December 20th.
Inside the convent of Stan City in the eastern region of the Human Empire, voices rang out—words that would likely leave any passerby utterly confused.
"Three Coin."
"Eat!"
"Again? Sylvie, why do you always randomly 'eat' right at the start…"
"Your Highness Ron, as your lower seat, it's already fortunate if I get to eat at all."
"…"
In the courtyard, Ron, Sylvie, and two accompanying nuns were in the middle of a round of War of the Gods.
The system Backpack had practically unlimited space, so before leaving, Ron had stuffed it with all sorts of useful things.
The four of them were playing cards beside a stove, on which sat a large pot still warm with hotpot broth.
From the way Ron played while casually picking his teeth with a toothpick, it was clear he had just enjoyed a satisfying meal.
"In two more days, we should reach the Royal Capital, right?" Ron drew a "Two Coin," clicked his tongue, and discarded it.
"Pung!" Sylvie claimed the "Two Coin," then nodded. "Yes. Stan City isn't far from the Royal Capital. We should arrive by tomorrow afternoon."
"What the hell? You used Two Coins and four coins to eat my three coins earlier, and now you still have two more Two Coins?" Ron's forehead darkened with exasperation, utterly unable to comprehend Sylvie's playstyle.
Clearly used to such questioning, Sylvie ignored him completely and continued playing, steadfast in her own strategy.
Outside the courtyard, the escort squad that had accompanied Ron northward was patrolling the perimeter. Some guards were rotating off duty, eating rations, and chatting idly.
Stan City lay south of the Royal Capital, yet the snowfall was no weaker than in the north.
After last night's heavy snow, the roads that had just been cleared were once again swallowed by white drifts deep enough to engulf an entire foot.
By evening, light snow continued to fall—beautiful, but bitterly cold.
By the courtyard wall, two guards were gnawing on their rations.
The older one, bearded and rough-looking, took a swig from his water flask and swallowed a mouthful of dry bread before smacking his lips.
"Such a pity. In weather like this, if only we had a bowl of strong liquor. Would warm the whole body right up."
The younger guard beside him chuckled. Beneath his iron helmet was a clean, gentle-looking face.
"And then find some girl shivering in the cold and go warm up her trembling body?"
"Hehehe, you get me, Buffett." The older guard let out a lewd laugh. "Once we reach the Royal Capital, I'll take you to some good places. Guarantee you won't want to leave."
The young man called Buffett gave a knowing smile, his chuckle rumbling like an engine starting up.
The two huddled in the corner, shoulders shaking with laughter as they slowly finished their rations.
What the older guard didn't know was that this "Buffett," who had joined the escort after the convoy left the City of Chaos, was at that very moment projecting his consciousness into "His Highness Ron" inside the courtyard—playing War of the Gods with three beautiful nuns.
Yes.
The young man by the wall was the real Ron André.
The "His Highness Ron" in the courtyard was merely a life-sized puppet.
Just as Ron was chatting nonsense with the guard, a sudden commotion erupted inside the courtyard, accompanied by startled cries—
"Assassins!"
A few minutes later, Ron's real body and several other guards were called into the courtyard to clean up the scene.
As for the puppet Ron, who had been attacked, he was currently tugging at his tattered clothes with a helpless expression, heading inside the convent to change.
This had become routine over the past several days.
Everyone was used to it.
From initial panic, to growing proficiency and calm, to their current composure—it had taken only eight short days.
And the reason for it all was, of course, the perpetually unharmed "His Highness Ron."
"Sigh… why bother?" Ron muttered, looking at the assassin's corpse in the center of the courtyard, twisted and strangled by various wood-element spells.
These assassins weren't particularly strong—at most around Tier Four.
Rather than true assassination attempts, it felt more like harassment.
Like worn-out goldfish scooping nets—unable to catch the goldfish in the tank, yet still insisting on plunging into the water, only to lose their own lives in the process.
Perhaps to those pulling the strings behind the scenes, these assassins really were nothing more than expendable nets—not lives.
After cleaning up, Ron returned to his patrol post.
As he watched the guards stuff the corpse into a sack and carry it away, his heart slowly hardened.
Just as the guards had grown increasingly composed, Ron himself had undergone significant change over these eight days.
At first, the sight of a dead body had churned his stomach, sour bile rising his throat.
Now, even as corpses were carried past him and the metallic scent of blood lingered in the air, he could remain expressionless.
In a strict sense, only at this moment had he truly transformed—from a modern man of another world into a transmigrator who had adapted to the brutal laws of this one.
Sylvie stepped out from the courtyard, softly reassuring the guards. Then she walked over to Ron and discreetly accepted a small package from his hand.
Not long after, the nuns distributed leaves to each guard, instructing them to chew and swallow.
These were scale leaves plucked from the Puppet-Emerald Cypress. Before leaving the City of Chaos, Harper had already conducted preliminary research on their usage.
Whether taken orally, applied externally, or decocted, the leaves could fully exert their healing properties—and neutralize most poisons.
To ensure the safety of everyone in the convoy, Ron provided a packet of scale leaves to Sylvie three times a day—morning, noon, and night—so that each person could consume them and guard against hidden poisoning.
In short, caution above all.
Until they reached the Royal Capital, vigilance could not wane.
Standing at his post, Ron looked up at the falling snow and let out a deep sigh.
How annoying.
If he were still at the flower shop, he would be in the study reading—or sketching Legendary Kill character cards to pass the time.
Later, he'd share drinks and play cards with Mason and the others, or tease Yuna a bit before fleeing in embarrassment under her tray-wielding glare.
And late at night, he'd greet Nora—fresh from her bath, her damp purple hair now grown long enough to reach her back—pinch her cheek, and wish her goodnight.
A comfortable day, just like that.
Instead, for the sake of safety, he had to disguise himself as young Buffett, standing in the heavy snow, waiting for foolish assassins to deliver themselves to the door.
At times like this, the only comfort was opening the system interface and gazing at the Goddess of Harvest skin for solace.