Father had come home injured after playing a game of Knattleikr.

Yet somehow, he claimed I was the reason.

“Thor?”

“You’re saying it was because of me?”

Mother and Erin both turned to look at me.

I instinctively pointed at my own face.

Come on, Father.

Just because Mother was scary didn’t mean you should dump the blame on your son.

More importantly, what happened to the discussion about the salt?

“That’s exactly it.”

“I brought the salt to Chief Jarl and told him our Thor had made it by burning nothing but twigs in a small furnace.”

“But no one believed me.”

“Well, that’s understandable.”

“No one would believe it without actually seeing it.”

A child made salt?

So what?

Any sensible adult would dismiss that immediately.

Father’s real objective had simply been to report it so we could later make our own salt without causing trouble.

In that sense, things had gone exactly as planned.

“On top of that, some people started complaining that the salt tasted bad and looked bad.”

According to Father, the families who currently oversaw large-scale salt production—the ones who organized the large cauldrons, gathered seaweed and firewood, and effectively controlled the industry—had taken offense.

In other words, the existing holders of the salt trade didn’t appreciate what we’d done.

Honestly, that wasn’t a bad outcome.

If they dismissed my salt as inferior and ignored me, I’d be free to continue improving the process.

“So I punched them and told them, ‘Our Thor can make much, much better salt than this!'”

“Then it turned into a brawl.”

Father, what are you doing!?

Well…

Around here, fistfights were apparently considered a perfectly valid form of discussion.

Maybe that was just how things worked…?

“Then the salt-making families started claiming Thor had used magic.”

“Magic!?”

That was bad.

Really bad.

Being suspected of using magic was the last thing I wanted.

If people decided I was a magician, I’d never be able to live an ordinary life again.

I’d have to leave home and travel from village to village as the apprentice of some self-proclaimed mage.

And I’d have to do it in this harsh northern wilderness.

Absolutely not.

I wanted to stay with my family, live in a nice house, wear warm clothes, and eat my fill.

“Magic was nothing more than an accusation.”

“Fortunately, quite a few people sided with me.”

“After all, everyone in the village blamed those salt-making families for the current salt shortage.”

“Well…”

“That would definitely make them unpopular.”

If I had to guess, those families hadn’t simply miscalculated how much salt the village needed.

More likely, they’d been skimming a little for themselves, selling some at higher prices, or trying to use the salt shortage to remind everyone how valuable they were and strengthen their political standing.

“So we decided to settle it with a game of Knattleikr.”

“Why!?”

The discussion fell apart, so everyone decided to settle it with sports?

What was this, a children’s comic?

Then again…

I supposed it was still better than letting a fistfight escalate into outright murder.

Although, considering people sometimes died playing Knattleikr…

It was difficult to argue that the sport wasn’t just another form of fighting.

“Thor.”

“You still don’t understand the true meaning of Knattleikr.”

“I don’t…?”

Father wore an unusually serious expression.

“Knattleikr is everything.”

“…Father?”

Uh-oh.

He’d started saying strange things.

“Everything exists upon the field of Knattleikr.”

“Conflict.”

“Brotherhood.”

“Victory.”

“The gods of Asgard watch over those who fight there.”

“If a man is born into this world, then he must take part in Knattleikr.”

“He must fight honorably alongside his companions without bringing shame upon the gods.”

“He must struggle through the mud.”

“He must win.”

“And when the battle is over, he must sing with his comrades while drinking mead.”

“That is what it means.”

“I… see…”

I’d definitely met sports fans like this before.

The kind of people who were completely obsessed.

The only problem was that every single man in this village seemed to be exactly the same.

At least I finally understood something.

In this village, Knattleikr wasn’t merely a sport.

It also served as a religious ritual and a way of resolving political disputes.

Apparently, by the time I grew up, saying, “I’m not interested in Knattleikr, so I won’t participate,” simply wasn’t going to be an option.

“So your arm was injured during that match.”

“That’s right!”

“And I won, too!”

“…Father.”

“Thank you.”

When I thanked him loudly, Father vigorously rubbed my head with his huge hand.

In his own way, he’d put himself on the line for the sake of his son.

That deserved proper gratitude.

Mother and Erin were looking at us with expressions that practically said, “Men are such idiots…”

Even so, at the very least, I ought to stand on Father’s side.

“So then, Chief Jarl plans to come see your salt-making for himself before long.”

“It’s fine.”

“I’m already preparing.”

“You’ll help me too, right, Father?”

When I told him I was counting on him, Father’s eyes softened with obvious delight.

The truth was, I genuinely wanted his help.

I’d already chosen the site for the new Westwind Furnace near the shoreline to make hauling seawater easier.

I’d even finished most of the design.

But digging the final smoke tunnel and stacking the stone chimney required more height and strength than a five-year-old possessed.

Besides, if Father helped build it while I explained the principles behind it, he’d gain an even better understanding that none of it involved magic.

Then he could explain everything properly to Chief Jarl as well.

My family had grown so used to me that they no longer questioned it.

But from an outsider’s perspective, a five-year-old fluently explaining the design of a completely new type of furnace to adults was undeniably strange.

If I wanted to avoid being labeled a magician and dragged away on a life of wandering, Father was going to have to do his part.