Chapter 3: Chapter Two: The Broken Barbarian Troops

Can't catch up.

Absolutely can't catch up!

Can't escape.

Absolutely can't escape!

His combat instinct told the sinister knight that if he so much as turned his back, he’d immediately take a Frankish throwing axe to the skull.

But how did the enemy know his position, playing hide-and-seek with him across this fifty-meter battlefield?

By sound?

The sinister knight tried slowing down to mask his footsteps, but it was useless—the opponent fully anticipated every move he made.

Ghost!

The enemy circled him like a phantom spirit, as if a cat toyed with a mouse, waiting for him to collapse from exhaustion.

In truth, Deng Ken was also under extreme mental strain, for the battlefield space allowed for his Qin Wang around the pillar maneuver was tiny—just a dozen straw stacks, two wooden huts; one misstep and the enemy would close in. Had he not played countless horror games in his past life, where ghosts and monsters chased him in cramped spaces with an overhead view and mental control over his body, he could never have pulled off such precise micro-maneuvers. Any opening the opponent seized—full armor versus no armor—would have meant crushing superiority.

Yet precisely within this tiny battlefield, the sinister knight simply could not catch him.

He wanted to flee.

But the moment he attempted to turn and retreat, every hair on his body stood on end, his occiput suddenly icy cold.

He couldn’t describe the feeling.

But if an Earthling were here, they’d scream—this was full-map cheating, he was camping line of sight.

360-degree no blind spots.

Every movement of the enemy, even his heavy breathing, was under Deng Ken’s comprehensive surveillance.

The sinister knight probably regretted discarding his ranged weapon during the rout—though if Deng Ken had a bow capable of piercing armor, the man would already be a porcupine.

“This knight’s physical condition is only slightly better than an ordinary person’s.”

“This world must be low-magic.”

Though controlled from a game perspective, the combat was nearly real—both sides’ health bars couldn’t withstand even one or two hits.

Deng Ken’s view was locked tight: twenty meters apart, a few straw stacks, two to three meters high—no clear view of the enemy. Wooden huts on both sides offered sightline obstruction; no matter which direction the knight came from, Deng Ken could respond calmly.

Offensive if needed, defensive if required—if you can’t catch me, you’ve got no way to beat me.

No armor versus full armor? Never fight head-on.

Deng Ken was relying on his youth, speed, and agility to exploit the knight’s heavy armor, which made him slow.

This situation even reminded him of childhood hide-and-seek games, where the rule was: find them and touch them to win. Some cruel kids, faster than the rest, would play Qin Wang around the pillar, making themselves impossible to catch.

The enemy is trying to run.

The instant the enemy retreated, Deng Ken realized the roles had reversed.

In just a few minutes.

He had gone from a farmer being hunted by a knight to a farmer hunting the knight.

“My stamina bar is still half full!”

One hand holding a pitchfork, the other a throwing axe, Deng Ken maintained his twenty-meter sightline advantage, following the enemy at a steady pace. If they left this area, he’d lose his sightline advantage.

“Can’t keep this up!”

The sinister knight’s expression showed a flicker of fear—he felt like he’d encountered a ghost today.

He had become the prey.

The enemy had eyes everywhere—every move he made was known. The knight, clad in full armor, chased for ages without even brushing a sleeve. Worse, the enemy didn’t run far—he just kept circling him, until the knight himself felt dizzy and disoriented.

His mind was tense, fearing the enemy might suddenly appear from either side.

Withdraw.

At least retreat to an open area—can’t waste energy here.

As the sinister knight slowly backed out from the straw stacks, his body suddenly bristled—he instinctively dove to dodge, but it was too late. The Frankish throwing axe didn’t crush his skull, but struck the side of his occiput. The chainmail blocked the blow, yet the impact left him dazed, spinning, unable to rise before a pitchfork filled his vision.

Under the God’s-eye view.

The enemy, struck on the back of the head, displayed a brief dizziness indicator.

Deng Ken struck decisively.

“Don’t kill me...”

Thwack!

Blood spurted, eyeballs burst.

When Deng Ken pulled out the pitchfork, he dragged out a ruptured eyeball.

He turned, seized the Frankish throwing axe, and brought it down hard on the enemy’s forehead!

Headshot!

