The wind cut like a blade, and snow fell heavily.
Napoleon opened his eyes to find himself sitting in a yellow-gray carriage, the cabin swaying gently as it moved. Beside him, a young girl's soft voice chattered quietly.
Outside the carriage came the cacophony of bustling voices—merchants hawking their wares, boisterous shouts, cheers, and the laughter of children at play.
Napoleon let out a deep sigh.
He knew there was no going back. From being a corporate drone who had wasted away in a enterprise, he had awakened in this world after a night of heavy drinking.
It had been five days now.
He sniffed the air, catching the scents of ale, freshly baked bread, and fried pastries.
"Oh my, the White Rose Ale from the Rose Garden Inn grows more fragrant by the day," said the personal maid beside him, a girl named Petite, in her sweet, childlike voice.
Petite was only twelve years old. With her naturally round, cherubic face and small stature, she looked no different from a ten-year-old child.
Her plump little face was rosy-cheeked, dressed in a green cotton dress. In her small hands, she was warming a pair of exquisite fur-lined gloves for Napoleon to wear when they disembarked.
These gloves were made from the finest imported ermine fur with silk lining, crafted by the most skilled artisans in the capital. As the heir to one of the wealthiest merchant dynasties in the northern territories, Napoleon's every accessory was worth more than most families earned in a lifetime.
Napoleon smiled but said nothing.
The carriage soon came to a halt.
He lifted the curtain and stepped down onto the gray-white cobblestone street, where each stone was the size of a washbasin.
The street bustled with carriages and people leading horses back and forth.
Merchants and ladies out for leisure showed no restraint, laughing and chatting openly in public.
Napoleon looked up at the tavern before him.
A white rectangular sign bore three elegant words in flowing script: "Rose Garden."
"Master Napoleon has arrived! Please, come in! The private room in the Azure Chamber is reserved for you!" called out a young servant with a beaming smile.
Napoleon nodded with the bearing of a wealthy young lord, accepting an ivory fan edged with silver from little Petite. With a gentle flick, the fan opened to reveal a painted landscape of rolling hills and misty waters, complete with calligraphy that spoke of noble refinement.
He followed the servant into the tavern with practiced ease.
The tavern had two floors. The main hall on the ground floor was filled with patrons listening to a performance.
A traveling bard stood gracefully in the center, his weathered face telling of countless journeys. His voice was rich and resonant as he recited verses, accompanied by a middle-aged woman playing the lute.
He performed "The Three Meetings," an epic ballad of the tragic love between a departing general and a forest sprite, weaving the tale with the skill of a master storyteller.
Unfortunately, most of the tavern's patrons were rough folk, with only a few scholarly gentlemen truly appreciating the performance. The rest paid no attention to the performers.
The tips were meager.
Napoleon paused, seeing how lively the ground floor was, and decided to find an empty seat there instead.
"Who requested 'The Three Meetings'?" he casually asked a servant.
His status at the Rose Garden was quite special. If this tavern was equivalent to a high-end entertainment establishment, then he was their most distinguished patron.
As the sole heir to the Bonaparte merchant empire—a family fortune that rivaled royal treasuries—he spent at least several thousand gold crowns here each year without a second thought.
Such expenditure, in a northern border town like Oxenfurt, was nothing short of astronomical. The Bonaparte family's wealth was legendary, built over generations of successful trade ventures across multiple kingdoms.
"It was Master William, sir. Master William Blackthorne," the servant replied quietly.
Napoleon didn't press the matter and waved the servant away.
After seating himself with Petite, he scanned the crowd on the first floor until he spotted a pale, sickly-looking young man dressed in white, holding an ostentatious golden fan with lotus-leaf edges, waving it gently.
"Probably smitten with that singing girl again," Napoleon murmured, shaking his head.
"Young Master warned him just last time, and that scoundrel still hasn't learned!" Petite pouted indignantly.
Napoleon chuckled but said no more, settling in to listen to the music.
Soon, a table laden with food and drink appeared before them on the dark wood surface. Napoleon picked up a piece of roasted venison with herbs and took a sip of the White Rose Ale. The drink was sweet and floral, much like fruit wine.
"Living in luxury, without a care in the world, and with a beautiful maid to warm my bed—such a life is almost sinfully decadent," Napoleon mused.
Sometimes he wondered if he should simply live out his days this way, since this parasitic lifestyle was exactly what he had always dreamed of in his previous life.
He ate his food and drank his ale, occasionally opening his mouth to let Petite feed him a perfectly prepared honey-glazed river shrimp.
