The north wind cut like a blade, and the blizzard chilled him to the marrow.
Sylas tightened his tattered, brownish-gray linen coat and exhaled a thick cloud of white mist into his frozen hands. He stepped slowly out of the drafty wooden shack, squinting at the sky where heavy, leaden clouds hung low.
"It's probably about three in the afternoon," he muttered to himself, his voice sounding raspy in the howling wind.
As a modern man who once lived in a world of digital precision, he had grown accustomed to gauging time through the hue of the sky and the shifting shadows. The firewood was finished, stacked neatly under the eaves—his sole means of survival for the day. He thumped his aching lower back, wincing as his joints let out a sharp crack. This body was too frail; a combination of chronic malnutrition and backbreaking labor made him look years older than his actual age.
He trudged back to the low-roofed woodshed and sat on a moss-covered log. Watching the swirling snowflakes outside the window, Sylas's thoughts drifted toward a dream—one that had long since shattered.
He hadn't always been called Sylas, nor did he belong to this savage land known as the Cain Continent.
On that distant blue planet called Earth, he had been a respected senior programmer. He had been part of the development team for the era-defining holographic game, Nirvana Realm. It was the magnum opus of the tech giant TD Group, boasting a terrifyingly realistic immersion rate of 70%.
In that age of technological explosion, people held a near-religious faith in the TD Group. After all, they had successfully awakened and cured "frozen humans" who had been cryogenically preserved for half a century—a miracle that remained a global headline.
As a veteran player and developer, Sylas had waited in line for over half a month and spent a fortune to acquire a top-tier gaming pod. Little did he know that the moment he connected the neural induction lines to begin his "second life," a massive data overflow would trigger a high-voltage surge. In a blinding flash of electric sparks, his consciousness had plunged into eternal darkness.
When he opened his eyes again, there was no "Beginner Village." There was only this dilapidated shack and the endless snow.
This world was ruled by a vast empire called St. Roland. Initially, Sylas thought he had simply glitched into a hidden map, as the geography bore a striking resemblance to the game's lore. However, reality soon shattered his delusions.
In the game's backstory, players were supposed to arrive during the early reign of the "Sage King." Yet, according to the gossiping servants at the manor, it was currently the twenty-third year of the "Blood Lion King's" reign.
The most despairing realization was that during his first few days here, he had searched every corner of his mind and found no "Log Out" button. This wasn't a game. This was a living, breathing world where one could bleed and die.
The body he had inhabited was also named Sylas, born into a destitute peasant family.
Fate had not been kind to him. His mother died in childbirth while delivering his younger brother, Seth, and his silent father had succumbed to a nameless wasting disease six months ago. On his deathbed, his father had gripped Sylas's hand with a vice-like strength, entrusting the two brothers to their aunt, Sophia, who lived a thousand miles away in the provincial capital.
Aunt Sophia had married a lowly scribe years ago. As luck would have it, the scribe had passed the imperial selection and climbed the ranks to become a Junior Magistrate of the Province. While not fabulously wealthy, he was a man of status in their small town.
However, the original Sylas had been fiercely stubborn. He couldn't stomach the condescending looks of his noble relatives, nor did he wish to live as a beggar in their cold mansion. He had left his younger brother with his aunt and wandered alone to these lands, working as a day laborer for the prestigious House Spencer.
Six months ago, the original Sylas had worked late into the night chopping wood. After receiving his wages, he headed to a tavern for a few cups of cheap ale to numb the exhaustion. He had collapsed into a snowbank, drunk and spent. The extreme cold took his life, but it provided an opening for a different soul to awaken.
"Cough... cough cough!"
Sylas coughed violently, his chest wheezing like a broken bellows. He shook his head bitterly, stood up, and left the woodshed to head toward the kitchen for his meager ration.
Though House Spencer was strictly hierarchical, they were somewhat generous to their short-term laborers—at least they provided three meals a day. This was the only reason Sylas stayed; in the dead of winter, a hot meal was worth more than gold.
Inside the kitchen, the air was thick with the smell of sour rot and woodsmoke. The head cook, a flabby man with coarse features, saw Sylas approaching and immediately recoiled as if avoiding a deadly plague.
"Lungsack! Stay away from my pots!" the cook cursed with a look of disgust. "Stay right there! If your sickness taints the stewards' lunch, I'll have your hide!"
Grumbling, the cook grabbed a long ladle and slopped out a bowl of oatmeal gruel so thin you could see the bottom of the bowl. He then tossed over two pieces of black bread as hard as rocks. This treatment was due to the lingering cold Sylas had caught in the snow. In this medieval society with primitive medicine, a lung infection was practically a death sentence.
Sylas remained silent, lowering his head as he took the bowl. He had once been a high-earning professional, accustomed to the refinement of Michelin-starred restaurants. Now, he had to force down dry, gritty bread that tasted of dirt.
