Nerd In the North: 3-9

3-9: The People’s War

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –

The silence hit Greg like a physical thing, wrapping around his shoulders with all the subtlety of a weighted blanket made of pure awkward. His boots crunched through fresh snow, each step echoing way too loud in the weird funeral-quiet that had swallowed Frostfall whole. The village felt wrong, like someone had taken a perfectly normal settlement and cranked the creepy dial up to eleven.

Well no shit, genius, Greg thought, fighting the urge to roll his eyes at his own observation. What’d you expect after Lord Psycho decided to go full murder-hobo on everyone? A welcome parade?

The stares crawled over his skin like a thousand tiny spiders, villagers lining the path like they were watching some kind of twisted parade. Greg could practically hear their thoughts churning away behind those wide eyes – probably something along the lines of “Holy shit, is that blood?” and “What in the seven hells is that bear thing?” Fair questions, honestly. He wasn’t exactly rocking the wholesome hero look right now, what with the dried blood painting his armor like some kind of demented Jackson Pollock.

Shiro chirped against his chest, completely unbothered by the whole blood-splattered aesthetic Greg had going on. The fluffy little chick just snuggled deeper into his armor, getting comfortable like Greg was some kind of walking heated bird-bed. Must be nice being that chill about everything, Greg mused, absently scratching under the chick’s chin. No existential crises, no awkward social situations, just vibing and occasionally screaming for food.

A woman yanked her kid back as Ash prowled past, his crimson eyes sweeping the crowd like some kind of demonic security system. The bear’s shoulders rolled with each step, muscles rippling under his fur in a way that screamed “I could eat you, but I probably won’t.” Real subtle there, buddy. Way to keep it low-key.

And then there was Guts.

The guy made everyone else look like they’d been hit with a shrink ray, standing head, shoulders, and probably most of his chest above the crowd. His black armor seemed to eat the weak winter light, turning him into a walking shadow that just happened to be carrying enough sword to qualify as a portable siege weapon. The whispers that followed him were a mix of awe and pants-wetting terror, which… yeah, that tracked.

Ladies and gentlemen, Greg thought with a mental snort, I present: the world’s most murderous collection of strays. Featuring one (1) demon bear, one (1) baby bird who gives zero fucks, and the human equivalent of a tank wrapped in black metal. We take our show on the road Tuesdays and Thursdays.

The crowd parted like the sea before Moses as Greg made his way toward the gathering hall, though he suspected that had more to do with Ash’s teeth and Guts’ everything than any particular respect for him. Gwenna stood near the entrance, her face doing this complicated dance between “thank the gods” and “what fresh hell is this?”

Before Greg could even think about what to say, she was rushing toward him, proper lady-like behavior apparently forgotten in favor of not eating snow face-first as she ran. Her skirts were hiked up in her balled fists in a way that would have probably given a nun an aneurysm, but hey, who was he to judge?

“M’lord… you’re alive,” she breathed as she came to a stop in front of him, like she couldn’t quite believe what she was seeing.

Greg managed what he hoped was a reassuring smile instead of the slightly unhinged grin he could feel trying to take over his face. “Still kicking,” he confirmed, adjusting Shiro’s position as the chick decided now was the perfect time to attempt escape. Unlike some people we could mention. Actually, a lot of people we could mention. Like, a concerning number of people, really.

Gwenna’s eyes drifted over to Guts, and Greg watched with a sort of resigned amusement as her expression went from relieved to straight-up starstruck. “And… who is that?” she asked, her voice dropping to something barely above a whisper.

The crowd pressed closer, apparently deciding that potential death-by-bear-or-sword was worth satisfying their curiosity. Greg felt his lips curl into something that was probably closer to a smirk than a smile. You know what? Screw it. If they want a show…

“Alright, gather ’round, people!” Greg called out, his voice carrying across the square with all the subtlety of a foghorn at a funeral. “Listen up!”

Silence fell faster than Greg’s hopes for a hot shower his first night in Westeros. Every single eye locked onto him with an intensity that made his skin itch, but Greg planted his feet and lifted his chin as he let out a low breath. Alright, showtime, let’s give ’em something to really whisper about.

“What happened here?” He swept his arm out, gesturing at the village around them. His voice came out harder than he meant it to, rough with something that felt too much like guilt. “What those Bolton bastards did? That ends now.”

