Chapter 21: The Man He Once Was

Leo, having been driven out of the tent, was seething with frustration.

In his memory, Urian was always a figure shrouded in glory—a leader born with a halo, the villagers’ savior, a strongman, a tyrant. Never had he seen Urian stoop to flattery and ingratiation like this; the psychological gap was simply too much. Though these impressions belonged to the simple-minded former Leo, lingering in the corners of his memory, the current Leo saw Urian for what he was: an ambitious, capable old fox who could both bend and stretch as needed. Such behavior was hardly surprising.

In truth, as a seasoned wage slave, Leo understood Urian’s actions all too well. Securing investment was nothing to be ashamed of—so long as it meant licking a few boots. If you could cajole a noble into happiness, a few boatloads of supplies might come your way, and you’d benefit alongside everyone else.

Still, a vague discomfort gnawed at him.

“No one’s had a more miserable journey across worlds than me. Other transmigrators end up as noble heirs or knightly lords, and yet here I am, still a laborer—and an unpaid one at that,” Leo mused. “Even those with the worst luck get a personal system, an attribute template, or a wise old mentor clinging to their soul. And me? What do I have? A thick skull? A lineage that lowers my IQ?”

Seated on a wooden beam by the riverside walkway, Leo watched the villagers cheerfully hauling grain and farm tools, lost in thought. What transmigrator didn’t dream of turning the tide, rescuing the people from fire and flood? Yet reality was harsh—even after crossing worlds, life still moved one step at a time.

The river stretching from the estuary to Isenport was calm but riddled with reefs, sandbars, and countless branching channels—a wild, untamed waterway unfit for proper vessels. Only these shallow-bottomed fishing boats, crewed by old fishermen who’d spent their lives navigating these waters, could journey safely here.

So, in the early days of the estuary settlement, river transport was destined not to become the lifeblood of the territory. In contrast, the thirty-mile stretch of forest along the riverbank offered a much more promising route for a road. If the path from the estuary to the western watchtower could be cleared, the territory could use the World Tree Highway to trade with Isenport or barter with neighboring knightly domains.

But first and foremost, the pioneering party had to survive—and for that, Sir Romon was their lifeline.

Unable to endure the awkward atmosphere inside the tent, Olivia found an excuse to escape.

Her eyes searched until she spotted Leo by the river. She walked over and sat beside him, glancing at his face, which had grown more defined, and felt a strange sense of unfamiliarity. The change unsettled her.

He used to be reckless and hot-blooded, his thoughts written plainly on his face. They would bicker and play, but were as close as siblings. After her mother died and her father remained in the army, those years left a deep mark on her. The village’s young men didn’t hesitate to covet a pretty girl, just because her father was a distant soldier; more than once, someone had tried to sneak into her house at night. Yet every time, they’d find Leo’s fist waiting for them.

But now, he’d begun to hide his thoughts. His emerald eyes had grown deep and unreadable. Recently, Olivia often saw him lost in contemplation, staring off into the distance—something unthinkable before. He’d once spent his idle time rolling on the ground, lurking in the shadows, ambushing village children, or prodding at anthills for hours.

“What are you doing here? Why aren’t you off serving your knightly master?” Leo shot her a glare as she drew close, his old self instantly resurfacing.

Olivia fixed her gaze on him, then suddenly broke into a mischievous grin. “You’re jealous!”

“Jealous, my foot!” Leo retorted, quick as lightning. “I hear the hand-kiss is a gesture for married women—or maybe for one’s fiancée. Oh, you’re being courted now! Maybe Uncle Urian will sell you off!”

“Hmph, not at all! I just made a fool of myself, that’s all.” Olivia brushed off Leo’s teasing. No matter how different she was, she was still a country girl who’d never seen the world; how could she master the convoluted etiquette of nobles? The hand-kiss was a custom she’d only heard about while gossiping with the other girls at the river.

She sighed in mock annoyance. “It was my first time meeting a knight, and I botched the greeting. How improper! How could I possibly make up for it? Such a handsome and elegant knight—maybe marrying him wouldn’t be so bad…”

Leo, feeling slighted, lunged for her hand. “No way! I want a kiss too!”

“Ha! Get away from me!” Olivia pushed herself up on a stone, laughing as she kicked at Leo to fend him off.

After a bout of laughter and scuffling, Olivia straightened her clothes and, after a steadying breath, looked at Leo once more to confirm he was still “her Leo.” With a shy blush, she mustered her courage and extended her hand.

Leo’s eyes narrowed with mischief. Before she realized what was happening, he brought his hand down on hers with a sharp smack, then darted off, laughing uproariously.

Olivia’s fingers tingled from the blow. She hiked up her skirt, gave chase, and, switching to the imperial tongue, shouted, “Scoundrel! Get back here!”

Meanwhile, in the tent, Urian and Sir Romon were still deep in conversation.

As the former right-hand man of Rigolaf, current head of House Petukhov, Urian’s relationship with Romon—and Romon’s father—ran deeper than most suspected.

But leading a thousand commoners a thousand miles south to tame the wilderness was nearly unimaginable for a mere sergeant. Even Rigolaf hadn’t dared wager much on Urian’s success. In fact, if a bet were to be made, it would be better for the venture to fail quickly—at least then the losses would be limited.

What he truly feared was falling into a bottomless pit, dragging House Petukhov down with him.

“Captain, do you know how our house acquired its third knightly domain? The one south of the western watchtower?” Romon, after some small talk, finally voiced the question he’d hesitated to ask.

“Hmm, you’ve mentioned it before. Your third uncle served in the Windrider Knights, caught the personal attention of Grand Duke Mitchell Odalov, and after retiring was granted the domain by Count Frolov.”

“That’s right. But do you remember the history behind that fief?”

“Not really… I visited about seven or eight years ago—it was a sizable village. I recall the lord’s name was Mitch? Mischi?”

“Sir Misvich,” Romon corrected him. “The Misvich family was an old knightly house of Isenport, but in recent generations they fell on hard times. His father, old Sir Misvich, lost his lands twenty years ago for backing the second son, Hikavy, in the count’s succession. Afterward, he tried to carve out a new domain. It took two generations and twenty years to build a village of a hundred households. But when the old knight died, the fief was awarded to my third uncle.”

Urian was incredulous. “Was there no opposition?”

“Who would want to meddle? In those twenty years, the Misvichs spent nearly everything to clear the land. More importantly, the younger Misvich never awakened—by thirty, he still hadn’t advanced. No one would support a fallen knightly house without a single awakened member.

“That’s one big reason my father never wanted you to become a pioneering knight. Without powerful backers, even if you succeed, the land may not remain yours.”

Romon’s words left little unsaid. He might as well have stated outright: As a mere commoner, without family support, unawakened, lacking strength and resources, and with only a daughter for an heir, there was nothing to attract investment from other houses.

Such was the cruel reality—without power or connections, even if you built something from nothing, you might not be able to keep it.