Rhoen opened his eyes.
Pain had awakened him.
His wrists felt as though they were on fire.
Instinctively, he raised his hands.
Clank.
The sound of rattling chains yanked him out of his daze.
Looking up, Rhoen immediately smacked the back of his head against a wooden post.
Squinting, he slowly adjusted to the dim light.
Torches.
Stone walls.
A dungeon?
He lowered his gaze to his hands.
They weren’t his.
They were enormous, with thick knuckles covered in old scars.
The unfamiliar strength coursing through them sent a chill down his spine.
This wasn’t his body at all.
The density of the muscles was wrong.
Even his height felt completely different.
He bent his knees slightly.
The muscles in his thighs tightened, stretching the fabric taut with sharp creases.
As he instinctively straightened up—
Thunk.
His head slammed into one of the dungeon’s overhead beams.
Rhoen quickly ducked back down.
That brief moment standing upright was enough for him to estimate that he was at least 2.2 meters tall.
This was the character he’d created in the game.
The New Game+ character he’d pushed to the maximum height limit and painstakingly grinded until every combat stat exceeded 300.
The virtual flesh and blood from the game had become reality.
Rhoen closed his eyes and took a deep breath.
Fragments of memory surged through his mind.
The game.
The storm.
Death.
Logging out…
But this wasn’t a login screen.
“Don’t bother, friend.”
A hoarse voice came from the opposite side of the cell.
Following the sound, Rhoen saw a gaunt man leaning against the wall across from him.
His robe was so filthy its original color was impossible to tell.
Bruises from a beating still marked his face, but his eyes remained bright.
“This is the dungeon beneath a slave-catching camp,” the man said flatly.
“Every few days they round up another batch of refugees.
Once they’ve got enough people, they ship everyone off to the mines.
The ones they can sell, they sell.
The ones they can’t…”
His gaze drifted toward Rhoen, carrying the unmistakable look of I know I shouldn’t stare, but I just can’t help myself.
“Who are you?”
Rhoen’s voice carried a metallic resonance that echoed faintly off the stone walls of the dungeon.
The gaunt man seemed momentarily startled by it, but quickly recovered.
Straightening his back, he spoke with a trace of pride.
“Erwin von Herlde, lecturer and scholar in the Department of History at Oxenfurt Academy.
My research focuses on the history of the Northern Wars and the Conjunction of the Spheres.”
He tugged at the corner of his mouth, only to pull at the wounds on his face instead, immediately grimacing in pain.
“I came to further my research—record this war in detail and eventually turn it into a book.
Instead, those sons of bitches caught me in Velen.”
“My research notes, manuscripts, funding…
all gone.”
“Now I’m sitting here, waiting to be sold to some godforsaken black mine.
If I’m lucky, I might survive a few months.”
“If I’m not…”
Erwin shrugged.
Rhoen’s heart skipped a beat.
The names Oxenfurt and Velen hit him like a hammer to the skull.
He knew those names.
The Witcher.
But if this was Velen…
If the war was already underway…
“The Third Northern War?” Rhoen blurted out.
Erwin raised an eyebrow, clearly surprised that Rhoen knew the term.
“You know about it?
Those bandits said they found you aboard a wrecked ship along the coast.
Where are you from?”
Rhoen opened his mouth, but no words came out.
He knew the Northern Kingdoms were at war with the Nilfgaardian Empire.
He knew Velen was a battlefield.
This land was filled with monsters, bandits, burned villages, and farmers drowning in despair.
He knew there was a witcher named Geralt.
A sorceress named Yennefer.
A girl named Ciri.
But they all felt distant, as though separated by a veil.
He had played The Witcher over a decade ago.
He still remembered the main storyline well enough, but nearly every detail had long since faded away…
He had transmigrated into a world he only half remembered.
Rhoen closed his eyes and let out a long, deep sigh.
Erwin thought he was about to pass out and cautiously called to him.
“Hey?”
“I’m fine.” Rhoen opened his eyes.
“Go on.
Where are we?
I mean our exact location.”
Erwin adjusted his glasses, one lens cracked down the middle.
