My memories begin around the age of three.
Nothing special.
I learned later that other people had memories from around the age of three too.
A mother’s warm embrace.
A soft bed.
I had none of that.
A snow-covered mountain where a bone-cutting, knife-like wind blew.
That was my cradle.
Nor did I have a toy like a rattle in my hand.
Of course, even that much can’t be called special.
Even if they aren’t the majority, there are more than enough people like me that I couldn’t count them on both hands.
Just one thing.
One thing was special.
A heavy, cold, double-bladed axe as tall as I was.
There probably aren’t many people who had a double-bladed axe beside them instead of a cradle at the age of three.
I don’t know where it came from.
It had simply been planted beside me from the moment I opened my eyes.
Like an umbilical cord.
I knew it instinctively.
‘If I let go of this, I die.’
“Grrrr…”
Before my eyes, a starving snowfield wolf was baring its yellow teeth and drooling.
I was only three years old.
To it, I was nothing more than a bite-sized snack.
Probably a delicacy, even.
My flesh would be tender, and my organs wouldn’t have any germs.
Common sense dictated that I should have either burst into tears in terror or been torn apart and killed.
But instead of fear, my heart began a strange beat.
Rather than fear, exhilaration; rather than the desire to run, the urge to tear into the beast’s throat took over my entire body.
‘Kill it.’
My survival instinct swallowed my reason whole.
With my tiny hands, I gripped the axe haft tightly.
The chill of the metal dug into my palms, but even that cold felt hot.
Bark!
As if it had been waiting, the wolf lunged.
Its sharp fangs sank into my shoulder.
The pain of flesh being ripped away.
But no scream came out.
If anything, the pain became fuel.
My heart began pumping as if it would burst.
My muscles swelled abnormally, and my vision turned red.
Growling like a beast, I brought the axe down toward the wolf’s head.
Crunch!
With a dull sound of rupture, the wolf’s skull split in half.
Hot blood sprayed out and soaked my face.
The fishy smell of iron stabbed my nose.
At that moment, the wound in my shoulder where the wolf’s teeth had pierced me slowly closed.
Along with a heat like my blood was boiling, I felt the strange sensation of the life force that had been carved away filling back up.
Without even wiping my blood-drenched face, I used the axe as a cane with trembling hands and raised myself up.
Then, looking down at the dead wolf’s eyes, I exhaled in ragged breaths.
“Ddu-ttya… ddu….”
Instinct whispered to me.
So I’m the kind of bastard who has to fight to live.
That was my first memory.
An origin story with just one thing out of the ordinary.
Nothing special.
Barbarians are all born like this, aren’t they?
‘….’
Or not?