Chapter 1: Chapter 1 - Eirik The Spineless

He woke to teeth-chattering cold and the smell of damp stone and mold.

Where the hell am I? Panic clawed at his throat. One moment, he was standing proud at the Blackridge SpecOps Academy graduation, top of his class and ready to serve the elite counter-terrorism units. The next… this.

Did I get drugged? Kidnapped by one of those northern syndicates we tracked? His SpecOps training kicked in instantly. Assess. Threat level? Environment? Assets? His mind raced, trying to cut through the disorientation that overwhelmed him.

His surroundings screamed a neglected medieval style. The rough stone walls wept condensation. Patches of filthy straw, slick with greenish-black mold, plugged holes in the sagging roof. Weak, grey light seeped through gaps where mortar had crumbled away. Frost painted intricate patterns on the interior walls. This was closer to a crumbling tomb than a proper “shelter.”

He tried to move, yet agony lanced through him. Every breath scraped like sandpaper over his bruised ribs. When did I get these? His limbs felt heavy, weak, utterly unfamiliar. This frail, battered shell felt alien. This isn’t my body. Raw fear washed over him — not his own, but a deep-seated terror embedded in the body itself. Memories, fragmented and painful, flooded his mind…

Eirik.

The name of the body’s previous owner. Eirik Stormcrow. Or maybe just Eirik — he’s a bastard, the non-legitimized third son of Cedric Stormcrow, Baron of Stormkeep. He was born to a captive woman from the Baron’s early battles, a woman who died bringing him into the world. Cedric once provided for him properly as a father — food, shelter, education — then downgraded them all to a bare minimum, after Cedric lost interest entirely in him when Eirik showed only weakness, not the warrior spirit expected of a Stormcrow son.

Weak. The memories confirmed it. A lifetime of cringing submission. Mocked as “half-blood” or the less charitable “mudborn.” Bread crusts flung at his head in the kitchens instead of a hot meal. Sleeping in freezing tower rooms, forgotten and shivering. Noble sons who saw him as a convenient punching bag, their favorite game pushing him down icy stairs. They even bestowed him a title that pretty much defined his existence:

Eirik the Spineless.

Spineless. The SpecOps soldier inside him snarled at the concept. Weakness gets you killed. It gets your team killed. This body’s ingrained terror, the urge to curl up and disappear, warred violently with his own ironclad instincts for survival and dominance. He forced himself to sit up, ignoring the screaming protest from his ribs and the tremors running through his thin frame.

He needed to see. He needed to know the face of this cage. Staggering, he made his way to a tarnished bronze mirror hanging crookedly on the wall. The reflection that stared back was like a starvation victim he’d seen in war-torn regions.

Gaunt cheeks hollowed out. Sunken, dark-ringed eyes that instinctively darted away, too timid to confront even themselves. Shoulders slumped, curled inward as if apologizing for the space he occupied. Ugly bruises mottled his collarbone and neck in sickening shades of violet and yellow. It was the face of relentless defeat, of a soul systematically broken before it ever had a chance to stand tall.

So this is my new situation, he thought grimly, meeting the reflection’s fearful gaze and forcing it to hold his own hardened stare.

Just then, the crude wooden door scraped open with a jarring squeal. Cold air rushed in, carrying flurries of snow and the acrid scent of smoke.

“You’re awake.”

A woman stumbled in, bundled in thick, grimy woolens stained with soot and grease. She carried a wooden tray holding a hunk of stale-looking brown bread and a bowl of grey, lumpy gruel that smelled faintly sour. Marta. The name surfaced from the jumble of Eirik’s inherited memories: Marta is his cook. But strangely, she did not refer to him as ‘lord’ or ‘master’ or displayed any pleasant emotions for seeing him being awake.

Marta dropped the tray onto a rickety table with a clatter, making the gruel slop dangerous close to the rim. This small gesture of kindness should have sparked warmth and gratitude, instead Eirik felt from his body a mixture of suspicion and fear.

“Eat.” She turned to leave, then paused. “Oh, and Lord Garrick wants his dagger back.”

