Volume One: The Forest Knight Chapter One: Beginning with a Prison Cell

This winter in the Principality of Brick was exceptionally cold. Even today, though the wind was not fierce, the snowflakes that struck one’s face stung sharply. A tall, thin young man with brown hair, dressed as a hunter, entered a cave carrying a bundle of firewood in his arms. He threw the firewood down beside the hearth and hurried to warm himself by the fire. He shouted at his three companions seated around the flames, “Damn, I’m freezing to death! You bastards, if more wood is needed, you go chop it. I’m not going out again.”

The scarred middle-aged man to his left passed him a flask of liquor. “Shut your mouth. It was just a bundle of firewood. If you were still in the city defense camp, you’d be left to freeze at the city gate all day.”

“Sure, frozen all day, but at least you got paid. In the evenings, you could take your coin purse to Flea Street and find a plump girl to sleep with. That was the life!” Compared to their current predicament, he missed his days in the defense camp.

At the mention of money and women, the other three fell silent. After a while, the man in the wolfskin cloak, his right hand wrapped in bandages, spoke, “I know hiding out in this cave is tough, brothers, but I can promise you, in no more than twenty days, we’ll have our ransom. After that, we’ll head to Orian or Valendi. With the money we’ve robbed these last couple of years, we can buy four squire titles and a few small farms from a lord. Then we’ll be lords ourselves, eating and drinking well every day.”

The others’ eyes sparkled at this vision, and the hardship of the days seemed to melt away.

About ten paces from their hearth stood a wooden cage, inside of which were two men dressed as knights—one old, one young. The elder knight had already died of grievous wounds; the youth was a court squire of eighteen. He had suffered a blow to the head in yesterday’s skirmish and had only just regained consciousness. Now he sat dazed, listening to the bandits’ conversation, and as memories returned, a wave of sorrow washed over him.

He had once been a retired scout, working in the provincial capital as a liquor salesman. He’d just bought a house, and his family was arranging a match for him. But after a night drinking with clients, he was struck by a car crossing the street, and his soul was flung into this strange world, inhabiting the body of the young squire. Now, not only could he not live in his newly purchased home, but he’d gone from a twenty-something-year-old bachelor to a virgin youth in an alien world. He truly regretted drinking so much.

In his previous life, he’d read countless stories of transmigration; others always ended up as nobles or wealthy heirs, or else traveled back to ancient China, opening up cheat-like advantages—making money, gathering followers, marrying a host of beautiful women. But him? He landed in a cage, lumped with the corpse of his slain mentor, beginning his journey in hell mode.

After a while, he calmed himself. After all, he’d been a soldier before; since he was here, he’d accept it. He hadn’t become an animal—he was still human. Perhaps he could carve out a life for himself.

Having accepted reality, the youth searched his host’s memories for information about himself and the world at large, gaining some understanding of this unfamiliar place.

His name was Berrian, a squire in the Duke of Brick’s court. His father was a knight directly under the duke, with hereditary lands. But as the second son, Berrian had no inheritance, so his father, Sir Orec, as was customary, entrusted him to his friend, Sir Logan, also a court knight. There, Berrian would serve as a squire and learn the martial arts, so that, if he distinguished himself in battle, he might one day become a squire-at-arms or even a knight, entering the lowest rung of the principality’s nobility—an honor common folk could hardly dream of.

Everything had been going well, until Berrian’s first expedition with Sir Logan to root out bandits. After two victories, they were ambushed by the remnants. Though the bandits suffered heavy losses, they wiped out Logan’s cavalry squad, capturing the wounded knight and Berrian. They handed their swords to a wounded soldier and sent him to deliver a ransom demand to their families. Truly, they had set out to hunt geese, but ended up pecked in the eye.

His own misfortune aside, the world was grim. This continent resembled Europe’s Middle Ages: powerful church, feudal lands, endless war, backward civilization—a truly dark era.

With disaster upon him, should he submit or resist? Submission meant an easier life in the short term, though the future was uncertain. Resistance was a hard road, full of suffering and unknowns, but it at least offered hope. Now, Berrian reflected, he’d drifted through life as a soldier and a salesman. Since fate had granted him a new life, he would not waste it; he would fight for his place in this world. The fire returned to his eyes.

The squire, newly awakened and staring blankly in the cage, drew no notice from the four bandits at the fire, who drank and roasted rabbit, cheerfully discussing their future as lords.

The young man who’d fetched the firewood said to their leader, “Big-Nose Gray, once we’re lords, we won’t need to go to Flea Street for girls. Any pretty girl on the farms, we just take her.”

