Scandinavia, 1000 BC
The first thing Kaelan Ragnar became aware of was the cold.
Not the uncomfortable chill of a poorly insulated apartment, or the brisk snap of a morning jog when he'd forgotten his gloves. This was a primal cold. A deep, bone-carving frost that seemed to seep into his very soul and then... welcome him home.
That's strange, he thought, before realizing he could think at all.
The last thing he remembered was the wheel.
The R.O.B—that absurd, glowing, chaotic entity that had appeared in his bedroom like a glitch in reality—had presented it with all the ceremony of a game show host on cosmic steroids. A massive disc of spinning light, divided into segments representing powers, weapons, bodies, and fates. Kaelan, a martial artist and DC fan who had spent countless nights arguing about whether Batman could beat Superman, had stared with the wide-eyed acceptance of a man who had clearly lost his mind.
"Spin, little mortal," the R.O.B had giggled. "Spin for your new life!"
He had spun.
The first spin landed on Barbarian Immortal. The knowledge slammed into him like a thunderbolt—a template of power from some forgotten realm of myth. The strength of a thousand battles. The ability to command lightning from the storm and ice from the deep. And the beast within, the White Wolf Spirit, a towering form of fur and fury that would become his second skin.
The second spin landed on Leviathan Axe. The weapon materialized in his mind's eye—a heavy, single-bladed war axe etched with ancient runes that pulsed with frost. He had felt its weight, its hunger, its memory of a different god from a different myth.
The third choice was customization. The R.O.B waved a hand, and Kaelan shaped himself like a sculptor shaping clay. He chose the form of Achilles as depicted in the film Troy—broad shoulders, powerful corded muscle built for movement and war, a face handsome without being pretty, eyes that held weight. But he added his own mark: white tattoos, swirling in patterns of wolves, storms, and icy fractals, tracing across his torso, arms, and face like frozen lightning.
The fourth spin was for armor. It materialized around him: a magnificent wolf-fur coat, silver-white and thick, draped over chainmail hauberk of obvious magical craftsmanship. The mail shimmered with faint blue light, and he simply knew it could repair itself over time. He named it instantly: Volkán, the Wolf King Armor.
"No mission, little mortal," the R.O.B had said, its voice fading. "No quests, no destiny I impose. Just... survive. Thrive. Marry. Raise your kids. Let's see what a fan does when he becomes the story. Oh, and one tiny catch—you and yours are locked into that template. No borrowing power from Lantern rings or speed forces. Just you, that axe, and that wolf. Have fun!"
Then the light swallowed him.
---
Now, Kaelan Ragnar opened his eyes.
He lay on his back, staring up at a sky the color of hammered iron. Snow fell in lazy, deliberate flakes, each one landing on his face and melting against skin that felt strangely... warm. The cold that surrounded him was intense, easily below freezing, but it did not bother him. It was like background noise.
He sat up.
Ancient pines, heavy with snow. Silence except for wind and distant creaking branches. He looked down at his hands—his new hands. Large, scarred in the way of a veteran warrior, wrapped around the haft of an axe he knew as intimately as his own heartbeat.
The Leviathan Axe.
Beautiful. Deadly. The head was dark metal etched with glowing blue runes that shifted as he watched. The haft was wrapped in worn leather, perfectly balanced. He rose, and the Volkán armor moved with him like a second skin, the wolf-fur coat settling around his shoulders like a mantle of kingship.
He was naked underneath. That was going to be a problem.
First things first. Survival.
He took stock. Barbarian immortal. He could heal from most wounds, but could he starve? Could he freeze? The cold wasn't bothering him, but hunger was different. He needed food, shelter, information. The R.O.B had said 3000 years before the Justice League formed. In the Animated Movie Universe, that meant 1000 BC.
The Nordic Bronze Age. A time of tribal kingdoms, petty warlords, and the slow, bloody crawl toward the Viking Age, still two thousand years away.
Kaelan Ragnar grinned despite the situation. It was a reckless grin, the grin of a man who had just been handed the ultimate playground.