These northern ice-waters produced shrimp as a local delicacy. A simple dip into the thick ice holes could yield large quantities of these semi-transparent creatures.
These were ice shrimp—half the length of ordinary shrimp but incomparably delicious. The meat melted in one's mouth, truly a supreme delicacy.
Naturally, they were extremely expensive.
Common folk might afford them once a month at most, hardly able to enjoy them at every meal as he did.
As Napoleon savored his feast, fine wine, and music, his mind wandered to other matters.
He had been in this world, which resembled medieval Europe, for several days now. But from his observations, this world had many strange aspects.
Initially, he thought he had somehow traveled back to medieval times, but later realized that wasn't the case.
The customs, festivals, and climate here were vastly different from any historical period he knew.
Lost in thought, the tavern's main door opened once again.
A group of men in simple traveling clothes entered, taking seats at a table near the corner.
These men were clearly not locals—their dress and bearing suggested they hailed from the central kingdoms, lacking the rough quality typical of northerners.
"Sigh," groaned the leader, a bald man wearing brass earrings and bearing a face full of scars, though he now looked dejected.
"There's no way forward anymore."
"Captain, why worry? If we can't pass through Crow's Perch, we can take the second route through Oreton—that's still possible," suggested another man with furrowed brows.
"You don't understand. When I came to rendezvous, I took the Oreton route. The situation there is the same as Crow's Perch—many have died."
The bald leader's scarred face twitched with growing concern.
"What exactly happened, Captain? Tell us brothers about it so we can learn something," urged another companion.
The bald warrior sighed again.
"I don't know the details myself. I only know that several fishing villages around Lake Wyndamer have had incidents—seems like undead creatures are causing trouble."
"Undead creatures!? You can't be serious!"
Napoleon's table was close enough to overhear their conversation clearly.
At first, he had listened casually for entertainment, not expecting these men to discuss supernatural matters.
In this life, the House of Bonaparte was not merely one of the wealthiest families in this northern region—they were a commercial empire that spanned multiple kingdoms. Calling them merely "wealthy" would be laughable.
As the pampered heir to this vast fortune, Napoleon's daily allowance exceeded what entire noble houses spent in a year. Compared to his previous world, the Bonaparte family wealth would easily surpass billionaire status.
Over these past few days of tavern visits, he had heard plenty of tales about monsters and spirits, but most were just folklore and legends.
This was the first time he had encountered people claiming firsthand experience with such things.
Napoleon perked up his ears to listen more carefully.
Fortunately, the men weren't trying to keep their conversation private, continuing to discuss the village incidents loudly.
"That undead horror—I saw it with my own eyes! Over eight feet tall, with rotting flesh and hollow eyes, draped in tattered burial shrouds. By the Holy Light, if your captain hadn't run fast enough, you wouldn't be seeing me alive today!"
The bald man still seemed shaken by the memory.
"Captain, are there really such things as undead creatures?"
One man remained skeptical.
"You're not just making up stories, are you?"
Another chuckled.
Napoleon found this amusing as well, probably just another tall tale from some boastful traveler.
He had encountered plenty of such characters recently.
After finishing his meal and drink, he had a servant bring over the performers' song list to browse through.
While "The Three Meetings" was well-performed, it didn't suit the mood—he wanted something more cheerful.
SLAM!
Just then, the bald warrior's face reddened as he slammed his hand on the table.
"You really think Old Hugo only knows how to boast!? Look! Look at this! This is a fragment of cursed bone that fell from that undead horror! I secretly went back to collect it afterward!"
He carefully extracted what looked like a strange, translucent chunk from his coat and slapped it on the table. The substance had an unsettling appearance—part bone, part dark crystal—its surface glistening with an otherworldly sheen yet feeling cold and hard to the touch.
"That's just a piece of gristle or cartilage!" one of his companions laughed.
"Gristle? You think this is mere gristle!? Look closer, you fool—it's harder than stone yet has the texture of cursed bone!"
The bald warrior's face flushed red.
"Good sir, might I have a look at that item?"
Suddenly, a gentle voice came from nearby.
Napoleon stood beside their table with a mild smile, his gaze sweeping over the dark crystal-like fragment.
"You want this thing? This was left behind by an undead creature," the bald man said in surprise.
He had only brought it out to show off and planned to discard it afterward.
After all, it wasn't left by human hands. If it actually attracted the undead creature's attention, that would be more trouble than it was worth.
"No matter. I'd just like to examine it," Napoleon said, not believing in undead creatures but intrigued by the strange substance. It defied classification—neither purely organic nor mineral.
