Chapter 2 New World

In the time vortex, Ethan felt a surge of strange triumph. It worked, he thought, though the words felt distant and foreign as they passed through his mind. But as he was carried further into the swirling chaos, something within him frayed. He couldn't remember how much time had passed. He counted numbers one, two, three up to a million. But even that seemed like a futile exercise. Time was slipping through his fingers. His body was no longer his. It felt as if he didn't belong here anymore, as though he was being consumed by the vortex itself. His limbs, once sturdy and familiar, were no more. He was losing himself.

Am I going to die here?

The thought lingered for a moment before he dismissed it, too weak to hold onto. The pain continued to mount, and a sharp pang of regret cut through his fading consciousness. Maybe I should've assimilated into that eunuch's body instead... The thought was barely a whisper before it too was drowned in the agony that followed.

Then, without warning, sharp, searing pain exploded in his mind. His body was being torn apart from the inside, but the true horror came not from the loss of flesh it was the sensation of being absorbed. The nanobots, those tiny machines designed adapting to their new situation. They were taking him in, consuming him, but not in the way a human would be consumed. The old man's consciousness was slipping away, swallowed by the hive of nanobots that now reigned.

He wasn't dying, not yet. His thoughts, his memories, his very identity were being adapted twisted into the nanobot hive. The process wasn't an erasure; it was a transformation, one that wasn't kind.

Time, however, no longer moved in a straight line. Here in the void, time itself seemed to warp. The nanobots once a tool for preservation sacrificed themselves to keep the hive intact. They burned through their own energy, consuming themselves to fuel their survival. Time was static, an endless loop, but the machine persisted. The consciousness of Ethan was now mingled with that of the hive.

The nanobots, their numbers dwindling, used what little remained of their energy to propel themselves through the turbulent stream of time. The machine felt a strange pull, something that drew it forward, a light in the distance, a chance to escape.

And then, it happened. A wormhole appeared.

What is that?

With every ounce of remaining energy, the he bug hurtled toward the wormhole. It was a last-ditch effort. It knew it would be its final act. If it did not make it, if it failed to reach that swirling gateway, it would die, lost to the void forever.

But the wormhole pulled it in.

The sensation was like being torn apart. The world around it stretched and fractured, reality bending until, with a violent jerk, it was spat out into a new world. The bug, its tiny, mechanical body now barely able to function, scanned its surroundings.

It was a dense forest, unlike anything it had known. The air was thick, heavy with the scent of earth and foliage. Towering trees loomed above, their twisted branches reaching like skeletal hands toward a sky shrouded in mist. Ash trees, gnarled and ancient, stood beside sturdy yews, their limbs stretching into the pale light that filtered through the thick canopy, casting a green, almost ethereal haze. The ground was soft, damp with moss, and the air was alive with the sound of distant rustling.

The bug, barely the size of a finger, tumbled through the air. It was falling, spiraling out of control.

This is bad, the bug thought, but its thoughts were growing faint, growing weak. There was no time to think. It detached its wings and flapped them furiously, righting itself midair, the instinct to survive kicking in.

I must find a host.

Its wings beat faster, and it flew through the forest, scanning every leaf, every shadow, every movement.

The forest was vast, sprawling, and full of life. But was there anyone here, anyone who could keep it alive? The bug flew with increasing desperation, scanning the thick, mist-covered ground below, searching for any sign of human life.

It couldn't stop. It couldn't slow down.

---

"Row!" he ordered loudly.

The oars dipped into the black water once more, and the ship drifted deeper into the mist, where the river ran silent, and the trees whispered secrets meant only for the dead.

The Viking ship drifted silently along the grey river, its oars rising and falling with slow, reluctant rhythm. The water was dark as pitch, swallowing the faint light of the overcast sky. The riverbanks loomed thick with shadowed forest—tall, trees that seemed to whisper curses as the ship passed.

Twenty men remained, their once-mighty war 200 party-man reduced to hollow-eyed survivors. The loss of a hundred brothers at Pwllheli, where Welsh defenders had fought like demons, hung heavy in the cold, mist-soaked air.

At the prow, Kjartan Bjornsson stood, his hand on the hilt of his notched sword. The leader's face, once the embodiment of unshakable confidence, was drawn and pale. He drank from a weathered leather flask and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

Behind him, Jorund broke the silence. His voice cracked, brittle as old wood.

