Only Wolf?!

The sun slanted westward, a twilight dusk.

A naval warship bearing the flag of the seagull and scales rocked with the waves, the lingering warmth of the sun falling pleasantly on the skin. All around was desolate, only the rustling sound of seawater slapping the hull audible, mixed with the faint briny scent of the sea breeze in the air—enough to lull anyone into drowsiness.

But...

Another thick, cloying stench of metallic rust that assaulted the nostrils made the scalp crawl, the skull chill, adrenaline spiking sharply. No one could possibly fall asleep in such an environment.

Those who had fallen asleep would never wake again...

Probably.

"Ugh... it hurts!"

In the dim ship cabin, a young man with disheveled black hair and a haggard face sat up, clutching his forehead. He wore a tattered cloth garment stained with greasy black grime, his medium-length hair matted with oil and tangled, making him look like a moldy bun fished out of a sewer—one that had already been bitten into.

"Hiss...!!"

With an unconscious slight movement, a piercing pain shot through him. The young man snapped his eyes open, and in this dim prison, those eyes shone with startling brightness.

"What is this...?!"

Borrowing the faint light from a ventilation window, the young man's pupils abruptly contracted as he stared at his left arm.

More precisely, the humerus of his left forearm. The entire arm was severed cleanly at the elbow, wrapped in a crude gauze in a futile attempt to stop the bleeding.

But it was clearly useless.

The white gauze was soaked through with blood plasma, dripping drop by drop to the floor.

"I remember I was in the lab conducting an experiment... an experiment to forcibly open the gates of the underworld using a Great Lich's phylactery as an energy source... and then what? What happened?"

The young man didn't rush to staunch his bleeding; instead, he frowned in deep thought.

A scene unfolded in his mind.

In the bright laboratory of an undead castle, the cursed howls of the unfortunate lich were venomous, and the temporal rift that had been torn open was crystal clear. This extraordinary memory was an instinct every mage must master.

Then, a white dot flickered at the center of the scene, rapidly expanding in a radial burst. In the blink of an eye, everything was devoured by a void of "light."

"Hah!"

With a muffled grunt, the young man clutched his head again, his face twisting in pain.

But this time, he didn't close his eyes. Though in agony, his gaze held undisguised joy.

"So, the experiment failed?"

The attempt to forcibly open the gates of the underworld using illicit means had indeed failed, but everything now proved that his reasoning was correct!

If he had chosen an unclaimed realm as the target instead of the underworld, he would have been a unique pioneer!

For instance, now...

"A dense concentration of elemental energy, but all unclaimed, untouched by any magical force..."

Through the bars of the cage, the young man's eyes gleamed. Tiny black particles swirled inward in a vortex around his pupils, allowing him to see everything clearly in the darkness.

Basic Spell Vision!

Light was utilized to its fullest, letting him make out the insects in the cracks of the opposite wall, the mottled iron gate, the heavy chains, the rusted torture implements.

Hiss...

Hoo...

Taking a deep breath, he cracked a grin.

"This is... a brand-new world!!"

A world full of the unknown, devoid of any high-ranking mages or Star Spirits, wild, remote—waiting for him to discover... or even plunder!

"But the starting point isn't so great..."

Looking down, the young man stared at his still-bleeding severed arm, his brow furrowed.

As the genius necromancer hailed as the "Closest to the Ten Saints under the Stars," the Black Count, Lowett Francis, he could clearly tell that this body of his was on the verge of death.

No, to be precise, it had already died once.

The hollow sensation of a soul leaving the body, fed back to his own soul through the body's residual instincts—that was a feeling he couldn't mistake.

"My physical body was undoubtedly annihilated in the time-space turbulence, but my soul survived. That I didn't turn into a void beast means this body has an extremely high compatibility with me..."

He pondered with a headache.

Only a body with exceptionally high Soul Compatibility could "pull" him out of the time-space turbulence from the brink of death.

"I need to figure something out—I can't let this body die!"

In the past, an injury of this degree wouldn't have fazed Lowett. As a necromancer, the body? Just a valuable experimental material with high Soul Compatibility.

Even the strength of his soul alone, as the "Number One Under the Ten Saints," could sustain him for centuries without issue.

But that confidence came from the high-level magical knowledge and casting ability he once commanded—hundreds of ways to preserve the soul. Now, fresh out of the time-space turbulence...

Closing his eyes to relieve the dry, stinging ache, Lowett let out a bitter smile.

"Even the burden of an apprentice-level spell feels this heavy? My mana is far too weak."

"Mana" is not a simple noun, but a term that summarizes the process of spellcasting.

They are not a quantifiable concept like Chakra, nor do they exist within a mage's body or soul; they merely define the evolution of the derivative effects of a mage's Mental Power.