Dagger?

Memory stabbed into his mind. The Baron’s armory. A few days ago, the original Eirik was summoned there to be assigned a weapon “worthy” of him. He met Garrick there, his half-brother, who cornered him and shoved a crude iron blade into his hands. Then Garrick started bellowing, “Thief! Bastard Filth!” as his fists and boots were raining down. The guards watched numbly, or amusedly as Eirik felt agony and then darkness. His ribs were bruised, and a fever followed.

Garrick hadn’t even bothered to retrieve the ‘evidence.’ He’d planted it on him, ensuring a later ‘trial’ — a formalized beating dressed up as justice. And the date… He looked at Marat, who was already half out the door. Seems to be today.

Garrick Stormcrow. Firstborn son. Heir. Utterly eclipsed in every way by his younger brother, Rurik — smarter, stronger, the secondborn son. The constant humiliation had festered inside Garrick, and his one safe, unchallenged outlet was tormenting the ‘Spineless Bastard.’ Eirik was Garrick’s perpetual victim, his stress relief, the one creature in Stormkeep he could dominate without fear or consequence.

Eirik’s gaze snapped to the wall where the dagger hung in its simple sheath. The ‘stolen’ prize. He pulled it free. It was cheap iron, pitted and dull — a tool for gutting fish, skinning rabbits, utterly worthless beyond basic butchery. Chosen deliberately, he realized. This is a symbol of himself.

He exhaled a plume of fog in the frigid air. This is a terrible start. No power. No allies. Not even trustworthy servants. But dwelling on disadvantages was pointless. If no one here gives a damn about him… then it’s time to look elsewhere. He refuses to be Spineless Eirik. If the serial novels he read were right and transmigration into a new world wouldn't resolve for years and decades, then he must inhabit this new reality. He’s not a person to waste time on relishing the past and bemoaning the current situation. Whatever happened is past, and he needs to deal with the NOW with everything he got.

As a modern human, a ruthlessly trained SpecOps, he needed to leverage strength, his kind of strength, to forge something new. A king among worms is better than a coward in a gilded cage. Yes. Maybe even become a King. He did not achieve what he did in the past by setting low expectations.

The door burst open again, crashing against the wall. A blast of icy wind hit him first, stealing his breath. Then he saw the man filling the doorway.

Garrick.

“Look who’s already recovered! My bastard brother!”

Garrick Stormcrow stood there, framed by the doorway, flanked by three hulking guards in Stormcrow livery. He wore thick furs and leather, his face flushed with anticipated cruelty. One guard snickered; the other two stared at Eirik with open contempt, like he was something foul stuck to their boots. Behind them, hovering with a look that wasn’t quite fear but starkly lacked the reverence she should show her supposed master, stood Marta.

Eirik’s chest tightened painfully. A visceral and overwhelming tide of terror ripped through him. Memories cascaded: Garrick’s fist connecting with his jaw, the sickening crunch of ribs breaking, the coppery taste of his own blood filling his mouth. The humiliation of being forced to lick spilled wine off the flagstones while nobles laughed. The body remembered the pain, the helplessness, and it screamed at him to submit and survive.

STOP! He roared the command internally. Panic got soldiers killed. His muscles locked, trembling violently against his will. Control! He dug his ragged fingernails deep into his palms, focusing on the sharp, grounding pain. There’s a saying that the only time a man can be brave is when he’s afraid. And that time is now.

He locked his knees, forcing his spine straight. Breathe.

Garrick swaggered into the shack, the guards filling the cramped space behind him. He went straight for the dagger still clutched in Eirik’s hand, snatching it away with a contemptuous flick. He pointed the crude blade mockingly.

“You’re still holding onto your ‘spoils,’ huh?” Garrick sneered, leaning in with breath reeked of stale ale. “Or are your pants too wet to return it to the armory?”

The guards chuckled. Even Marta’s lips twitched in a suppressed smirk from the doorway.

Garrick flourished the dagger. “Theif. What do you say in your defense?”

