"Damn peasant. You dare stand here counting Lord Finn's apples? You must be plotting to steal them!"
"Injustice, my lord! Everyone knows I can't count at all!"
"Bullshit! Still mouthing off? I'll whip you five times so you remember your place!"
Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack! Crack!
"Ahhh—wait, my lord, that was the sixth strike!"
"Hah! Clever little bastard. And you said you couldn't count."
Another round of lashes snapped through the air.
The beating went on for quite a while. Only when the man finally slumped unconscious did the farm steward lower his whip with satisfaction.
"Hang him up. Let the rest of those ungrateful peasants take a good look."
"Yes, sir!"
"Where the hell am I…"
Through a haze of pain, Corleone drifted back to consciousness. His head throbbed; every inch of his body screamed.
The last thing he remembered was clawing his way through eight grueling years of combined bachelor's and master's training, finally earning his medical license. He'd been one step away from the peak of his life.
Then, on his very first day in the outpatient clinic, a runaway hundred-ton truck had come barreling straight through the wall…
"Damn…"
He shook his throbbing head. A flood of memories—alien and unfamiliar—crashed into him.
The Riverlands, counting apples, earning copper coins, visiting brothels…
Shit.
He'd crossed into a medieval nightmare.
Blinking through swollen eyelids, Corleone cursed silently. His arms were bound tight above his head, suspending him from a branch of an apple tree.
Even without proper instruments, his training told him the truth: he'd suffered dozens of injuries, each radiating its own particular agony. The pain kept forcing sharp breaths through his teeth.
He looked around. Below him stood a ragged crowd of a dozen men and women in patched, threadbare clothes, pointing at him as if he were some sort of spectacle.
"Damn Corleone. Lord Finn gave us work out of pure kindness, and this bastard doesn't appreciate it. He even tried to steal the lord's apples!"
"Exactly! If he angers the lord and our wages get docked, we'll all starve."
"May The Stranger take him and soothe Lord Finn's wrath. May The Mother show mercy and bless the apples of his lands with a bountiful harvest."
"That's right! It's because of worms like Corleone that the last batch of apples grew sour and stunted. The harvest was terrible. Young master Derek practically starved himself thin. Broke my heart to see it!"
"Work hard, everyone! Let's fatten up the young master again and repay Lord Finn's generosity!"
"Ohhohoho!"
With that spirited cry, the hired farmers scattered back to their fields, full of zeal.
Not a single one showed the slightest sympathy for Corleone's condition.
"Are you kidding me…"
Their indifference left him cold. His body was too weak for shouting; only a rasping "hah… hah…" escaped his cracked lips.
These ignorant fools!
By The Seven, the original Corleone hadn't meant to steal anything. He'd only been standing under the tree, counting for fun.
And the "Lord Finn" they worshiped wasn't generous at all—he was a miser of the highest order.
A strong laborer like Corleone earned ninety-one copper coins a month. That was less than two Silver Stags. And that was with fourteen-hour workdays and no rest days.
Even in the fertile Riverlands, it barely bought him moldy black bread and a bowl of watery gruel each day.
And despite living like this, the original still scraped together savings every few months to visit a brothel. The man's willpower had been… impressive.
Repay his kindness?
To hell with that kindness.
But no matter how furious he felt, Corleone knew lecturing these exploited farmers on class struggle was pointless. They wouldn't understand. They'd been crushed into obedience long ago.
He focused on steadying his breath, trying to recover enough strength to figure out how to survive in this feudal hellscape.
Then a translucent panel flickered into existence before his eyes.
[Name: Corleone]
[Profession: Doctor]
[Skill: Surgery lv2]
[Current available draws: 0]
[Note: Draw chances may be purchased.
Rates:
lv1 (Apprentice) — 10 Golden Dragons/draw
lv2 (Skilled) — 100 Golden Dragons/draw
lv3 (Expert) — 1000 Golden Dragons/draw
lv4 (Master) — 10000 Golden Dragons/draw
lv5 (Hall-level) — 1,000,000 Golden Dragons/draw]
A golden finger!
