The younger brother's face twisted into a malicious smirk. "Once you go to that corrupted land, you'll never come back. I'd regret it if I didn't enjoy your expression right now."
Field's nails dug deep into his palms until blood welled, his knuckles cracking from the force. He asked coldly, "I never provoked you. Why target me?"
"Because of that damn combat aura potion you *condescended* to give me!" the brother spat, his voice venomous. "After taking it, I couldn't even break through to become a first-tier knight! Everyone calls me a failure behind my back – it's all *your* fault! You must have poisoned it!"
Field felt nauseated. "That's just your abysmal talent."
"Heh. Well, if you ever get a lover, I'll snatch her too and let countless vagrants have their way with her!" the brother taunted, his grin widening grotesquely. "Oh, wait. You won't have a future, bastard!" He stuck out his tongue in a mocking gesture.
"Fuck! You scumbag!" Field's fury reached its peak. The original host was such a pathetic pushover.
*Exactly! Doing good deeds just makes enemies. Building bridges earns you a grave, while murder and arson line your pockets.* These shameless bastards only understand the language of fists! "You're fucking asking for it!"
A vicious knee strike slammed into the brother's gut, sending him staggering back. Field exploded into motion, following up with a brutal kick straight to the face. Blood gushed from the brother's now mangled features as he crashed to the floor.
The onlookers froze in shock. Field, the perpetual nice guy, had just unleashed terrifying brutality.
"I *hate* being threatened."
Field seized the brother's golden curls before the guards could react, preparing to smash his head against the stone floor.
Suddenly, an iron grip closed around Field's throat. He was hoisted effortlessly into the air.
In an instant, agonizing suffocation choked him, the cold touch of death closing in.
"And what do you think you're doing to *my* lord?" The woman holding Field aloft was strikingly beautiful, with wine-red hair. But the most arresting feature was the intricate, glowing sigil etched onto her forehead.
"A Chosen?" Field gasped, stunned despite the pain.
This world possessed extraordinary power, and its key lay with the Chosen. They were unique existences, transcending combat aura and magic, wielding bizarre and potent abilities encompassing combat, support, and construction.
The infuriating part? Only women could become Chosen. *Maybe all the gods in this damn world are women.*
Just as darkness began to cloud Field's vision, he felt himself hurled through the air. Excruciating pain exploded along his spine as he slammed into a wall.
"Heh. Too scared to kill me, after all," Field wheezed, forcing a defiant smirk through the pain.
"Argh! I'll kill you!" The brother scrambled up, coughing blood, and drew a dagger from his belt.
Wiping blood from his own lip, Field knew fighting a Chosen was suicide. He had no time to waste. Gritting his teeth against the agony, he pushed himself up and strode purposefully towards the exit without a backward glance.
*So, even before formally inheriting, he already has a Chosen protector.* The danger level just skyrocketed. Field had no luxury to wait around. He'd made a powerful enemy today. If he didn't act fast, his brother might have him dragged off tonight for unspeakable torture.
*Just you wait. Give me time to build my strength. I'll come back and wreck every last one of you.* Field's eyes narrowed, the simmering rage within them plain to see.
*Nine years of compulsory education didn't produce cowards!*
"So, what the hell is this annoying green dot buzzing around like a fly?" Field pondered the translucent map visible only to him. "It appeared the day I transmigrated. Maybe it's related to my lordly gift?"
For every shadow, there's light. Counterparts to the "Chosen" were the "Lords." By forming a pact with a Chosen, both could grow stronger through mutual feedback.
Lords possessed unique gifts, often tied to their Chosen partner or their territory. However, rare innate gifts existed – talents manifesting without a territory or a Chosen pact.
The original host naturally had none. But Field, the transmigrator, possessed this rare innate gift.
*Or it could just be floaters or cataracts.* Everything depended on checking it out. It wasn't far – right here in Golden Eagle City.
After packing minimal belongings, Field found the steward waiting with the retrieved gold coins and a handful of despairing servants. Learning their destination was the cursed lands, the steward looked ready to hang himself. But suicide damned the soul, so he resigned himself to marching towards certain death.
"Let's go," Field said tersely, too preoccupied to offer comfort.
As the manor gates opened, a disorderly band of cavalry in mismatched armor came into view. A man in a red cloak, carrying a long lance, stepped forward. "Respects, Baron Field. I'm Captain Connor, leading your escort. I trust we'll have a pleasant journey."
"I leave it in your hands, Connor," Field replied politely, though internal alarms blared.
*Escort?* Their bandit-like vibe offered zero security. Field strongly suspected they might kill him for the gold once they were out of sight.
*Unlikely, though. Registered knights wouldn't usually murder a noble – too career-ending.*
Field shrugged mentally. *Probably just jailers escorting me to the gallows.*
"We're heading to Golden Eagle City first," Field announced. "Establishing Duskwind March requires significant supplies."
He intended to investigate the green dot.
Golden Eagle City, the second-largest city in House Roth's domain, boasted unparalleled commercial power. Granted to Field's second sister, its annual tax revenue was said to be 600,000 gold coins – a number that made Field's paltry 500 gold sting all the more sharply.
After a morning's carriage ride, they arrived at the massive city, sprawling over forty square kilometers. Unlike modern cities, the guards at the gate lounged lazily against the walls, trading crude jokes or harassing and extorting exorbitant entry fees from the lower-class citizens trying to enter.
Only when they spotted Connor's cavalry leading the way did an officer scramble to his feet.
"Move that peasant trash aside! Make way for the lord! Use your eyes, you fools!" he bellowed.
The idle guards snapped to attention, roughly shoving merchants and commoners aside to clear a path. They bowed obsequiously as Field passed.
Unfavored or not, Field was still nobility. Ordinary folk dared not offend.
Slowing his horse, Field navigated the city streets, guided by the green dot on his map.
The gate officer exhaled heavily. *No trouble from the noble? Another good day.* He took a long swig of olive wine and settled back into his chair to soak up the sun.
Following the green dot's persistent pulse, Field arrived at the sprawling slave market in the city's northern district.
"Oh, damn it all! That stench! Pig feed mixed with manure, enough to make your eyes water and your nose shrivel!" Captain Connor wrinkled his nose in disgust, waving a hand futilely before his face. The pungent odor penetrated regardless, assaulting the senses.