The memory of it hit him like a sucker punch – Ramsay’s twisted grin splitting his face as he ordered his men forward, the wet sounds of steel meeting flesh, Gwenna’s tears as she told him about her father. Greg’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, golden light crackling beneath his skin as his power responded to his rage. My fault. Should’ve been faster, should’ve been stronger, should’ve-

He cut that thought off at the knees, redirecting it into something more useful. When he spoke again, his voice was pure venom, dripping with all the fury he’d been bottling up. “I’m going to make them pay for every single life they took. Every. Single. One.”

Greg’s jaw clenched, his next words a low, vicious promise. “I’m gonna make him pay for it.”

The crowd’s reaction rippled out like waves from a stone dropped in still water – gasps, wide eyes, hands clapped over mouths, What, did they think I was joking about the vengeance thing? That I was just gonna let this slide? That’s… He frowned for a moment. Actually pretty fair, considering most lords around here.

“And how exactly do ye plan on doing that, m’lord?”

The voice cut through the whispers like a hot knife through butter, practical as a punch to the throat. Greg blinked, turning to see a red-headed woman staring at him, her face weathered and plump, mouth pressed into a thin line. That hair, tied back in a severe bun, tickled something in his memory. Where have I…

Wait a second… “Gerda,” he said slowly, tilting his head as recognition clicked into place. “Gwenna’s mom, right?”

“Aye, that I am.” Her accent was thick as molasses in January, each word carved out like she was splitting logs. “Ye should remember, seein’ as I spent the last seven days keepin’ ye alive while ye slept like the dead, m’lord.” The title came out weighted with just enough sass to make him wince.

Seven days. Jesus. The time still felt unreal, a small chunk of his life just… gone. That’s how I remember her. That same face had been above him several times when he woke up. Greg forced a smile, hoping it didn’t look as stiff as it felt. “And for that, I thank you.”

Gerda’s nod could have cracked granite. “Yer welcome.” She crossed her arms, fixing him with a stare that reminded him uncomfortably of his third-grade teacher. “But pretty words don’t win wars, lad. What’s yer actual plan?”

My plan? Oh, you know, the usual. March up to the Dreadfort, kick down the door, punch everyone’s faces in until they stop moving. Maybe get some lunch after. Greg bit back the hysteric giggle trying to crawl up his throat, covering it with what he hoped was a confident smirk. Keep it together, man. You’ve got an audience.

Instead of voicing any of that, he jerked his thumb over his shoulders at his unlikely companions. “These two are my plan.”

The timing couldn’t have been more perfect if he’d planned it. Ash reared up on his hind legs like some nightmare out of a medieval bestiary, standing as tall as Greg’s head. The dracobear tilted his head back, jaws parting to unleash a roar that shook the air. Flames burst out from his maw, a thick cone of searing orange fire that blasted into the grey sky like a signal flare. 

The villagers gasped and stumbled back, some shielding their faces, others gaping in a mix of terror and wonder. Yeah, that’s right. My pet bear breathes fire.

Then Guts decided to get in on the action, because apparently everyone was feeling dramatic today. The massive swordsman’s laugh rumbled out with a sound like boulders grinding together. In one fluid motion that had absolutely no right looking that graceful, he drew that ridiculous sword off his back. God, that thing’s ridiculous. It’s like he ripped it straight out of Final Fantasy.

Then, with a strong thrust of his wrists, Guts brought the sword down, planting it point-first into the frozen earth. The impact sent a shudder through the ground, the thud of it ringing in Greg’s bones. Okay, I take it back. That’s not a sword, that’s a fucking WMD.

Gerda’s face did this weird thing where it tried to cycle through about fifteen different expressions at once, finally settling on something between “holy shit” and “I need a drink.” Her mouth worked soundlessly for a moment before she managed to croak out, “Well… then.”

Seriously? That’s all you’ve got? Greg had to physically bite his tongue to keep from saying something snarky. I just showed you a demon bear breathing fire and a dude who makes the Mountain look like a midget, and the best you can do is “well then”? At least throw me a “saints preserve us” or something.

A flash of movement caught his eye – Gwenna, just like her mom, was still staring up at Guts like he was some kind of black-armored miracle. Her expression was doing complicated things that made Greg’s stomach tingle in ways he absolutely did not want to examine. Oh hell no. Nope. Not dealing with that today.