Corleone's spirits shot up—then immediately plummeted.
Even the lowest apprentice draw cost 10 Golden Dragons. How the hell was a broke farmhand supposed to afford that?
What was 10 Golden Dragons worth? At his wage of ninety-one copper coins a month, even if he didn't eat or drink, he'd need to work more than a century.
And the cost multiplied tenfold every tier. From lv4 to lv5, it jumped straight to a million. Absolutely insane.
That meant he could work nonstop, from the dawn of humanity to the twenty-first century, and still never afford a lv5 draw.
This system was trying to kill him.
You miserable, dogshit system!
[Ding~~~ Host has opened the system for the first time. One free non-tiered draw granted!]
"Start the draw!"
He thought the command, and the system panel blurred into a whirlwind of flashing cards.
After a dizzying stretch, a shimmering black card floated before him.
[Skill — Fate Gamble (No tier, cannot be upgraded)]
[A Golden Dragon that cannot be used as currency will always be in your pocket. When an enemy attacks you, you may force the activation of Fate Gamble. If your opponent chooses to continue their attack, you will be granted 100% immunity to the next instance of damage and gain the right to execute them. (Cooldown: 7 days)]
Tak… tak…
Tak… tak…
As Corleone studied his newly acquired golden finger, the urgent drum of hooves rolled across the fields.
Whoever they were, they didn't bother slowing. Their horses trampled through crops, crushing wheat stalks without hesitation. They clearly hadn't come in peace.
"What're you staring at? Get back to work!"
The steward—who'd beaten Corleone earlier, snapped at the gathered workers. Then he strode forward with two men at his side.
"Stop! Knights, this is the land of Ser Finn! Show some restraint with your horses—you're destroying the fields!"
"Rrrr-ohh~~~~~"
The shout seemed to have some effect. The leading rider tugged the reins, halting his group a short distance away.
The man at the front was tall and lean, sporting a pointed goatee and a necklace made of threaded coins. His mount was even more striking—a black-and-white striped zorse.
Dangling from the tree, Corleone saw it clearly and couldn't help his surprise. Zorses were vicious by nature; even in his previous life, taming one was nearly impossible.
The rider nudged his mount forward with exaggerated ease, swaying a little as he approached. His expression was light, almost playful, though one ear was wrapped in blood-stained bandages, giving him a vaguely ridiculous look.
"Forgive us. My men are a bit lacking in manners. We're only passing through and got thirsty. Thought we'd ask for a few apples."
He looked around lazily, then smiled. "Sir Finn, you said? I've heard the name. Who does he swear to again?"
"Lord Edmure Tully, sir."
The steward relaxed just a little at the man's even tone, though he stayed alert. "The apples aren't ripe yet."
After all, the newcomers were a rough-looking bunch—more than ten riders, each armed and intimidating.
Hearing this answer, the tall rider's smile brightened even further. He raised his voice deliberately.
"Oh! Then I remembered correctly!"
"We serve under Roose Bolton, and by order of King in the North Robb Stark, we're taking the Kingslayer Jaime Lannister back to Riverrun!"
His voice carried, and the words reached Corleone with crystal clarity.
Corleone's heart skipped.
Roose Bolton.
Robb Stark.
Jaime Lannister.
He knew those names far too well. Earlier, he'd been too disoriented to think. But now?
He had crossed into A Song of Ice and Fire.
And judging by the situation, this had to be during the War of the Five Kings.
Before he could fully process that revelation, the tall rider gestured. Several of his men moved aside, revealing two prisoners lashed together on a horse behind them.
One was armored, broad-shouldered, with a rough, round face and blazing blue eyes—furious even in defeat. A woman, unmistakably.
The other was thin, slumped, his long and filthy hair hanging like a wounded lion's mane.
And around his neck hung a rope tied to a grisly pendant...
A severed hand.