Já chegamos até Chang'an, e você chama isso de soldado raso?

In the early days of the ninth year of Great Wei, the summer wind in the northern reaches danced lightly through the willow leaves, and the sun rose as it always did.

Zhao Mang, carrying a slightly bulging bundle on his back, hurried along the narrow path between the fields. Gazing at the adobe house within sight, he felt a surge of anticipation. After all, his body now harbored a soul from the twenty-first century.

“This must count as a chance to start anew,” he mused, adjusting the bundle on his back.

Perhaps it was fate or an unyielding attachment that drew him here. Revived on the battlefield, he hadn’t fled to the bandit strongholds, but instead chose to return to the home of his body’s former owner, taking up the responsibility of protecting his sister-in-law and little sister.

The original Zhao Mang had been a militia soldier, conscripted this time to suppress bandits. Though somewhat slow-witted and awkward, he had relied on sheer strength to slay more than a dozen bandits on the field. Just as he relaxed his guard, someone attacked him from behind, and he died on the battlefield.

It was then that the modern Zhao Mang crossed over.

In his previous life, he had practiced traditional martial arts, but in that era, it brought neither fame nor fortune. He worked as a bodyguard and died in an accident. In this life, he intended to make something of himself.

After waking on the battlefield, he stumbled to the nearly deserted military camp, relying on the memories in his mind. There, he quickly earned recognition and was commend