Tadabaka walked beside me, his armor cnking as we headed toward the tournament grounds. "The test to be Asug’s escort is a survival bout," he expined, his voice steady. "All the wannabes get dumped in a circle—st one breathing wins." I nodded, keeping pace, then asked, "Where’s Yuki?" He grinned, proud as hell. "Watashi no Haha," he said in Japanese, then switched to Norse, "went to the cn hall to cook. She’s a busy woman." We hit the spot—a roaring crowd packed tight around a dirt arena, the air thick with sweat and bloodlust. A shitload of muscle-bound fuckers milled around below, axes and swords gleaming. Fuck, this’ll be a bitch, I thought, but Tada spped my back hard, grinning. "Good luck," he said, shoving me toward the chaos.

  I stepped into the arena, the crowd’s cheers buzzing in my ears, and gnced up at the altar. There she was—Queen Asug, blonde hair straight as a bde, blue eyes sharp, perched on a serpent-shaped chair. I want that throne when I’m king of this shithole, I thought, licking my lips. The Queen she was lean, not fat like I prefer, but her tits were big, straining her dress. Her husband, Ivar, the Snake Cn leader, wasn’t around—just her first escort, Ladgerda. And fuck me, Ladgerda was a GILF wet dream—white hair in braids down her back, red eyes like blood, decked in skimpy Viking warrior gear that showed off her fat, old body. She was 66, heavy with huge tits and a massive ass, all that meat from years of gorging on flesh. She could still fuck me up—or fuck me good, I grinned, my cock twitching at the thought of taking her on.

  Ladgerda’s voice boomed, cutting through the noise. "Let the survival tournament begin! Last man standing becomes Queen Asug’s second escort—start!" The crowd roared, and the sughter kicked off.

  It was a goddamn bloodbath. Men charged, axes swinging, swords sshing—blood sprayed like rain, heads rolling into the dirt. One bastard stood out—a giant fucker, towering over the rest, with one eye patched and a grin like he was jerking off to the carnage. Rollo the One-Eyed, a criminal I’d heard of, smashed through the pack, cracking skulls with a massive club, splitting heads open like melons, brains spttering the ground. He ughed, a sick, guttural sound, and I pegged him—50% chance he’d win this shitshow. Not if I gut him first, I thought, gripping my sword tight.

  I waded in, ducking a wild swing and sshing back, my bde slicing through a guy’s throat—blood gushed, and he dropped gurgling. Another came at me, axe raised; I sidestepped, drove my sword into his gut, and twisted, spilling his guts in a steaming pile. Rollo barreled through, clubbing two fuckers at once, their skulls caving in with a wet crunch. I took down three more—stabbed one in the chest, hacked another’s arm off, and smashed the third’s face with my hilt, teeth flying. Bodies piled up, the dirt slick with blood and piss, the crowd howling like wolves. It came down to me and Rollo, the rest dead or twitching. He charged, roaring, his club swinging for my head. I rolled, the wind of it brushing my hair, and sshed his thigh—blood poured, but he didn’t slow. He swung again, clipping my shoulder, pain exploding as I stumbled, my arm dripping red. I roared back, lunging low, my sword slicing into his knee, cracking bone. He bellowed, staggering, and I rammed my shoulder into his chest, knocking him down. We grappled in the mud, both bleeding bad—his club smashed my ribs, a crack I felt deep, but I drove my dagger from my boot into his side, twisting hard. Blood sprayed my face as he howled, weakening. I didn’t cheat this time—wanted it clean. I yanked the dagger free, straddled him, and raised my sword with both hands, plunging it through his chest. The bde punched through, pinning him to the dirt, his one eye wide as blood bubbled from his mouth. He twitched, then went still, dead. I stood, panting, my body screaming—ribs cracked, shoulder gashed, leg leaking blood—but I’d won. The crowd erupted, chanting "HEEAHAAHAHAH!" as I raised my sword, grinning through the pain. Honorably fucked him up—now I’m in.Blood still dripped from my sword, my ribs screaming and my shoulder leaking red, when Ladgerda strode down from the altar, her white braids swinging, her fat ass and tits bouncing in that skimpy warrior gear. She stopped in front of me, red eyes locked on mine, and stuck out her hand. "You’re my successor," she said, her voice rough as gravel. I grinned, raising my hand and gripping hers hard, squeezing to test her. She didn’t flinch—squeezed back harder, and crack—the bones in my hand snapped like dry twigs, pain shooting up my arm. "Fuck!" I snarled under my breath, yanking my hand back, flexing my crushed fingers. This old bitch is strong as hell—gonna be a bastard to take down in the siege.

  She smirked, like she knew she’d fucked me up, and tilted her head. "What’s your name, boy?" "Skarnulf," I lied, keeping my face steady despite the throbbing in my hand. She nodded, her red eyes glinting. "Tonight, come to the Cn Hall. You’ll be presented to King Ivar." She turned, her fat ass swaying as she walked off, leaving me standing there, bloody, bruised, and now with a busted hand. Step two’s locked—get in tight with the king, then gut this pce from the inside, I thought, grinning through the pain as the crowd kept roaring.