“Gwenna.” Her name left his mouth sharper than he meant it to, but hey, at least it worked. 

She snapped back to him so fast he worried she’d give herself whiplash, eyes wide and focused like he’d just become the most interesting thing in the universe. Something warm and satisfied unfurled in his chest at that. That’s better.

Acting on pure instinct – because when had that ever steered him wrong? …Don’t answer that. Greg shrugged his bag off his shoulder. His fingers dove inside, searching for… something. He wasn’t sure what exactly, but his gut was screaming that he’d know it when he found it. Come on, where are you, you little… there.

His hand closed around something cool and solid, the metal singing against his palm like it had been waiting for him. When he pulled it out, even Greg had to bite back a whistle of appreciation.

The ring coiled in his palm like a sleeping dragon, literally – wings folded tight against its serpentine body, scales etched with detail so fine it hurt his eyes to look at. The craftsmanship was insane, each tiny ridge and whorl perfect enough to make him wonder if some god of metalwork had gotten bored one day and decided to show off. Ha. Divine craftsmanship. Get it? Because it’s probably actually… never mind.

“Here.” He thrust his hand out toward Gwenna, the metal warming against his skin like it knew what was coming.

She took it carefully, turning it over in her hands with the kind of reverence usually reserved for holy relics. “A ring, m’lord?” The confusion in her voice warred with something that sounded dangerously close to breathless excitement.

Beside her, Gerda’s face went slack with shock, her green eyes practically trying to escape her skull. “M’lord?” The title shot up about three octaves, her gaze ping-ponging between Greg and the ring like she was watching the world’s most confusing tennis match.

Right. Probably should’ve thought this through. Greg’s mind raced, trying to cobble together an explanation that wouldn’t sound completely batshit. The ring had practically jumped into his hand, some deep part of him absolutely certain it needed to go to Gwenna, but try explaining that without sounding like a complete lunatic. “It’s… something of mine,” he managed, the words falling out of his mouth like drunk people from a bar at closing time. “It’ll help you. I think.”

Smooth, Greg. Real smooth. Why not just tell her your video game soul dropped a legendary item in your inventory? He strangled that sarcastic voice in his head, focusing instead on the weird certainty burning in his gut.

“Help me?” Gwenna’s brow furrowed, her eyes searching his face. “How?”

The weight of expectant stares pressed down on him like a physical thing, villagers leaning in to catch his answer. Fantastic question. Love to know that myself. Greg chewed his lip, scrambling for words that wouldn’t send them all running for the hills. “Make you stronger. Smarter. And…” He sucked in a breath, bracing himself. “Give you magic.”

“M-magic?” The word exploded from Gwenna’s mouth like she’d been holding her breath. Her eyes lit up with a desperate kind of hope that made something in Greg’s chest ache. “Like… like you, m’lord?”

Oh boy. Greg’s throat tried to close up on him, guilt and anxiety doing a very unhappy dance in his stomach. Yeah, sure, like me. Because I’m totally not making this up as I go along and definitely know what I’m doing. But he nodded anyway, projecting confidence he absolutely did not feel. Please don’t ask for details. Or an explanation. Or literally anything else.

Gwenna didn’t hesitate – the ring slid onto her finger like it had been made for her, the dragon’s tail actually moving to curl around the base of her finger like an embrace. The metal seemed to pulse once, a heartbeat of power that made Greg’s senses go haywire.

For exactly three seconds, nothing happened.

Then the air… changed.

It started subtle – a whisper of wind that curled around Gwenna like a curious cat, carrying echoes of voices just too faint to make out. The sound sent a shiver down Greg’s spine, his ears picking up fragments of words that didn’t sound like any language he knew. Okay, cool, the magic ring is whispering. That’s totally normal and not creepy as hell.

The whispers grew like a flame catching dry kindling, swirling faster and faster until they formed an invisible tornado with Gwenna at its heart. She went rigid, a gasp tearing from her throat as her eyes blazed with sapphire light bright enough to leave afterimages dancing in Greg’s vision. The air crackled with raw power, making every hair on his body stand at attention.

Holy shit holy shit holy shit, Greg’s thoughts tumbled over themselves as he watched Gwenna’s transformation. Her whole body seemed to realign itself, shoulders squaring and spine straightening like someone had replaced her backbone with steel. It’s actually working. The ring is actually doing the thing. How the hell is it doing the thing?

