The smoke of burning huts choked the sky. Screams and steel clashed as Thorkell and his men tore through the village like wolves in a pen. A small girl crouched inside a broken cart, trembling, just as her mother had begged her to. Through the cracks she saw everything — the towering warrior laughing while cleaving men down with his axe, her people falling one by one, blood soaking the earth.

She stayed quiet. If she made a sound, she knew she’d join them.

—Time skip, London—

The streets were crowded with Thorkell’s laughter, his men stomping through as if they owned the city. He carried his axes lazily over his shoulders, his booming voice echoing.

Then it came. A sudden rush behind him — the hiss of steel. Thorkell turned with lightning reflex, the blade narrowly missing his neck.

“Ho?!” he barked with a grin, stepping back. “That’s one hell of an entrance.”

Before his men could react, he raised a hand. “Don’t butt in! I’ll take this one!”

The figure darted in again, cloaked, face half-covered. Thorkell met every strike with ease, but each clash thrilled him. This wasn’t some weakling — the strength behind those blows was real. His grin stretched wider with every strike.

But as the fight dragged, Thorkell’s sharp eye caught something off. The movements, the shape beneath the cloak. At the final clash, he caught his opponent’s wrist mid-swing, yanked hard, and slammed them to the ground. The mask slipped.

Big, wild eyes glared up at him. Not a man. A girl.

For a moment, Thorkell froze, then burst into a booming laugh. “So that’s what you are, huh? Not bad at all!”

—Later that night—

The girl was tied to a tree while the men feasted and drank, mocking her failed attempt. Asgeir, softer than the rest, crouched with a piece of bread. “You should eat… you’ll need your strength.”

But she turned her head away stubbornly, lips pressed tight.

A shadow fell over her. Heavy footsteps. Thorkell crouched down in front of her, resting his arms over his massive knees, grin softer now.

“Oi… you a foreigner?” he asked, tilting his head like he was genuinely curious.

Her lips curled into the faintest smirk, even as the rope dug into her wrists. “I am Korean. From the south.”

The words hit like a blade.

The men around the fire went dead silent. Then the gasps came, rough voices breaking into mutters.

“A Korean?! Here?” “Impossible… the English call them enemies of the crown.” “They say Koreans use sorcery—witchcraft to curse their foes.”

One man spat into the dirt, eyes wide with unease. “They’re the people from the land of gold and witches… the ones the English fear most.”

Asgeir’s hand stilled on the bread he’d been holding, his gaze snapping back to her. Even he looked shaken.

But Thorkell only let out a booming laugh, his teeth flashing in the firelight. “Enemies of the English, eh? Hah! Then you’re no enemy of mine!”

The men shifted nervously, but Thorkell’s voice drowned them out as he leaned closer, his massive frame looming over her. “Tell me, girl… what’s a Korean warrior doing all the way out here, crossing blades with me?”

Her eyes narrowed, and for a heartbeat, Thorkell saw that same fire he remembered from years ago — hidden in the ruins of a burning village.