"Live. Only by living is there hope," he told himself repeatedly.
Before he could even warm his seat, a manor steward wearing a black felt hat marched over. Brandishing a riding crop, he pointed it directly at Sylas's nose.
"You, and you! Over here! Drag this 'trash' out of the city and bury it!"
Sylas walked over and saw a long object wrapped tightly in black cloth lying on the ground. His eyelid twitched. Unsurprisingly, it was a corpse.
The servants of the manor were different from day laborers like Sylas. They were bound by a Blood Bond; their lives belonged to the Lord. If the Lord was displeased, he could execute them on a whim, and the authorities wouldn't even ask a question. Such sights were common at House Spencer. In the six months Sylas had been here, this was already the fourth "cleanup" he had witnessed.
Working alongside him was a fellow named Bobbie. Bobbie was a coward; he stared at the black bundle, his face as white as the snow and his legs shaking like reeds.
"Master Steward... couldn't someone else..." Bobbie stammered.
The steward shot him a cold glare, and Bobbie instantly clamped his mouth shut.
The two found a rickety wheelbarrow and hoisted the heavy bundle onto it. The wheels carved two jagged trenches into the snow, the piercing screech of wood on wood echoing through the silent, frozen forest.
They reached a desolate mass grave outside the city, surrounded by withered trees. Shivering, Bobbie whispered, "Sylas... why don't we just... leave it here? The snow is so heavy, no one will see it by tomorrow."
Sylas looked at him, his voice as cold as ice. "Imperial law dictates that illegal disposal of a body is equivalent to murder. It's the guillotine. Do you want your whole family to meet the Reaper with you?"
This was no exaggeration. A few years ago, a plague had swept through the continent, triggered by the poor discarding bodies haphazardly. Since then, the disposal of remains had become a matter of strict law.
Bobbie shuddered and didn't utter another word, digging frantically with his shovel. After a while, they managed to hollow out a shallow pit about a foot deep.
"One, two, three... heave!"
Just as they tossed the body into the pit, a bone-chilling sight occurred.
From within the black cloth, a pale, calloused hand suddenly shot out and clamped firmly onto Sylas's ankle!
"Save... save me..."
A raspy, broken shriek emerged from beneath the shroud.
A surge of cold electricity shot from Sylas's foot to the top of his skull. The hand's grip was terrifyingly strong, nearly crushing his bone. Bobbie let out a panicked yelp and fell backward into the slush, his crotch instantly darkening.
"It's not a corpse... he's still alive!"
Countless thoughts raced through Sylas's mind. Save him? If the Lord found out he saved a condemned man, he would surely die. Ignore him? The man's grip was too tight; he couldn't get away.
Within three seconds, his gaze turned predatory and cold. He lunged for the sharp iron shovel and aimed it at the section of the neck visible through the cloth.
CRACK!
The shovel slammed down with heavy force. Blood sprayed into the frigid air, splattering across Sylas's face. The warmth of the liquid turned cold almost instantly in the wind.
He didn't stop. He stabbed down frantically several more times until the head was completely severed from the torso. Only then did the iron-like grip finally go limp. Sylas panted heavily, his hands trembling as he gripped the shovel.
This was the first time he had ever killed a man.
But he understood that this wasn't an era of peace. There were conquests, natural disasters, and bloodthirsty beasts. Life was as cheap as grass. If he wanted to survive, he had to be colder and more ruthless than the world itself.
"What are you staring at? Get over here and bury him!" Sylas growled at the paralyzed Bobbie.
Bobbie looked at Sylas with pure terror, as if looking at a monster. He scrambled to his feet and bolted. "I... I'm going back to report... you finish it..."
Watching Bobbie's retreating figure, Sylas knelt down and peeled back the black cloth.
"Captain Yorick?!"
Sylas froze. This was the leader of the manor's guard—the very man who had taught the workers basic swordsmanship. How could such a powerful figure be silenced? He suddenly recalled rumors of the Captain being close to one of the Lord's mistresses. It seemed he simply knew too much.
"I can't stay here."
Sylas forced himself to stay calm. He knew Yorick might have something valuable. Avoiding the bloodstains, he searched the body and pulled out six heavy silver coins.
That was equivalent to ten months of wages!
As he continued his search, his fingers brushed against something smooth and cold—Yorick's Mana Medallion.
The moment his fingers touched the crystal embedded in the medallion, a strange, frigid current flowed up his fingertips and surged into his brain!
Sylas's vision turned vacant. The snowy landscape blurred, replaced by a simple, semi-transparent blue floating window that was all too familiar:
[System Initialization Complete: High-concentration Mana Source Detected][Extraction Successful. Synchronizing data...]
Name: Sylas
Level: Commoner (Level 0)
Skills: None
Source Points: 10.0 Units (Can be used for skill enhancement or breaking level barriers)