Who Am I, Where Am I, and Why Is There a Big Blue Guy Standing in Front of Me?

"Run, hurry! We've been discovered! We're done for."

"Dick, you traitor who infiltrated the organization! In the Enlightener's name, die!"

"Ah!"

The piercing screams and the blood-spraying, adults-only scenes kept replaying through his somewhat muddled mind like a tense, thrilling movie. It felt exactly like experiencing someone else's miserable life from a first-person perspective.

The flying flesh and blood looked rather harrowing, sure, but when his consciousness returned to his body, the agonizing pain that erupted immediately afterward became almost unbearable.

The poor wretch lying on the stretcher suddenly opened his eyes. He instinctively reached out for help, but another hand pressed him down the next instant, while chaotic shouts rang out beside his ears.

"Keep him quiet! There are people watching behind us."

"His throat was cut. He can't make a sound, so don't worry. Those people think he's dead. Look at those wounds—I almost thought he was dead too.

Move!

Get him back. The master is waiting."

"Yeah, I'll bring the Talbuk over. Follow me."

The stretcher began jolting along again. Some kind of potion was injected into the poor man's neck, sending him back into a groggy haze.

His blinking eyes struggled to look to the side, and an oddly shaped fellow came into view.

Blue skin, a strange bald scalp, bizarre tentacles on his chin... Hiss, wait, that appearance looked familiar. Wasn't this that guy...?

The person carrying the stretcher noticed the poor man's gaze. He turned back and gave him an insincere smile.

"Don't be afraid, Holy Gun Dick. You're safe now. Get some sleep."

Who the fuck are you calling Dick? Don't think I don't know what that means!

The poor fellow wanted to retort.

But the protest from his weakened body sent him back into that chaotic, exhilarating dream the next moment. His slashed throat made it impossible for him to cry out even through the pain.

"What the hell is all this?"

Before losing consciousness for the second time, he complained inwardly:

"But it seems I've really come to an incredible place."

When his groggy consciousness finally cleared again, it felt as if he had experienced a bizarre dream. In that dream, he had lived through the entire life of a child growing up in a borderland, receiving training, and eventually taking a job at an institution of higher learning as the captain of its security force. Well, linguistically speaking, none of that was difficult to understand. The problem was:

First, the place where he had been born and raised was called Krokuun.

Second, the long-term training he had received was called the Vindicator Assessment.

Finally, the institution of higher learning where he had become a security captain at such a young age, saving himself tens of thousands of years of detours, was called the Arcane Academy.

Casual players would merely find those three names familiar. Those in the know would reveal a mysterious smile upon hearing them. Only true veteran players, upon waking up to this opening, would already be packing their bags and looking for any Naaru or Ethereal ship to flee this godforsaken world overnight—even if they had to buy a standing ticket.

This was fucking Argus!

The world personally conquered by the Dark Titan Sargeras, the world that would become the undisputed "axis of evil" of the entire physical universe for tens of thousands of years, the core region regarded by the Burning Legion as its headquarters.

Though he could not yet determine which stage of Argus's civilizational development he was currently in, one thing was certain: with the Eredar's near-Eternal Life racial traits, if he did not run now, he would probably live to witness Lord Sargeras personally descending upon Argus in all his "glory."

If that were all, it would not have been so bad. In such a desperate situation, following Kil'jaeden and Archimonde into the Legion and becoming a Man'ari demon would not have been a big deal.

Survival wasn't shameful.

The problem was that this corrupted world would later be set right!

Once the mighty Dark Titan was sealed away and the Burning Legion fell apart, if he, a lackey who had survived by kissing demon ass, could get on the good side of the millions of High Lords in Velen's Army of the Light, that would be a miracle.

Maybe some passing dramatic poser would casually cut him down with one sword.

This was the "good news" of suffering twice in a row. Counting the fatal wound he had just suffered, he had barely transmigrated here and his life was already set to undergo three disasters. He must have destroyed the world in his previous life to begin his second life with such a doomed opening.

Fuck, this life was really something!

The injured man lay in bed, staring blankly at the gem-studded ceiling overhead. The decorations, full of Eredar style, were luxurious without being gaudy. Perhaps because the Eredar were naturally skilled with jewelry, the embellishments before his eyes held a trace of artistic elegance amid their splendor.

But was this the time to admire artwork?

Asshole!

Use your brain and think of a way to survive!

Urged on by the little angel and little devil in his mind, he finally reached out and, enduring the numbness left by treatment, carefully touched his neck.

