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.
When the kingdom wobbles, there's only one way to steady it—grab a legendary sword. Simple, right? Wrong.
King Arthur's sitting on the British throne, but not everyone's buying the whole “Once and Future King" schtick. Apparently, what he needs to shut up the doubters is the Dark Blade. You know, the one. Massive sword which is oddly stuck in a rock, guarded by a soggy woman handing out weaponry like it’s the prize in a raffle. (Seriously, who came up with this system?)
Enter me—baby Cultivator, reluctant hero, and professional screw-up. Now I’m stuck leading yet another merry band of misfits, this time into the Land of the Fae. Spoiler: it’s less "fairy tale" and more "acid trip with a murder problem." The locals don’t like us, the rules of reality are up for debate, and the sword? Let’s just say it's playing hard to get.
Between Fae politics, magical prophecies, and Merlin's ghost reminding me how much more work I have to do before I’m actually any good at this, this is quite the road trip.
Welcome to the Dark Blade—where the magic’s weird, the dangers are weirder, and betrayal is just a stab in the back away.