In the western region of Landsor Dukedom, at the Lion Legion's border fortress.
The deep winter night was as sharp as a blade.
The cold wind swept through the rows of tents in the military camp, lifting tattered cloth flaps and producing a rasping sound like a beast's low growl.
The training ground on the camp's west side still carried the scent of sweat and blood.
That was the "result" of the evening's knight combat training—Paul Brown remembered he had been knocked down three times today.
"Paul Brown, you're not going to be stuck at Tier 3 Knight of Honor forever, are you? Figures."
"Ten years, huh? Tsk… Honestly, when I first arrived, you were already a captain, and now you're not even as good as a deputy."
A few young knights passing by talked openly, glancing at him without hesitation.
Paul Brown didn't respond.
He quickened his pace, his boots crunching heavily on the snow-mixed mud.
His hands still trembled—not from the cold, but because today Grell Soland had successfully advanced to Tier 4 Knight in front of him.
At that moment, the entire training ground erupted in thunderous cheers.
And he could only stand in the corner, like an unnecessary statue.
...
Back in his tent, he tossed his helmet into a corner.
The heavy leather armor nearly crushed his shoulders.
When he unfastened his chest strap, his movements were sluggish—that armor was custom-made by his father years ago, its edges now worn.
He hadn't been willing to replace it, even though it offered little protection anymore.
He sat on the wooden bed, leaning against the tent pole, staring at the dusty longsword in the corner.
That was his first sword, given to him by his father the year he left home.
"Paul Brown, a man of House Brown, no matter how ordinary, must never bow his head."
Those were his father's words.
He remembered them clearly because it was the first time his father had embraced him.
Paul Brown gave a self-deprecating smile—he had truly followed those words.
He had never bowed his head, but he could never catch up to those "true powerhouses."
He had once thought transmigration was a miracle, a chance to reshuffle his destiny.
And yet?
No system, no interface, no cheats.
All he brought with him were a pile of modern memories, nearly useless in this world where strength reigned supreme.
How should he put it? He was a Transmigrator, not a Worldwalker.
He had no golden ticket.
He trained harder than anyone, slept later than anyone.
He had risked his life on decapitation missions and dragged his wounded leg through snowy nights to escort supplies.
But all his efforts, in the face of his lack of talent, were like an ant trying to shake a tree.
His promotion record had stalled seven years ago.
Meanwhile, noble heirs like Grell, who joined the legion just three years ago, had already broken through to Tier 4 and were being groomed as "seeds" by senior knights.
Paul Brown closed his eyes and let out a long breath.
Inside the tent, only his solitary breathing echoed.
The cold wind made the candle flicker, and the air carried a faint musty smell mixed with the exhaustion of burnout.
This was the achievement of his ten years as a transmigrator.
...