His younger brother's face contorted with malice. "Once you go to that corrupted land, you'll never come back," he sneered, his voice dripping with mockery. "I'd regret not savoring that look on your face right now."
Phyllord's nails dug deep into his palms. His fists clenched so tightly the knuckles cracked. "I've done nothing to you," he asked coldly. "Why target me?"
"Because of that damned aura potion you *condescended* to give me!" The younger brother spat the words. "I took it, and still couldn't break through to become a first-tier knight! Everyone calls me trash behind my back, and it's all *your* fault! You must have poisoned it!"
Phyllord felt sickened. "That was just your pathetic talent."
"Hah! Well, if you ever had a lover, I'd snatch her too. Let countless vagrants defile her! Oh, wait..." The brother made a grotesquely triumphant face. "You won't have a 'later,' bastard!"
"You fucking *scum*!" Phyllord's fury exploded. The original owner of this body had been nothing but a pushover. *See? Doing good just breeds enemies. Build bridges and mend roads, and you end up dead in a ditch. Kill and burn, and you wear a golden belt.* These honorless bastards only understood one language: fists. "You're asking for death!"
A vicious knee strike slammed into the younger brother's gut, hurling him backward. Phyllord exploded into motion, driving a savage kick straight into his face. Blood instantly bloomed across the brother's hideous features.
The onlookers stared, stunned. The ever-meek Phyllord was acting with shocking brutality.
"I hate threats most of all."
Seizing the moment before the guards could react, Phyllord grabbed a fistful of his brother's golden curls, ready to smash his head onto the stone floor.
Suddenly, an iron grip clamped around Phyllord's throat. He was wrenched off his feet, lifted high into the air. Agonizing suffocation hit him instantly—death felt terrifyingly close.
"And what," asked a cold, feminine voice, "do you think you're doing to *my* lord?"
The woman holding him aloft was strikingly beautiful, with long wine-red hair. But the most arresting feature was the mysterious sigil etched onto her forehead.
"A Chosen One?" Phyllord gasped, stunned.
This world possessed transcendent power, and its key lay with the Chosen Ones. They were unique beings, standing above aura and magic, wielding incredible abilities spanning combat, support, and creation.
The infuriating catch? Only women could become Chosen. *Maybe all the gods in this damned world are women too.*
Just as darkness threatened to swallow Phyllord's vision, he was flung violently. The world spun, then slammed back into focus with searing pain as his back collided with a wall.
"Heh... Knew you wouldn't dare finish it," the brother coughed, staggering up and drawing his belt knife. "I'll kill you!"
Phyllord wiped blood from his lip. Fighting a Chosen One was suicide. There was no point lingering. Gritting his teeth against the pain, he turned and strode swiftly away.
*Unbelievable. The little shit isn't even officially installed yet, and he already has a Chosen protector.* The danger Phyllord faced had just skyrocketed.
The manor gates had just swung open when a squadron of cavalry in mismatched armor appeared. A man in a crimson cloak, a long cavalry lance resting on his shoulder, stepped forward. "Respects, Baron Phyllord. I am Captain Connor, assigned as your escort. I trust we'll have a pleasant journey."
"Then I place my confidence in you, Connor," Phyllord replied courteously, though internal alarms blared.
*Escort? The bandit-like aura radiating from these men offers zero reassurance.* He wouldn't be surprised if they murdered him for his gold the moment they were out of sight.
*Unlikely, though,* he conceded. Registered knights rarely threw away their futures by murdering nobility. Phyllord shrugged mentally. *More likely my execution escort, ensuring I reach the gallows.*
"First stop, Golden Eagle City. Establishing Nightfall Territory will require significant supplies." Phyllord's real objective, however, was that elusive green dot.
Golden Eagle City, the second-largest city in the Ross family's domain, pulsed with unrivaled commercial might. Bestowed upon Phyllord's second sister, its annual tax revenue reportedly reached a staggering six hundred thousand gold coins—a figure that made Phyllord's own paltry five hundred gleam with cruel irony.
The carriage journey took the better part of the morning, finally delivering him to the vast, forty-square-kilometer metropolis. Unlike any modern city, the gate guards here lounged indolently against the walls, trading crude jokes or hurling abuse and extorting exorbitant entry fees from the lower classes shuffling in.
Only when the vanguard of Phyllord's cavalry escort came into view did an officer bolt upright from his chair.
"Move that peasant filth aside! Make way for his lordship! Open your damned eyes, you idiots!" he barked.
Instantly, the slouching guards snapped to attention, roughly shoving merchants and commoners aside with curses and prods, clearing the gate. They then turned, faces plastered with obsequious smiles, offering stiff salutes to Phyllord. Unfavored he might be, but nobility was still nobility, not to be crossed by common folk.
Phyllord slowed his mount, guiding it deliberately towards the location indicated by the green dot hovering in his vision. The gate officer exhaled heavily; no trouble from the Baron meant another beautiful day. He waved his men back to their extortion, took several deep gulps of cheap olive wine, and sank gratefully back into his chair to bask in the sun.
Following the green dot's persistent signal, Phyllord arrived at the sprawling slave market in the city's northern quarter.
"By the gods! This damned, nose-searing stench—pigweed and filth mixed into something unholy," Captain Connor cursed, wrinkling his nose and fanning the air futilely before his face. The sweltering reek of misery and decay clung thickly, impossible to dispel.