The knight had high HP.

Only after a second axe blow to the skull did he finally die.

“Combat ended.”

In a daze, Deng Ken thought he saw a fleeting shimmer of light rise from the corpse and vanish into his own body.

——“Military Weapon Proficiency: You’ve gained the ability to use standard military weapons proficiently. You handle one-handed, two-handed, polearms, bows, crossbows, spears, and throwing axes with greater skill.”

——“Basic Combat Techniques: You’ve acquired combat stances—thrust, slash, sweep, chop. You’re now familiar with most basic techniques when using military weapons.”

——“Parry and Block: You may attempt to parry or block enemy attacks in combat.”

The combat bar in the projection instantly filled; the previously pale gray “Thrust” stance now had a pale blue border—other stances remained unchanged, still pale gray.

“Did I just unlock skills?”

Deng Ken realized he had stolen the enemy’s combat techniques—as if he’d undergone years of military training, now able to summon basic stances effortlessly.

Though not sophisticated, the fundamentals were rock-solid—impossible to master without years of practice.

His consciousness felt slightly hazy.

When Deng Ken’s vision cleared, he had left the God’s-eye view—he smelled thick, cloying blood. He’d sensed it during the fight, but never this clearly; it made him want to vomit.

The grotesque corpse before him unsettled him—unlike the game-like detachment of the overhead view, he couldn’t help retching a few times.

His consciousness had returned to his body, yet his mind now held a wealth of combat skills forged through years of training.

A wave of hunger struck.

Deng Ken searched the area, then overturned the knight’s corpse and found a blood-soaked sack containing small strips of dried meat—likely venison. The meat, soaked in blood, carried a faint metallic stench. No other food was nearby. He rinsed it at the well and chewed it raw.

In his past life, he’d never eat anything touched by dead blood—but now, having killed three men, he didn’t care. The blood was just seasoning. First priority: replenish energy.

He finally understood why people said a new recruit who survived battle returned a different person.

Deng Ken realized his mindset was changing rapidly.

Loot the bodies.

He dragged over the three retreating soldiers’ corpses, looting each one in turn, piling the finds to the side. The sinister knight was roughly his height—likely noble-born, since only he wore inner garments resembling silk.

He stripped them off, washed the blood stains, and they were far superior to his own ragged clothes.

Dead men’s clothes? Wear them.

He’d been reincarnated—what was there left to fear?

Night fell.

Only now did Deng Ken have the mental space to process the original owner’s memories. The man shared his name—convenient. The body’s original owner lost his parents young, raised by relatives, stealing chickens, brawling, infamous. But by thirteen or fourteen, he was half a laborer, always managing to scrounge a meal. After coming of age, he was sent to a town blacksmith’s shop through connections—mostly menial labor; the old smith never taught him properly.

This fellow, dishonest and seeking shortcuts, seduced the still-vibrant landlady next door. When exposed, he fled shamefully back to this remote mountain village.

The original’s memories held little substance—his most vivid recollections were all of the snow-white-skinned landlady.

Pfft!

Not a good person either.

The cause of the village massacre remained unclear—the original only heard one phrase: “You wretched vermin!” Then violent conflict erupted; the retreating soldiers killed anyone they saw, forcing villagers to fight back.

Deng Ken guessed the cause was looting—either theft of property or rape of women that sparked the clash.

After defeat, slaughtering some wretched peasants to vent anger—old imperial tradition.

The empire’s military discipline was terrible!

Whenever they suffered a setback, they routinely looted nearby towns and villages.

Night deepened.

Surrounded by wild mountains, Deng Ken couldn’t leave; he gathered the corpses, found a relatively clean house, laid down straw, and barely slept through the night. The village had been stripped bare—not even a chicken remained. The sheds held no livestock, only animal dung.

Early the next morning.

He piled the villagers’ corpses near the wooden huts and straw stacks, gathered firewood, and as dawn broke, burned them clean.

“That’s all I can do!”

Deng Ken slung the inferior hunting bow he’d found in the hunter’s house and said calmly toward the rising flames: “Brother, I’ve avenged you. I’ve buried your dead.”

“Rest in peace.”

Deng Ken had no desire to inherit the original’s karmic debts—the vibrant landlady wasn’t his to sleep with. He was now free of all ties.

