Dawnblade (Fan-Translation)

After sitting up from what was clearly a suspicious-looking black metal coffin, Gwayne was in a state of deep confusion.
In fact, even the act of "sitting up" had been done almost entirely by instinct.

A tidal wave of disorientation and sensory overload hammered his brain. His ears buzzed with static, his body was ablaze with sensations he hadn't felt in what must have been eons, and his vision had quadruple images layered over each other—two of which were in black and white for some reason.
And yet, through all that chaos, some part of his mind remained clear.

He had to admit: whoever had whacked his hand with a metal rod just moments ago probably saved him from being swallowed entirely by the disorientation.

(But damn, that hurt...)

As his thoughts gradually stabilized, Gwayne finally started piecing things together—
The sudden loss of his strange overhead vision, the "escape program" being triggered, the feeling of falling endlessly, and now...this.

A real, tangible, living body.

A body.

After drifting for who knew how many thousands of years, after nearly resigning himself to being just a floating observer forever, Gwayne finally had a body again.

The dizzy, overwhelming flood of senses made sense—he had been deprived of everything except sight for so long. No wonder even simple things like feeling temperature and texture felt overwhelming.

But he was adapting fast. Faster than he thought possible.
As his nausea subsided a little, the cursed quadruple vision faded, and at last, the scene around him came into focus.

The first thing he saw were four heavily armored warriors standing just a few feet away.
One, a grizzled, silver-haired knight in battle-worn plate armor, gripped a massive silver sword. The other three wore simpler gear but were clearly professional soldiers.

At their feet, pinned and kneeling, was a small figure—clearly female, judging by her build. Gwayne couldn't quite see her face, but he caught a glimpse of pointed ears poking out from her hair.

A half-elf, maybe?

Further back, standing alone in a crimson dress, was a woman of striking beauty—elegant, mature, and sharply watchful. Gwayne couldn't help but notice her... but then quickly realized she looked utterly tense, bordering on terrified.

Before he could process more, movement to his side caught his attention.
He turned, just in time to see a girl—maybe sixteen or seventeen years old—scrambling clumsily off the stone platform, clutching what looked like a staff (or more accurately, a weapon that hurt).

Connecting the dots wasn't hard.

"...You were the one who hit me, weren’t you?"

He was surprised at how naturally the words came out—
Not in Chinese, not in English, but in a language he had never heard before and yet knew perfectly, as if he'd spoken it all his life.

Rebecca didn’t know what whirlwind of chaos was racing through her ancestor’s mind.
The young noblewoman, freshly burdened with a title and nearly shattered by the night’s events, looked ready to cry.

"I-I'm so sorry, Ancestor! Please forgive me!"

"I..."
Gwayne was just as lost as they were.
He might have spent centuries watching this world, but this—this first-person perspective, this confrontation—was utterly new.
He was just as confused as they were, if not more.

"You all are..." he started uncertainly.

The lady in red, who had been the calmest of the group, stepped forward. Fear and tension still flickered in her eyes, but she forced herself to speak steadily:
"Do you know who you are?"

Gwayne paused.
For a moment, the answer almost slipped out—his real name. But instinct kicked in. He quickly realized that would be a mistake.

Looking down at the coffin he had risen from—undeniably a coffin—and around at the tomb-like surroundings, Gwayne realized the situation.

He had just risen from a grave.

If he said anything out of place, they might very well mistake him for a demon or a cursed revenant—and judging by the atmosphere, they wouldn’t hesitate to purge him on the spot.

He recalled the girl’s panicked voice from earlier:
"Ancestor!"

That gave him the critical clue he needed.

Putting on a thoughtful expression, Gwayne frantically assembled a cover story in his mind—something about long sleep, memory loss—
Only to be hit by another wave of vertigo.

He staggered slightly, nearly toppling back into the coffin.
The lady in red immediately raised her staff, poised to blast him with a fireball if he turned hostile.

But Gwayne steadied himself and spoke lowly:

"I am Gwayne Seawright... Pioneer of the Kingdom of Andrast.
Tell me—what year is it?"

He lifted his head, his gaze calm, deep, and unfathomable.

In his mind, pure chaos.

Memories not his own surged through him—records, stories, images—streaming into his mind like an overloaded library archive.
He gritted his teeth to keep from blacking out.

From somewhere to his side, the young girl—the one who had smacked him—chirped out helpfully:
"It’s the year 735, Ancestor! You’ve... you’ve been asleep for over seven hundred years!"

Hestia, the noblewoman in red, visibly relaxed at Gwayne's clear speech and recollection.
As a seasoned mage, she knew well that true undead, no matter how strong, could never recall their real name without their spirit being torn apart by the backlash.
The fact that "Gwayne" spoke without hesitation, showed no signs of spiritual collapse, and even recognized his legacy—it meant one thing:

He wasn’t some abomination.
(At least... not the usual kind.)

Even so, she remained bewildered.

Because if he wasn't undead—
Then how the hell was he even standing here?

Setting confusion aside, Hestia took a step forward, bowing respectfully.

Great-great-great-great-grandchildren.
Probably even more "greats" if Gwayne bothered counting properly.

The memory infusion finally slowed down.
He was almost functional now. Almost.

Gripping the edge of the coffin, Gwayne tried to stand.
He muttered, half to himself:
"It’s fine, it’s fine. I don't even know how I woke up... could someone give me a hand?"

He realized, with painful awkwardness, that he'd overestimated his coordination.
His body still moved like it belonged to someone else.

Rebecca, who had been watching nervously, jumped up to help immediately.
"I'll help you out, Ancestor! Let me help you out of the coffin!"

(Why did that sound so wrong...?)

"Seven hundred years..."
Gwayne murmured as he leaned on the girl, finally managing to step down from the platform.
He glanced at his ancient, luxurious robes and asked, almost absently:
"What’s this fabric?"

"Umm... I think it’s... moonweave cloth, made by the elves?" Rebecca guessed.

"Tech way ahead of its time," Gwayne muttered.

Rebecca blinked, utterly baffled.
(Ancestor speaks so deeply...!)

Slowly but steadily, Gwayne adjusted to his new body, his mind and muscles syncing at remarkable speed—as if some invisible "driver" was installing itself into him.

After a few experimental steps on his own, Gwayne almost cried.

If there was a microphone around, he would have given an award speech right there.

After all these centuries, after all this madness...
He had just unlocked the first human achievement:
Walking upright.

As he took another wobbly step, a nagging thought finally resurfaced:

Wait... wasn’t there still that half-elf girl being held at swordpoint by four hulking warriors?