A burst of pure mana erupted from her outstretched fingers, the energy dancing and sparking through the air like nature’s own firework show. It pulsed twice before dissolving into nothing, leaving behind only the sharp tang of ozone and Greg’s racing thoughts. I did it. I actually fucking did it. I just gave someone magical powers. What even is my life anymore?

“What…” Gwenna’s voice trembled with a mixture of awe and terror as she stared at her hands like they belonged to someone else. “What is this?”

Greg forced his face into what he hoped was a confident smirk, trying to look like this was exactly what he’d expected and not at all like he was internally freaking out. Jesus, that’s way more intense than I thought it’d be. What kind of power did I just hand over? “Like I said,” he managed, somehow keeping his voice steady. “Magic. Figured you could use a power-up.”

Running purely on instinct and whatever video game logic his power operated on, Greg tugged another ring off his finger – the one that had saved his ass more times than he could count before his stats went through the roof. Phantom pain ghosted across his skin as he remembered exactly how many hits this thing had helped him tank. Good times. Well, terrible times, but you know what I mean.

He had to bite back a laugh as he recalled the sound of some Bolton soldier’s short scream when Greg’s fist had crumpled his breastplate like it was made of tin foil. Yeah, don’t really need this anymore, do I? “Here,” he said, pressing the ring into Gwenna’s palm. “This one’s for durability. Trust me, it’s a literal lifesaver.”

She took it with the kind of reverence usually reserved for holy relics, slipping it onto her other hand like she was afraid it might shatter. Greg’s fingers found themselves idly playing with the green ring he still wore, the metal warm against his skin. That one… that one stayed where it was. No idea what you do exactly, but better to keep at least one mysterious magical item in reserve, right?

The crowd pressed closer, breath fogging in the winter air as they waited expectantly. Greg could practically taste their anticipation, everyone holding their breath for another lightshow.

Nothing happened.

A smirk tugged at Greg’s lips as he watched disappointment ripple through the onlookers. What were you expecting, a spontaneous musical number? Maybe some sparklers and a dance routine? Still, something uncomfortable slowly squirmed in his gut as his gaze darted to his backpack. There’s something else… something I’m forgetting… The thought nagged at him like an itch he couldn’t quite reach.

He blinked as he felt the world pull on him, his soul ballooning out as it caught on something else. His attention flicked over to his bag again… huh.

The rising murmur of voices yanked his attention back to Gwenna. The ethereal glow still clung to her like morning mist, subtle but unmistakable. She looked… different.

More.

Like someone had cranked up her saturation settings in reality’s Photoshop.

Gerda stepped forward, her eyes sharp enough to cut glass as she studied her transformed daughter. “Ye sure ye know what ye just did, boy?” Her tone was careful, measured, but Greg could hear something else lurking underneath – a mix of awe and warning that made his spine tingle.

He blinked at her, confusion written across his face in forty-eight point font. “What do you mean?”

The woman’s knowing smirk hit him like a pat on the head from a condescending aunt. “Ye’ll figure it out.”

Great. Greg blinked at her. Fantastic. Love me some cryptic fortune cookie wisdom. Really helps clear things up.

If Gwenna caught any of that exchange, she didn’t show it. Her hands twisted through the air like she was conducting some invisible orchestra, eyes wide with wonder as traces of power flickered around her fingers. “M’lord,” she breathed, her voice carrying a new resonance that made Greg’s hearing buzz. “This is… incredible.“

“Yeah, well.” Greg fought to keep his smirk from turning into a full-blown grin. “Try not to float away on that power high.”

A whisper of steel against leather caught his attention – Guts shifting his stance, one massive hand coming to rest on that ridiculous sword’s hilt. Greg glanced over, half-expecting to see the same slack-jawed amazement painting the big man’s face. Instead, he got one raised eyebrow and an expression that could’ve been carved from granite. Of course. Giant demon bear? Whatever. Magic rings? Seen it. This guy probably yawns at dragon attacks.

“Fuckin’ magic,” Guts rumbled, his voice hitting that sweet spot between ‘avalanche’ and ‘angry thunderstorm.’ “Always comes with strings attached.”

