Oleksandr watches from his crouched position, his breath slow and steady as the man returns with a procession of five slaves in tow. The men are massive, towering figures with broad shoulders and thick muscles, clearly built for labor and combat. They have the hardened, weathered look of men who’ve seen war, who’ve fought for their lives and survived. Their expressions are a mix of fear and hostility as they shuffle into the ring, their eyes darting between Oleksandr and the chieftain, uncertain of what fate awaits them here. The slaves’ glances flicker toward Oleksandr, and he can see it—fear, but also resentment. They’re not just prisoners or laborers; they’re fighters, soldiers, likely taken during battle from an enemy tribe. Their broad frames and powerful arms tell him as much.
Oleksandr stands tall, his massive frame imposing and his scarred chest bare, glistening with sweat despite the biting cold that surrounds him. The chill of the northern air doesn’t dare touch him—he’s become a furnace of violence and intensity, unyielding to the harsh winds. His blonde eyelashes and mustache are frosted, lending him an almost mythical look, like a war god risen from ancient tales. His steely blue eyes cut through the fog as he surveys the group before him, the men eyeing him warily.
“Too easy,” Oleksandr declares. His hands flex, fingers itching for the fight, the old battle lust rising in his chest like a surge of fire. He’s been through worse—much worse. This isn’t about skill anymore. This is about dominance. Power. A raw display of his status as an apex force, forged in blood and ice.
Oddvarr leans forward slightly, his grin predatory. His men exchange uneasy glances, the tension in the air palpable. Then, the chieftain lifts a hand, gesturing with a flick of his wrist. “Give ’em arms, then,” he concedes, his voice a rumbling command.
The crowd stirs, a murmur of surprise rippling through the gathered onlookers. Axes, swords, and spears are handed out to the slaves, their expressions shifting from wary confusion to grim determination. For a brief moment, the tension deepens, thick as the icy air, as the slaves test the weight of their weapons and glance at one another, readying themselves.
Oleksandr’s lips twitch into a faint smirk as he watches, his broad shoulders rolling in preparation. “Now that's more like it,” he murmurs, his frosted breath curling like smoke. The ring transforms into a crucible, with the men of Oddvarr’s tribe leaning in, waiting to see if the golden giant could stand against not just one, but an armed tide.
Oleksandr's eyes scan the ring, and his gaze catches a glint of something half-buried in the disturbed ice. His large, calloused hand sweeps through the snow and ice, fingers closing around the jagged edges of an old jawbone. He lifts it, examining the relic—a donkey’s jawbone, worn and cracked, but sturdy enough to be used as a weapon. A faint grin touches his lips as the memory of an old story stirs within him, the tale of Samson echoing in his mind. The idea of using this humble bone to bring down his enemies amuses him. He raises it above his head, testing its weight, feeling the cold bite of the air against his skin. He spins the bone in his hand like a seasoned warrior preparing a favored weapon.
The men circle him, their faces hard, their muscles tensed. Each one grips a sword or axe, their postures displaying grim resolve. The tension thickens, a storm cloud ready to burst. Oleksandr straightens, the jawbone held firmly in both hands like a war club, a primitive tool in his grasp. His heart pounds in his chest, a steady rhythm of blood and battle. He grins, the madness of the fight sweeping over him, the fire of a gladiator’s blood stirring in his veins.
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The slaves close in around him, all five of them ready to strike. Oleksandr’s stance is wide, legs set firmly apart, jaw tight. They hesitate for only a moment, perhaps sizing up the strange weapon he holds, before they move in unison—three charging from the front, two circling to his sides. The air crackles with the intensity of the moment, the surrounding crowd murmuring, the tension nearly palpable.
The first man lunges, his axe raised high, aiming for Oleksandr’s head. With a swift, practiced movement, Oleksandr swings the jawbone with the strength of a bear. It cracks against the man’s side with a sickening crunch, sending him flying sideways, the axe spinning from his grip. The slave howls in pain, clutching his ribs as he collapses, a trail of blood already staining the snow.
The second and third men close in from either side, desperate to trap him. Oleksandr twirls the jawbone, a vicious arc, smashing it across the face of the second man, sending his hat flying. His face shatters under the impact, the jawbone embedding deep into his skull with a snap. The man drops like a sack of meat, dead before he even hits the ground. The third, seeing the brutal fate of his comrades, hesitates for a moment, giving Oleksandr just enough time to strike again. With a fluid motion, Oleksandr steps forward, bringing the bone down like a hammer on the man’s shoulder. The sound of bone splintering echoes across the ring as the man screams, his arm broken at the joint, his weapon dropping from his limp hand.
The remaining two men, now visibly shaken but still determined to prove themselves, charge from both sides. One swings his spear, aiming for Oleksandr’s torso, while the other wields an axe with surprising precision. Oleksandr’s eyes narrow, and with a swift, calculated movement, he sidesteps the spear’s thrust, spinning and bringing the jawbone down hard on the attacking man’s head. The impact is brutal, and the man crumples, unconscious.
The last man, desperate, swings his axe wide, aiming for Oleksandr’s legs. Oleksandr hops back just in time, narrowly avoiding the blow. With a savage roar, he charges forward, the bone raised high, and with a bone-crushing thud, the jawbone connects with the man’s temple. He staggers, dazed, and Oleksandr follows through with another blow to the man’s ribs, knocking him down and out.
Oleksandr stands in the center of the ring, breathing heavily. Around him, the five men lie sprawled across the snow—one dead, the others incapacitated. His grip tightens on the jawbone, and he glances up at Oddvarr, a savage grin splitting his face. “Is that enough for you, Chieftain?” He calls, pointing the blood-dripping jawbone at him. Oddvarr stands in silence for a moment, eyes wide with admiration. He slowly claps his hands together, the sound reverberating through the ring. The rest of his men follow suit, albeit reluctantly, their expressions a mix of grudging respect and awe. Oddvarr’s voice rings out, deep and gravelly.
“By the gods, you’re not just a beast, you’re a berserker, through-and-through. No mere mortal would wield such fury. A true hammer of the gods.” His gaze flickers to the bone in Oleksandr’s hand, now slick with blood, before meeting his eyes. “The jawbone of a donkey—by Odin, you’ve turned it into a weapon of myth.”
Oleksandr doesn’t respond, his chest rising and falling with the effort of the battle. He lets the jawbone dangle from his hand, the weight of the fight settling on his shoulders. He feels the tension in the air, the shift in how the men are looking at him. They’re no longer just wary; there’s something deeper now. Fear, respect… reverence. With the jawbone of a donkey, I made asses of them, he thinks to himself, the irony of it all settling into his bones like a bitter laugh. His victory feels almost effortless, but the adrenaline still pulses through his veins. He’s done more than survive here; he’s claimed his place.
