The sun glistened in the morning sky, casting a golden glow across the farm, stretching as far as Boyd's eyes could see. Wisps of thin, white clouds drifted lazily, accentuating the crisp, unbroken blue of the heavens above. The air was fresh, filled with the faint, earthy scent of dew-drenched soil, mingling with the hearty smells of farmland life. A breeze swept past, carrying a warmth that promised an enduring summer day, making the bright green leaves on the trees dance slightly.
Boyd surveyed the scene before him. Directly ahead stood the main farmhouse—a grand, sprawling building, reminiscent of an old, stately manor. Its weathered wooden panels held stories of seasons past, its wide, inviting porch bordered with painted white railings, giving it a commanding presence amidst the fields. Down the slope, a little farther on, was a towering red barn, its planks standing robust and freshly painted. The barn housed the heart of the farm: cows, chickens, pigs, and even a few horses, each animal adding to the lively rhythm of the morning.
Stretching out from the farmhouse and barn were sprawling fields. Rows upon rows of corn stalks reached up to the sky, while the plowed earth around them lay waiting to be seeded. Workers dotted the landscape, clad in simple, worn clothing. As they worked, they paused every so often, wiping the sweat from their brows, their eyes catching on Boyd as he worked, dragging a plow across the soil with a single-minded intensity.
One of the farmhands muttered to another, "Look at him, at it again." They watched Boyd with a mix of awe and confusion.
"He's been at it for over an hour," replied the other, voice tinged with mild concern.
"You think we should tell him to take a break?"
"Ah, he's the young master," said the first, shrugging.
"If he wants to work, let him."
Boyd moved steadily, his shirtless back glistening with sweat. His muscles flexed and contracted as he drove the plow through the earth. The work felt second nature to him now, each step and pull of the plow coming effortlessly, even though his breath grew heavier with every row. For a while, he'd managed to lose himself in the rhythm of it, feeling almost connected to the land itself as he moved through the soil.
Finally, reaching the end of the field, Boyd let go of the plow with a soft sigh, letting it fall to the earth with a satisfying thud. He raised a hand to wipe his forehead, feeling the layer of dirt and sweat that had settled on his skin. His hand brushed against the contours of his bicep—a body stronger than he remembered, with muscles more developed than he was used to. He couldn't help but feel an odd sense of pride, though it was still tinged with a strange detachment, as though he were looking at a stranger's form.
"Damn," he murmured to himself, catching his breath. "Finished it all." He shook his head with a wry grin. "Maybe I should leave the rest to the servants." Yet, as he gazed across the land he'd just plowed, a quiet satisfaction settled over him, fleeting but real.
Yet his thoughts wouldn't stay calm. Even as he stood there, his mind buzzed with questions that had been lurking beneath the surface since he'd awakened in this body two weeks prior. He glanced down at his arm again, observing the fine layer of dirt that clung to his tanned, muscular forearm. I still can't shake the feeling… This isn't really my body.
A faint shimmer flickered in his peripheral vision, and he turned, focusing on the familiar translucent screen hovering nearby. This strange, almost ghostly interface had been his guide in this strange new world. He'd come to rely on it, though he still wasn't sure if it was real or just a figment of some otherworldly trick.
The screen displayed his progress in bold, bright letters:
Daily tasks complete. Experience gained: 5 points. Total points gained : 55 points.
A prompt appeared just beneath the message:
"What would you like to upgrade?"
He scanned through the options.
*HP: 100%
*status recovery
*Strength, Agility, Skill, Endurance and Stamina—his physical traits—were highlighted, showing minor boosts from his hard work in the fields, as well as the a mystery box option. He hovered over Magic, the only skill that felt utterly foreign to him, like an itch he couldn't scratch.
"Hm…" He reached out, finger hovering over the screen. He selected Magic, but a message appeared instead:
"You must reach level 10 to unlock magic skills."
Boyd scowled, an odd mixture of curiosity and frustration bubbling up in him. "Level 5?" he muttered. He looked down, a hint of determination in his eyes as he clenched his fist. So I have to work my way up if I want to understand this new world—and the power that might come with it.
Just then, a voice interrupted his thoughts.
"Young Master?"
