People didn't need magic to be dicks. If anything, having access to excessive strength as a hero of legend most likely made one more prone to pillaging.

  Take, for instance, the Vikings of Earth, seafarers of Norse blood. Their longships graced countless shorelines, from the rocky coasts of the British Isles to the frosty outposts of Greenland, from the uncharted lands of America to the fertile plains of Ukraine. Their unrelenting pursuit of expansion and adventure often ended in the enslavement of the locals and the pillaging of their treasures. If the local world was anything like mine history-wise, then I was in for a very bad time.

  Surveying the fractured beams and scorched and buried fragments scattered across the landscape, I spotted the remnants of once stout, wooden walls and watchtowers.

  Alas, the dragon had made quick work of that defense, obliterating it in its entirety.

  “Note to self: ‘Dragon-proof’ is apparently not a valid construction standard in local building codes,” I hammered down the throbbing panic in my chest with lighthearted commentary.

  I glanced back at my glade.

  Talk about terrible camouflage - I might as well hang a neon sign saying "Fresh teenage witch meat here!"

  The risk of discovery by a fly-by hero or monster suddenly felt like an imminent threat. I didn't want anyone to find out or even to suspect that I was a warlock, preferring to have the element of surprise on my side.

  The whole reason I pushed Yaga to give me domain-based witchy powers was to mess with people's future expectations of me–it was going to be my biggest trump card in my new life in Svalbard.

  Thus, driven onward by a healthy degree of paranoia, I focused on digging out all of the magic-irradiated earth and relocating the entirety of my precious domain inside the old pub. I quickly shoveled the earth into a wheelbarrow I found behind the mostly undamaged smithy building, rolled it to the pub, and dumped it inside. I also replanted all of the magic-infused greenery into chests that I faced towards the round windows.

  Then I walked over to the snow-sprinkled circle of magic witch-shrooms, dug them out and carefully replanted them into one of the chests filled with my domain soil.

  My back muscles screamed in protest as I worked, reminding me that while I might be a warlock now, I still had the upper body strength of a particularly anemic noodle.

  Once done with the relocation of my magical domain, I quickly set about securing the pub itself.

  The village smithy, now bereft of its previous tenants, though slightly singed and torn up on one side, housed a trove of medieval weaponry.

  As I rummaged through the smithy's cluttered remains, my fingers brushed against the familiar heft of medieval craftsmanship—crudely forged swords with uneven edges, iron arrowheads pocked with imperfections, and several hefty arbalests.

  The dragon's wrath had spared this corner of the village, leaving the tools and weapons undamaged. But as I sifted deeper into the debris, pushing aside a dented breastplate and a tangle of bowstrings, my hands fumbled around something unexpected—something that didn't belong.

  I pulled out a pair of pliers, their sleek, gleaming surface catching the dim light filtering through the smithy's cracked walls. Unlike the rough-hewn iron tools surrounding them, these were precision-manufactured, their jaws perfectly aligned, their handles smooth and unmarred by the pitting of forge-fire.

  I stared at the pliers with wide eyes.

  The metal wasn't the dull gray of medieval iron, nor the brittle sheen of poorly tempered steel—it was stainless, a high-carbon alloy by the look of it, with a faint bluish tint that spoke of chromium and meticulous craftsmanship. I turned them over in my hands, marveling at the weight, the balance, the way the hinges moved without the slightest grind. These weren't the product of a village smith hammering away at a lump of ore; they were engineered with machine tools.

  Digging further, I unearthed more anomalies: a slender chisel with a razor-sharp edge, its tip hardened to a degree that suggested heat treatment and quenching far superior to anything a medieval forge could achieve; a small hammer with a head of tool steel; and a set of calipers, their delicate arms etched with precise millimeter-like markings, the kind of instrument a machinist might use, not a blacksmith pounding out horseshoes. Each tool bore the same unmistakable quality—modern, industrial, utterly alien to the crude metallurgy of Svalbard's fallen age.

  As I examined the pliers more closely, my thumb traced a faint embossing along the edge of one handle—a ring-like logo, clean and deliberate, encircling a stylized crow’s head. The logo was minimalist, its beak pointed downward as if in mid-caw.

  The narrative has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

  Was this a remnant of a lost technology, a trade good from some distant, advanced enclave, or evidence of an outsider like myself meddling in this magic-driven world?

  The crow-head logo hinted at an organization, a maker, a purpose—but what? I had no idea.

  For now, answers eluded me, but the tools themselves were a windfall. The pliers alone could grip and twist with a precision that medieval tongs could never match, and the chisel promised to carve through wood or stone with surgical accuracy. I tucked them into my leather backpack alongside the enchanted soil, their weight a comforting addition to my growing arsenal. If I was to survive in this fractured world—I'd need every advantage I could scavenge. And these tools, gleaming and out of place, felt like the first clue in a puzzle I was only beginning to comprehend.