Eirik’s body wanted to look down, to mumble, to beg. Look at his boots. Look at the floor. Don’t provoke him. The ingrained habit of nineteen years of survival through submission screamed in Eirik’s bones.

Eirik the SpecOps soldier raised his head. His eyes lifted. Slowly, deliberately, he met Garrick’s gaze. For the first time in Eirik the Spineless’s miserable life, he looked his tormentor directly in the eyes. He saw Garrick’s surprise first — a flicker of confusion in the pale blue irises. Then came the irritation, quickly masked by renewed contempt.

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“I didn’t steal it.” Eirik’ voice was rough from disuse, but clear.

THe effect was instantaneous. The guards’ smirks vanished mid-breath. Marta’s smirk collapsed into slack-jawed disbelief. The draft whistling through the door seemed to pause. Even Garrick was momentarily stunned. Silence.

Eirik the Spineless. Resisting. Defying. Speaking back. It was unthinkable. He never resisted. Ever. Garrick’s face flushed crimson. “What did you just say to me?” he hissed, taking a threatening step closer.

“I. Didn’t. Steal. It.”

Rage flashed across Garrick’s face. Then it morphed into a cruel, twisted smile. He leaned in until his nose was almost touching Eirik’s.

“Since when did our little worm grow a pair of balls? He turned theatrically to his guards, deliberately exposing his back. “Hear that? The mudborn thinks he has a voice!”

The guards chuckled, playing along but clearly unsettled by Eirik’s unprecedented defiance. Garrick turned back, his expression shifting from mockery to pure, venomous fury.

“Do you know I’ll KILL you for what you just—”

Garrick never finished the sentence.

Eirik’s knee drove upwards. His body, weak as it was, obeyed him. Not a wild kick, but a precise strike aimed just below the rib cage. This was one of the first moves he mastered during his SpecOps close-quarters combat drills. The move’s effectiveness wasn’t caused by overwhelming muscle, but by technique, timing, and explosiveness.

THUD.

The impact connected with a sickening force.

“YAAAAAAAAAAAGH—!”

Garrick’s roar was a guttural, animal scream ripped from his very core. He doubled over violently, clutching his stomach. Blood, shockingly bright red against the pale skin, streamed from the corner of his gaping mouth as he gasped for air that wouldn’t come. His diaphragm spasmed, paralyzed.

Looks like I still got it. Eirik’s mind registered coldly, even as he pivoted on the ball of his foot. While Garrick was bent over, blinded by agony and struggling to breathe, Eirik moved behind him.

The chokehold. Another fundamental technique from the Academy. Against a larger, stronger opponent: Control the neck, control the fight.

Before the guards could even process the knee strike, Eirik had one forearm snaked beneath Garrick’s jaw. His other hand clamped over his own wrist, locking it in place. The crook of his elbow pressed mercilessly against the sides of Garrick’s throat, crushing the carotid arteries. Garrick’s frantic clawing at his arms was useless; Eirik used Garrick’s own thrashing weight and momentum against him, tightening the vise.

“Re… Release me! Now!” Garrick choked out, his face already purpling, veins bulging grotesquely at his temples. His boots scraped frantic, useless arcs on the floor. A wet, wheezing gurgle escaped his constricted throat.

The guards stood frozen, mouths agape like fish hauled onto a riverbank. They’d spent years helping Garrick torment this cringing shadow of a man. They’d never seen Eirik move like this. They’d never imagined he could move like this.

Eirik stared over Garrick’s sagging shoulder at the guards. His voice, when it came, was chillingly calm. “One inch.” He adjusted his grip minutely, making Garrick whimper. “One inch further, and your lord heir will die by having his neck snapped. Understand?”

The guards exchanged terrified glances. The truth was undeniable. Their heir was seconds from unconsciousness, possibly death, held hostage by the creature they’d all despised as weak. To rush in and fail would mean floggings, maybe worse. To do nothing… the same. They were frozen in silent, petrified dread.