What strings? It’s not like I gave her the One Ring of Ultimate Evil or anything. Even as the thought formed, something else uncomfortable squirmed in Greg’s gut. Although… I guess maybe just  handing out mysterious magical artifacts to teenage girls isn’t exactly responsible hero behavior. But what was I supposed to do, start a ring collection?

He shoved the doubt aside. They had bigger problems than potentially cursed jewelry right now.

“Magic show’s nice and all,” Guts continued, apparently immune to dramatic pauses, “but we’ve got bigger shit to handle. Like those bastards you were so fired up about earlier.” That stare hit Greg like a physical weight, dark eyes boring into him with laser focus. “You said you were gonna make ’em pay. So let’s get to it.”

Greg’s throat went desert-dry. Right. The whole vengeance thing. The reason we’re actually here. He’d gotten so caught up playing magical Santa Claus, he’d nearly forgotten about the murderous psychopaths they had to cut down before they sent a second wave in their direction. Way to prioritize, hero.

“Yeah,” he managed, dragging his eyes away from Gwenna’s impromptu light show. “Yeah, you’re right.”

His gaze drifted to Ash, who sat there radiating smug satisfaction like a cat that just knocked over an expensive vase. Don’t get cocky, you oversized plushie, Greg thought, unable to keep the fondness from creeping in. The fire-breathing trick was cool, but let’s not get ahead of ourselves.

One look at Guts and the swordsman was already moving, reading Greg’s intent like they’d choreographed this. Greg gave a sharp nod, shoulders squaring. Showtime.

The crowd split before them like they were Moses and his backup dancers, whispers following in their wake as they made for the mead hall. Greg could practically taste the speculation in the air. Bet they’re taking bets on what crazy shit I’ll pull next. Joke’s on them – I have no idea either.

Minutes later, safely hidden from prying eyes in the hall’s dim interior, Greg found himself pinned under Guts’ stare again. The intensity hadn’t dialed down one bit, es[ecially after Greg told him what he had planned.

“You sure about this?” The words rumbled out like distant thunder.

The blond’s blue eyes stayed locked on the doorway, watching the crowd still orbiting around Gwenna like moths around a particularly magical flame. “Never been more sure of anything,” he said, the words carrying a weight he hadn’t expected. “The Boltons won’t stop. They’ll keep coming, keep trying to murder their way through anyone who’s ever looked at me twice. Better to end it now, before the body count gets higher.”

Guts made a noise like grinding stones. “And getting the villagers involved? That part of your master plan?”

A smile that felt more like a grimace pulled at Greg’s mouth. “Call it a teaching moment. Can’t just hand out power and expect people to figure it out themselves. Gotta be like one of those life coaches – inspire people to reach their potential or whatever.” He paused, then added, “Plus, you know, the whole ‘strength in numbers’ thing. That too. Gotta lead a horse to water.”

Yeah, great plan. Lead them straight into the meat grinder because you watched one too many shounen anime speeches about the power of friendship. The thought hit like acid in his throat, burning away some of his confidence. Real heroic, Veder. A+ leadership right there.

Guts’ stare felt like a physical weight pressing down on Greg’s shoulders, dark eyes boring into him with an intensity that could’ve melted steel. The swordsman’s hand tightened on his weapon’s hilt, leather creaking under his grip. Then, with deliberate slowness, he unclenched his fingers and formed a fist at his side. “Then lead,” he growled, the words landing somewhere between a dare and an order.

Greg sucked in a lungful of winter air, the cold burning all the way down to his bones. His heart hammered against his ribs like it was trying to break free, each beat a thundering reminder of what was at stake. No take-backs now, hero. Nut up or shut up.

Light lanced through the hall’s doorway as Greg stepped out, pale winter sun turning the world sharp-edged and unforgiving. The crowd’s chatter died faster than his chances of getting into Arcadia, as dozens of eyes locked onto him like targeting systems. Just pretend they’re NPCs in a cutscene, he told himself, trying to ignore the way his stomach twisted. A civil war cutscene in Cloudbrim.

The dryness in his throat could’ve rivaled the Sahara, but Greg forced himself to push it down, swallowing past it. He straightened his spine, lifted his chin, channeled every anime protagonist he’d ever watched as he stood in front of the villagers with the cutest animal in existence sitting in his arms. Behind him, he could feel Guts and Ash like twin pillars of murderous intent, their presence somehow both reassuring. Alright, you’ve got this.

