When a Useless Guide Transmigrated into the Zerg Race - Chapter 1

“By vote of the White Tower Council, in accordance with the fact that the Guide, Winslow, is unable to contribute to the White Tower, fails to provide mental stabilization or spiritual cleansing for his matched A-rank Sentinel, Lin Yang, and refuses physical union with said Sentinel, the following judgment is hereby passed upon Guide Winslow.”

The massive courtroom was supported by towering, upright pillars engraved with dense rows of black legal penal codes. The incisions, a centimeter deep, appeared exceptionally grim and terrifying within the cold, hollow hall of judgment. In the center of the sentencing platform stood a man dressed in a simple, pure white robe. His features were enchantingly beautiful, yet his aura was piercingly cold. Naturally slender, the loose-fitting robe draped over his frame made his bony shoulders appear even more prominent. His silver-white hair cascaded past his waist, veiling much of his figure.

The voice of the verdict echoed through the vast, empty, and frigid courtroom. “Winslow’s status as a citizen of the White Tower is hereby stripped. A portion of his assets shall be confiscated to offset the expenses incurred by the White Tower for his upbringing and education. The sentence is exile to the Desert Border, to be executed immediately.”

The black gavel was raised high and fell heavily with the final word of the judgment. A dull thud rang out, and its resonance lingered in the solemn air. The man with silver-white hair kept his exquisite eyes downcast. His long lashes remained motionless for a long time, making him look like a still sculpture.

“Guide Winslow, it is time to go.”

Behind him, two tall, powerful Sentinels had been keeping a close watch on the frail Guide. Once the court announced the verdict, one of them, a Sentinel with brown curly hair, took a step forward. He reminded the man in a soft voice, as if afraid of startling him. Winslow’s downcast lashes fluttered. As if waking from a dream, he lifted his eyes, revealing icy, pale greenish-blue pupils. His expression remained vacant, as if the person sentenced to exile were not himself. The White Tower had not bound him with handcuffs. It made sense; after all, he was merely a fragile, defective Guide who could not even soothe a Sentinel.

The three of them walked out of the courtroom. The piercing sunlight stabbed directly into Winslow’s eyes, which had not seen light for a long time. His brow furrowed slightly, and his lashes trembled as he turned his head and closed his eyes to avoid the annoying glare. The other Sentinel behind him, a man with a buzz cut and a long, jagged scar running across his face, frowned and quickly stepped forward to block the harsh sun for Winslow.

“Thank you,” Winslow said. His voice was cold and devoid of any warmth or inflection. Once he recovered, he opened his eyes to adjust. His long lashes blinked, and his gaze remained distant, lacking any cordiality.

At the end of the long path leading away from the courtroom stood two people. One was a tall, sturdy Sentinel wearing a tight black tank top that emphasized his bulging, well-defined muscles. The other was petite and delicate with fair skin; she was a Guide. Winslow acted as if he did not see them. With a steady, unhurried pace, he walked straight past them.

“Winslow!” Lin Yang’s voice, laced with anger, had barely fallen before he stepped forward and gripped Winslow’s arm tightly. He was so thin that Lin Yang could feel only the sensation of bone through his palm. Winslow’s brow shifted as he tried to pull his arm away, but he could not break the grip.

“Sentinel Lin Yang, please do not offend Guide Winslow,” the brown-haired Sentinel intervened, stepping forward angrily to push Lin Yang away.

Lin Yang, who had just felt a flicker of pity because Winslow was so thin, was instantly enraged by the Sentinel’s words. “What? You look down on me, yet you have already managed to hook up with another Sentinel?”

The brown-haired Sentinel glared at him. “You!”

Winslow reached out to stop him. He lifted his eyelids slightly, his voice carrying a hint of nonchalant chill. “What does it have to do with you?”

“Winslow, you!”

“Brother Winslow, this is where you are wrong. It is one thing that you cannot help Brother Lin Yang cleanse his mental landscape, but how could you find someone else?” A soft, delicate voice spoke, sounding deceptively innocent.

Winslow’s heart, usually still as a stagnant pond, suddenly felt a surge of irritation. He did not want to argue with these people anymore. He stepped forward. The hem of his white robe caught the air, rippling in his wake. As his wide sleeves brushed past Lin Yang, even the passing breeze carried a trace of coldness. His silhouette looked thin and profoundly solitary.

The words of the two people behind him died in their throats. Ruan Qing, the petite Guide standing next to Lin Yang, stared resentfully at Winslow’s retreating back. He wondered why Winslow was acting so arrogant when he was about to be exiled. Ruan Qing had been jealous of Winslow since childhood and wished he would just die. Winslow was exquisitely beautiful and popular among Sentinels. Even though his parents had passed away, they had left behind a substantial inheritance that could have kept him comfortable for life. Ruan Qing was not like the orphans who were forced to perform cleansing work every month to meet the White Tower’s quotas just to make a living.

Everything had changed on the day Winslow came of age. Because he had inherited wealth, Winslow had not needed to rely on cleansing to survive before his adulthood. It was not until his Awakening Ceremony that it was discovered he could not cleanse any Sentinel. This meant Winslow was useless; he could neither fight like a Sentinel nor perform the duty of a Guide. He deserved to be exiled.

However, Ruan Qing hated that there were still Sentinels protecting him even after his sentence. Even in Lin Yang’s eyes, there was a lingering attachment. Ruan Qing’s gaze grew more poisonous. He leaned into Lin Yang, his voice weak and coquettish. “Brother Ayang, did I say something wrong?” He followed the words with a soft sob.

Lin Yang tore his gaze away from Winslow’s distant figure and took Ruan Qing into his arms, patting him gently. “No. He is just heartless. He is an emotionless monster.”

