Gu Qichuan had transmigrated to the otherworldly continent of Allen three years ago, but all he had inherited from his parents was a dilapidated manor. In this world of sword and sorcery, where countless races stood side by side, he had neither the talent to become a knight nor the magical aptitude to awaken as a mage. Everyone regarded him as a good-for-nothing layabout. Then a once-in-a-century, disaster-level mass flight of races struck the northern frontier, sending countless displaced refugees south. Moved by a small measure of kindness and the need for cheap labor, Gu Qichuan opened the manor gates and hung out a sign reading “Refugee Shelter.”
He took in a female knight, barely alive and clad in shattered armor; elf siblings who had lost their home and were timid and fearful; and a minotaur craftsman who could do nothing but grin foolishly and had the mind of a child. Gu Qichuan thought his manor would become an ordinary refugee camp, where his only daily worry would be how to keep everyone fed and clothed. But little by little, he realized something was off.
His ordinary egg fried rice healed the gravely wounded female knight overnight, and even seemed to push her toward a breakthrough. The stories he told the elf siblings made new shoots sprout from a withered World Tree sapling. The mortise-and-tenon joints he casually taught the minotaur craftsman produced weapons that summoned thunder from the heavens. Even stranger, the lords who came looking for trouble and the haughty imperial tax collectors all wore indescribable terror in their eyes after stepping into the manor, as though they had glimpsed something truly horrifying on that ruined land.
