Reborn into the Vikings series

CHAPTER 1

A young Viking named Ragnar Lothbrok, barely in his early twenties, stands amid a fierce battle against two towering Latvian warriors. His sword, slick with blood, gleams in the fading light as his bare torso bears fresh scars—sweat mixing with dirt and crimson streaks. The battlefield around him is littered with the dead and dying, their weapons scattered amidst broken shields and spears. Despite the overwhelming odds, Ragnar's agility and mastery of his blade make him a blur of movement, like a wolf among prey.

The first Latvian warrior, a brute with a bloodied axe, staggers from a head wound that drips steadily down his face. His breaths come in ragged gasps, his strength waning. Ragnar sees the opportunity and circles the man, his movements calculated, his sword flicking out to keep the Latvian off balance. The young Viking's blue eyes gleam with determination as he feints left, drawing the warrior into a clumsy swing that misses by a mile.

"Is that all you've got?" Ragnar mutters under his breath, his tone more amused than taunting. He lunges forward with a sudden thrust, his blade driving deep into the man's chest. The Latvian lets out a strangled cry before collapsing onto the blood-soaked earth.

But Ragnar has no time to savor his victory. The second Latvian charges with a roar, swinging his massive axe with enough force to cleave a shield in two. Ragnar pivots, lifting his shield to absorb the blow. The impact reverberates through his arm, but he holds firm, his muscles straining against the force. The axe head becomes lodged in the wood, and with a sharp twist, Ragnar wrenches it free from the Latvian's grasp.

The warrior hesitates, a flicker of panic crossing his face, and then he turns to flee. Ragnar's lips curl into a grim smile. He strides to a fallen Viking, retrieves a spear, and hurls it with deadly precision. The spear whistles through the air, striking the Latvian square in the back. The man stumbles forward, collapsing into the mud with a groan.

Exhaling deeply, Ragnar leans on his sword for a moment, his youthful face betraying his exhaustion. 

Around him, the battlefield lies silent except for the cries of ravens and the distant rustle of trees in the wind. The stench of blood and death fills the air.

—

Nearby, another fight rages on. A towering woman, standing at 6'6", dominates the battlefield. Her long black hair is tied loosely, strands clinging to her sharp, sea-green eyes that glint with intensity. Her muscular frame was barely hidden underneath the leather armor, smeared with blood and dirt.

Hildr's opponent swings a massive war hammer with terrifying force. The ground beneath her feet quakes with every missed blow, but Hildr is unfazed. Her strength allows her to parry each strike with her axe, the vibrations not even registering in her arms. Her opponent snarls in frustration as she sidesteps his next swing, the hammer smashing into the ground.

Hildr ducks under the man's guard and slams her shoulder into his chest, sending him stumbling backward. She slowly approaches him, her axe spinning like a deadly whirlwind.

The Latvian raises his hammer, but it's too late. Hildr's axe cleaves through the shaft, splintering the wood. With a fluid motion, she drives the blunt side of the weapon into his ribs, the crack of bone heard even over the distant cries of ravens.

The man staggers, clutching his side, but Hildr gives him no chance to recover. She steps forward, gripping his face with one hand, effortlessly lifting him off the ground.

Her sea-green eyes lock onto his in silent hesitation before she draws a dagger with her free hand and slashes his throat in one swift motion. The man collapses at her feet, lifeless.

—

You're probably wondering, Who the hell is this person? There's not supposed to be a Hildr in this series.

Well, let me tell you—I wasn't born into this world. Not originally. 

Once, I was Alex. I lived in the late 23rd century, where I worked as a skilled surgeon and indulged in my passion for history. My fascination with the Viking Age led me to binge-watch Vikings, devour historical texts, and even dabble in Norse mythology as a hobby. I knew the stories of Ragnar Lothbrok—his rise to greatness, his triumphs, his betrayals. I admired him as a legend, but I never in my wildest dreams thought I'd end up living in his world.

Then, my life was cut short. A tragic accident. I still remember the chaos—lights flashing, pain spreading, and then nothing.

Until I woke up.

An infant, in a small Viking village. The only child of humble farmers. At first, I thought it was some cruel joke, a hallucination conjured by a dying brain. But no—it was real. And what made it worse, or maybe better, was the realization that I wasn't just in any Viking Age or even universe. I was in the Vikings series. 

However, I quickly understood the gravity of my situation. This was no mere retelling; this was my reality now, and the future was not set in stone.

I was given a second chance—but not as just any child. Alongside the memories of my former life, I retained my photographic memory (hardly perfect, but good enough to give me an edge), and most surprisingly, I kept my sea-green eyes. More than that, I discovered I'd been granted inhuman strength and the ability to summon objects from my previous world.

Now, let me tell you, the first time I summoned toilet paper? I nearly cried. I'd never been more grateful for modern luxuries in my life. Overwhelming? Yes. Lifesaving?

Absolutely. My abilities weren't limitless, and I still don't fully understand their restrictions, but they've given me tools to survive in this brutal world.

Growing up as Hildr, I was raised alongside Ragnar and his older brother, Rollo. The three of us were inseparable, our bond forged through shared hardships and endless adventures. Ragnar, even as a boy, had that spark of greatness—a sharp mind, natural charisma, and a way of inspiring others to follow him. As for Rollo… well, Rollo was simply Rollo: bold, brash, and frustratingly charming in his own way.