The injury to his throat seemed serious. Someone had probably slit his throat with a single stroke, but the attacker had been rather unskilled and had not completely severed his windpipe. In any other world, it would have been a fatal wound beyond saving. However, the Eredar were naturally attuned to energy, especially after the Naaru appeared in this world. Even little children could cast a healing spell called Naaru's Blessing.

Therefore, being saved from the brink of death was nothing rare.

Besides that, his rather sturdy body had other injuries, but none were serious. The room was filled with the scent of herbs. It was not unpleasant, and perhaps even had a calming effect that would help the injured recover faster.

But when he touched his lower body, his hand paused. As he carefully inspected himself with an increasingly strange expression, the man finally realized something belatedly.

No wonder that guy called me Holy Gun Dick earlier.

He thought:

*There are only wrong names, never wrong nicknames. Even among the generally bull-built Eredar, this size would count as exceptionally gifted, right?

What a magnificent Holy Gun!*

Though he was still in an extremely dangerous situation, discovering that his second life had begun with such an awesome "big gun" filled him with heartfelt joy.

Never mind whether he could use it. Just tell him—was this size impressive or not?

Heh, men...

After finishing that rather lecherous inspection, he struggled to sit up. But his weakened body would not allow him to complete the movement. After fumbling about for several minutes, he had only managed to change from lying down to leaning against the gem-inlaid bedside.

Still, he now had a clearer understanding of his new body.

A male Eredar, roughly 2.6 meters tall.

His body was strong, having undergone Vindicator combat training for years, and his mind held clear tactical knowledge from that training. Like other male Eredar, his forehead rose high, and he had a pair of rather imposing horns. However, he had no tentacles on his chin or neck, perhaps because this body was not particularly energy-attuned.

Behind his tailbone was the Eredar's distinctive tail. It was obvious that the body's former owner cared about "beauty"; he had even custom-ordered a golden tail sheath set with purple gems.

His reverse-jointed ankles felt a little awkward. His hoof-like feet looked frightening at first glance, but after staring at them for a while, they seemed normal enough.

That foot structure was obviously better suited for bursts of speed and long-distance walking. The Eredar did not need horseshoes; their peculiar iron hoof coverings were as commonplace as humans wearing shoes.

Besides that, he found identity information about this body in his mind. But just as he rubbed his utterly nonhuman forehead, preparing to relax his mind a little, he seemed to touch some kind of "switch." A flash of light suddenly passed before his eyes, followed by a translucent screen that "refreshed" into view.

Golden runes flickered into Eredar script, laying out a full set of information for him like a game character sheet:

Name: Diakum Zastinus

Nickname: Holy Gun Dick

Race: Eredar

Life Tier: Mortal

Status: Seriously Injured [Torn Windpipe, Damaged Vocal Cords, Toxins in Body, Weakness Curse, Energy Seal]

Class: High Vindicator · Eredar Exclusive [Original Holy Light Doctrine Invalid, New Holy Light Doctrine Not Selected, Class Skills Unusable]

Power Affiliation: Primal Holy Light

Power Path: Paladin Class Branch · Racial Specialization Class

Racial Talents:

Energy Affinity: Eredar excel at manipulating various forms of energy and are more easily affected by energy.

Heroic Aura: A glorious civilization has granted the Eredar noble minds and strong bodies. Individual strength at different life tiers receives a minor bonus based on absolute values.

Intermediate Shadow Resistance: Resists a certain amount of damage when struck by Shadow attacks.

Personal Talents:

High Vindicator: Proficient in all forms of Vindicator combat techniques, skilled in using heavy weapons such as warhammers, greatswords, and battleaxes.

Protector: Having served in Arcane Academy security for a long time, he knows very well how to protect others.

Spellbreaker: Having participated in Arcane Academy training courses for many years, he has his own insights into dealing with spellcasters.

Elder Intimidation: Having served in Arcane Academy security for a long time, he learned to use fear (calling parents, reporting to teachers, doubling physical training courses, deducting daily points from safety orientation courses) against ill-intentioned targets through his battles of wits with bad students.

Overall Evaluation:

Weakling.

Additional Advice:

[I suggest you don't worry too much about the principles behind how this thing works. Just use it. It's not some outrageous Golden Finger; it merely gives you a clearer understanding of your own situation.

Trust me, without this thing, kid, you wouldn't even get out of Argus.

Also, I've returned the memories you deliberately discarded, for the same reason. With an opening this doomed, you'd probably get hacked to death the moment you stepped outside if you didn't even have your memories...

Now take a Deep Breath! Prepare to receive the first surprise fate has in store for you.

Turn around!

He's here.]

Whoosh

Diakum instinctively turned around and saw the door being pushed open. A fully armed female Eredar mage entered, staff in hand. She looked around, coolly nodded a greeting to the patient lying in bed, then raised her gem-studded staff and lightly tapped it against the ground.

