Chapter 1: Falling into a Dead End

The sun poured its scorching, searing rays from within the clouds onto the canopy of the Alastair border forest.

Even the dense, impenetrable black oak woods could not fully block the intense midsummer sun, which managed to illuminate the forest floor, ten meters beneath the towering trees.

Blood was splattered across the trunks, leaving behind gruesome and terrifying evidence of the crime.

Corpses, their eyes still wide with the shock of death, lay scattered among the grass and the roots of the trees, their clothes in tatters.

The bodies wore little in the way of proper armor; most were clad in linen, reinforced only by wooden slats tied on with rope as a rudimentary defense.

Occasionally, one might find a piece or two of decent iron gear, capable of turning aside a lethal blow.

But as they were now corpses, such things had clearly failed to serve their purpose.

Most had been dispatched by a single slash to the throat, while a few, more wretched souls, had had their skulls split open.

Red and white mingled in an indistinguishable mess, and the architects of this carnage were two men surrounded by a pack of savage-looking bandits in the heart of the forest.

One was an old knight in full plate armor, his face beneath the visor stern and resolute, etched with the marks of a life weathered by hardship.

His graying hair and beard resembled the silver-white coat of an old wolf, majestic and full of spirit.

Even now, shielded by his squire, he drove his sharp, glinting longsword into the chest of a bandit attempting to strike from behind.

Blood sprayed, a scream erupted, then choked into silence as the life drained away.

The squire, bare-chested, bore a torso of rock-hard muscle mapped with scars of all sizes.

His left hand braced a shield, while his right gripped a hand-axe, ready to strike; the foul, clotted blood dripping from the blade told the tale of who had wrought the most brutal of the kills.

The black-haired, dark-eyed squire and the silver-haired, blue-eyed knight made for an unconventional pair.

Yet, compared to the fact that they had crossed into this strange world, such details seemed trivial.

The squire’s name was Wang Yu, and he realized, upon reflection, that it had been over a year since his arrival.

He still remembered the moment he opened his eyes, lying flat on his back in that impossibly lush forest.

The unfamiliar world left Wang Yu bewildered, and the first surprise to greet him was a ravenous wild wolf.

As he scrambled to his feet to assess his situation, the beast roared and lunged.

Pinned to the ground, Wang Yu fought with his life to keep the wolf’s jaws from his vulnerable throat.

The two combatants remained locked in a desperate stalemate until, just before Wang Yu’s strength failed and the wolf could tear through his windpipe, the passing knight, Raynard, ended the beast with a single stroke.

But by then, Wang Yu was drenched in blood, his palms and arms torn by deep, bone-revealing gashes.

The old knight assumed the massive blood loss would soon claim the wretched boy’s life.

Yet, as a kind-hearted wandering knight, Raynard bandaged the stranger, hoisted him onto his horse, and left the rest to fate.

Miraculously, despite the blood loss and the inevitable infection of his wounds, Wang Yu survived.

Astonished by such tenacious vitality, Raynard took him on as a squire, and they began a life of wandering together.

When he first arrived, Wang Yu did not even know the language of this world.

When he tried to communicate with Raynard in Chinese, the knight looked at him as if he were a savage from the frozen wastes.

Fortunately, Wang Yu’s appearance was passable; at least he did not look like a troll or a goblin.

Once Raynard realized the language barrier, he patiently began to teach Wang Yu the common tongue and its script.

Wang Yu had never been particularly gifted, and learning was an arduous struggle, especially without a common language.

But his endurance and willpower were his greatest assets, and after eight months of study, he could finally converse fluently.

By now, Wang Yu and Raynard had been adventuring together for a long time.

Before he crossed over, Wang Yu had been an ordinary man in his twenties, entirely unremarkable.

If a standard person was a 50 on a scale of 100, Wang Yu was a 55—perfectly average.

His intelligence was not exceptional, and he had been a mediocre student back home.

However, his constitution and willpower were remarkable; after crossing over, he found his body had reverted to the state of a seventeen-year-old.

The chronic ailments caused by his previous work and study had vanished, and his mild myopia was gone.

This was why he had survived such grave injuries.

His body seemed to be absorbing certain elements from this new world.

These elements supplemented the "transcendent" components his body lacked, causing his physical capabilities to improve constantly.

Compared to the average human in this world, who possessed a much higher baseline of fitness, Wang Yu had initially been quite weak.

This spontaneous optimization toward the local average also granted him high cellular activity and an exaggerated metabolic rate.

At least until the optimization ceased, his healing factor remained potent, and it was this that had allowed him to survive his near-fatal wounds.

This adaptation not only brought rapid healing but also doubled the effectiveness of his knightly training.

In just over a year, Wang Yu’s physical condition had become quite formidable.

If the limit of human potential on Earth was 1 and an average person was 0.5, Wang Yu was now at an 0.8 across the board.

He called this period of self-adaptation his "bonus phase," and he estimated it would last for another year or so.

Though they were wandering knights, their work was grounded: catching beasts, hunting fugitives, protecting caravans—they took whatever came.

