"You filthy lowborn! How dare you secretly count Lord Finn's apples? You were definitely planning to steal them!"
"It's not true, my lord! Everyone knows I can't count past three!"
"Bullshit! You dare talk back? I'll whip you five times as punishment!"
Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!
"Aaaagh! Wait... wait, my lord! That was the sixth one!"
"Hah! You cunning rat, and you said you couldn't count!"
As soon as the words fell, the whipping resumed with renewed vigor.
The beating continued for a good while. It wasn't until the man passed out cold that the farm overseer finally lowered his whip, satisfied.
"String this guy up. Let those ungrateful peasants take a good look at him!"
"Yes, sir!"
---
"Where the hell am I..."
In a daze, Vito Corleone slowly regained consciousness, his head and body throbbing with intense pain.
His last memory was finally surviving eight years of medical school and residency, just obtaining his medical license, and being on the verge of reaching the peak of his life.
Who would have guessed that on his very first day sitting in the outpatient clinic, a runaway eighteen-wheeler would smash right through the wall...
"Damn it..."
He shook his head, and a flood of memories that didn't belong to him rushed in.
The Riverlands... picking apples... earning coppers... visiting the brothel...
Fuck!
I've transmigrated to the godforsaken Middle Ages!
Struggling to open his swollen eyelids, Corleone cursed silently. He looked up to find his hands bound tight, his body suspended high from an apple tree.
With his master's degree in surgery, he could easily assess his condition: at least several dozen external injuries of varying severity. The pain made him hiss and suck in cold air repeatedly.
Looking around, he saw a dozen or so people standing below in scattered groups. Men and women dressed in ragged, patched tunics were pointing at him.
"That hateful Corleone. Lord Finn gives us work, which is already a massive kindness. This guy isn't just ungrateful, he actually tried to steal His Lordship's apples!"
"Exactly! If we anger the Lord and he docks our pay for the month, we'll all starve."
"May the Stranger take him and quell Lord Finn's anger. May the Mother be merciful and bless the apple harvest in the Lord's domain."
"That's right. It must be because of maggot-like scum like Corleone that the last batch of apples was sour and the harvest was poor. Master Derek has gotten so thin because of it; it breaks my heart just looking at him!"
"Everyone work hard! Let's fatten up the Young Master and repay Lord Finn's kindness!"
"Oh-ho!!!"
With high-pitched cheers, the hired hands dispersed in excitement, returning to their backbreaking labor.
From start to finish, not a single person expressed even a shred of sympathy for what Corleone was enduring.
I'll f your mother...
The crowd's numbness chilled Corleone to the bone, but in his weakened state, he couldn't even shout a curse. He could only rasp, "Haa... haa..." with his mouth open.
These ignorant fools!
By the Seven, the original owner of this body had absolutely no intention of stealing! He was just standing under the tree counting for fun!
Moreover, this "Lord Finn" they worshipped was no saint; he was a lord so stingy it defied logic.
For a strong laborer like Corleone, a month of hard labor only earned ninety-one copper pennies—less than two silver stags.
And that was working over fourteen hours a day, without a single day off!
Even in the fertile Riverlands, this pittance was only enough for Corleone to eat moldy black bread and a small bowl of clear gruel every day.
And yet, even with this, the original owner—through sheer force of will—would starve himself just to save up enough to visit the brothel every six months. A perseverance rare in this world.
Kindness?
To hell with his kindness!
But no matter how angry he was, Corleone knew that trying to explain class struggle and the exploitation of the peasantry to these brainwashed serfs was like playing a lute to a cow.
He silently adjusted his breathing, trying to recover some strength, and began to think about how to survive in this feudal hellscape.
Just then, a semi-transparent interface appeared before his eyes.
[Name: Vito Corleone]
[Class: Doctor]
[Skill: Surgery Lv2]
[Current Draw Attempts: 0]
[Note: Draw attempts can be obtained via recharge. Rules: Lv1 (Apprentice) 10 Gold Dragons/draw; Lv2 (Veteran) 100 Gold Dragons/draw; Lv3 (Expert) 1,000 Gold Dragons/draw; Lv4 (Master) 10,000 Gold Dragons/draw; Lv5 (Grandmaster) 1,000,000 Gold Dragons/draw]
A System!
Corleone's eyes lit up, but then immediately dimmed.
The lowest "Apprentice" level draw cost 10 Gold Dragons. Where was a dirt-poor peasant supposed to get that kind of money?