“Is that so? But I feel like Brother Winslow did not care about what we said at all. He seemed to rely more on those two Sentinels by his side.” Ruan Qing’s words were laced with provocation. He had to hold onto Lin Yang and ensure he would not soften his heart toward Winslow. If Lin Yang regretted his choice and decided to protect Winslow even without the cleansing, Ruan Qing would be finished.

As expected, hearing Ruan Qing’s divisive words made Lin Yang even more furious. He snorted coldly. “If he does not care, then neither do I. He is about to be exiled and he is still acting so high and mighty.” He tightened his hold on the petite Guide. He thought about how Winslow not only failed to soothe his mental landscape but would not even let himself be touched. Now, Winslow had even hooked up with other Sentinels. Without Lin Yang’s forgiveness, Winslow would still have to go to the Desert Border. He had originally thought that if Winslow had been a bit more obedient, he might have actually taken him in. Ruan Qing buried his calculating eyes in Lin Yang’s chest, breathing a sigh of relief at those words.

After the court’s judgment was finalized, Winslow was not immediately hauled to the border. He was permitted to return to his residence in the White Tower to pack his remaining personal belongings, including the insignificant items that the Council had not confiscated. His home was located in a quiet corner on the west side of the tower. Winslow preferred peace over luxury, though he had high standards for his environment. Unlike the lavish mansions of other Guides, this was a small courtyard that was narrow but comfortable.

It was also the former home of his deceased parents. When he pushed the door open, the interior decor remained simple to the point of being sparse. Plain gauze curtains hung low, and sunlight filtered through the window frames, casting fragmented spots of light on the floor. Winslow did not rush to pack his clothes. Instead, he walked to the desk and opened the bottom drawer. Inside lay a yellowed inheritance list left to him by his parents. Next to the list was a jade pendant engraved with a snake pattern, which was cool to the touch.

His fingertips brushed over the patterns on the jade, and a faint ripple of emotion crossed his pale green eyes. The White Tower Council had seized most of his real estate and liquid assets to offset the so-called upbringing and education costs. However, some scattered, inconspicuous pieces of the inheritance had fortunately been overlooked. Winslow took out a piece of stationery and listed the destination of his remaining assets one by one. All the properties, along with the final bit of savings, were entrusted to Lu Yu, a Sentinel he had grown up with. At the very end, he added only one sentence: “They are yours. Do not look for me.”

When his pen stopped on the paper, Winslow realized he had not said goodbye to Lu Yu, who was away on a mission. He decided it was not necessary. He wrote quickly without the slightest hesitation, as if these worldly possessions had never left a mark on his heart. Finished, he folded the paper, pressed it under the jade pendant, and wiped the desk until it was spotless. Only then did he begin packing his clothes, which consisted of a few identical white robes. The White Tower controlled every aspect of a Guide’s life, including their attire. He folded them neatly and tucked them into a bag.

His silver-white hair draped over his shoulders and swayed with his movements. Once everything was ready, Winslow stood in the center of the room and took one last look at the place where he had lived for over a decade. There was no lingering attachment or reluctance; his eyes remained a silent, frozen expanse. He turned, closed the door, and locked away that small courtyard along with his entire past.

The desert wind carried grit and scraped across the parched earth with a whistling moan. The Sentinel escorting Winslow dropped him off by a boundary stone at the border line. The tall, strong Sentinel looked at the fair, exquisite Guide standing in the middle of the swirling yellow sand and felt a pang of pity. But even so, there was nothing he could do. The judgment had been passed. This fragile Guide was, in the end, alone.

He did not dare look at the Guide. He pulled out some of his own food and survival tools and placed them at Winslow’s feet. Then, he climbed into the hover-car and started the engine. The roar of the vehicle kicked up a cloud of sand, and in the blink of an eye, it vanished over the horizon. The rising dust made Winslow frown slightly. He looked down at the meager bag of supplies at his feet, then looked out at the boundless yellow sand. There was no ripple of emotion in his greenish-blue eyes.

Not far away was a dilapidated shack that looked like it had not been inhabited for a long time. This was to be Winslow’s new home. The bottom of his white robe was already stained with sand, but Winslow did not care. He moved his things into the wooden hut, and the dust he kicked up made him cough twice. Having never lived in such a filthy, broken place, Winslow found it extremely difficult to adapt. He tidied the bed and spread his clothes over it while his brow remained tightly furrowed.

The sun gradually sank in the west. The temperature difference between day and night in the desert was extreme. Once the daytime heat faded, a bone-chilling cold seeped through the cracks in the door. Winslow wrapped his white robe tighter around himself, but he still could not ward off the chill. His fingertips turned a pale, ghostly white. He opened his eyes. His pale green gaze swept across the room, but he could not find anything to use for warmth. He sighed, stood up, and pushed the door open to walk outside.

The night deepened, and sparse stars hung in the ink-black sky. By the faint starlight, Winslow walked slowly along the dunes near the shack, attempting to find some dry branches or leaves. However, vegetation in the desert was scarce. After walking for a long time, he finally found a few withered sea-buckthorn bushes in a sheltered sandy hollow. He bent down to pick them up. Just as his fingertips touched the dry branches, the sand beneath his feet suddenly collapsed.

Caught off guard, Winslow’s body plummeted downward. He instinctively reached out to grab the surrounding sand, but the loose grains offered no grip. The sensation of weightlessness instantly seized him. The wind whistled in his ears, making the hem of his white robe flap violently. He instinctively reached out to grab the rock wall. His fingertips had just brushed against a ledge when the image of his dilapidated little wooden shack suddenly flashed through his mind. He let go of his hand.