They were jacks-of-all-trades, and their wilderness survival skills were second to none.

Wang Yu had once asked Raynard, a high-ranking apprentice knight of considerable skill, why he chose the life of a wanderer, but the old man only shook his head, offering no answer.

Because of his rapid healing, Wang Yu no longer considered injury a grave matter.

He took it upon himself to be Raynard’s shield, blocking enemy attacks to create a safe environment and openings for the knight to strike.

Their cooperation grew into a seamless synergy, evolving from a master-squire dynamic into something more akin to comrades-in-arms.

Over a year of trials, they had taken many jobs and gained ample experience.

This time, they had accepted a commission to clear bandits from a village, only to find, upon meeting the client, that they were walking into a trap set by the villagers and the bandits together.

It was a simple case of collusion: the villagers issued the contract to lure prey, and the bandits did the killing.

The spoils were likely split, and the villagers who posted the fake quest had surely made a tidy profit.

The thought made the old knight’s blood boil; a man of kindness and order, he loathed such treachery against those who accepted his service.

Driving his longsword once more into the neck of a bandit in ragged armor, he pulled the blade free, sending a spray of blood mist from the corpse.

The old knight wiped the sweat and blood from his face with the back of his hand and whispered a stern command to his squire.

"Prepare to break through... we will let the Guild deal with them later."

Wang Yu nodded silently, tightened his grip on his hand-axe, and surged forward.

With a shield bash, he knocked a bandit off balance and charged toward the perimeter, where the line of villagers and brigands was thinnest.

Wang Yu cleared the path, and the old knight followed, his longsword flashing with lethal intent.

A high-ranking apprentice knight, with strength nearly double that of a normal human, unleashed his full ferocity against a rabble whose average fitness was no better than a healthy commoner.

With the goal of creating an exit through maximum lethality, they began a high-speed harvest of lives the moment Wang Yu initiated the assault.

As Wang Yu sprinted, the old knight’s blade danced in the air, each acceleration leaving a silver trail of death in its wake.

Then, a man would clutch his throat, gurgling as he collapsed.

"A rabble, after all; intercepting Sir Reynold is far too tall an order," Wang Yu thought, cleaving through the chest of an enemy blocking his path.

Over a year of travels had taught Wang Yu that Reynold’s prowess was formidable in these parts.

Though the old knight lacked peak physical conditioning, his decades of experience and technique ensured he rarely faltered in his duties.

Seeing these bandits, who had colluded with the villagers, prove so pathetic—unable to stop Reynold’s charge—Wang Yu felt a sense of relief and quiet validation.

The supernatural was not rare in this world, but it was confined to the great centers: the capital and the battlefields.

Reynold, a man of Quixotic tendencies, lacked arrogance; he possessed a heart of justice, seeking to right wrongs and change the world with his own hands.

After all, one could always find Reynold among the drunks passed out in the local tavern.

He wandered through backwaters, though rumors suggested he held estates near the capital, left to rot for reasons unknown.

Wang Yu had gleaned this from tavern gossip, though back then his grasp of the language was poor, catching only fragments before his own speech dissolved into incoherent babble.

He was never one to pry into secrets, so he had simply taken it as idle entertainment.

In their travels, supernatural power was scarce; formal knights were unseen, high-ranking squires like Reynold were rare, and mages had not appeared for over a year.

Thus, adventuring was not particularly perilous for them.

With caution, their sharp blades and sturdy shields were enough to ensure their survival.

As they pushed forward, the ring of villagers and bandits grew thin.

They were nearly clear; once they broke through, the guild would descend upon these wretches.

The old knight’s sword fell once more, claiming another soul.

"Pfft!" He wrenched the blade from the corpse’s chest, the steel stained a deep, visceral red by the blood of countless men.

"Hah... hah..." He panted heavily, sweat soaking through his armor, beads of moisture rolling from the base of his greaves.

He was old, after all; the old knight was beginning to feel the weight of exhaustion.

The constant swinging of the sword, the sprinting in heavy plate—all of it drained a body already in the twilight of its years.

"Hah..." He took another deep breath, the ache in his arms sharp and undeniable. If he were ten years younger, would he feel this hollow?

Even pulling the blade from the enemy’s chest had felt like a struggle—a mere illusion, perhaps, but one that forced him to acknowledge his age.

Still, they had made it. The days ahead would belong to the lad.

With a faint, closing smile, Reynold sheathed his sword and followed the squire who cleared his path.

The enemies ahead had vanished, and the forest began to thin.

The pursuers behind seemed to realize the futility of their chase, shouting unintelligible curses; once they cleared the woods, no one could stop them.

But then, a gaunt old man in black robes leaped from a tree, his expression twisted in a manic grin.

The mage stood at the edge of the forest, blocking their only exit.

Wang Yu was slow to process the threat, but the experienced knight’s pupils contracted, his face draining of color.

Reynold grabbed Wang Yu by the collar to veer away, but the fatigue accumulated over the long trek finally shattered his aging frame.

His reaction was a beat too slow; in the moment he saw the exit, the old knight had allowed himself a flicker of relief, and that relief brought a fatal delay.

