Chapter 1: Four Lives, Four Existences

"Who am I?"

"Where am I?"

"What am I doing?"

Gavin, who had just opened his eyes, looked dazed. His mind was a blank slate; the scene before him was incredibly strange, yet carried a hint of familiarity.

The next second, a massive surge of memories flooded out like a tide—memories of his past life and his present.

Zhang You. Gavin.

The two names tangled repeatedly in his mind, like a ball of knotted yarn, impossible to tell apart.

To use a trendy term, he was a transmigrator.

He had spent twenty-five ordinary years on Earth, and in a rare moment of hot-bloodedness, he had tried to play the hero saving a damsel in distress.

Not only did he fail to win the beauty, but he was also stabbed to death by a few teenage punks.

Then, he transmigrated to Faerûn, into the body of Gavin.

His start was hell-tier. At that time, Gavin had already been schemed against by his own brother and sold into slavery to the Zhentarim.

Relying on the advantages of a transmigrator, he endured countless hardships to grow into a legendary warrior. Just as he was preparing to make his mark, the Spellplague, caused by the strife of the gods, descended.

The collapsing Weave tore the sky apart, split the earth, and shattered everything Gavin knew and loved.

From that moment on, Gavin decided to bet everything on stopping this catastrophe.

To that end, he spared no effort in formulating a rebirth plan. He persuaded the Moonmaiden, Selûne, to borrow the high-level artifact, the Tears of Selûne, attempting to activate the Star-Moon Gate and trigger its time-travel capabilities to return to the moment he first arrived in this world.

Whether this time travel exceeded the Star-Moon Gate's range, or if his own origins were simply too unique, he didn't know.

The Star-Moon Gate exploded on the spot, and the time flow was completely disrupted.

His soul and consciousness were not sent into Gavin's young body, but back to when Zhang You was a middle-schooler. As a protective measure, the Tears of Selûne sealed his overly powerful soul, including most of his memories.

Even with his primary consciousness in slumber, the impact on his personality was profound. The reborn him insisted that magic and miraculous powers existed in this world, and his self-taught combat abilities were proof of that.

In the end, he became obsessed with psionic abilities, self-studying telekinesis and mind blasts. As a result, he prematurely awakened the sleeping soul of the legendary warrior, exceeding the body's limits—after all, in that world, there was no magic to provide the body with synchronization and enhancement.

In the end, he succeeded. He successfully unleashed a mind blast, which shocked himself to death.

The Tears of Selûne lived up to its reputation as a high-level artifact of the Moonmaiden. Despite such a massive deviation, it performed a self-adjustment, correcting the error by dragging his soul back to Faerûn and returning it to Gavin's body.

He just didn't know what year it was now.

"Nott Cavalry! Charge with me!" A spirited female voice rang through the sky, followed by the thunderous sound of galloping hooves.

Gavin hurriedly scrambled up and crouched on the castle wall. He saw a dashing, heroic figure. He couldn't see her face, only her back; as always, she wore only a faceplate, her fiery red hair tied back with nothing but a blue silk ribbon fashioned into a bow.

Twelve riders followed behind her in an arrowhead formation, charging wildly toward the three catapults in the distance.

Gavin’s previous question had an answer.

The Year of the Serpent, the eighth day of the second ten-day of Deepwinter.

That was the Faerûn reckoning; in Earth terms, it was January 18th, 1359 DR.

The timing was neither good nor bad.

Good, relative to the last time he transmigrated, when he had already been sold as a Zhentarim slave.

Bad, of course, compared to returning to his mother's womb or infancy—if he had returned to that time, he would have had plenty of time.

Just as Gavin was sorting out the timeline, the battle outside the city underwent a new change.

Hundreds of small creatures, only half the height of an adult, scrambled up from the ground and rushed toward the gates of Nott Castle in a chaotic mob.

These sharp-mouthed, monkey-faced, big-nosed, red-eyed creatures were goblins—nicknamed "little fools," they were the most numerous and annoying monster race in Faerûn.

They were selfish, black-hearted, and bred like rabbits; their nests were everywhere.

This was the calculated move of this goblin tribe: taking advantage of the Nott cavalry’s sortie to destroy their siege engines, they were seizing the chance to take the gate.

With the goblins' dim-witted brains, they couldn't have come up with such a complex tactic; this was the handiwork of the hobgoblin chieftain behind them.

Gavin checked his physical condition while running toward the gate.

A catapult stone had just landed not far from him, and a flying shard of rock had struck him.

Although he had blocked it with his wooden shield, the impact knocked him over, and he had hit the wall, knocking himself unconscious.

Aside from a slight concussion, the most serious injury was his left arm, which held the shield; he suspected a fracture. It hurt whenever he moved, and the wooden shield had long since flown out of his hand.

He felt his waist—his combat belt was stuffed full. There were at least three potions of healing, which made him feel much more at ease.

He immediately pulled out a potion of healing and downed it. The pain subsided by more than half; the heart-wrenching sting vanished, leaving only a tingling numbness—this was the magic of Faerûn’s healing potions. They might not cure everything instantly, but they could restore most of one's vitality on the spot.

He tore off a long strip of cloth, wrapped and reinforced the fractured area, and grabbed another wooden shield, strapping it to his left hand.

A discarded hand axe.

A spear lying randomly on the ground.

A sharp butcher's knife.

Gavin gathered them all up.

By the time he reached the gate, he was armed to the teeth.

A squad of Nott militia was already standing by.