  Utilizing a wheelbarrow, I transported the entire medieval weapons arsenal into my makeshift stronghold, setting up arbalests at each window. My interior decorating choices were definitely leaning toward "paranoid porcupine".

  Then I emptied a few of the cold storage wells and brought the food into the pub in a wheelbarrow. My hunger was dulled when I was carrying my domain in my backpack, but my body already looked far too skinny and pitiful and I knew that healthy eating was important to my growth, no matter if magical bullshit took my desire to eat away.

  But warmth and food stores wouldn't be enough. The Sirin's visit last night had made one thing clear: this world was teeming with threats, and I couldn't rely solely on the invisible boundary of my domain to keep them at bay.

  I needed active deterrents.

  Rummaging through the nearby debris, I'd salvaged a tangle of sturdy ropes—thick, hempen cords that the villagers used to lash crates or tether livestock. I gathered them into a bundle, slinging them over my shoulder alongside the leather backpack that cradled my precious soil, and hauled them back to the pub.

  The pub's exterior offered plenty of anchor points: splintered beams jutting from the walls, the gnarled roots of a fallen oak that had crashed halfway through the northern side, and the sturdy lintel above the door, still solid despite the dragon's rampage. I set to work, my breath fogging in the crisp air as I unraveled the ropes and tested their length.

  My mind churned with designs—simple mechanisms I'd read about in books or seen in documentaries. Spring traps. Tripwires. Anything to turn the predator into prey.

  "Home Alone: Witch-boy Edition," I commented, kneeling in the snow just beyond the pub's shadow as I drove a salvaged iron spike into the frozen ground with the modern hammer I'd found, its tool-steel head biting deep with each swing.

  The rope came next—I looped it around the spike, tying a taut knot, then stretched it low across the earth, barely a finger's breadth above the snow. The other end I secured to a notched branch I'd wedged into a crack in the pub's outer wall, bending the wood until it thrummed with tension. A crude spring, but effective. I scavenged a rusted bear trap from the smithy's wreckage—its jaws dented but still functional—and rigged it beneath the tripwire, concealing it with a dusting of ash and snow. One wrong step, and the rope would snap the branch free, yanking the trap shut with bone-crushing force.

  Satisfied, I moved to the next spot, this time near the fallen oak. The tree's sprawling roots offered a natural lattice, and I wove the rope through them, creating a snare. I tied it to a counterweight—a chunk of stone pried from a collapsed chimney—hoisting it into the branches with a pulley system fashioned from a broken cartwheel and more rope. The stone dangled precariously, its weight straining the knots. If something snagged the snare—be it a wolf, a marauder, or the Sirin—it'd trigger the drop, slamming the rock down with enough force to crack a skull. I tested it with a stick, grinning as the stone thudded into the snow, sending up a plume of white.

  "Visit scenic Svalbard! Complimentary skull-cracking for all unwanted guests!" I rubbed my calloused hands.

  The windows demanded attention next. The arbalests I'd propped there were loaded, their bolts gleaming dully in the fading light, but I wanted a fallback. I strung a thinner rope across each sill, tying it to a bundle of iron scrap—bent nails, a broken axe head, whatever I could scrounge. The bundles hung just inside, balanced on the edge of the frame. A claw or hand reaching through would tug the line, tipping the scrap outward to rain jagged metal on the intruder. Simple, brutal, effective. I stepped back and surveyed my handiwork. The pub bristled with traps now, a spiderweb of rope and steel ready to ensnare anything foolish enough to approach.

  But I wasn't done.

  Paranoid fears gnawed at me backed by visions of a winged shadow swooping down from above. The pub's roof was intact, but exposed, its slanted timbers an inviting perch. I climbed atop a barrel to reach it, hauling up the last of my rope and the sleek pliers I'd scavenged.

  I twisted the hemp into a tight lattice, anchoring it to the chimney and stretching it across the roof's peak. I rigged a second bear trap beneath, its jaws wired to the lattice with the chisel's precision cuts. A heavy landing would snap the ropes, springing the trap upward through the shingles. It wouldn't kill a dragon, but it might deter something smaller—or at least buy me time to reload an arbalest.

  By the time my fortress was secured within the old pub, the horizon had welcomed the warm hues of the setting sun, and I battened down the iron-clad shutters and door in anticipation of the coming night.

  My dinner was a modest feast of preserved jars and smoked delicacies. Since cold didn't bother a Yaga, I dismissed the idea of lighting the fireplace. Instead, I innately sought solace atop my mound of warm earth.

  My feet automatically took me to my lovely, warm pile of earth.

  I buried myself in it halfway feeling like a solitary mole ensconced within its subterranean sanctuary, slowly succumbing to the lull of slumber as I contemplated my future plans.

  I kept my oversized backpack on just in case, the strap looped through my right shoulder.