His brother's face twisted into a sneer, voice dripping with sleaze. "Once you're rotting in that corrupted wasteland, you'll never come back. If I don't get to savor the look on your face right now, I'll regret it forever."
Phield's nails dug deep into his palms; his fists cracked from the strain. He asked coldly, "I've never wronged you. Why target me?"
"Because of that damned magic potion you so generously 'gave' me." His brother spat the word like poison. "After I took it, I couldn't break through to first-tier knight. Everyone calls me trash behind my back—and it's all your fault. You must have poisoned it!"
Phield felt bile rise in his throat. "That's because your talent was garbage."
"Heh. Doesn't matter. If you ever find someone you love, I'll drag her away and let every filthy vagrant in the streets have their way with her—ruin her slowly, deliciously." He pulled a triumphant, grotesque face. "Too bad you won't have a future for that, mongrel."
"Fuck you, you piece of scum!" Rage exploded in Phield like never before. The original owner had been too much of a saint.
It was true: do good deeds and you earn enemies; build roads and bridges and no one remembers your name; burn, kill, and plunder and your coffers overflow with gold.
These honorless curs only understood the language of fists.
"You're begging to die!"
Phield's knee strike launched his brother backward through the air. He followed in a blur, driving a savage kick into the bastard's face. Blood sprayed across that ugly, sneering mouth.
The entire hall froze. Phield—the perpetual doormat—had turned feral.
"I despise threats more than anything," he growled.
Before the guards could react, Phield seized a fistful of golden curls and yanked his brother's head down toward the stone floor.
Suddenly, an iron grip clamped around his throat. He was hoisted into the air, feet dangling.
Agonizing asphyxiation hit instantly; death crept close in seconds.
"What do you think you're doing to my lord?" The voice belonged to a strikingly beautiful woman with long wine-red hair. Most arresting of all was the arcane rune glowing on her forehead.
"A Divine Chosen?" Phield choked out, stunned.
In this world, transcendent power belonged to the Divine Chosen—extraordinary beings who stood far above ordinary magic and mana, wielding all manner of incomprehensible gifts: combat, support, creation, and more.
The most absurd part? Only women could become Divine Chosen.
Perhaps every god in this world was female.
Just as darkness edged his vision, the world spun. His spine slammed against the wall with bone-jarring force.
"Heh. Of course you didn't dare kill him," his brother wheezed.
"I'll murder you!" The boy coughed violently and drew his belt dagger.
Phield wiped blood from his split lip. He was no match for a Divine Chosen—not even close. There was no point lingering. Swallowing the pain, he turned and strode away.
To think his brother, not yet formally enfeoffed, already had a Divine Chosen bodyguard. The realization only deepened the danger Phield felt.
He had no luxury of sitting idle. Now that he'd made an enemy of his brother, he knew he had to move fast—or tonight he might be dragged off for whatever twisted torments the little monster could devise.
"When I've grown strong enough," Phield muttered, eyes lowered, fury blazing unmasked, "I'll come back and beat every last one of you to death."
If he didn't get his revenge, he swore he'd never get hard again.
"So what the hell is this annoying green dot that keeps buzzing around like a fly?" Phield stared at the translucent map only he could see. "It appeared the day I transmigrated. Probably tied to some lord talent."
Opposite the Divine Chosen stood the Lords. By forming a contract with a Divine Chosen, both parties fed strength to each other and grew together.
Lords possessed unique talents, usually linked to their contracted Chosen and their territory. But rare innate talents existed—ones that manifested even without land or contract.
The original Phield had none. The transmigrated Phield, however, did.
Of course, it could just be floaters or early cataracts. He'd find out soon enough—the dot wasn't far, just outside Golden Eagle City.
He packed lightly. The steward had already collected the gold coins and now waited with the servants, their faces pale with despair.
Learning they were bound for the cursed domain, the steward had briefly contemplated suicide—only to remember that self-murder barred one from paradise. So he steeled himself for death instead.
"Let's go," Phield said grimly, in no mood to console anyone.
The moment he opened the manor gates, a ragged troop of cavalry in mismatched armor appeared. From their midst stepped a man in a red cloak, a long lance slung across his shoulder.
"Honored Baron Phield," the man said with a bow. "I am Captain Connor of the cavalry. I've been assigned as your escort. I'm certain we'll enjoy a pleasant journey together."
"Then I leave myself in your capable hands, Connor."
Phield returned the courtesy, but inwardly his guard shot up.
Escort, they called it. Yet the roguish glint in the troopers' eyes offered no comfort. Phield half-suspected that once they left the city walls, they'd simply murder him and take the gold.
Unlikely, though. Registered knights rarely risked their futures by assassinating nobility.
Phield shrugged inwardly. "More likely they're here to make sure I actually march to the gallows."
"First, we head to Golden Eagle City," he announced. "Developing the Nightfall Domain will require supplies—many supplies."
Truth was, he wanted to investigate that mysterious green dot.
Golden Eagle City, the second-largest holding of the Ross family, boasted unrivaled commercial might. It had been granted to Phield's second sister, and rumor held that its annual tax revenue alone reached six hundred thousand gold coins—a staggering sum that made Phield's paltry five hundred feel like an insult carved in salt.
The carriage rattled along the road, and by late morning Phield reached the sprawling metropolis that covered forty square kilometers.
Unlike the orderly gates of a modern city, the guards here lounged indolently against the walls, trading crude jokes or hurling abuse at the commoners trying to enter. They extorted steep tolls from the lower classes with lazy cruelty.
Only when Phield's escort of cavalry clattered into view did an officer jolt upright from his chair.
"Clear the bloody road, you lot! Move those peasants' carts aside—a lord is passing through! Watch where your eyes are, idiots!"
The slouching soldiers snapped to attention, cursing and shoving merchants and commoners out of the way to open a wide path. Then they turned, faces plastered with fawning smiles, and saluted Phield as he rode past.
Unloved as he was within his own family, he remained a noble all the same. Common folk dared not risk offending him.
Phield slowed his horse, guiding it unhurriedly toward the direction indicated by the green dot.
At the gate, the officer let out a long breath of relief. As long as the noble hadn't taken issue with him, the day could still be counted a good one. He waved his men back to their toll-collecting and took another deep swig of olive wine before settling once more into his chair to bask in the sun.
Following the dot's guidance, Phield arrived at the slave markets in the northern district of the city.
"Gods above," Captain Connor muttered, brow furrowed in disgust as he waved a hand in front of his face. "This damned stench—like pigweed steeped in shit. It burns the nose."
The gesture did nothing; the reek still wormed its way straight into the sinuses, thick and inescapable.
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