“Ha! No need to take them by force. The free peasants and serfs will be glad to have you sleep with their wives and daughters. At least with us, they’ll eat; with their own kind, they’ll starve,” the scarred bandit laughed, his disfigured face even more frightening when twisted in mirth.

“Ward, you’d better go easy,” joked the man tending the rabbit. “You’re not as sturdy as your brother Gray. Don’t wear yourself out with women.”

“If that happens, even if I die, it’ll have been worth it!” Ward guffawed recklessly.

They joked for a while, until Gray, the leader, patted his belly and stood. “I’m off to take a piss. That rabbit leg is mine—none of you touch it.”

“Don’t worry, we won’t steal your meat,” the others replied.

Gray had barely left the cave before he returned, moving quietly, a dagger in hand. At that moment, Berrian was reclining in the cage, feigning sleep. He saw Gray’s return and grew tense, but quickly recovered his calm—after all, ransom was more valuable for the living. The bandits would not kill him, so what was Gray about? Suddenly, Berrian understood—they must be turning on each other for a greater share of the loot. Fewer people meant bigger shares.

Feigning unconsciousness, Berrian squinted through his lashes to watch.

Gray crept into the cave, glancing at Berrian in the cage to confirm he was still out. Satisfied, he continued stealthily to a rock near the fire, hiding behind it. At this moment, Ward was sitting opposite the other two. Gray was behind the firewood-gathering youth. When that man bent to eat, Ward glanced at Gray and nodded. Gray swiftly advanced, seized the youth’s head with his left hand, and with his right, drew the dagger across the man’s throat. Blood spurted onto the fire, nearly extinguishing the flames.

The rabbit-tender was stunned by the sudden violence. Before he could react, Ward seized an axe and hacked him down.

When the two brothers had finished, Ward spat on the corpses. “Idiots! Did you really think manors and titles come so cheap? Why would we split the loot with you?”

Gray wiped blood from his face, grinning. “Let’s drag them out for the wolves. When the 150,000 denar ransom for our two guests arrives, we’ll head to Orian. They’re always at war with Brick and Barks—lots of chances for reward. We’ll buy two squire-at-arms titles and a farm, then earn merit on the field. Who knows? Maybe we’ll win a hereditary title and lands.”

“Haha! As you say, Sir Gray.” Ward laughed, bowing to his brother as they hauled one of the bodies out.

Witnessing the brothers’ ruthlessness, Berrian trembled for his own fate. As a knight’s second son, his family might not have the means or the will—especially with an unfriendly elder brother—to pay such a ransom. If the bandits failed to get their money, they’d surely not spare him. Gritting his teeth, Berrian whispered to himself, “Better to kill them than wait to be killed.”

The cage was only secured with chains, the bandits careless since they had numbers and both captives were wounded. Berrian quietly slipped the chain loose, hurried to the fire to grab a sword and dagger, then hid in the shadows.

He’d spent five years as a scout, had killed before, and was trained in combat. This body, too, had been drilled in arms since childhood. Yesterday’s injury had been to the head—now, thanks to transmigration, even that was healed. He was confident—in a two-on-one fight, he could take the brothers.

The two returned shortly, having only dragged the bodies a short way. Shivering from the cold, they paid no mind to the cage. They went straight to haul out the last corpse, eager to be rid of their victims.

As Gray lifted the head and Ward the legs, and they’d taken only a few steps from the fire, a shadow lunged from the darkness. In just three paces, like a flash of lightning, Berrian slit Gray’s throat with the same dagger Gray had used before.

Seeing his brother fall, Ward’s face contorted with rage. He dropped the corpse and charged Berrian barehanded, hoping to reach the weapons by the fire. But Berrian, seeing through his intent, blocked his way with several slashes, wounding him in the process.

Snarling, bloodied, Ward glared, “You little whelp, this isn’t fair. You’re of noble blood—surely you know a duel should be fair. Give me a weapon, and we’ll fight to the death.”

Berrian sneered. Why should I give you a weapon when I can kill you easily? A villain like you deserves no duel. Without another word, he pressed the attack. Though Ward was not without skill, he was no match for an armed squire. Soon he was bleeding from several deep wounds; if the sword didn’t kill him, blood loss would. Seeing the odds turn against him, Ward tried to flee the cave. But Berrian gave him no chance—he flung his battle axe, striking Ward squarely between the shoulders and ending his evil life.

With the brothers dead, Berrian, drained and starving after a day without food, staggered to the fire, devouring the bandits’ leftovers. As he ate, he noticed a slip of gray paper atop a nearby chest. He meant to use it to wipe his hands, but the writing caught his eye—so instead, he wiped his hands on his tunic and began to read.