Eirik eased the pressure just enough. Air rasped into Garrick’s lungs in a desperate, ragged gasp. He coughed violently, spraying flecks of blood and spittle.

“You… wheeze… dung-eating… cough… mongrel whore’s sp—”

Wrong move, brother. Eirik’s forearm crunched upward again, cutting off the slur mid-syllable. Garrick’s eyes bulged, his struggles renewing with frantic, weakening energy.

“Squirm again,” Eirik’s lips almost brushing Garrick’s ear as the latter felt a grotesque intimacy. “and I’ll let your guards explain to father how his firstborn suffocated on his own entitlement.”

Garrick, fury and humiliation overriding terror and oxygen deprivation, bucked harder. “I’ll skin you al—!”

The chokehold snapped tight instantly, silencing the threat. Garrick’s defiance dissolved into wet, animalistic gagging.

“Last. Warning.” Eirik adjusted his hold. He saw Garrick’s eyes, wide with panic and pain.

“Y-You whoreso—son,” Garrick managed to wheeze out, “Rot in… H—”

“Shhhht—”

The soft, silencing sound Eirik made was barely audible, yet it echoed like a thunderclap in the paralyzed silence of the shack.

Then came the CRACK.

A sickening, wet crunch echoed off the stone walls.

Eirik hadn’t snapped his neck. Instead, with brutal efficiency, he yanked a fistful of Garrick’s greasy hair and slammed his brother’s face straight down into the rough, frozen flagstone floor.

“MUH N-NOSE! Hrkk—YOU FUCKING CUNTSPAWN, M—MY NOSSSE!”

Garrick’s shriek was muffled, thick with blood and agony. He writhed on the floor, clutching his face. Blood gushed from his flattened, undoubtedly shattered nose, painting serpentine trials down his chin and onto the stones. He sounded like a wounded animal that was stripped of any veneer of nobility.

The guards went corpse-pale. One actually retched. The sight of their lord heir, his nose a ruin, blood pooling beneath him, beaten senseless by the ‘Spineless Bastard’, was unthinkable. They couldn’t even process Lord Cedric’s wrath. Marta’s face was pure terror. The smirk was long gone. She looked like she’d witnessed a mouse sprout fangs and eviscerate a wolf.

Eirik didn’t hesitate. He snatched the discarded fish-gutting dagger from the floor where Garrick had dropped it. Kneeling, he hauled Garrick’s head back by his blood-slicked hair, ignoring the pained, gurgling screams. He pressed the dull, cold tip of the dagger against Garrick’s left eyelid.

Garrick screamed again, a high-pitch sound of utter panic, “KI-KILL HIM!”

“Anyone moves,” Eirik growled, “He loses an eye.”

The guards remained paralyzed statues. After the knee strike, the chokehold, the face-slam, and now this…? Provoking this… this terrifying thing seemed like instant suicide. They didn’t dare blink.

Eirik leaned close to Garrick’s ear, his breath hot against the bloodied skin.

THUD.

The sound came from the doorway. The old guard, Harkin, Eirik’s sole houseguard — stooped, patched woolens, mismatched boots — had arrived. He’d collided with Garrick’s guards blocking the entrance. He’d been sent on a fool’s errand earlier by Marta — fetching mint from the market — oblivious to the trap.

Now, Harkin froze. His rheumy eyes widened in utter disbelief at the scene before him: Lord Garrick Stormcrow, heir to Stormkeep, knelt on the filthy floor, face full of blood, nose clearly destroyed, held in a brutal lock by Eirik, with a dagger pressed to his eye. It defied all reality.

Eirik didn’t take his eyes off the guards or the dagger tip. Harkin. Poor and loyal in small, desperate ways. He remembered Harkin slipping him bread crusts during the worst winters, an old coat once.

“Perfect timing,” Eirik said, “You’ll witness my brother’s… sincerity.” He addressed Harkin but his glacial stare pinned the guards.

