He, Jor Jormungand, was born to a wonderful mother, and a hardworking father. In a poverty-stricken town, where the taxes are high, and the local lord repugnant, the family of three suffered. Under the weight of wars and famine, the local younger generation gathered what little they had, and left for a better life. 

Jor's father was a castle guard, thus afforded him some protection, and put food on the table. His mother washed and cleaned laundry for the lord's family. 

It hadn't been long before Jor watched his mother come home with bruises around her wrist and neck. She hid it best she could from her husband, afraid of what would occur should he find out. And yet, far too late. In vengeance, in fury and hurt, Jor's father died by the hands of his guards, as he tried to assassinate lord Kattinton in open daylight. 

Jor was ten when the castle guards came for them, with swords bared. With what little possessions she had, they escaped hours into the twilight, when her husband didn't come back home. Perhaps it was instincts or a feeling, but it was the best choice she ever made at that moment. 

It saved their lives. 

Escaping to the nearest village, or towns would not be enough. Knowing the pettiness of the lord, she would be caught and brought to kneel before him for execution. The attempted assassination of a lord was a serious crime, even despite the circumstances involved. For a peasant, who would lift their arms in protest?  

So they trecked across miles of lands, finding and hunting for what little food the could find. The lands were dangerous, and monsters roamed. Whatever sources of light had to be hidden from view, and they did not wish to attract attention. And they survived off of fruits and mushrooms, and what little rodents they managed to catch.  

Hundred days, and a hundred nights, they survived in the lawless lands of the north. 

On the hundredth day, something changed. 

Jor knew, could even sense it. Something's altered their fate. The leather ball dropped from his hands, as he entered into the small clearing where their camp was. 

And there she was, his dying mother. An undead stood over her body, with a spear pierced through his chest. The blood and tears flowed freely, and her eyes were only for him.

"Run." She whispered, her hand outstretched, weak and shaking. 

The undead, nothing more than a skeleton wearing shoddy and rusted armor, pulled the spear out. And its empty eye sockets gazed back to him. 

Jor Jormungand knew who he was, even before he came out of his mother's womb. After all, how could he forget having lived another life? It was a miracle. A reincarnation. But never before had he felt this breath of rage settle in him. It filled his veins with an empty pressure. It was as if a newborn sun ignited in his chest. 

His fists clenched and gritted his teeth. Even as the undead came toward him, a bloodied spear, Jor didn't move. Wouldn't dare to. A boy of ten years stood against an indomitable might, alone. But not afraid. Never afraid. 

The first downward swing of the spear came, the blade flashing silver and white underneath the moonlight. Jor launched himself to close in, completely avoiding the bladed tip of the spear. The undead would need to back up to actually use his weapon, now that the boy was far too close. And the undead was too stupid and simple. 

Too late. It was far too late.

The kind of rage simmered underneath the boy's eyes, something alien and indomitable. Something awful, and ugly, and no boy should have to feel. Jor's rage pierced the heavens, where even the gods took notice. Perhaps with pity, they witnessed. And they witnessed a making of a legend. 

Jor's fist lashed out. A boy of ten would stand no chance against even the weakest of the undead. It was unthinkable, impossible, ridiculous. The kings and emperors would have guffawed, and the gods would look down with indifference. 

And yet, his strike connected against the ribs, crushing it entirely. With a silent cry, Jor jumped high to land a vicious kick to its chin. The head came flying off. 

The undead died a second death, as it crumbled to the ground. 

"Hey, mom," Jor knelt next to his mother. Facility Holland was already long gone, having left this world. She died, alone and in despair, just as his father, Mark Holland died against the blades of his former brothers and sisters. The world took away his family, and now he was alone. "I'm sorry I wasn't there."

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He cried, perhaps for the first time since he was born. He cried and cried and cried. It was heartbreaking. It felt like his heart had been shattered to a thousand pieces. It felt horrible, and sadness clung to him like a physical thing. It was horrible, but he didn't hate the undead. Never the undead. They were simply the function of a very messed up world, serving a purpose for a cause he might even never know. 

It didn't matter. What mattered was that his mother died, and he's gonna make the motherfucker pay for his crime of murdering his mother. And then, he's going to come for the lord that killed his father. 