Amid dazzling purple Arcane radiance, a barrier specifically designed to block eavesdropping took shape.

After finishing all this, she stepped back out with graceful strides, her cute little tail swaying behind her. A moment later, another towering figure entered the room.

It was a male Eredar.

Diakum had thought his own physique sturdy enough, but compared to the man before him, he was as weak as a chick.

The other man alone stood over three meters tall. He had to duck his head to enter this standard Eredar chamber, and his shoulders were as broad as a doorway, stretching his luxurious mage robes taut.

Anyone seeing this "giant" for the first time would think he was an incomparably powerful Vindicator or warrior. Yet the caster's wand and grimoire hanging at his waist revealed his true identity.

He was an Eredar Arcane Mage.

And merely from the exquisite Arcane sigil floating above his forehead, formed entirely of condensed Arcane energy, it was possible to tell that he was one of the strongest spellcasters in the world of Argus.

Even without the memories in Diakum's mind telling him who this man was, he recognized him immediately.

It could not be helped. That sinister, murderous face was far too distinctive.

!!!Archimonde?!

Dick went completely numb as he lay beside the bed.

He had no idea what expression he should use to face this absurdly special figure. Should he kneel right now and shout, "Long live the mighty demon lord, one of the Burning Legion's twin stars, servant personally blessed by the Dark Titan, World Destroyer, Star-River Overturner, supreme cosmic tree-climbing athlete, Mount Hyjal climbing competition champion, savior of Dalaran's little fountain, supervillain of the physical universe, and utterly depraved Polluter"?

Uh, the thought passed through his mind only briefly before he abandoned it.

The reason was simple.

Looking at Archimonde's current, classic Eredar wizard attire, it was obvious that he had not yet found his way into the Burning Legion.

Furthermore, the thing floating above his forehead was an exquisite Arcane sigil rather than the more simple and imposing Eredar Leader's Seal. That was enough to show that Archimonde had not yet sold out his mentor to worm his way into the seat of Grand Executor. He was not yet on equal footing with old Velen and his good buddy, Grand Executor Kil'jaeden.

In other words, Archimonde might look impressive now, but he was merely the headmaster of the Arcane Academy, the highest institution in the world of Argus.

It was the sort of position that was neither high nor low. In his grand yet ultimately fruitless glorious life, he was currently still in the dormant stage before his rise to prominence. Compared with the two Grand Executors currently overseeing the affairs of Argus, he was just a minor figure with some reputation and status.

He was not even among the ten most powerful figures in Eredar civilization.

Hmm, speaking of which, another "headmaster" also liked participating in pajama-clad mountain-climbing competitions. He had won a championship that would go down in history, along with an explosive ending.

So was liking mountain climbing—or tree climbing—a prerequisite for becoming a headmaster, that legendary profession?

In any case, after spending a few seconds sorting out the current situation, Dick decided there was no need to rush into exposing any "prophet" talent before Archimonde.

Predicting the future sounded cool, but in a place with a true prophetic lineage that had lasted tens of thousands of years, trying such a stunt might get him tied to a stake and burned. That was not impossible. The Eredar might have a flourishing civilization, but they still retained some very "rustic" customs.

For example, once a year they would oil themselves up, go bare-chested, and wrestle. Or there was the infamous "craniognomy" widely practiced among Arcane Mages.

In short, Dick had no desire to have Headmaster Archimonde chop off his head and turn it into a magical artifact on his very first day after transmigrating merely because he was unusually gifted and talked too much. That would be far too miserable.

Besides, his throat was injured. He had no way to speak anyway.

"Diakum, my servant, I am pleased to see you awake."

A false yet gentle smile hung on Archimonde's iconic supervillain face. He looked exactly like a shady Boss putting on an act as he waved a hand, used a magical hand to pull over a luxurious chair, and sat beside the bed. His blue eyes examined his severely injured subordinate, who was nevertheless trying hard to smile.

He said:

"You have worked hard during this time. I know how difficult it is to infiltrate the Awakeners' Cult, especially given that you are not a spellcaster.

Yet not only did you successfully complete this mission, you always manage to bring me unexpected surprises.

Tell me.

What exactly did you discover this time, for that old madman Obsessed with fel fanaticism to personally send people to assassinate you?"

Old madman? Fel fanaticism?

Dick blinked.

From Archimonde's words, it was not difficult for him to infer that this prestigious headmaster was plotting something. In that instant, he also fully understood the point in time he currently occupied.

The "old madman" in Archimonde's words referred to his mentor, the Enlightener Sarkir.