In other words, the strength of one's "mana" does not represent the strength of the mage.

A mage uses Mental Power to control runes, communicate with natural elements, perform sacrifices, and other means to execute the "process" of casting magic. The portion of Mental Power expended during this process, the "work" done, is what is called "mana."

The greater the work done, the stronger the mana.

Magic is actually something that can be traced back to reason. Once the veil of mystery is lifted, it completely disregards whether others can handle it or not.

Thus, the foundation of spellcasting is built upon the mage's own mental attributes, while soul strength determines the normal volume and Upper Limit of Mental Power.

Simply put, Lowett, who had been battered by Time-space turbulence and whose soul was nearly torn apart and dissolved, could not necessarily cast spells better than a Spell Apprentice (temp worker) working at a roadside enchantment stall.

It's worth noting that a Spell Apprentice and a Mage Apprentice are two entirely different concepts.

"Flesh Growth is a necromantic spell that only an Official Mage's mental capacity can use, with a mana intensity as high as three stars. I don't have that much time to wait for my soul to recover..."

Rip!

Using both hands and teeth, he tore off the ragged cloth from his body and tightly bound it around the upper part of his severed arm. Lowett forced himself to calm down and coldly surveyed his surroundings.

He had faced life-and-death crises before. Since he wasn't dead yet, he would fight to survive with all his might.

A necromancer who dies while still pursuing the ultimate mystery is a disgrace to all necromancers!

"A ship? The ocean?"

Feeling the sway of the wooden planks beneath him, Lowett began to think: "Setting sail without fresh water, fruits, vegetables, or medicine is practically suicide. The existence of glass also proves that this world's common knowledge isn't backward."

"So... the infirmary!"

Setting his goal, Lowett looked around: "First, I need to figure out a way to get out of this cage."

He didn't know what identity the original owner of this body had, but judging from the clean cut of the severed arm—clearly chopped off by a blade—and the current environment, either a good person had been caught by bad people, or a bad person had been caught by good people.

Either way, this was not a place easy to escape from.

Just as he was thinking, a scream suddenly caught his attention.

"No... don't come near me! I have children and parents at home! Please, don't kill me! Ah!"

Thud!

The location of the cell wasn't hidden, just rather dim.

Lowett followed the direction of the sound and saw a middle-aged man in a white short-sleeved shirt and blue trousers, holding an old flintlock rifle, fall backward at the end of the corridor.

"That outfit... looks somewhat familiar."

Lowett was momentarily stunned.

"Hehehehehe, I almost feel sorry for you... but the captain's order is for everyone to die. Who do you think I should listen to?"

Pfft!

A cruel, insincere laugh rang out simultaneously with the sound of a blade cutting flesh. The middle-aged man lying on the ground coughed up bloody foam from the corner of his mouth, his eyes filled with resentment as he stopped breathing.

"Fast moves!"

Lowett watched all of this coldly. The one who had killed the man was not tall, but his speed was incredible, his movements clean and precise—a single strike through the heart.

In my current physical condition, could I dodge that?

Lowett held no expectations on that front.

"Big brother, there's one more over there..."

At that moment, a fat figure appeared at the other end of the corridor, dragging the head of a corpse dressed identically to the middle-aged extra. The newcomer wore no shirt, only a cloak draped over him, giving off a wild first impression.

But the black cat ears on his head, the golden bell around his neck, and his obese, round body made his appearance look utterly ridiculous.

Ugly-cute.

"Oh? A pirate just captured by the navy?"

Hearing this, the lean Cat-ear Pirate's eyes shifted as he looked over: "Even though you're a fellow pirate, since you've discovered my other side, I'm sorry."

Lowett realized they were talking about him.

Though he was leaning against the wall with his hair covering his face, making it impossible to tell if he was alive or dead, the fresh blood dripping from his severed arm gave him away... a dead person wouldn't have such clean, clear, steaming blood.

Clang!!

The Cat-ear Pirate walked over, swinging the claws on his fingers to cut the chain locking the cell door, sparks flying everywhere.

Seeing Lowett lift his head, his dry, cracked lips moving as if he wanted to beg for mercy, the pirate grinned cruelly.

"Blame your bad luck for being on this ship. So now... die!"

Big Tree forgot again. Books with a status set to "completed" can't even have their synopsis changed, let alone post new chapters, so there's no way to draw readers from old books.

Today, the first day, three chapters at the bottom. Before signing the contract, one chapter per day to maintain word count—just a few days. After signing, stable two chapters per day without delays, with a burst of chapters upon going premium.

A reliable author. If you're passing by, don't miss out. Take a look—you won't lose anything. Steamed buns, four for a dollar, hey!