He raised the Leviathan Axe and listened.
The barbarian template had given him instincts beyond his martial arts training. He could feel the forest around him—the heartbeat of prey, the slow pulse of the trees, the anger of the coming storm. He turned north, where the wind carried the scent of smoke.
Fire meant people. People meant answers.
He began to walk.
---
The village was small, maybe thirty longhouses clustered around a central hall, all buried in snow. Kaelan approached from the tree line, staying low, observing. The Volkán armor made no sound, the wolf fur blending with the snow. He could see figures moving—men with axes and shields, women tending fires, children throwing snow.
But something was wrong.
The men were not relaxed. They stood at the village perimeter, weapons in hand, facing the forest opposite Kaelan's position. Their postures were tense, fearful. A horn sounded, deep and mournful.
Then Kaelan heard it. The thud of heavy footsteps. The crack of breaking trees. A low, guttural chant.
From the forest emerged shapes that should not exist. Taller than men, with skin the color of dried blood and tusks curving from their jaws. They carried crude axes and torches, their eyes burning with mindless violence.
Trolls.
Kaelan counted five of them.
The villagers screamed. The men formed a shield wall, but it was pitiful—wooden shields against creatures that could crush skulls with a fist. The trolls charged.
And Kaelan Ragnar moved.
He did not think. He did not plan. The barbarian template sang in his blood, and his martial artist's mind translated instinct into action. He burst from the tree line like a white wolf, the Leviathan Axe already swinging.
The first troll never saw him coming. The axe bit into its spine with a sound like cracking ice, and the creature exploded into frozen chunks. The runes on the axe blazed blue, drinking in the kill.
The other four trolls turned, surprise flickering in their bestial eyes. Kaelan landed in a crouch, the Volkán armor shimmering, the wolf-fur coat settling around him. He looked up at them, and that reckless grin returned.
"Alright," he said, his voice carrying across the snow. "Who's next?"
The trolls roared and charged.
Kaelan met them head-on.
He was faster than they expected, stronger than they could comprehend. The Leviathan Axe was an extension of his will—he could feel the ice in the air responding to it, could summon frost with every strike. A sweep of the blade froze a troll's legs to the ground. A downward chop shattered its skull. A spin, a duck, a rising cut—each movement was poetry, brutal and beautiful.
Lightning answered his call without thought. A bolt from the grey sky struck the fourth troll, staggering it long enough for Kaelan to bury the axe in its chest. The fifth tried to flee, but he was already there, leaping onto its back and driving the axe into its neck.
Silence.
The snow hissed where troll blood steamed. Kaelan stood amidst the frozen carnage, breathing hard but not winded, the axe humming with satisfaction. He looked at the village.
Every single person was staring at him.
Men, women, children—all frozen, not from cold, but from utter shock. An old man in a bearskin cloak, clearly the chieftain, stepped forward. His eyes were wide, his mouth working silently.
Then he fell to his knees.
"Himinn og jörð," the chieftain whispered. Sky and earth. "You are... you are a son of the storm. A wolf in man's flesh."
Kaelan looked down at himself. The Volkán armor was pristine, already repairing the minor scratches from battle. The wolf fur was unblemished. He planted the Leviathan Axe in the snow and met the chieftain's gaze.
"I am Kaelan Ragnar," he said simply. "And I am hungry. Do you have food?"
The chieftain stared for a long moment. Then, slowly, a smile cracked his weathered face.
"Food?" He laughed, a raw, disbelieving sound. "You just saved my entire clan from the jotun-spawn, and you ask for food? Boy, we will feast you like a king! Come! Come into the hall! Tell us where you come from, what tribe claims you, how you fight like a god!"
Kaelan followed, the villagers parting before him like snow before a plow. He glanced back once at the troll corpses, already freezing solid in the cold.
3000 years. I have 3000 years until Darkseid comes. Until the Justice League is born.
But first... I need to survive. I need to thrive. I need to build.
He looked at the village, at the fearful but hopeful faces, at the chieftain already shouting orders for a feast.
This is a start.
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