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Plundering and battling were the life of a warrior. Then, they die by someone else's hand. That was their fate.
"Ulgaro, watch over me," Inga muttered, gripping his sword tightly. A light glimmered in the depths of his pupils.
'For glory.'
Inga craved fame. Fame great enough to be known across the entire north.
A warrior grew as much as they killed. It was an undeniable fact. No matter how noble one's intentions were, the profession of a warrior was ultimately a profession of killing. They gained just as much strength and power as the amount of blood they drank.
Beneath every famous warrior lay countless fallen warriors. There was no fame without bloodshed.
Clang!
Inga clashed his sword with his shield, making a noise. Urich also crossed his axe and sword and spun them around.
'If I beat him, I take the fame he got from killing Yorcan the Giant.'
Inga's eyes burned with fervor. He grinned, baring his teeth.
Thump!
Urich swung his axe, and Inga raised his shield to block the first strike.
‘That is hefty. He split the grain of my shield.'
Urich was holding an axe, but it felt more like a hammer to Inga. Inga lowered his tingling arm and swung his sword.
The swords clashed with a metallic sound. The two swords stuck together and entered a battle of strength.
'...I’m not going to beat him...
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