Joji did not think he had much to offer these people, so he simply shrugged.
"Alright then, I'll use this system. Thanks a bunch," he said nonchalantly.
Then Daisy came to mind. Untouched. Young. The same age as the body he now wore.
Joji cracked his neck and let out a slow breath.
"Since I'm looking for a bit of romance, I might as well take on a mission," he said to himself.
He knew games well enough and had kept up with them even in old age.
By his reasoning, this system would likely hand him side quests while his life itself remained the main story.
For now, his goal was simple. Improve himself, learn the rules of this world, and perhaps grow closer to his future wife, if that sort of thing was even on the table here.
His hand hovered over Sir Risqué for a moment, then clicked it.
{First Mission of Sir Risqué}
{A true gentleman draws out a lady's hidden truth with gentle patience, not by force.}
{Your betrothed, Daisy Everhart, has been unwell. Something within her has swollen and grown hot, and shame has bound her tongue.}
{Learn what she truly wants, what she truly needs. Make her feel safe enough to speak plainly, not wrapped in polite lies, nor concealed behind easy shrugs.}
{Milestones of Completion: The measure of what Daisy was willing to lay bare before you from the depths of her heart.}
{Time's bound: Three sunrises and three sundown}
{Penalty: A gentleman who cannot master so small a trifle has no need of what proclaims him a sir. Forfeit one of your family jewels down there.}
Joji scratched his head and let out a breath through his nose.
Well, at least he was not starting from nothing.
Daisy had already been his childhood sweetheart in this life, and by all accounts they had been going strong.
That alone made the task feel less like a death march and more like a road with fewer stones on it.
"I'll be taking the other mission too," he said, as though the system needed informing.
Combat drew his eye more easily than romance ever could in moments like this.
He had always been a fan of combat sports, and in this world fighting seemed tied to everything that mattered.
Strength. Status. Authority. Even political power seemed to rest on a man's own prowess.
{First Mission of Sir Honorable}
{The estate's knights are worn to the quick by your quarrel with Duchess Rosalind Everhart.}
{Go to the yard. Spar with a hundred of them, and by your spirit and example, lift their hearts, knit their fellowship anew, and draw them back into camaraderie with you.}
{Milestones of Completion: The degree of awe the knights hold for you, and the measure of the sincerity they perceive in you.}
{Time's bound: Three sunrises and three sundown}
{Penalty: be plagued with a high fever for one full week.}
If today counted as his first sunrise here, then he was already wasting daylight by standing around. He gathered himself and bolted from the room.
On the way out, Joji snatched up a heavy pitcher of water from a maid's hand. No one stopped him.
His feet carried him through corridors the body knew even if his mind did not.
Every turn brought the same uneasy thought.
'It is strange, being here when I have never truly lived here before,' he thought.
The borrowed memories surfaced in hard bright flashes.
The original Joji had held a sword young.
Had taught boys his own age, correcting wrists and footwork with impatient certainty.
Yet the kingdom of Vicario had turned away from sword-based Jobs and leaned instead toward magic after losing the war, a war the original Joji believed had been engineered to strip his family of their inherited Jobs.
Joji pushed the thought aside. What mattered now was whether this body's stamina could keep up with the task ahead.
A knight's bout lasted about as long as a boxing round, and with his reputation already dragged through the mud by the original Joji's outburst about the duchess being passive, Jonathan, now Joji, was left to clean up the mess his predecessor had made.
The training grounds opened before him, loud with the ring of metal and the barked cadence of drills.
When he stepped in, heads turned. Conversations died. The clanging slowed, then stopped. Men straightened, readying salutes.
"At ease," Joji said, raising a hand.
He put down the water pitcher down near the rack of practice blades. Picked one up.
Despite haven't wielded a sword, Joji's grip felt familiar in his palm.
He set his feet, let his shoulders settle. He took a deep breath, readying to issue a challenge, wanting to complete Sir Engine's task right away.
"I am here to apologize to all of you, the Everhart Knights. I am young, brash, and ambitious," Joji declared.
"My words wounded your hearts. For that, I am prepared to face one hundred knights from dusk till dawn."
He dropped to one knee and bowed his head.
"My injuries are of my own making, so please do not concern yourselves over them. I wish to sincerely atone for my careless words."
"I will not hide this either. I also wish to temper my meager self in battle."
That did it.
The Head Knight stepped forward, a hard-faced man with iron in his bearing. He stood well over seven feet, broad and muscular, with long dark hair falling past his shoulders and cold, snake-like eyes that gave away nothing.
His face was clean and well-kept, though age had already settled into it. A man somewhere in his fifties, perhaps.