“The former Province of Velen in the Kingdom of Temeria.
More specifically, southwestern Velen, near one of the Pontar River’s tributaries.”
“This area is currently a gray zone between Nilfgaard and scattered bands of irregulars.
There’s no standing army, no law—only bandits, monsters, and starving peasants.”
“How many men does this bandit gang have?”
“From what I’ve observed, around thirty to forty.
They periodically bring me upstairs to help with paperwork and bookkeeping,” Erwin replied.
“The leader stays on the second floor with his guards.
There are another seven or eight crossbowmen posted around the perimeter.
The rest have mixed-quality equipment, but numbers are numbers.”
Rhoen nodded and fell silent.
His attention was completely captured by the interface before him.
A translucent panel floated in the upper-right corner of his vision, just like it had in the game.
As his gaze focused on it, more information unfolded across the display.
…
Name: Rhoen Pethros
Status: Crown Prince (Calradic Empire)
Level: Lv.31
EXP: 12,450 / 19,000
[Attributes]
Strength 10, Agility 8, Constitution 7, Perception 5, Charisma 4, Intelligence 5
[Skills]
One-Handed Weapons (325), Two-Handed Weapons (310), Polearms (305), Archery (330), Riding (315), Athletics (78), Crossbow (5), Throwing (30), Smithing (0), Scouting (55), Tactics (85), Persuasion (42), Leadership (52), Trading (35), Stewardship (50), Medicine (38), Engineering (20).
[Army]
Imperial Elite Cataphracts: 16/16
Battanian Fian Champions: 6/6
Total Troops: 22
[System Functions]
Unlocked: Battlefield Command, Character Attributes, Party Information.
Locked: Companion System (Recruit a companion to unlock), Fief Management (Inactive), Kingdom Policies (Inactive).
Battlefield Command — Available.
Fief Management — Grayed Out.
National Policies — Grayed Out.
…
Rhoen stared at the two grayed-out options for a couple of seconds before looking away.
That was a problem for the future—
assuming this body even had one.
His gaze shifted to the twenty-two glowing circles scattered throughout the camp.
He could sense their condition, their emotions, and the unwavering loyalty rooted deep within them.
Along with those sensations came a flood of memories.
The imperial capital, Pravend.
The emperor’s eldest son.
Leading his army toward the North, only to be caught in a violent storm at sea.
Their entire ship had been swallowed by a colossal whirlpool…
…and then they had arrived here.
Rhoen knew this was the game’s backstory.
It was the scenario from the newly released fully immersive virtual reality game.
But he could also feel that, to those soldiers, every bit of it had truly happened.
This was their past.
Their lives.
“Are you alright?” Erwin’s voice came from across the cell, tinged with cautious concern.
“You look…
confused.”
“Thanks.
I’m fine.” Rhoen rolled his wrists.
“Erwin, whatever happens in a moment, stay where you are.
Don’t move.”
The scholar blinked.
“Huh?”
Rhoen didn’t answer.
His consciousness sank into the Battlefield Command interface.
He issued his first order.
The six archers were to move east and occupy the top floor of the abandoned watchtower, securing the high ground.
The sixteen cavalry were to spread out around the perimeter, eliminate the enemy’s ranged units, then advance in groups of three, forming shield walls supported by long spears.
The moment the order was issued, it felt as though twenty-two perfectly engineered machines had awakened at once.
The glowing circles immediately began to move.
Silent.
Swift.
Under the cover of darkness, they gradually infiltrated the camp.
Everything was in place.
Rhoen’s attention returned to his own body.
He looked down at the shackles.
The rivets connecting them weren’t particularly sturdy, and the wooden post anchoring the chains behind him was old, rotten, and blackened with decay.
He gave it an experimental tug.
Creak…
creak…
The post groaned as cracks spread outward from the point where the chains were fastened.
That would do.
Rhoen didn’t break free immediately.
Instead, he waited in silence.
Firelight flickered at the entrance.
Footsteps echoed overhead.
Then came shouting, curses…
…and the unmistakable clash of steel.