The most prestigious and powerful spellcaster in the world of Argus, the old wizard who had personally founded and built the Arcane Academy into a top institution. But this old mage, whose standing was enough to rival the two Grand Executors currently ruling Argus, had already become Obsessed with the temptation spread by the Burning Legion.

The so-called Awakeners' Cult was a demon-worshipping organization secretly established by Sarkir after he fell into darkness. It was a complete and utter cult!

They were plotting to launch a coup on Argus, install Sarkir as a dictator, and summon a demon army into this world.

If possible, they would directly summon the Dark Titan to Argus and grant this world "supreme glory."

In the official history, Archimonde had relied on the achievement of betraying his mentor before the rebellion and personally cutting down Sarkir to rise to the position of Grand Executor, becoming one of the three leaders controlling the world.

After clarifying that, Dick had a clearer understanding of this body's identity as well.

This unlucky bastard had been a spy Archimonde sent to infiltrate the Awakeners' Cult. He secretly gathered evidence for Archimonde, helping the headmaster prepare for his grand undertaking of "killing his teacher like a beast."

Veteran players naturally knew every detail of this obscure piece of history hidden in certain side stories. Thus, when faced with Archimonde's question, Dick immediately knew how to respond.

He coughed with difficulty, pointed at his slit throat, then waved his hand to indicate that he could not speak at all. He then made a writing gesture.

Archimonde nodded and waved a hand. A scroll and quill flew over from the table, stopping steadily in front of Dick under the astounding control of the high-ranking Arcane Mage.

Dick picked up the pen and wrote down some information on the paper.

Though his mind contained a complete set of memories regarding Eredar writing, writing these runic characters for the first time still felt awkward. He wrote slowly, and his handwriting was crooked.

But the good news was that he was a patient right now, so he had a perfect excuse for all of it.

Once he finished, Archimonde took the paper and looked at it. He immediately frowned.

What kind of chicken-scratch calligraphy was this?

He was, after all, the headmaster of Argus's greatest institution of higher learning. Though he was obsessed with power and strength, Archimonde still possessed a degree of "professional ethics" at this point. Seeing Dick's terrible handwriting immediately filled him with a teacher's righteous anger.

Arranging for you to become the security captain in the university district may have involved pulling strings, but you still need to improve yourself!

As the students' security guard, you were even supposed to teach physical education, yet your handwriting was this fucking awful?

Eredar script was such an elegant, wondrous, magnificent arrangement of runes. How had tens of thousands of years of glorious civilization become more absurd in your hands than a child playing with mud and piss?

You were making me look like an ass grinding grain naked in public, humiliating yourself in circles!

Complaints aside, Archimonde knew Dick was injured. It was normal that he could not put much strength into his wrist. And although the handwriting was awful, it was brief and clear, while the information within was described very plainly. He suppressed his irritation and looked over it again...

Holy shit!

The young Eredar, Archimonde, sprang to his feet after reading it.

He stared at Dick in shock, seemingly unable to believe what it said. Dick, meanwhile, wore an expression of conviction so firm he looked ready to join the Party on the spot, nodding vigorously at him.

Signaling that the explosive contents inside were all true.

"Sarkir is about to launch a coup? So soon?"

The principal narrowed his eyes.

There was thirty percent shock, thirty percent concern, thirty percent delight, and the final ten percent unease in them. Under Dick's subtly meaningful gaze from where he leaned against the bed, Archimonde paced about restlessly, irritably flicking his jewel-studded tail.

After several minutes of silence, he turned around, seeming to have made some dark decision.

Oh-ho, was the betrayal drama of stepping on his mentor's head to rise to power finally about to begin?

PS:

The new book is up, and I desperately need support. Since my last book flopped pretty badly, I'm shamelessly begging you guys for more follow-up reading from the very start. In the current writing climate, this stuff is seriously crucial.

Also, Qidian's new-book recommendation system has changed its rules. Now, new books leave the new-book recommendation rankings at 200,000 words. Because of how the system works, the longer a new book stays on those rankings, the better. So after discussing it with my editor, I've decided to update one chapter a day for now. Once it reaches 200,000 words and leaves the rankings, I'll switch to two chapters a day. Anyway, with 6,000 words per chapter, that's only about twenty days.

I'm currently updating two books at once, so a massive update spree for this one just isn't realistic. It'll still depend on the results after it goes premium. If the results are decent enough, I'll drop a hundred thousand words at once and let you guys have a blast.

To sum it up... ah, I'm already so broke I'm eating dirt. For old times' sake, brothers, give me a hand. I've learned my lesson—I'll never do any damn original work again.

Anyway, please support me! Love you all.