One guard, recovering slightly from the collision with Harkin, leveled his sword at the old man. “Get out, or—”

“Sheathe that steel.” Eirik’s command was quiet, flat, and utterly terrifying. He jabbed the dagger point down Garrick’s cheekbone, drawing a thin line of blood that mingled with the gore from his nose. “Your lord’s life hangs on my mercy—and right now, you’re irritating me.”

The guard froze, sword half-raised, trapped between orders and fear.

Eirik locked eyes with each guard in turn, then he hissed into Garrick’s ears again.

“My dear brother, I offer you two options. Think wisely now.”

Garrick whimpered, trying to shake his head, causing fresh agony.

“Option one: you confess that you framed me with that dagger. Loud and clear.”

“Option two…” Eirik twisted the dagger slightly against the tender skin below Garrick’s eye. “I take your both eyes and leave this hell with your pupils as my lucky charm. Then I let the guards explain that to Father.”

“LIAR!” Garrick screeched, a surge of defiant fury momentarily overriding his terror. “YOU’D NEVER DAR——”

Eirik didn’t hesitate. He pricked the eyelid.

A tiny bead of bright red blood welled up at the very edge of Garrick’s left eyelid. It trembled, then slid down his cheek, stark against the paleness of his skin below the mess of his nose. Garrick’s eye beneath the blade twitched violently. He felt the cold, sharp point. He saw the blood.

The room held its breath. Harkin looked like he might faint. Marta made a small, strangled sound.

HORROR. Pure, unadulterated horror flooded Garrick’s face, washing away the rage. He wasn’t facing the Spineless victim anymore. He was facing a predator who meant every word. Death, he might have risked in a trial. But blindness? Mutilation? The thought was a chasm of pure terror.

“OPTION TWO! I PICK OPTION TWO!” Garrick screamed, the words distorted by blood and panic. “I’LL CONFESS! JUST STOP! STOP!”

Eirik kept the dagger steady, pinning Garrick’s torso with his knee. “Announce it. Now. Loud.”

Garrick sniffled blood and snot. He lifted his head slightly, his one visible eye wide with terror, scanning the shocked faces of his guards, Harkin, Marta. He had no choice. His voice, thick with pain and humiliation, croaked out:

“I… I planted the dagger! Eirik’s innocent!”

The words hung in the frigid air like execution bells. Everyone knew Garrick framed Eirik—it was practically tradition. But hearing him confess? Under duress, yes, but confess nonetheless? It was unprecedented.

“Good brother.” Eirik’s voice was devoid of triumph. He tossed the fish-gutting dagger onto the floor with a clatter while releasing Garrick entirely.

Garrick scrambled backward like a crab, scrambling to his feet, clutching his ruined face. Pure, venomous hatred burned in his eyes through the blood and tears.

“YOU’RE DEAD! DEAD!” he spat while staggering through the doorway, the guards scrambling after him like chastised puppies, their earlier arrogance utterly shattered.

Marta stood rooted to the spot like she’d been transported to a nightmare realm. She looked at Eirik, then at the blood on the floor, then back at Eirik.

Eirik turned his gaze fully on her. The intensity of it made her flinch violently.

“I’m hungry.” His voice was conversational, utterly at odds with the violence that had just occurred. “Bring me meat this time.”

That broke her paralysis. With a strangled gasp, she whirled and fled, vanishing down the corridor without a backward glance.

Eirik’s eyes fell on the bloodstained floor. His ribs ached fiercely now that the adrenaline was fading. The repercussions of what he’d just done — humiliating and severely injuring the Baron’s heir — loomed like an avalanche. Garrick would run straight to Cedric, spinning lies, demanding blood. What would Cedric, the ruthless, strength-worshipping Baron, do?

Doesn’t matter, Eirik thought, a fierce defiance settling in his core. Living like Spineless Eirik was a slow death sentence anyway. He’d rather embrace the danger and pain that came from living by his own will and choices.

Still, he needed to prepare. Garrick’s confession wouldn’t suffice. He’d need proof, leverage, something to counter the inevitable storm Cedric would unleash. His mind raced, cataloging the room…

A sharp ping echoed inside his skull, impossibly clear.

[LOADING SYSTEM…]