He had seen plenty of curiosities in the finest shops across kingdoms, artifacts that wealthy collectors coveted. But this thing was different.
Something about the bone-crystal hybrid stirred an inexplicable hunger within him—a craving he couldn't understand.
The bald warrior Hugo studied Napoleon, noting his refined bearing and expensive attire.
His blue tunic lined with white fox fur, crowned with a jade gentleman's cap, and cloud-patterned black boots embroidered with silver thread represented wealth that could fund several months at this tavern, enough to support a common family for over a year.
"If the young lord wants it, it's not impossible... just one silver crown will do!" the warrior said hesitantly.
"Agreed." Napoleon had Petite produce a silver coin and place it on the table.
"It's yours now." The bald man quickly grabbed the cursed fragment and pressed it into Napoleon's hand. The group exchanged glances and immediately departed.
Napoleon said nothing, watching them leave as he held the dark crystal up for closer examination.
"One silver crown—in terms of purchasing power from my old world, that's about a thousand yuan. Only in this life could I be so financially reckless."
He shook his head. One silver crown meant nothing to him. According to this body's memories, his monthly expenses ran no less than a hundred silver crowns, sometimes reaching over a thousand—equivalent to millions!
The thought made him grimace at his own extravagance.
Holding the cursed fragment, he ignored the curious stares of other patrons and left the tavern with Petite, heading toward their waiting carriage.
But barely halfway there, he suddenly froze, holding the bone-crystal in his palm.
An overwhelming urge consumed him—a primal hunger that he couldn't resist. Without thinking, Napoleon brought the strange substance to his mouth and bit into it.
The texture was indescribable—simultaneously tender like the finest meat and crunchy like crystallized honey. As he swallowed, a burning sensation spread across his chest.
Petite gasped in horror, her eyes widening as she watched her master devour the grotesque thing. For a terrifying moment, in the dim light, Napoleon's eyes seemed to gleam with an inhuman hunger, his movements predatory and tiger-like.
Napoleon felt his chest burning intensely. When Petite wasn't looking, he quickly glanced down and pulled open his shirt collar. To his shock, a bizarre, intricate tattoo had appeared on his chest—dark patterns that seemed to writhe and pulse with their own life. He quickly closed his shirt and acted as if nothing had happened.
"Master... what... what did you just do?" Petite whispered, her voice trembling.
Napoleon stood there in a daze, a strange satisfaction filling him as he licked his lips. The hunger was gone, replaced by an odd sense of completeness. The burning in his chest had subsided, leaving only the memory of that strange tattoo.
"Young Master? Young Master??"
Petite called to him repeatedly.
Napoleon snapped back to attention, realizing what he had done. His hand was empty now, save for a few drops of dark fluid.
A chill ran down his spine as he met Petite's frightened gaze, though he began to understand something was changing within him.
"Let's go. Back to the manor!"
Petite blinked, not quite understanding the sudden change.
"Oh... okay..."
They boarded the carriage, and the driver cracked his whip a few times. Two shaggy black horses began moving slowly forward.
Inside the carriage, Napoleon sat in silence, occasionally touching his chest where the mysterious tattoo lay hidden beneath his clothing.
"What kind of creature is my master becoming?" she thought fearfully, though she didn't dare speak aloud. The way he had consumed that thing... it reminded her of the old stories about lycanthropes and other cursed beings. And now he kept touching his chest as if something was bothering him there.
But then again, being heir to the Bonaparte fortune, perhaps the young master was simply... eccentric. The wealthiest families often had their strange quirks, and one silver crown meant nothing to someone whose family owned half the trading routes in three kingdoms.
As their carriage returned home through the city gates, Napoleon heard shouting outside.
"...heard earlier that the undead horror was destroyed! A traveling priest intervened and saved the fishing village!"
"Did the Crown send someone?"
"They came earlier, but even the capital's chief constable nearly got trapped. Fortunately, they encountered a traveling cleric from the Holy Light Church. They say when that holy man raised his blessed symbol, there was a brilliant flash of divine light, the undead creature screamed, crumbled to ash, then dissolved into dark mist that dispersed!"
"So it wasn't the Crown's experts who handled it?"
"Of course not!"
Napoleon recognized these as the idle conversations of the gate guards.
He often deliberately passed by these gates since the officers and soldiers here were well-informed and enjoyed sharing strange tales and gossip.
"What a coincidence..." Napoleon's expression remained unchanged.
Recalling the cursed fragment incident, his heart sank.
The carriage slowly made its way toward Merchant's Quarter, the most affluent district in the city.