The wooden house ignited.

Flames shot skyward.

Amid swirling dust, Deng Ken shouldered what he needed and walked away from the isolated mountain village without looking back.

Traveled half a day—first, ditch the burden.

The armor was impossibly heavy; carrying it through the mountains was torture. Deng Ken kept only a short-sleeved, riveted leather under-armor—somewhat like a rogue’s gear, light armor unit—and discarded everything else that hindered movement.

Now he carried food and water, coins scavenged from the dead, and felt like a refugee fleeing famine.

I need to find a way to get a horse.

This damn place is truly desolate; no one knows where these routed troops came from. Rumor has it the border lords in the south have rebelled and defected to the enemy nation.

Since the empire’s decline, border lords frequently rebel.

Not surprising.

Too bad the original owner had little experience—he’d never traveled far, so much of the information still had to be gathered by himself.

Deng Ken walked through the mountain trails for half a day before finally reaching the imperial road.

The Four Directions Highway.

Built during the empire’s golden age, it was now nothing but a bumpy, dusty track, untouched for decades.

But at least he finally encountered others.

A northern merchant caravan.

They numbered about twenty-some, followed by many refugees. The mounted guards spotted him and immediately nocked arrows, but after questioning him, they reluctantly allowed him to follow behind the caravan as they fled toward the next city.

Deng Ken wisely walked with the refugees.

A quick inquiry revealed they were all locals fleeing the chaos, having heard the empire’s army suffered another defeat, now escaping north to avoid the war. The caravan was also hastily retreating to the rear—they never expected nearby lords would betray and turn against the empire.

Everything was a complete mess now; routed troops had turned the region into a nightmare.

“This empire looks finished!”

Before Deng Ken could blend in with the refugees and gather more information, a piercing shriek rang out. The caravan guards panicked, herding the mules and horses together, piling goods on the outer edge, and clustering people inward—all tense, ready for battle.

“Barbarians!” came a terrified cry from beside him.

Shhh!

An arrow struck. One refugee behind the caravan collapsed instantly, letting out a shrill scream. Others scattered like birds and beasts. Those with a shred of sense sprinted toward the partial circle formed by the mule carts—there weren’t enough animals to form a full ring.

The empire’s most loyal mercenaries.

Barbarians.

For years of endless war, the empire’s few victories were won by these barbarian mercenaries; they upheld the last shreds of the empire’s fading glory.

But when barbarian armies were defeated and turned into routed troops, it became a total catastrophe.

They burned, killed, looted, and massacred villages—more brutal than the enemy’s army.

“Battle stations!”

Deng Ken felt his consciousness slipping from his body. The next second, he reentered the god’s-eye view—this time, numerous red dots flared on both sides. The caravan guards appeared as blue light points. To his surprise, a special yellow dot marked the center of the wagon circle.

——“Witch [Neutral] (Skull Mark).”

What the hell?!

When he first saw the empty mana bar, Deng Ken had suspected this world might hold some supernatural power.

But the knight he’d killed was merely stronger than an ordinary man—he assumed any supernatural forces would be rare. He hadn’t expected to encounter one so soon.

The witch in the crowd was indistinguishable.

Deng Ken surged forward like a runaway stallion, outpacing all other refugees as he sprinted into the partial wagon circle.

A rain of arrows descended.

Half the refugees behind the caravan dropped instantly. A few strong young men barely kept pace. Behind him, a burly man saw his companion fall and turned to pull him up—only for an arrow to pierce his throat.

The man he tried to save screamed in terror, shoved his friend aside, and crawled on hands and knees, urinating and defecating in fear, into the caravan’s defensive ring.

Only the man’s corpse thudded to the ground.

“In chaotic times, no mercy.”

Deng Ken instinctively shrank back. The burly man must have been a hunter among the refugees—respected, capable—but he died so fast.

As for the young man who crawled in, he was utterly broken, collapsed on the ground, unable to rise.

A strange roar echoed.

From the forests on either side of the road, waves of barbarian routiers emerged—thick beards and hair, wild as savages, clad in animal hides, their torsos covered in tribal tattoos, some smeared with bone ash, howling unnervingly to terrify the crowd.

The empire’s most loyal mercenaries turned their blades once more against the empire’s own civilians.

………………