His power thrummed beneath his skin, golden light crackling just beneath the surface as he faced the crowd. When he spoke, his voice carried across the square with a strength he didn’t entirely feel. “Alright, people. Here’s the gameplan.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

Snow drifted down like someone had cranked nature’s particle effects to maximum, coating the ramshackle rooftops in a layer of white that almost made them look pretty. Greg stood in the village square, boots planted in what had probably been pristine snow before dozens of feet had churned it into grey slush. His breath curled up into the air like smoke signals, probably spelling out “S.O.S.” in weather-morse-code or something.

One hour. 

That’s all it took to get here from Frostfall.

The sun hadn’t even bothered to move much, still hiding somewhere behind the clouds as the sky stayed stubbornly grey, as if someone had forgotten to program in different weather patterns.

Guts had matched his stride the whole way, the massive swordsman moving with that weird grace that made absolutely no sense for someone his size carrying easily enough steel for a small army. Seriously, how does he make that work?

The villagers formed a rough circle around them, their faces all wearing that same expression Greg had seen about a thousand times since Thornwell – that “please don’t let us down but also please don’t murder us” look that made his spine tingle uncomfortably. Whispers rippled through the crowd like a game of telephone, carrying fragments of words that his boosted hearing caught despite the wind’s best efforts to drown them out.

“White Blade,” someone murmured, the words barely louder than a breath.

Greg’s lips twitched. White Blade? That’s a new one. The irony wasn’t lost on him – here he was, supposedly the legendary “White Blade,” and his actual sword was currently MIA. Wonder if they’d still be impressed if they knew I lost it like a set of car keys.

Shiro chirped from his perch on Greg’s shoulder, tiny talons digging in just enough to remind Greg that yes, he was still playing taxi service to the world’s most fearless baby bird. The chick seemed completely unbothered by the tension in the air, probably too busy plotting his next meal to care about trivial things like impending violence.

Ash lounged at Greg’s side like some kind of hellish guard dog, red eyes gleaming with an inner fire that had nothing to do with his usual pyrotechnics. He looked almost peaceful, which might have been more convincing if his muzzle wasn’t still decorated with dried blood like some kind of demonic face paint. Note to self: teach dragon bear about personal hygiene.

Behind them, Guts had apparently decided his ridiculous sword made a perfectly good wall to lean against, his dark eyes scanning the crowd with the kind of intensity that made Greg wonder if his own senses were boosted too. The air felt thick enough to cut, like that moment in movies right before everything goes completely sideways.

Greg let out a slow breath, feeling the weight of expectations settle across his shoulders like a cape made of pure responsibility. They’re looking at me like I’m supposed to have all the answers. His mind flashed back to every shounen anime he’d ever watched, every hero speech he’d memorized. Well… fake it till you make it, right?

He straightened up, letting the silence stretch just long enough to make everyone really uncomfortable, then pitched his voice to carry. “I know what you’ve heard.” His eyes swept over the crowd – men with callused hands, women with steel in their spines, kids who looked like they were at least half again as old as they probably actually were. “The songs, the stories. They call me the White Blade. The guy who took down Bolton men with his bare hands. Who turned their camps into bonfires and sent them running for the hills.”

The whispers that followed felt like ripples in a pond, spreading out and bouncing back. Greg waited them out, letting the tension build. Dramatic timing. It’s all about the dramatic timing.

“But this isn’t about me.” His voice hardened, an edge of real anger bleeding through his careful control. “It’s about us. Every village they’ve stolen, every family they’ve ripped apart. It’s about the blood they’ve spilled, the lives they’ve destroyed. And it’s about making damn sure they can’t do it again.”

A woman near the front – built like she arm-wrestled bears for fun – crossed her arms and fixed him with a look that could’ve stripped paint. “What makes ye think ye can stop ’em?” Her voice had that particular roughness that came from years of yelling over winter storms.

Greg met her stare head-on, not even bothering to hide the dangerous smile that crept across his face. “Because,” he said, letting just enough of his power leak through to make his eyes gleam, “I already started.”

The murmurs hit like a wave crashing against rocks, a rising tide of whispers that made Greg’s hearing pick up fragments like “—killed Ramsay—” and “—burned the camps—” and “—actually doing something—”. The weight of their stares pressed down on him like gravity had suddenly doubled, expectation thick enough in the air to choke on. No pressure. Just got an entire village worth of people looking at you like you’re their last hope. Totally normal Tuesday.

