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.