I Knew Some People Would Still Slack Off Even After Transmigrating

I transmigrated, but I don't really care how I died in my previous life. I'm a little curious about where my lost memories went, but not that curious. After all, I don't really need memories from my last life to get through this one, and I still have all my common knowledge. For example, I know that the fifteenth-century Florence where I am now is what people in my previous life called the Renaissance.

You only realize that an era later remembered as legendary is, well, nothing special when you actually live through it. No matter where you are, a happy-go-lucky slacker is still a happy-go-lucky slacker.

I was planning to just laze around and admire Renaissance architecture. Getting a chance to visit Leonardo da Vinci's studio would have been a dream come true.

That was the plan, until one day a group of masked men suddenly broke into my home and said they were going to kill me.

Fine, kill me if you want. It's just that those crude swords, so dull they don't even gleam, look like they'd hurt a lot. It would take ages to die, and the wounds might get infected and inflamed.

I decided to fight back a little.

Reader's guide:

An Assassin's Creed game fanfic. You should be able to follow it even if you haven't played the games, because the author hasn't quite figured them out either.

The main text is in third person.

Message: Saving yourself is saving the world