Volume One: First Steps into the Jianghu

Chapter 1: Dream

In a university classroom, the professor was enthusiastically lecturing on the Five Dynasties and Ten Kingdoms.

A sudden snore broke the flow. The professor stopped, expressionless, and looked toward the source of the sound.

The students, stifling laughter, turned to look as well. In the back corner, a tall young man was sprawled across his desk, sound asleep.

"It's him again."

"What's up with Charles Carter lately? Wasn't he always a vibrant athlete? Is he spending every night at clubs with models now, or burning the midnight oil reading classics?"

A roommate replied listlessly, "No, he's been having nightmares every night lately. Wakes up in the middle of the night drenched in sweat, sometimes even shouting. Keeps us all up."

"What is this, possession by a ghost?"

The students' chatter reached the professor's ears. He shook his head, but didn't bother waking the student, simply tapped the lectern calmly: "Let's continue."

Little did Charles Carter know that his condition had evolved—not only did he have nightmares at night, but now even a nap in class would bring them on...

The classroom's noise blurred and swirled around his ears, morphing into the chaotic sounds of his dream: footsteps, shouts of battle, curses, screams, and the clashing of metal weapons, all blending together.

The scene quickly shifted from hazy to clear. Charles Carter realized he had once again entered the recurring dream that had haunted him for days.

Every time, it was the same ancient martial arts drama, different settings, but always the same bloody combat.

He could already feel the familiar weight in his hands—a heavy broadsword, about one and a half meters long, over ten centimeters wide. Charles Carter had to grip the long handle with both hands, as it was impossible to wield such a heavy thing one-handed; even with both hands, it was a struggle.

The first time, he didn't have the sword in his dream—he was chased and hacked at barehanded, and in desperation, grabbed it from beside a corpse. Ever since, it had become a fixture in every dream.

Charles Carter wasn't sure if such a sword existed in reality; it felt too heavy to be practical, probably not a standard weapon. But at least in low-level melees, it was especially useful—if you could swing it.

"Whoosh!" The sound of a sharp weapon slicing through the air came from the side. Charles Carter shouted, twisted his waist, and used the motion to swing the heavy blade in a sweeping arc.

The blade moved, and the wind rose!

The attacker broke out in a cold sweat, instinctively raising his longsword to block.

With a clang, the longsword snapped, and the attacker's head flew off, leaving a headless corpse awkwardly gripping a broken sword, blood gushing from its neck.

Utterly overwhelming!

"That's more like it. You think a longsword or dagger can stand up to a broadsword? What a joke..."

Blood mist sprayed from the headless body, the gruesome scene utterly horrifying, but Charles Carter was no longer fazed as he had been the first time—he even had the presence of mind to make snarky comments.

Suddenly, a faint sharp wind came from behind. Charles Carter's skin tightened instantly, goosebumps rising.

A sneak attack!

He instinctively twisted his body, and a dagger silently swept past his right side.

A fragrant breeze brushed by. The moment the dagger missed, a ghostly, alluring figure was already at his left.

If the broadsword had a fatal flaw, it was its sluggishness. Charles Carter tried to swing it back, but he was a beat too slow.

The dagger lightly traced his throat—a searing pain cut deep, and the dream shattered.

The last image was of a slender, graceful figure, laughing softly as she drifted away.

Charles Carter roared in anger, "You again, witch! One day I'll kill you!"

As soon as he spoke, he realized—his throat had been slit, so how could he still shout so loudly?

Charles Carter opened his eyes. In front of him was a deathly silent classroom; professor and students alike were staring at him with strange expressions.

The professor, expressionless: "So, what exactly did you do with the witch? Care to elaborate?"

Charles Carter: "..."

The agony of social death—worse than a slit throat.

The professor laid his cards on the table: "I've tolerated you long enough. Go stand at the door and clear your head."

Charles Carter quietly left the classroom. No way was he going to stand there obediently—he just left.

He was never the model student, and besides, his mental state was off these days.

Day after day on a bloody battlefield, the psychological pressure felt almost tangible. Sleep was more exhausting than being awake. If this went on, his body would collapse. And the dreams were so real—every time he was either hacked to death or had his throat slit, sometimes killed by some unknown AOE. The panic and pain were all too real, enough to drive anyone mad.

He went to see a doctor. The doctor said it was like being obsessed with games or novels, advised him to stay away from the internet—almost suggested electroshock therapy.

But Charles Carter knew he hadn't played games in ages, and besides, these scenes weren't like any games he knew. Only some elements were similar—martial arts fantasy stuff was always swords and spears, after all. It's not like anyone was piloting a Gundam.