What was the concept of 10 Gold Dragons?
At his wage of 91 coppers a month, even if he didn't eat or drink, he would have to work for over a hundred years!
And the cost for each subsequent level increased tenfold. Jumping from Lv4 to Lv5 was a hundredfold increase—one million Gold Dragons. That was absolutely insane!
It basically meant that even if Corleone worked non-stop from the time humans were monkeys until the twenty-first century, he couldn't scrape together that much money!
Isn't this just condemning me to death?
I f your you dog of a System!
[Ding~~~ Detected host opening the System for the first time. One free 'No-Level' Draw granted!]
...
Daddy!
I admit I was a little loud just now. There were too many people outside. Let me kowtow to you!
"Start the draw!"
Corleone recited silently in his heart. The system panel began to shift rapidly, a flurry of colorful cards flipping before his eyes.
After a dizzying moment, a card that was a colorful shade of black appeared before him.
[Skill — Gambit of Fate (No Level, Unupgradable)]
[Your pocket will always contain a single Gold Dragon that cannot be used as currency. When an enemy attacks you, you can forcibly use it to initiate a "Gambit of Fate." If the opponent chooses to continue the attack, you will gain 100% immunity to the next instance of damage, and you will gain execution rights over them. (Cooldown: 7 days)]
[PS: I bet there are no bullets in your gun.]
---
Clop... clop...
Clop... clop...
Just as Corleone was intently studying his new cheat, the urgent sound of hooves approached from the distance.
They were making a lot of noise, letting their horses trample wantonly through the fields, crushing quite a few stalks of wheat. Clearly, they did not come with good intentions.
"What are you looking at? Get back to work!"
Seeing the peasants looking that way, the overseer who had beaten Corleone shouted loudly, then took two subordinates to meet the newcomers.
"Halt, knights! This is the land of Ser Finn. Please restrain your horses, don't trample the crops!"
"Heeeigh~~~~"
His shout seemed to work. The leader led his team across the field and reined in his mount not far in front of the overseer.
The leader was a tall, gaunt man sporting a goatish beard, wearing a necklace made of strung coins around his neck.
This guy's mount was incredibly eye-catching—it was actually a black and white striped zebra!
Corleone, hanging from the tree, saw it clearly and couldn't help but be amazed. Zebras were naturally vicious; even in his previous life, they were almost impossible to domesticate.
Under everyone's gaze, the man lightly squeezed the zebra's belly, swaying as he approached the overseer step by step. His expression was frivolous, but one of his ears was wrapped in gauze that seemed to be oozing blood, giving him a slightly comical appearance.
"Apologies. My men lack manners. We are merely weary from the road and thirsty. We've come to beg for a few apples."
Looking around for a moment, the tall, gaunt man grinned. "Ser Finn, was it? I've heard the name. Who does he swerve... serve?"
"Lord Edmure Tully, my lord."
Seeing the man's tone was relatively peaceful, the overseer relaxed slightly, though he didn't lower his guard completely. He added, "The apples aren't ripe yet."
After all, the group consisted of over a dozen men, all looking fierce and evil. They didn't seem like easy people to deal with.
Hearing the overseer's answer, the smile on the man's face grew even brighter. He deliberately raised his voice. "Oh! It seems I remembered correctly!"
"We are a knightly order sworn to Roose Bolton, acting on the orders of the King in the North, His Grace Robb Stark, to capture the Kingslayer, Jaime Lannister, and return him to Riverrun!"
His voice was loud, carrying clearly to Corleone, who was still strung up nearby.
Corleone's heart skipped a beat.
Roose Bolton!
Robb Stark!
Jaime Lannister!
He was all too familiar with these names. Before, having just arrived, he hadn't had time to think it through.
Now it was clear—he had transmigrated into the world of A Song of Ice and Fire!
If he guessed correctly, this was during the War of the Five Kings!
Before Corleone could fully process this, the tall, gaunt man waved his hand, signaling his men to spread out. This revealed two people tied securely together on the back of a horse in the rear.
One wore armor, with a tall, large frame and a face that was round and rough. Her blue eyes stared out, seemingly forever filled with anger, but one could vaguely tell it was a woman.
The other was extremely thin, head hanging low in a wretched state. His dirty, long golden hair made him look every bit like a wounded lion.
Most importantly, hanging around his neck was a cord. The pendant on that cord wasn't a jewel or a trinket, but a...
Severed hand!