.
“Thorvyn! Thorvyn! Over here!” Ragna called out, waving me over. I joined her, and she showed me a grin. “How’s your uh, ‘headek’?”
She didn't give me that worried look anymore, and was grinning instead. Last night's beat down seemed to satisfy more people than me.
“It’s called a headache, Ragna. And it’s fine now since it’s been more than a day,” I said with a laugh. At least they care about each other, I thought. Barbarians might be a bunch of muscleheads, but they weren’t heartless. There was a strange camaraderie here, even if they weren’t the brightest.
In truth, I still had a bit of a headache left, but it wasn’t an issue. I felt better now after beating down that bastard, but… mostly because I had a goal in mind.
Leaving this island, and finding Thorvyn's mother. I wanted to do that as soon as possible.
Before Ragna could reply, the atmosphere shifted. “Quiet down,” a dominant voice filled the air, making everyone stiff.
The murmurs died down, and the presence of a battle-hardened beast filled the area. A large woman stepped onto the stone platform with fiery red hair blazing in the morning light. Her expression was as hard as a stone, and scars crisscrossed her skin, marking her as a veteran of countless battles.
Yrsa Valteria, the Chieftain succeeding my father.
The shaman stood behind her, as mysterious as ever, but all eyes were on the chieftain. I had to admit, those were some impressive muscles for a lady; she looked like she could fold me with a hand.
Her jaws clenched, and then something invisible slammed into us.
An oppressive aura exploded from her, pressing down like a physical weight on everyone in the crowd. Everyone slammed down onto the floor involuntarily, falling on their fours. Some even kowtowed. My knees buckled, and I barely caught myself before hitting the ground. The pressure was unbearable—like the weight of the entire sky pressing down on me. Yet, somehow, I managed not to fall to both my knees unlike others.
Ragna fell to both knees beside me, struggling under the pressure. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed others in similar states, faces full of agony. Everyone else had hit the ground, hands and knees shaking as they submitted to the raw power she radiated.
I glanced around. Only a few of us had managed to hold our ground. Ragna was on two knees, and so were a few others. I seemed to be the only one in one knee, at least for a moment. When I turned my head to the side, I saw him—a red-haired brute.
The guy was built like a boulder even when compared to the others, red-haired like his mother, and on one knee like me. Draegan Valteria, most say, was the strongest among the new generation.
The chieftain’s eyes lingered on him, a smirk playing at the corner of her lips. Approval. Of course, she approved of her son’s durability. Then her gaze shifted to me, and for a brief moment, I thought I saw the same glimmer of recognition.
A wild grin split her face. “Thorvyn Valteria,” she said out loud. “Humans in the big continents have a saying. A fruit doesn’t fall far from its tree. You are indeed your father’s son. Good.” Her voice was full of pride and approval.
Somehow, she looked more proud of me than of her son. It couldn’t be because of me since we hadn’t interacted beyond polite exchanges before; it must be because of my father… I wondered how close she was to my father for her to be so proud.
Her words had made the entire place turn their eyes toward me, despite being on their fours. They looked at me in shock for being praised by the Chieftain herself.
Such a thing was rare.
I can guess. That was so intense. I had to stop thinking those things when my body felt like it was getting crushed under her presence. Back on Earth, power was subtle, more political. A sharp suit, a commanding voice, or an over-polished title. Here, it was raw, unfiltered. A primal force that could crush you under its weight. It felt honest.
And it only made me all the more attracted to it.
Comments
The Hand Behind the Veil
Yes 🔥
Tu
Wym by divine cult? Does this take place in same world as other novel farther into the story than the other novel itself?
quippy
"My body moved on its own, thanks to years of Earth-bound training merging with Thorvyn’s barbaric strength. He was called (weak) by the tribe’s standards, but he was a freak of nature by my human standards. Especially compared to my sick body…" just a small correction :)
The Hand Behind the Veil
Nah this one is the same. His mother's race was something nobody knows in both versions
IdolTrust
Trying to remember. The reason for the white was that his mother was a human. I think. I like the changes.