I also trained alongside the brothers, my abilities making me a pretty fierce sparring partner. 

By the age of fifteen, I could outlift and outfight every grown man in the village, earning the nickname "The Shield-Breaker." (And yes, that's an actual quote from one of the villagers—not trying to sound boastful, just stating the facts!)

—

I surveyed the aftermath of the battle, the weight of my past life's morals pressed down on me. Blood pooled around my boots, mixing with the churned-up earth. Men and women lay scattered like discarded toys, their lifeless eyes staring at nothing. The low groans of the dying pierced the eerie stillness. It was a sight I'd grown accustomed to—too accustomed to—but it still struck me in quiet, unexpected moments.

'Is this what it means to be a Viking?' I thought bitterly, my eyes scanning the carnage. Then the bitter irony struck me: I was once a doctor, a surgeon who had sworn an oath to save lives, not take them. My hands, once so skilled at mending broken bodies, now wielded an axe to tear them apart.

The weight of the weapon at my side suddenly felt unbearable, as though every life I'd taken pressed down on me at once. My grip faltered, and with a sharp exhale, I let the axe fall from my grasp. The sound of metal hitting the ground rang out, like a judgment passed against me.

I didn't hesitate. I closed my eyes for a fleeting moment, steadying myself, and summoned a small, yet vital object from my past life—a medical kit. 

I rushed to the fallen Vikings, kneeling beside the first body. My fingers, steady despite the chaos around me, moved as I sought the faintest signs of life. My fingers pressed against the cold skin of the first body, searching for the fragile rhythm of a heartbeat.

"Hold on," I murmured, my voice low but resolute, a quiet promise to the warrior beneath my hands. "I'll do everything I can."

Time seemed to blur as I worked, my focus sharp as I moved quickly from one injured figure to the next, there were no bright surgical lights, no advanced equipment—just my skill, a medical kit, and a fierce determination not to let death claim another soul.

—

I walked across the battlefield toward Ragnar, wiping the blood—of both the injured and the fallen enemies—from my hands with a damp cloth.

"What are you staring at, Ragnar?" I asked, my voice calm yet unconsciously authoritative.

Ragnar didn't answer immediately, his piercing blue eyes fixed on something in the distance. When he finally spoke, his voice was quiet, tinged with awe. "A god, perhaps."

I followed his gaze, my brow furrowing as I caught sight of the figure shrouded in shadow. Perched on his broad shoulders were two ravens, their sleek black feathers gleaming like polished onyx. The man moved with grace among the dead, his hand gesturing toward certain fallen warriors. Each time he pointed, shimmering Valkyries materialized, their forms ethereal and otherworldly, gathering the chosen into their glowing arms.

A cold shiver crept up my spine.

Still, I forced a hollow chuckle, shaking my head as if unimpressed. "I see nothing," I lied, my tone casual, dismissive.

But my heart thundered in my chest. Why could I see him too? This was Ragnar's world—he was supposed to be the one marked by the gods.

Ragnar turned to me, disbelief flickering in his youthful face. "You truly don't see him?" he asked, his voice edged with suspicion and wonder.

I hesitated, carefully schooling my expression into one of mild curiosity.

"Perhaps it's only meant for you," I replied, deflecting his question. "A sign… or maybe a warning."

Ragnar's brows knitted together, his gaze sharpening. "A warning of what?"

I met his gaze, my smile fading into something grim and resolute. "That the path to greatness always begins in the shadow of death."

A flicker of understanding kindling in his eyes. Neither of us spoke further.

—

Soon Rollo strode over, his face streaked with blood, his axe resting heavily on his shoulder. He glanced at the unconscious man lying a few feet away, his arm neatly bandaged, and raised an eyebrow.

"It appears you're living up to the name 'Healer,' aren't you?" he remarked, his voice tired but laced with a hint of humor. "Strange, coming from someone who's spilled more blood than she's saved."

I rolled my eyes and waved my hand dismissively. "Someone has to keep our numbers from dwindling to nothing. Can't defend these lands if there's no one left to hold a shield."

Rollo opened his mouth to respond, then paused, the words dying in his throat. Instead, he let out a low chuckle and shrugged, a flicker of understanding crossing his face.

Ragnar, standing nearby, smirked. "Hildr speaks true, brother. We'll have no warriors left to raise their swords come the next harvest."

Rollo let out a short laugh, clapping Ragnar on the shoulder. "Enough words, brother. Come—we'll drink to our victory while the gods still give us strength." He slung an arm around Ragnar's shoulders, steering him toward the rest of the warriors.

I lingered, watching them go, my expression thoughtful. I knew what lay ahead for Ragnar—the trials, the triumphs, the betrayals. 

Despite my knowledge and skills, I never sought glory for myself. My loyalty to Ragnar was unwavering, not just because he'd grown to become my friend, but because I believed in his vision. Even now, I can see the spark of greatness in him. 

I didn't just want him to succeed—I wanted to be there, standing beside him, as he became the legend I always knew he was destined to be.

"Farmboy," I muttered, a smirk curling my lips as I hoisted the unconscious man effortlessly onto my shoulders. My gaze lingered on Ragnar's retreating figure, "Not for much longer."