Gregorius of Everhart. Rank 6. Master Knight. One of the pillars of the Everhart Duchy.
The path of a Knight Job began with Guard, gained through a manual or inheritance.
From a normal man before any inheritances, the body had to be tempered enough first, gather aura in the arms and legs to became a true Guard.
After enough time of meditation, the knight could shoot out aura projectiles in short distances. That signifies the advancement to a Squire, also usually opening the second art of their manuals or inheritances for them.
Once the aura could be gathered around the whole body in prolonged periods of time, then one could be officially called a true Knight.
But one cannot be True if there is no manual or inheritance used.
Joji was a prime example of it. By watching other knights and imitating their control, he had learned to spread aura across his body even without proper Arts.
That was what made him a False Knight.
The condition was not especially rare, since many never gained access to a manual or an inheritance, but reaching that level at only twenty-one still demanded talent of an unusually high pedigree.
Most men stalled at the rank of False Squire in their lifetime, unable to glimpse the road ahead through observation or insight alone.
The reason was simple. The original Joji had never properly studied the recognized Arts because he wanted only the Arts of the Sins Crossroads.
He was the last descendant of his family, and for all his pride and folly, he wanted to pass that pride on to whatever children he might one day father.
The other reason was no secret. Everyone knew it. A person could only truly bind himself to one inheritance or one manual in a lifetime.
He might study others, borrow from them, even shape a few clever moves of his own, but none of that changed the deeper truth.
The nature of a man's aura would forever be tied to the inheritance he first made his own.
If that were not so, then perhaps the original Joji would have bent.
Even so, he had cultivated his aura through brute effort alone, building his reserves until he could stand among them in name if not in proper form.
The memories left behind in this body made one thing plain. Though he lacked formal technique, Joji had still fought beside real knights in hunts and bandit subjugations, and he had not disgraced himself there.
That was why the eyes on him now still held a trace of courtesy.
What he had done should not have been possible for a man with no true Art to his name.
It brushed the edge of something rare, almost monstrous, as if he were the Pinnacler Knight of Legends, the forefather of knighthood itself, walking a path entirely his own.
When Joji came back to his senses, the Head Knight was already barking orders from one side to the other.
"Crispin. Gawain. First and second."
"You, you, and you, after them. Form up."
This Joji had not been a bad lad. Gregorius could see the truth in a man's heart, and he knew well enough the boy had meant no real harm.
Still, not everyone possessed the eyes or judgment of a Head Knight.
To the others, Joji's words had been enough to set their blood boiling.
So instead of rebuking him, Gregorius chose to help him do as he wished, calling forward the first among the most indignant knights to take the field.
Joji cracked his neck and rotated his shoulders.
Through the memories, what he saw were fundamentals honed to a high degree.
Cut. Slash. Thrust. Parry. All paired with half-finished footwork the body's true owner had been working on.
He lifted the practice sword and tried the one thing that felt natural in this world.
Then his muscles remembered the power within. A golden aura flared, wavering like flame around the iron.
Then his first opponent stepped in, and Joji remembered that other men had power too.
The knight's aura wrapped his own training sword in green, not flickering like flame but flowing like wind caught in a tight spiral, a small storm bound to steel.
"Crispin of Everhart Duchy," the man said, voice flat. "I have no surname."
"My name is Joji of Sins Crossroad," Joji replied.
Crispin moved the moment the last word settled. He came in fast, his face tightened by something close to rage.
Joji met him on instinct and caught the strike in a hurried parry.
Sparks jumped at the point of impact, and the force of it jolted straight up his arms.
'Shit,' Joji thought. 'Too strong.'
Joji searched for the rhythm of the exchange, his feet shifting as he tried to reset his stance.
Then Crispin moved. His leg swept low, aura flaring bright around his boots, the kick cutting straight for Joji's ankles.
Joji reacted on instinct alone.
He dropped his sword and caught the blow on the flat of the blade.
Golden aura rippled along the steel and shuddered violently in his grip.
A sharp, brittle crack rang out in his hands. The practice sword split at once.
Iron snapped, fractured, and then the whole thing burst apart like spun glass striking stone.
For a single heartbeat, Joji could only stare at the ruined hilt still clutched in his hand.
Then Head Knight Gregorius raised both hands to speak.
"Victory. Crispin."
Joji looked down at the fragments scattered on the dirt. An inch thick. Pure steel. Shattered.
"Yo. Bro's here ain't playing around," he murmured.
Joji let the broken piece slip from his hand. It struck the ground and splintered again.
His mouth had gone dry. With unsteady fingers, he reached for the water pitcher.
"Head Knight Gregorius," he said, fighting to keep his voice level. "Let me get a drink. Just give me a second."