The one leading them was someone who would make anyone gasp at their magnificent physique.

Gavin was sixteen now, 1.7 meters tall, which was outstanding among his peers, but in front of this person, he was a total shrimp, barely reaching their chest, forced to tilt his head back to look at them.

"Master Gavin, why did you come down? Get back to the wall quickly; those goblins are about to strike."

The full heavy armor only added to their bulk, giving them the presence of a mountain. Yet, the moment they spoke, there was a jarring sense of dissonance, like a mountain crumbling.

Because it was a "she," not a "he," and the voice was as crisp as an oriole's.

If one only listened to the voice, they would think it was a seventeen or eighteen-year-old girl.

Gavin was used to it, because he knew clearly that she not only sounded like a young girl, but looked like one too—even more delicate and perfectly contoured than most girls.

A modern internet term fit her perfectly: "Muscle Barbie."

"Don't forget, I am also a member of the Nott militia!" Gavin said passionately, looking like a hot-blooded youth stirred to action.

But with a shield in one hand and a spear in the other, he assumed a standard, textbook stance to meet the charge.

The people around him automatically cleared a space for him.

Simply because he was the first heir to this castle, and the current owner, Rohan Nott, was his half-brother.

Nora the Muscle Barbie no longer had time to worry about Gavin, as the goblins were already within reach. She gripped her massive battle-axe, assumed a stance to meet the charge, and shouted, "Don't be afraid, everyone! They're just a bunch of foolish goblins. Just follow our usual training and keep thrusting!"

Amidst a cacophony of screeching, the green-skinned little creatures poured in through the open gate.

When they lacked the numbers, goblins were notoriously cowardly; a little intimidation would make them turn and flee.

But when they held an absolute numerical advantage, they were notoriously vicious, charging without hesitation even against enemies several times their size.

This was the latter case.

Behind the castle gate stood only a dozen militiamen, while the goblins were a dark, swarming mass, packing the entire gateway.

"Loose arrows!"

Thirty or forty Nott militiamen stood up on the city wall, sending waves of arrows down.

The goblins packed tightly outside the gate became living targets, and a dozen or more fell instantly.

The goblins behind them, however, didn't care; they trampled over the fallen and continued to surge forward. Even if those on the ground weren't dead, they likely wouldn't survive the frantic stomping of so many big feet.

"Shields up, spears out!"

At the command, the Nott militia at the gate moved in unison, Gavin included.

He was neither a legendary warrior nor a world fighting champion right now; he was just a member of the Nott militia, doing his job.

"Retract, thrust again!"

The militiamen behind their shields couldn't even see their targets; they only needed to follow orders, retracting and thrusting their spears in rhythm.

Unlike the ordinary militiamen, Gavin added a twist to his spear before retracting it.

Don't underestimate that inconspicuous little movement; there was a lot of technique in it.

It could cause tearing damage to the target and make it easier to pull the spear back.

The goblins pouring into the gate were forced to surge toward Nora in the center.

There was at least two people's worth of space on either side of this Muscle Barbie, making her look like a small gate herself.

But when the goblins rushed up to her, they realized their mistake.

She was the greatest killer here. When her giant axe swung, even the Nott militiamen nearby were terrified.

Two or three goblins bundled together weren't enough for a single swing of her axe.

The Muscle Barbie's agility also exceeded the goblins' imagination.

A few tried to slip past her, only to be kicked back one by one.

They crashed into their companions, all falling to the ground, unable to get up for a long time.

The one she used as a soccer ball breathed his last on the spot.

Hundreds of goblins simply couldn't break through the defensive line formed by a dozen Nott militiamen.

The archers on the wall were racing against time, sending arrows down to inflict more casualties.

Eliminating this wave of goblins was only a matter of time.

*Awooooo!*

Accompanied by a series of wolf howls, twenty or thirty wild wolves sprang out from the goblin ranks. They had been crouching low, mixed in among them, using the goblins as shields until they were close to the militia line, at which point they suddenly struck.

Relying on their astonishing jumping ability, they leaped directly over the heads of the militiamen, attacking them from behind.

Goblins were famous wolf-tamers; it was their innate talent.

Various wolves would hunt in packs with them, and some would even become goblin mounts, forming goblin wolf riders.

With enemies at their backs, the once-orderly militia line fell into chaos.

Some continued to attack the goblins, while others turned back to deal with the wolves.

The moment the wolf howl sounded, Gavin tilted his spear vertically.

Coincidentally, a wild wolf chose to leap over his head.

The tragedy occurred.

The wolf used its own jumping momentum to disembowel itself on the spear.

Foul-smelling blood splattered all over Gavin.

Gavin didn't seem to notice. He dropped the spear, drew his side sword, and slashed at the ground near his ankles.

Before the longsword had fully descended, a massive head lunged forward, jaws wide, clearly intending to bite Gavin's ankle and drag him to the ground.

But its behavior had been anticipated, so it could only follow in its brother's footsteps.

Half its head was chopped off by the sword, and it died on the spot.

Immediately after, he took a half-step diagonally and kicked out with his right leg like lightning.

A wolf that had just bitten a militiaman's ankle and hadn't yet exerted force let out a miserable howl, released its grip, and collapsed on the ground, unable to move.

Gavin's kick wasn't random; he had aimed for the wolf's most vulnerable point—its lumbar spine—and snapped it with one blow.

Due to revision-related continuity issues, I am reposting the first three chapters.

(End of chapter)