His boots crunched in the grey slush as he stepped forward, power humming beneath his skin like a bass line. “This isn’t a solo mission,” he said, voice carrying that edge he’d learned from too many anime speeches. “This is everyone’s fight. We can stop them… together. Make sure what happened at Frostfall never happens again. But I can’t solo the raid, you get me?”

The crowd shifted almost uncomfortably, all of them moving in near-unison like a living thing and less like individual parts, shoulders hunched against the biting wind as they traded looks that spoke volumes. Greg could practically see the status effects changing above their heads – [Uncertain] slowly morphing into [Determined] as his words sank in. They weren’t fully convinced, not yet, but… 

They want to be. They’re desperate to believe someone can actually change things.

More nods appeared in the crowd, faces hardening like steel being tempered. The whispers grew, crystallizing in the frozen air like the start of an ice storm. Ramsay’s name kept coming up – apparently being the guy who’d managed to permadeath the North’s resident rapist murderer had earned him some serious street cred.

“You a lord then?” The voice cut through the whispers like a steel blade, sharp and about as subtle as Guts’ sword. “That why you’re givin’ orders?”

Greg’s vision picked out the speaker instantly – some greybeard near the back with eyes like winter frost and enough facial hair to qualify as a small forest. The question hung in the air like a prompt, freezing everyone in place as they waited for his answer.

Oh joy, this again. Greg fought the urge to roll his eyes so hard they’d probably get stuck. He’d lost count of how many times he’d been asked that, usually batting it away with a quick “nah” and moving on. But this time… this time the denial caught in his throat like a bite of food that went down the wrong hole.

His gaze drifted to his companions – Ash with his glowing demon-eyes and “just ate someone” aesthetic, Shiro doing his best “most dangerous tennis ball” impression on Greg’s shoulder. Not exactly your typical noble entourage.

The frozen air burned in his lungs as he took a deep breath. You’re not a lord, he reminded himself. But did fancy titles even matter out here in the ass-end of nowhere? In a world where the only other people with powers he’d seen were either trying to kill him or… well, Guts, who seemed about as lost as Greg felt half the time. When you could punch through stone walls and shoot fire from your hands, wasn’t that basically the same thing as being nobility?

These people weren’t waiting around for some pompous ass in silk to ride in on a white horse. They needed someone who could actually get shit done, someone to give them a reason to pick up weapons instead of running away.

“Yeah,” Greg said finally, the word falling from his lips like a gauntlet being thrown. “Yeah, I am.”

The challenge in his voice rang out clear as a bell, and for a moment the only sound was the wind’s low whistle. The villagers traded glances ranging from “what the actual fuck” to “yeah, that tracks” faster than Greg could catalogue them all.

He held his ground, meeting their stares with the kind of confidence that came from knowing you could bench press a house if you really needed to. Maybe he didn’t believe the lie himself, but if pretending to be Lord Fancy-Pants got these people to fight back instead of rolling over, then whatever. After all, this was only the first village on their stop today and whatever made this go by quicker, then… Fake it till you make it, right?

Behind him, Guts shifted his stance, the motion somehow making his ridiculous sword look even more threatening. “Not bad,” he rumbled, approval rough in his voice like gravel in a blender.

Greg started to shoot back some smartass comment – but movement at the edge of his vision made the words die in his throat. Someone was sprinting across the square like their ass was on fire, nearly eating shit in the slush about six times before they got close enough for Greg to make out details.

Something glinted on their back – is that a lute? – just as recognition hit him like a critical hit to the face.

Oh no. Oh hell no.

“My lord!” The cry rang out across the square as the figure skidded to a halt, beaming like he’d just won the medieval lottery. “It is I, your loyal Oren!”

Greg’s head dropped forward as he pinched the bridge of his nose, a groan escaping him that probably registered on the Richter scale. “For fuck’s sake, not again.”

– o – o – o – o – o – o – o –​

10k Words (100 GP)

Roll: Turbo Healing Potion [Overlord] (50) – “A blood red potion in a masterfully crafted glass vial. When used it banishes physical fatigue and restores half of your health instantly. Removes burns, scars, and can regenerate lost hands or feet. It also removes physical fatigue. This vial replenishes once per week.”

Grimoire Points: 600