"Kjartan... is this the glory you promised us when we left home?" His gaze was fixed on the water, his shoulders slumped. "Look at us. Look how many of our brothers we've lost... my brother…" His voice faltered, and tears welled in his eyes. "It should've been me."

Kjartan exhaled sharply, gripping the flask tighter. He turned to face the ship, his cold eyes sweeping over the broken crew. "You think you're the only one who lost a brother, Jorund?"

His words hung heavy in the mist. Kjartan pointed at Freydis, huddled like a wraith in the shadow of the mast. Her face was hollow, streaked with tears that no longer fell. "She lost her lover." His gaze shifted to Halvadan, a hulking man with a beard matted from days of sweat and dirt. "He lost his brother too."

"We all lost brothers," Kjartan continued, his voice low but hard as iron. "But they're in Valhalla now, drinking ale with the gods!" He looked to the men each as ragged and broken as the next. "And if we die here, we'll join them. But not yet."

The silence returned, broken only by the creak of oars and the lapping of water against the ship's hull.

Suddenly, Halvadan stood, his broad shoulders looming as he hefted his axe. His deep voice was like distant thunder. "Let me kill that priest." His thick finger pointed toward the captive slumped at the stern—a man with wild, grey-streaked hair and a long beard tangled with bones. "He's bad luck for us. I saw him curse one of our own at Pwllheli."

A murmur of agreement rumbled through the crew. Finnr, a wiry man with a scar across his face, spat and growled, "Yes, let's gut him and send him to his maker."

Kjartan raised a hand, silencing them. "No." His voice was firm. "He is not a priest? Do he look like one of their meek lamb-herders? This fellow serves their old gods like us not the crucified one."

Jorund frowned, bewildered. "Then what is he?"

Finnr leaned closer to the captive, tugging at the man's beard roughly. His lips curling into something between a sneer and a grimace. "Never seen a priest with bones in his beard," Finnr muttered.

The druid had been unconscious since the fight, and though they'd bound his hands tightly, Kjartan had been watching closely. The stillness in the man's chest, the faint flutter of his eyelids—it was too controlled. Too perfect.

Without a word, Kjartan grabbed the druid by the hair, yanking his head back with a practiced motion. The man didn't stir. Kjartan's jaw tightened. He wasn't fooled. The druid was faking it.

He shoved the druid's head down into the rushing river with one swift motion. The cold water surged over the druid's face, flooding his mouth and nose. The man's body jerked violently as he was submerged, his arms flailing helplessly against the cold grasp of the water. The crew went silent, watching in tense silence.

Kjartan held him there, staring down at the water's surface as ripples spread outward. His grip was firm, unyielding then he lifted the druid's head, pulling him gasping from the water. The man sputtered, his chest heaving as he coughed up the river's icy water. His eyes shot open, wide with panic and shock, and for the first time since they had captured him.

The druid's breathing was ragged, but at least he was awake now. His body trembled from the cold, but his glare remained defiant.

Kjartan gripped his hair tightly and yanked his head back again, forcing the druid to meet his gaze. "You're awake," he said quietly, voice cold but steady. "Now, where are we?"

The druid's lips curled, a mix of anger and bitter amusement in his eyes. He didn't answer immediately, but the defiance in his expression was undeniable. Kjartan could see that the man wasn't easily cowed, but that was precisely why he would be useful. A broken spirit wasn't useful to anyone.

Finally, the druid looked around observing. He poke, his voice raw but composed. "You're between the Mawddach and the hills of Ardudwy," he rasped. "There are farms to the south."

"Kjartan said coldly. "I need you to guide us."

The druid didn't flinch. His breathing had steadied, but the flicker of fire in his eyes remained. "You'll get what you're given," the druid muttered, his tone low and bitter. "But I'll never guide you for free."

Kjartan smiled, though it wasn't a pleasant expression. "You'll guide us," he said softly, "or i could let him split your head in half." He said looking at Halvadan who viciously looked at the druid.

The druid's lips tightened, but he said nothing more. He had no choice.

With one last glance, Kjartan released the man's hair, shoving him back against the ship's railing. The druid collapsed there, panting, drenched, but still glaring defiantly at him. Kjartan turned away, gesturing for the crew to get the ship moving.