When logging to neural odyssey you didn't need to open your eyes to know your logged, The weight of your armor the , The fresh untainted air you will never smell in the original world , The peace and quiet its just so addicting.
Taking in the scenery around him. Lush forests, rushing streams. At least it wasn't a desert.
"Alright," he muttered, pushing himself up. "Time to grind."
His eyes dropped to the armor, and for a moment he nearly cried with relief. He hadn't lost it. Nor the hammer. Especially not the armor — his pride. During launch, every player had been given a single chance: single armor set and one weapon of their choice, taken from any game, novel, or dream they wanted.
He'd been tempted by Artorias' armor — every Souls fan's fantasy — but in this world it would have drawn too much attention, too strange, So he chose the Raging Wolf set from Elden Ring, Very practical, and medieval enough to pass as real.
And the hammer? Robert Baratheon's own Warhammer.
Armed with his treasures, William felt like he could crack the world in half. The Warhammer rested heavy in his hands, the armor clinked like it was born just for him.
The problem many players faced was not knowing when or where they were. You couldn't even ask the NPCs , they didn't know themselves and would just think you were insane.
But knowing where you were was a start. Even better if you somehow got the current date. Then you could react to the historical events. For now, players' influence wasn't big enough to change history.
He closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and started spinning in place with the grace of a drunk ballerina. After five seconds, he stopped dead, wobbling slightly, and opened his eyes.
"North, south, or straight into a bear's den , fate decides."
It was a stupid method, sure, but surprisingly effective. Roughly three times out of ten, it actually led him toward civilization, and three chances were better than none when lost in the wild.
There was no time to waste. Skills had to be trained, copper and silver earned. Gold? That was a dream reserved for lords and dukes , and even they kept only a dozen pieces at best.
Since the warhammer happened to point north, William took it as destiny. Civilization had to be that way , and he needed to reach it sooner rather than later. Food, coins, and most importantly, a warhorse.
A knight without a true warhorse was like a sword with its edge dulled — still a weapon, but missing its soul.
But that soul didn't come cheap. A warhorse wasn't some shaggy farm pony you slapped a saddle on. No, these beasts were the product of selective breeding. Generations of careful pairing turned them into medieval tanks: big, brutal, and fearless.
They had to haul an armored knight (a good 80–100 kilos of man and pride), his steel harness (another 20–30 kilos), and often their own armor (yet another 40 kilos) — all while charging headlong into a wall of spears. Nature didn't make horses like that; nobles paid to create them.
And breeding was only the start.
Training a destrier was an art in itself. Ordinary nags were taught not to throw you off. Destriers? They were taught to bite, kick, trample, and keep calm when the world turned to fire and steel.
A horse that panicked was dead weight; a horse that stayed steady made a knight a legend. Training took years, and only specialists could do it. A half-trained destrier was as useful as a sword made of butter.
Then came scarcity. Not many of these monsters existed, and only nobles could afford them , which meant demand was always higher than supply. The price rose like smoke in a forge.
And as if the purchase wasn't enough, the upkeep was a nightmare. A warhorse ate like ten men, drank like twenty, and needed constant care to keep from dropping dead. Owning one wasn't a single payment , it was a lifelong bleeding of silver.
Still, they weren't just weapons. They were status. A knight on foot was a soldier. A knight on a destrier was a hammer of God. To ride one was to prove your nobility, wealth, and right to command.
That was why a pack mule cost 1 or 2 silver, a decent riding horse 1–3 gold, a proper knight's charger 30–50 gold, and the true elite destriers , fit for dukes and kings, soared past 100 gold. A fortune on four legs.
And here's the kicker , in the game world, owning a destrier didn't just drain your purse, it painted a giant glowing target on your back. You weren't some casual adventurer anymore.
You were a loot piñata on hooves. Guild leaders, rival clans, and random players prowled the roads looking for you, because why risk a war with an NPC army when you can just ambush one rich idiot on a horse?
A destrier without enough strength was basically announcing: "Hello world, please rob me."
So William knew the truth: if he wanted to be more than a man swinging a hammer, he needed a destrier. Otherwise, he was just another poor fool with dreams bigger than his feet.
But would that stop him from trying to get one? Absolutely not. Impossible? Dangerous? Of course. But if a knight backed down at the first hint of fear, he might as well hang up his spurs, drop the act, and join the ranks of bandits like every other lazy player. Less risk. Easier loot. No effort.
And William? He'd rather die chasing glory than live robbing turnip carts.