Chapter 2: Ambush

I was a farmer. My true calling was dealing with the golden wheat in the fields.

The so-called “adventures” that often appeared only in the tales of bards and village elders might never have had anything to do with me in my entire life.

But at this moment, being part of the “Rotten Fish and Shrimp” team, sitting in this crude campsite, I naturally had my own strengths.

According to the memories left by my predecessor, the story could be traced back to five years ago, when I was thirteen.

At that time, my family had taken in a down-and-out bard.

Besides performing tricks in front of the village children, opening the door to a fantastical world for the young Xia Nan,

thanks to my mother’s penny-pinching, stingy nature—famous across ten villages around—

the bard, when leaving the village, had no choice but to leave behind a page of a skill book for our family.

Calling it a “book” was a bit of a stretch.

In appearance, it was merely half a page recording some kind of training technique.

But regardless, it had once been part of a genuine professional skill book.

My entire family treated it like a treasure.

Even my youngest sister, Beatrice, who was only seven at the time, practiced it for a while.

Unfortunately, perhaps that half-page skill book was just some nonsense scribbled by the bard to get away, or maybe none of us had any talent related to it.

After more than half a year, no one made any noticeable progress.

Coupled with the king’s increased taxes and the busy farming season, the matter was eventually dropped.

My predecessor, however, was stubborn, and the bard’s tricks had left too deep an impression on him.

So even during the backbreaking autumn harvest, after a full day of grueling labor, he would still drag his nearly collapsing body to the field ridges, swinging a crude wooden sword he’d spent three days carving.

Day after day, year after year, he broke countless wooden swords.

I don’t know where this field boy found such perseverance, never resting for a single day, as if swinging the sword had become part of his life.

Finally, one afternoon three months ago,

when I as in countless days and nights before, stood on the field ridge near my home, hacking at a straw dummy with my wooden sword,

a strange sensation I had never experienced before arose.

An inexplicable force surged from my legs, firmly planted in the soil, rushing upward.

Through my waist, chest, arms… and finally, it flowed through my fingertips into the wooden sword in my hand.

It was as if all my strength and focus had, in an instant, been twisted into a single thread, unleashed in a fleeting burst.

Buzz—

The broken wooden sword spun as it fell to the ground, tiny bits of straw scattering wildly in the air.

The straw dummy, cleaved cleanly in two, slowly collapsed.

The cut was smooth.

[Whirlwind Slash]

At that moment, I knew its name.

…

I had fully mastered a technique that only “knightly lords” could wield.

What followed was only natural.

An ordinary farming family, with assets amounting to just a mill and a few meager fields,

was raising three sons and a little daughter.

The eldest and second sons had reached the age to start their own families.

Naturally, open and covert struggles over the pitiful inheritance of the family estate began.

From the distribution of the mill’s profits to the scheduling of the kitchen hearth…

All sorts of petty arguments and disputes filled every inch of air in that small wooden house.

Watching my two respected older brothers bicker endlessly over a single candle made my newly adult predecessor deeply question everything.

Thinking that in two years, when I reached marriageable age, this would happen to me too,

I couldn’t help but feel a desire to retreat.

Just as I had learned the professional skill [Whirlwind Slash], driven by the recklessness and passion typical of youth,

my predecessor registered his name at the adventurer’s guild in a nearby town and joined the “Rotten Fish and Shrimp” team.

“Sigh…”

Recalling my predecessor’s impulsive actions, I couldn’t help but sigh.

When I transmigrated into this world, my predecessor was already part of the team.

By the time I groggily absorbed his memories and realized what I was doing, I was already deep in the Mist Forest with the team, with no chance to turn back.

At this point, complaining would only drain my energy further.

Lowering my head, I wiped the blade on my knee with a cotton cloth.

Speaking of which, though my two older brothers were caught up in the inheritance dispute, they were very good to me, their little brother.

This one-handed sword was bought with the savings they each pooled together.

My predecessor cherished it dearly and maintained it often.

So even though it was long past its prime, the blade still retained a decent level of sharpness.

Maybe it could still hold up through a few tough battles?

“Hey, kid?”

Perhaps my prolonged silence made the team leader, Maji, think I was too nervous. He spoke up to reassure me:

“No need to be scared. It’s just a few goblins.”

“Those things, in groups of two or three, can’t even beat the stray dogs in town.”

I didn’t say anything, just gave the hunter a grin to show I was fine.

Nervous?

Of course I was.

After all, this was my first time venturing out as an “adventurer.”

The “glorious record” on the one-handed sword’s attribute panel belonged to its previous owners, not me.

And the fact that this battle-worn longsword ended up in my hands might, in some way, hint at the fate of its former owners.

Hoo—

A cool breeze brushed the back of my neck, sending a shiver down my spine.

The Mist Forest, true to its name,

was shrouded in a faint layer of mist even at noon under blazing sunlight.

Now that the sun had set, the thin moonlight almost blended with the mist, making visibility extremely low.

Even sitting by the campfire, I could barely make out the vague outlines of the surrounding weeds and bushes.

“Farm boy, first time in the Mist Forest?”

A voice tinged with amusement sounded nearby.

Looking over, I saw, about five or six meters away on the other side of the camp, the dwarf Erji watching me with a teasing expression.

“You’ve been here a lot?” I nodded and replied.

“Of course!”

As if waiting for me to ask, Erji’s face lit up with excitement.

“You don’t know, I have a distant cousin who served as an attendant to an arcanist for two years. Tsk, that was a proper big shot, graduated from the Hawthorne Royal Academy and registered with the Spellcasters’ Association!”

“Hey, you haven’t even heard of the Hawthorne Royal Academy, have you? Let me tell you—”

His voice cut off abruptly.

Even with a bit of exaggeration, I was still very interested in the dwarf’s topic.

Having just transmigrated to this world, anything related to supernatural forces held an extraordinary allure for me.

But at least for today, I wouldn’t be getting any more information about the “Hawthorne Royal Academy.”

Because just a second ago, I saw a gnarled wooden club, studded with iron nails, emerge from the darkness behind Erji, stirring the mist.

Then it swung down fiercely, smashing directly into the dwarf’s gleeful, animated face.

Rusty red metal spikes instantly pierced through the fragile flesh on the side of his head.

Like a watermelon carelessly dropped on the ground, bright red blood mixed with some nauseating white fluid spurted from the wound.

“Enemy attack!!!!”

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