Younger brother's face twisted into a smug, sleazy grin as he sneered, "Once you're shipped off to that corrupted wasteland, you'll never come back. I'd hate to miss out on savoring your expression right now."
Field's nails dug deep into his flesh, his fists creaking from the strain as he glared and asked coldly, "I never did anything to you. Why are you targeting me?"
"Because of that charity of yours—that damn battle potion you gave me! After I took it, I couldn't break through to a first-tier knight! Everyone's been calling me a waste behind my back, and it's all your fault! You must've poisoned it!"
Field felt sick to his stomach. "That's because your talent sucks."
"Heh, well, if you ever get a lover, I'll have her kidnapped and let a bunch of vagrants have their way with her! Oh, too bad you won't have a future, you bastard!" His brother flashed a taunting, ugly smirk.
"Son of a bitch!" Field's rage hit its peak. The original owner of this body had been nothing but a naive do-gooder.
Sure enough, good deeds had a way of making enemies. It was true what they said: build bridges, mend roads, and you'll end up with no legacy; kill and burn, and you'll wear a golden belt. These shameless scumbags needed a lesson in fists! "You're asking for it!"
With a fierce knee strike, he sent his brother flying backward. Field pounced, landing a brutal kick to his face, splattering blood across that hideous mug.
Everyone froze in shock. The usually mild-mannered Field had turned savage.
"I hate it when people threaten me."
Before the guards could react, Field grabbed his brother's golden curls, ready to smash his head into the ground.
Suddenly, a tight grip closed around his throat, hoisting him high into the air. In an instant, the agonizing chokehold made Field feel death closing in.
"What are you doing to my lord?" The one choking him was a stunning woman with wine-red hair, her most striking feature being the mysterious rune glowing on her forehead.
"A Chosen One?" Field was stunned.
This world harbored supernatural power, and it all hinged on the Chosen Ones—rare beings who surpassed battle aura and magic, wielding bizarre abilities ranging from combat to support and construction.
The kicker? Only women became Chosen Ones. Maybe the gods of this world were all female.
Just as Field was about to black out, a dizzying spin hit him, followed by a searing pain in his back—he'd been slammed against the wall.
"Heh, as expected, you didn't have the guts to kill him."
"Argh! I'll kill you!" his brother coughed violently, drawing a dagger from his waist.
Field wiped the blood from his lips. No matter what, he couldn't take on a Chosen One. Without wasting another second, he gritted his teeth through the pain and bolted away.
To think his brother—still unappointed—already had a Chosen One protecting him. That made Field's situation even more dangerous.
With no resources to sit around and wait for death, and now having pissed off his brother, Field knew he had to act. Otherwise, tonight might end with his brother dragging him off for some twisted torment.
"Just wait 'til I level up. I'll come back and wreck you all," Field muttered, his eyes narrowing with unmasked fury.
Nine years of compulsory education didn't raise a coward!
"So, what's this annoying green dot buzzing around like a fly?" Field pondered the map visible only to him. "It showed up the day I crossed over—maybe it's tied to a lord's talent."
Where there's yin, there's yang. Opposite the Chosen Ones were the lords. By forming a pact with a Chosen One, they could grow together through mutual feedback.
Lords possessed unique talents, often linked to their Chosen Ones and territories. But rare innate talents existed—those without a territory or pact, yet still gifted. The original Field had none, but the transmigrated Field did.
Of course, it could also be floaters or cataracts—only time would tell. Either way, it wasn't far, just in Golden Eagle City.
Packing lightly, Field found his butler had already taken the gold coins, leading the servants with despair etched on their faces, awaiting their fate.
Learning they were headed to the cursed land, the butler felt like hanging himself, but suicide wouldn't get him to heaven, so he braced himself for the inevitable.
"Let's go," Field said, his mind heavy, too preoccupied to comfort his butler.
As he opened the manor's gate, a squad of cavalry in mismatched armor came into view. A man in a red cloak, wielding a long lance, stepped forward. "Honored Baron Field, I'm Captain Connor, your escort. I'm sure we'll have a pleasant journey."
"Much appreciated, Connor," Field replied politely, though alarm bells rang in his head.
Called an escort, but the bandits' vibes from the cavalry offered zero reassurance. Field even suspected they might kill him for his money the moment they left. Still, the odds were low—registered knights rarely risked their careers murdering a noble.
Field shrugged. "Probably here to supervise me—straight to the gallows."
"First stop, Golden Eagle City. Opening Nightfall Hold will need supplies."
Field planned to check out that green dot.
Golden Eagle City, the second-largest in the Ross family's domain, boasted unmatched commercial power. It was granted to Field's second sister, whose annual tax revenue hit 600,000 gold coins—starkly contrasting Field's measly 500, making it sting even more.
Riding a carriage, Field arrived after a morning's journey at this sprawling city covering ten square kilometers.
Unlike modern times, the gate guards lounged against the walls, swapping crude jokes or harassing poor entrants with steep fees. Spotting Field's cavalry vanguard, an officer jolted upright.
"Move those peasants' junk! A lord's passing through—open your damn eyes, you idiots!"
The lazy soldiers snapped to attention, shooing civilians and merchants aside to clear the gate, then bowed obsequiously to Field.
Though out of favor, Field was still a noble—commoners dared not cross him.
Slowing his horse, Field followed the green dot's lead.
The gate officer sighed in relief. As long as Field didn't cause trouble, it was another good day. He chugged olive wine, lounging in his chair under the sun, letting his men collect taxes.
Guided by the dot, Field reached the slave market in the city's north.
"Oh! This damn stench—pigweed mixed with manure is making my nose burn," Captain Connor grimaced, waving the air futilely as the odor pierced through.