His younger brother's face contorted as he sneered, "Once you've set foot in that land of corruption, there'll be no chance of return. I'd regret it if I didn't savour your expression now."
Phield's nails dug deep into his flesh. His knuckles cracked from the strain as he demanded coldly, "I've done nothing to you. Why are you targeting me?"
"Because of that bloody magic potion you gave me! After drinking it, I couldn't break through to First-Order Knight! Everyone calls me a failure behind my back—it's all your fault! You must have poisoned it!"
Phield was utterly disgusted. "That's because your talent is abysmal."
"Hah! Anyway, if you ever find a lover, I'll snatch her away and let countless vagrants ravage her! I'll savour tormenting her body! Oh, what a pity you won't have a future, you bastard!" His younger brother made a smug grimace.
"Fuck! You piece of shit!" Phield's rage reached its peak. The original host had been a complete doormat.
Just as expected, doing good deeds only earned him enemies. Road builders and bridge-makers remained obscure, while those who pillaged and plundered walked around with pockets full of gold and silver!
These scum who knew nothing of decency deserved a lesson taught with fists!
"You're asking for it!"
A vicious knee strike sent him flying backwards. Phield erupted, delivering another kick straight to his face, splattering blood across his ugly features.
Everyone was stunned. The ever-meek Phield had turned savage.
"I detest being threatened."
Before the guards could react, Phield seized his younger brother by his golden curls, preparing to slam him into the ground.
Suddenly, his throat tightened. He was seized by the neck and hoisted high into the air.
In an instant, the agonising suffocation made Phield acutely aware of death drawing near.
"What are you doing to my lord?" The one gripping Phield was a woman of striking beauty, with auburn hair flowing down her back. Most captivating, however, was the mysterious rune adorning her forehead.
"Divine Chosen?" Phield was stunned.
This world possessed extraordinary powers, centred around the Divine Chosen. They were exceptionally unique beings, transcending magic and sorcery, wielding unimaginable abilities—combat, support, construction, and more.
Most absurdly, only women could become Divine Chosen!
Perhaps the gods of this world were all bloody women!
As Phield teetered on the brink of unconsciousness, his vision blurred and the world spun. A searing pain shot through his spine as he slammed into the wall.
"Heh. So you didn't dare finish me off after all."
"Ah! I'll kill you!" His younger brother coughed violently, drawing his waist blade.
Phield wiped blood from his lips. He stood no chance against a Divine Chosen. Phield wasted no more breath on them. Gritting his teeth against the agony, he turned and strode away.
Unexpectedly, his younger brother—not yet formally appointed—already enjoyed the Divine Chosen's protection. This made Phield feel even more endangered.
He couldn't afford to sit idly by and wait for death. Now that he'd offended his brother, Phield knew he had to act. Otherwise, tonight he might be seized by his brother and subjected to any manner of savage torment.
"Once I've grown stronger, I'll come back and beat the living daylights out of you lot," Phield muttered, his eyelids lowered, the fury in his eyes unmasked.
If he didn't exact revenge in the future, he'd never get a boner again!
"So, what exactly is this green dot, bothersome as a fly?" Phield frowned at the map visible only to him. "It appeared the day I crossed over. Perhaps it's related to the Lord's talent."
The counterpart to "Divine Chosen" was the "Lord." Once a contract was forged with a Divine Chosen, mutual feedback and shared growth became possible.
Lords possessed unique talents, often tied to their contracted Divine Chosen and their domain. Yet rare innate talents existed—where one possessed abilities without a domain or Divine Chosen contract.
The original host naturally possessed none, yet Phield, having travelled through time, bore this uncommon gift.
Of course, floaters or cataracts could not be ruled out. All would be known after examination—it was not far, merely in Golden Eagle City.
After packing lightly, the steward—already paid in gold coins—awaited Phield with servants in tow, his face etched with despair.
Learning of their destination, the cursed lands, the steward had contemplated suicide. Yet knowing death would not grant him heaven, he steeled himself for this journey to certain doom.
"Let us depart," Phield murmured, his mind heavy with worry, sparing no comfort for his steward.
No sooner had the estate gates swung open than a squadron of cavalry in mismatched armour came into view. From their ranks stepped a man clad in crimson robes, bearing a long-shafted lance: "Esteemed Baron Phield, I am Captain Connor of the cavalry, appointed as your escort. I trust we shall have a most agreeable journey."
"Then I shall rely upon you, Connor."
Phield responded politely, though his guard was up.
Escort they may be, but the bandit-like air about these horsemen offered no sense of security. Phield even suspected they might kill him for his money once they were out of sight.
Admittedly, that seemed unlikely. Registered knights seldom ruined their futures by murdering nobility.
Phield shrugged. "Perhaps they're escorting me... escorting me to the executioner."
"First we head to Golden Eagle City. Expanding the Nightfall Domain will require considerable supplies."
Phield intended to investigate what that green dot represented.
Golden Eagle City, as the second largest city within the Ross family's domain, possessed unrivalled commercial power. It had been granted to Phield's elder sister, and it was said that its annual tax revenue amounted to six hundred thousand gold coins. Compared to Phield's paltry five hundred gold coins, this figure was particularly jarring.
Travelling by carriage, Phield spent the entire morning reaching this vast city, which covered an area of forty square kilometres.
Unlike modern times, the soldiers guarding the city gates leaned lazily against the ramparts, exchanging coarse banter or hurling abuse at the common folk entering the city, extorting exorbitant tolls.
Only when the cavalry escorting Phield came into view did an officer abruptly spring to his feet.
"Clear the rabble, you fools! A noble passes this way—open your eyes, you imbeciles!"
The slack soldiers instantly straightened their backs, shoving and cursing civilians and merchants aside to clear the gate. They then bowed to Phield with fawning expressions.
Though Phield was unpopular, he remained nobility—common folk dared not offend him.
Slowing his horse, Phield approached the green dot's location at a measured pace.
The gate officer exhaled deeply. As long as they didn't cause trouble, it was another fine day. He resumed directing his men to collect taxes, then downed two gulps of olive wine before stretching back in his chair to bask in the sun.
Guided by the green dot, Phield arrived at the slave market in the city's northern quarter.
"Oh! This bloody, nose-stinging stench of pigweed mixed with dung," Captain Connor of the cavalry frowned, waving his hand incessantly through the air before him. It did little good; the foul odour still penetrated his nostrils.