When Merlin needs a hero to save the world, he gets... well, me.
Fan-bloody-tastic.
I was supposed to be dead. Instead, I wake up face-down in Dark Age mud, possessing some poor bastard's body, while the ghost of history's most famous wizard rambles on about being murdered, cosmic energy and the end of all reality.
Just one tiny problem: I know about as much about cultivation as a pig knows about particle physics.
Now I'm fumbling with mystical energy that feels like juggling nitroglycerin, trying not to get shanked by everyone and their grandmother, and dealing with Merlin's constant "helpful" commentary.
Something dark is rising in Arthurian Britain.
Something that made even Merlin scared. They say fate has a sense of humour. Turns out it's the kind that laughs while setting your hair on fire.
Welcome to the Dark Ages, where cultivation meets chaos, and the only thing sharper than a sword is my questionable wit.
Nothing ruins your day like a quest with a ransom note.
Especially when you're a fake wizard with real problems.
I was supposed to be dead. Instead, I'm stumbling through medieval Britain with Merlin's ghost backseat-driving my magical education.
And now? Princess Guinevere's gone missing, and everyone's looking at me like I'm supposed to know what to do about it.
Fantastic.
Nothing says "qualified wizard" like leading a rescue party of misfits—a prince with anger issues, a berserker who thinks diplomacy means hitting people slightly less hard, and me, still trying to figure out which end of my sword shoots fire.
Between dodging Saxon war parties, navigating the Enchanted Forest, and searching for a Dark Tower that's playing hard to get, I'm starting to think death might have been the easier option.
Welcome to the Dark Tower, where the quests are impossible, the magic is unreliable, and historical accuracy is someone else's problem.