The black-robed man had waited long, perched in the trees above their path, chanting eerie syllables as magic coalesced in his palms.

A subtle light shimmered: a third-circle spell, "Greater Mind Blast!"

A ripple of translucent, water-like energy surged outward, enveloping them instantly, a psychic shockwave detonating within their minds.

Almost immediately, the old knight stumbled and fell, uncontrolled.

His vision blurred into a grainy haze, a searing, crimson agony tearing at his sanity—enough to strip a squire of all resistance.

Wang Yu, however, felt nothing; the psychic wave hit his mind and vanished like a stone in a deep sea.

Just as he turned to pull the fallen knight up, another figure leaped from a tree, blade gleaming with a cold, bloodthirsty light.

The target was the old knight, still struggling on the ground.

Reynold was a veteran; even the agony of a third-circle spell could not fully extinguish his instinct.

He rolled onto his back, face contorted, biting his lip until it bled to anchor his mind against the psychic assault.

He thrust his hands upward, desperately parrying the descending blade.

But the assailant’s strength was equal to his own.

Or rather, after the running, the slaughter, and the psychic blow, Reynold’s strength had been halved.

In that moment, the attacker’s power eclipsed his own. The stalemate was a facade; the old knight’s hands buckled under the crushing weight.

The sword plunged into the gap of his helmet, piercing his throat.

Blood gushed forth, staining his armor and the earth in a blinding, vivid red, and those aged, powerful hands fell limp.

In a heartbeat, the assassin had ended the old knight’s desperate struggle.

Wang Yu realized the attacker was weaker than Reynold—otherwise, he wouldn't have ambushed—but with the mage’s support, the knight had been helpless.

In their year together, Reynold had been a pillar of experience, capable and steady.

Yet this man, far stronger than Wang Yu, had been crippled by the mage’s spell.

Despite his grit, he had been suppressed and executed by a lesser foe.

The situation was utterly hopeless.

A mage—damn it, who could have told Wang Yu that a border backwater, where even squires were rare, would harbor a mage?

And a mage capable of suppressing a high-ranking squire to the point of helplessness?

Wang Yu seemed trapped in a death sentence, but his will was his most extraordinary trait.

Nothing could shake it; that was why the mind blast had failed to touch him.

Despair could not take root. He did not fear death—or rather, he was indifferent to it.

Fear had long since been purged from his heart, but he could not die yet; he had to send these scumbags to hell before he met the God of this world.

"What to do... I can't win." The mage was skilled, and the killer was clearly a squire.

"How can a mid-level squire fight this? A desperate charge is suicide. I must rely on their greed."

Thoughts flashed like lightning, though not even a second had passed in reality.

A plan to gamble his life on their arrogance formed—it was his only path.

The instant the knight fell, Wang Yu maintained his posture for a heartbeat, then collapsed face-first, rigid as a board.

His nose bridge struck a stone with a sickening, audible crunch.

Blood pooled around his face, a vivid, scarlet mess.

His shield remained strapped to his arm, his short axe knocked away by his limp hand.

"Tch, and here I thought the brat had some defensive artifact."

The mage approached from the shadows, his ugly, sullen face twisted in mockery and greed.

It appeared, however, that Wang Yu had been rendered unconscious by the psychic blast, leaving him standing upright as if untouched, rather than possessing some hidden treasure; a trace of disappointment colored the speaker’s tone.

Use your head—what kind of formidable character could exist in a place like this, other than a pathetic psychic mage like you, specialized in nothing but mental assaults?

Magical artifacts? Keep dreaming. And as for this brat... ah? He killed so many of my men; would it be too easy to just let him die like this?

The man who had slain the old knight mocked the mage’s flights of fancy before shifting his focus to Wang Yu.

With a heavy thud, he drove a boot into the stomach of the fallen youth, the force so brutal that the sickening snap of breaking bone echoed through the air.

Seeing Wang Yu, already masked in blood, cough up another crimson spray while still unconscious, the man nodded as if satisfied, a savage and dangerous grin spreading across his face.

Take him back, patch him up just enough, and tomorrow throw him into a death match against every dog in the village; I don’t want a single scrap of flesh left on his bones when he finally dies.

This old man’s knightly armor is quite fine, though—where did a knight like that come from, rich enough to wander into this backwater? Ha, he’s brought me a fortune; even if we lost a few men, tonight we shall drink until we drop!

He waved his hand, beckoning the bandits, who erupted into cheers at his words, to haul Wang Yu away; they stepped over the corpses of their own comrades, chatting and laughing, utterly indifferent to the dead.

Two bandits, clad in rags and thin as skeletons, hoisted Wang Yu up between them.

They grumbled about the weight of his deceptively solid frame while gossiping about the food and drink awaiting them that night.

What they failed to notice was that Wang Yu, suspended in their grip, had cracked his tightly shut eyes just a sliver, parting his lips to let the blood that might have choked him or triggered a cough drip slowly away.

(Revised first chapter, optimized, but the pacing remains just as brisk! Let’s get straight into the main plot.)