Two o'clock in the morning. A rooster's crow tore through the bleak, grey clouds. A frigid winter wind swept across the land, scouring it of all life and leaving behind endless withered yellow.
The monks of Göttingen Abbey rolled out of bed, washed up, and filed out of the dormitory for the twenty-minute Christian morning service, Matins.
Despite having grown accustomed to it over eight years, the now 20-year-old Horten of Bovenden still suspected that a major reason for the short lifespans of medieval people was their habit of treating the dead of night as early morning, droning on with their Bibles while the world was dark.
Yes, Horten was a transmigrator.
One day, while surfing the web and playing a war game with the goal of world domination, he had been inexplicably transmigrated, becoming the new master of this body.
Horten of Bovenden, the youngest son of a common knightly family in the County of Göttingen. Adhering to the medieval aristocratic tradition of the eldest son inheriting the estate while younger sons were sent to the Church, Horten was sent to Göttingen Abbey at the age of 12 to become an ordinary monk.
The days of chanting scripture were excruciatingly dull.
Even with his knightly origins, he received no special treatment in the abbey. He woke at 2 a.m. for Matins, read the Bible, sang hymns, and studied theology until 8 a.m. This was followed by four hours of manual labor, then more study until lunch at 3 p.m. After dinner at 5 p.m., it was straight to bed. Celibacy was a given, and the monasteries for men and women were completely separate. A woman's face was a rare sight.
This was the life of a common monk. With such a death-defying schedule, it was no wonder their average life expectancy was only twenty years.
The earliest monks had been sincere hermits, but the monks of today were mostly just hoping to curry favor with the abbot and various officials to secure a cushy position. And due to the strict segregation of the sexes, the most obvious consequence of this favor-currying was that glycerin suppositories were a hot commodity.
Unfortunately for him, Horten was an upright man who refused to engage in filthy backdoor deals. As a result, he was always assigned the dirtiest, most tiring, and least profitable jobs.
And so it was that Horten was summoned by the abbot, Skork.
"Young son of a knight, you are known for your martial prowess. I know you can traverse the dangerous wilderness. Please deliver this letter to the Countess at Castle Göttingen."
The abbot's expression was gentle, but anyone with a shred of common sense knew that the wilderness and forests beyond the towns concealed countless dangerous bandits and robber bands, along with lethal monsters like Greenskins and Beastmen. Manticores and Harpies soared through the skies, and unknown, bizarre creatures lurked underground. A normal postal delivery required an armed escort.
And the abbot wanted Horten to go alone?
Forget Horten; even his dormitory companions wore looks of discontent. One even spoke up against the abbot: "With all due respect, Abbot, this is not fair!"
Abbot Skork had a terrible reputation. He had no interest in raising the abbey's academic standards, focusing instead on amassing wealth and promoting his cronies. Whenever he held a prayer meeting, his fees were the highest and his efforts the least. The priests he sent out were all illiterate relatives. But alas, his brother was a man of considerable power in the County of Göttingen, and no one dared to cross him.
Because of this, Abbot Skork fearlessly warned Horten, "Boy, do you think my order is not an order? Or perhaps you'd like to find someone to go in your place?"
An abbey was not a school; it was a self-sufficient little society. The abbot's authority over the common monks and populace was practically a matter of life and death.
The companions, intimidated, hastily backed away. No one wanted to be a sacrificial lamb.
It was then that Horten spoke with a steady voice, "I'll go."
Judging by his expression, you would never think he considered the journey a near-certain death sentence.
Abbot Skork gave a cunning smile, inwardly dismissing him. You little brat. After hearing that news, how could you dare refuse?
Horten was doing this on purpose.
Personal freedom in the Middle Ages was heavily restricted. Leaving the abbey required a legitimate reason, and graduating to serve elsewhere was even more difficult.
The abbot forcing him out was a move made with malicious intent.
The village controlled by Horten of Bovenden's parents was situated on a major transportation route, generating a respectable income from road taxes. The despicable Skork and his brother, Howard, had repeatedly pressured Horten's father to surrender the fiefdom. Now, Skork had just informed Horten that Howard was planning to launch an attack on Bovenden village in the coming days!
When the abbey gates opened, Horten mounted his donkey, thrilled, and bid farewell to his roommates.
"Don't waste any time!"
But in this dangerous era, what did Horten have to protect himself?
Reaching a forest not far from the abbey, Horten stood still and silently chanted 'Summon'. A large cluster of figures suddenly materialized on the empty ground before him.
That's right, Horten had inherited the system from the war game he was playing before he transmigrated!
In this game, one could unlock a vast number of military units by continuously gaining promotions in office or rank, using them to vie for control of the world.
Unfortunately, Horten's current rank was still [Nameless], a nobody with no status, so he could only summon the lowest-tier basic units.
Of course, being a modern game, Horten could also pay a hefty price of 250 gold coins for a random "lucky" unit roll. However, the drop rate was truly pitiful, and Horten had never gotten anything good from it.
Over the past eight years, Horten had saved up a fair number of points by completing small daily tasks, which he had exchanged for a novice reward during the new-player protection period.
Now, it was time to summon his own troops!
Basic Unit: Spearmen (Base size: 40 men. Monthly upkeep: 2 gold. A pitiable spear army composed of peasants. Who knows if they can withstand a knight's charge? Not that the lords care.)
Basic Unit: Peasant Bowmen (Base size: 40 men. Monthly upkeep: 2 gold. You can't expect them to shoot very far, but at least they're cheap.)
Horten summoned two units of Spearmen and one unit of Peasant Bowmen. They were all peasants. The Spearmen wore padded armor and thick cotton cloth, topped with simple round-top helms or kettle hats. The Bowmen were equipped with nothing but a bow. It was a pathetic sight. Upon appearing, they instinctively gathered around Horten. Each unit of 40 men could be upgraded to 80, and then 120.
According to the basic knowledge the system instilled in them, they were simple farmers who followed Horten. As long as he guaranteed their monthly salary and food supply, they would follow him with unwavering loyalty.
The system's novice protection period provided one month's worth of wages and food. After that, Horten was on his own.
Three units meant six gold coins a month. The pressure was immense.
But thankfully, Horten had the letter.
Tearing it open and giving it a quick read, Horten understood at once.
This wasn't a letter from Skork to the Countess at all. It was a letter from the Countess, who was trapped on a hill, pleading with the abbey for reinforcements.
That cunning, detestable Skork, by sending Horten with the letter, clearly intended to use Horten's death to absolve himself of responsibility for the Countess's demise.
It was common knowledge that Skork's older brother, Howard, was the right-hand man of the Countess of Göttingen—the Master of the Stables, in charge of the county's military affairs, especially the Countess's personal guard and travel. For this to happen at such a time... only a ghost would believe there wasn't a ghost involved.
Once the Countess was dead, Howard could seize the opportunity to rally the nobles and elect himself to the position of Count. What a brilliant play.
Attacking Bovenden village was likely just an appetizer for him.
"A pity, Skork. You chose the wrong man to mess with!"
Horten clenched the letter, his eyes shining with a cool, confident light.
After eight years of hardship and waiting, he had finally seized a god-sent opportunity. Whether it was to unlock new troops as required by the system, or to save his parents and brothers in this world, Horten had to take a brave step forward.
To save Bovenden village, he would start by saving the Countess and earning the aid of her knights!