It was in the dead silence of the night when the ground crumbled underneath his feet. A surprise, that. Jor and the corpse of his mother fell into the darkness. Perhaps this was it, and the boy died in the dark, alone and friendless. Whatever food was there, was ruined and crushed underneath the rubble of rock and dirt.

And when Jor woke up, it was to find his mother buried under rocks. When he looked up, the shaft of moonlight that pierced through the hole was a long way up. The chances of him getting up there were infinitesimal. Jor didn't think he deserved to see the light, not after he failed to protect his mother. He'll survive in the dark, and strive to grow strong enough to gain his vengence. 

And when he looked behind, more of the undead congregated at the arrival of the living. They sensed it, as their teeth clacked for death. 

Jor grinned. 

Class. Fighter. Level 1. 

Class. Berserker. Level 1.

Boon Received. Perk. Regeneration. Level 1. 

Jor's grin widened. 

When Jor looked at his bloodied fists, all he could do was clenched them tighter. Even as his wounds closed, slowly. He was confused. Did some nameless God take pity on him, as they bestowed upon him a sliver of their power? It didn't matter, not now. His mother and father died fighting. Jor won't go down, not today. Or ever. He will kill everything that came his way, and once he was done, Jor would give his mother a proper burial. She deserves peace in this unfair world, at least. 

Jor looked up with eyes blazing, and fury, as the skeletal undead descended upon him with sword and shield and spear. And Jor launched himself at them with a fury of mad berserker. 

Two Years Later.

Jor stood before the master of the dungeon. It was a normal man, though bald and nude. Its skin bathed in black ink, dripping and wet. Yet, it was more than that. Every inch of the man's skin was pitch black, a shade so dark that whatever light remained in this lightless world, seemed to be sucked in. It reminded him of vantablack, the color so dark that light itself gets trapped and bounced about like a ping pong ball. 

Those blue eyes were the only thing that resembled any humanity, and he looked upon Jor with intelligence. And amusement. Insanity, too. 

"I've killed your mother," The thing spoke gently, softly. Its tongue, long and slimy and black. Its teeth were rotten and black. "I remember her. You've come for her vengeance?"

Its small smile was infuriating, and its admission of murder left Jor shaking. He hadn't thought about his mother in a long time, and knowing that this thing killed his mother? It was... an incredible feeling to feel happy. He found the murder of his mother he never thought he would find. He thought he solved it when he killed the undead, but to find out the master of this place was the one to do the deed? Unbelievable. 

Jor will break it. 

The master stepped forward, grinning. "I've waited a long time. You'll be a nice thing, I think."

"Scream for me, little child."

Jor's fist lashed out, burying into soft flesh. Too soft. The master's face simply broke. Its brain splattered across the floor. It felt as if hitting a regular undead, just a lot metier, and not a powerful master of this dungeon. The body crumbled onto the earth. Too easy. Far too easy, thought Jor.

And then he felt it. The will of an alien soul pressing into his own, and crushing his mind. 

Jor's rage surged. "You think it'll be that easy?"

Dominate. 

It never is, child. 

Pain pierced through his mind like an enchanted blade through naked flesh. The necromancer's power willed his own to crush Jor's mind and corrupt the soul. Already, he could feel his mind being peeled away inch by inch. Once he comes braindead, the body would be free to host the master's soul. Jor's own would be forcibly vacated from the material world.

There was nothing he could do. Jor had no defensive items, or special potions, or enchanted armor or weapons to push away the alien will encroaching upon him. 

All he had was his fists and his rage. 

So he did the only thing that came to mind, when dealing with an absurd situation. Jor needed an equally absurd solution. 

His fingers dug into the walls, his strength easily slipping through the stone. Arching his back, his head low, and with a large intake of breath, and slammed his head into the wall. 

The stone crumbled. His head felt like someone smashed his head across with a hammer. It hurt like hell. But, Jor didn't stop. He slammed his head against the stone, just as hard. 

What are you doing?!

Jor slammed his head again. And again. He felt his flesh break easily, as blood flowed. And more importantly, Jor felt his frontal bone of his skull crack. 

Stop! You'll die! 

Wasn't that the point? Jor leaned his head back one last time, preparing to kill himself and alongside the monster that killed his mother. 

He slammed his head one last time against the wall.