It was close to midnight when Corleone was finally led back toward the wooden hut, Rorger lazily escorting him through the dimly lit camp. His conversation with Uswik had lasted far longer than expected, and for most of it Corleone had been explaining human anatomy to the deranged man—blood vessels, nerve pathways, layers of musculature, skeletal weak points. Concepts that, to a twisted torturer like Uswik, opened an entirely new world.
For all the brutality he had inflicted in his life, Uswik had never realized just how intricate the human body truly was. The torture methods he once took pride in suddenly seemed crude and primitive under Corleone's measured and clinical explanations. Had Uswik possessed the ambition of a scheming warlord, he might have immediately tried to win Corleone over, recognizing him as a rare and dangerous talent.
But that was impossible. For all his cruelty, Uswik was still only the second-in-command of a ragged bandit group.
Still, under the hypnotic persuasion of Corleone's voice, he had begun treating him like a kindred spirit—and Corleone had walked away with benefits. The ten heavy Gold Dragons in his pocket made him strangely emotional. He had earned his first true wealth in this world sooner than expected.
It had to be admitted—Uswik knew how to win people over. At the very least, he wasn't stingy. In his words, Corleone had already proven his loyalty by killing the knight's son himself, and now Uswik simply needed to ensure Corleone remained on his side. Here, self-interest was the strongest rope binding two unrelated men together.
Ten Gold Dragons. A fortune. In peaceful times, that amount could outfit a knight with proper armor, a trained horse, and steel weapons. Even now, after more than a year of war and skyrocketing prices, the sum was enough to support a family of five for half a year. It showed just how generous—and desperate—Uswik was willing to be.
Even the bounty offered for Jaime Lannister—one of the richest noble heirs in the Seven Kingdoms—was only a thousand Gold Dragons. Suddenly, Corleone understood the scale of the gift he held.
Recharge. Begin the draw.
As he walked, he opened the system panel. Even though he had never possessed that much money in his life, he deposited all ten Gold Dragons without hesitation. His priority was strength—survival came first. Wealth could always be earned again, and then reinvested into the system. A cycle. A strategy.
Aside from the single innate skill, Surgical Operation Lv2, he had no abilities at all. Under such circumstances, even a low-tier Lv1 skill could mean survival. As he spoke the command silently in his mind, the Gold Dragons vanished, and the system roulette began to spin.
Ding— Acquired Skill: Insight Lv1
No explanation. Just a line of text, like before. Apparently, the system didn't waste descriptions on low-level skills.
Corleone frowned. In his situation, a combat skill would have been ideal. Swordsmanship, combat technique, anything that provided immediate strength. Compared to those, a supportive skill like Insight seemed disappointing.
But then a cool and sharp stream of awareness washed across his consciousness, and suddenly the world felt… different.
His gaze shifted to Rorger's scarred and brutish face.
Attention unstable. Eyes drifting toward companions drinking at the bonfire. State indicates distraction.
Left leg slightly misaligned. Previous injury affecting gait.
In merely two seconds, details he had never noticed before were effortlessly interpreted.
So that's what this skill was.
Corleone's eyes gleamed. For his current circumstances, nothing could be more perfect.
"Go on in yourself, Doctor," Rorger said once they reached the hut. He didn't escort him in like before. Instead, he clapped Corleone on the shoulder in exaggerated friendliness.
"Vice Commander Uswik says you're one of our Warriors' Group now. If I get hurt later, I'll be counting on you to patch me up."
Then he tilted his chin toward the hut, voice dropping into mock warning.
"But that Dothraki brute isn't easy to deal with. The Commander trusts no one except him. Don't do anything that annoys him. If he tries something, shout loud—Fang and I will rush in and help."
Without waiting for a response, he strode off toward the bonfire. He clearly wanted a drink.
This man… had guessed something.
Despite his roughness, Rorger's instincts were sharp. He likely sensed Uswik and Corleone were scheming, yet chose not to expose it—instead offering a subtle warning. Interesting.
In chaotic times, no survivor was simple.
Corleone pushed open the wooden door, but before he could step inside, a tall and muscular figure blocked the entrance.
"You were gone for a long time," the Dothraki growled, suspicion thick in his tone.
"Yeah," Corleone replied casually, shrugging. "Had to take a dump. I was hung up for hours and then performed two surgeries. I was dying to go."
Yigo's suspicion didn't vanish, but he stepped aside, allowing him through.
"Where did Rorger go?" Yigo demanded. "He was supposed to guard Commander Vargo with me."
"He went to drink," Corleone replied, stripping off his ragged, blood-stained clothes and tossing them aside. His body was covered in whip marks—proof he carried no hidden weapons.
Then he sat lazily on a pile of straw, rubbing his shoulders wearily like a craftsman after long labor.
"He said with you guarding here, everyone can rest easy and won't need him."
"It seems the Commander and Rorger trust you greatly, Yigo."
A simple remark—yet a calculated provocation.
Yigo snorted coldly. Dothraki revered strength, and being discussed behind his back would irritate anyone like him. But Corleone's relaxed posture—defenseless and exhausted—kept him from pressing further.
Corleone glanced around. Vargo Hoat slept on the most comfortable spot in the center, face flushed and reeking of alcohol, snoring heavily. Jaime and Brienne had already been taken elsewhere, since Yigo couldn't guard multiple prisoners alone.
Seeing that Corleone wasn't checking the Commander's injuries, Yigo frowned and walked over.
"It's time to change the Commander's bandages, Vito… Corleone. You said they must be changed every two hours."
Corleone opened his eyes reluctantly, appearing utterly drained.
"Ah… has it been that long?"
Still, he stood and staggered toward Vargo Hoat. After pretending to examine him, he remarked:
"What a man. To sleep so deeply after such a wound."
"He is," Yigo replied with certainty. "Commander Vargo is a worthy Khal. Since following him, we have never lost a single battle."
Corleone neither confirmed nor denied. Given Vargo's cowardly and calculating nature, his victories came from choosing only weak enemies.
As Corleone carefully unwrapped the bandages, Insight allowed him to see Yigo's expression without turning. It wasn't loyalty—it was the Dothraki instinct of following the strong. Corleone smiled slightly.
"It is said that in the Dothraki Sea, there was an invincible Khal named Drogo," he murmured. "Forty thousand riders. The strongest in history."
"But he fell from his horse due to an infected wound—and his followers scattered."
Yigo nodded eagerly, starved for conversation.
"They say his braid reached his thigh, and he never lost a fight."
"But he died," Corleone replied softly. "Even the mightiest eagle falls."
"Exactly," Yigo said with simple conviction. "That is why his khalasar scattered like frightened horses. A new Khal must rise in blood and fire."
Corleone listened silently, then finished unwrapping the bandage.
The wound beneath had begun to rot—yellow-green infection spreading, skin swollen and inflamed.
Corleone's lips curved.
"It's a shame, Yigo."
"I thin
k you should start looking for a new Khal."
"Because our esteemed Commander Vargo Hoat… doesn't have much time left."