He turned, seeing a woman approach. It was one of the maids, her demeanor both respectful and hesitant. Her clothes were simple but neat, her face framed by a soft brown braid that hung over her shoulder. She stopped a few feet away and lowered her gaze slightly, her tone reverent.
"Your father has requested to see you," she informed him.
***
Boyd stepped into the quiet corridor of the grand farmhouse, his footsteps muffled against the smooth wooden floor. The walls around him were lined with dark oak paneling, broken up by sconces that cast a warm, amber glow over the corridor. Portraits of ancestors—men with strong jaws and women with piercing eyes—hung along the walls, each face fixed in an eternal gaze that seemed to follow him as he walked. Doors lined either side, each leading to unknown rooms that held memories of a family that wasn't truly his.
He moved slowly, his eyes drifting over the space until he reached the door at the far end, its surface polished but marked with the faint signs of age. He paused, hand poised to knock, but he hesitated. A strange tension tightened in his chest as he stared at the door, uncertain what awaited him on the other side.
Taking a deep breath to steady himself, he finally knocked and then turned the handle, stepping into the room beyond.
Inside, the study exuded an air of rustic elegance. Bookshelves lined the walls, filled with leather-bound tomes and records, their spines worn from years of use. Mounted above a large, intricately carved fireplace was a stuffed deer head, its glassy eyes staring blankly into the room, adding an eerie grandeur. Two finely crafted armchairs sat by a low table, their upholstery rich and well-kept, as if awaiting the presence of guests. The scent of aged wood and faint cigar smoke lingered in the air.
Jonas Longman, Boyd's father in this new life, sat in one of the armchairs, holding a silver goblet filled to the brim with dark red wine. He looked up, his expression somewhere between indulgent and contemplative, and gestured for Boyd to enter further.
"Ah, Boyd, come on in," Jonas said, voice smooth but weighted with something unspoken.
As Boyd entered, his eyes caught sight of another familiar figure: Gerard, his original father, now dressed in the modest garb of a servant. He stood silently behind Jonas, his gaze lowered, hands clasped around a golden jug filled halfway with wine, waiting in a quiet, obedient stance.
Boyd closed the door behind him and crossed the room, taking the empty chair opposite Jonas. He forced a polite smile, his fingers tapping against the armrest as he settled in. "Father, you wanted to see me?"
Jonas took a measured sip from his goblet, watching Boyd over the rim, and then smiled, though there was something elusive in his eyes.
"Yes, yes, I thought it was time we had a talk. It's been… an interesting few weeks, hasn't it?"
Boyd nodded cautiously, sensing a deeper meaning behind the words. "I suppose it has."
Jonas swirled the wine in his goblet, eyes fixed on the crimson liquid as if it held some secret answer.
"I have to say, you've… changed, Boyd. Your time in the field today… I didn't expect you'd throw yourself into the farm work with such, ah, fervor."
Boyd shifted uncomfortably, casting a quick glance at Gerard, who remained quiet and dutiful.
"It's just… something to keep busy with. Helps clear my mind."
"Of course, of course," Jonas replied, his tone almost amused, though his eyes were harder to read. He took another sip and leaned forward, voice dropping to a low murmur.
"But Boyd… You know, I wasn't just calling you here to chat about farming."
Boyd watched him, a sense of curiosity growing. He was starting to enjoy the exchange, but he couldn't shake the feeling that Jonas was leading up to something more.
"Then why did you call me here?"
Jonas let out a slow, almost weary sigh, and took a longer drink, draining half his goblet.
"Well, I can't help but notice, my boy, that you've been… distant since you woke up from that coma. I imagine—well, I can't begin to comprehend what you went through, but it's changed you, hasn't it?"
Boyd's mind stirred uneasily. There were gaps in his memory, moments that seemed foggy or out of place. "I… suppose so. Things feel different."
Jonas's gaze softened, and he leaned forward, his voice carrying an edge of vulnerability.
"You're my only son, Boyd. Whatever happened between us before, I—" He broke off, looking down at his cup for a moment.
"I just hope you understand that… you're still important to me. I need you."
Boyd was silent, his mind scrambling to recall whatever disagreement they'd had. Their last conversation… What had it been about? The memories slipped through his grasp like sand, evading him.
Jonas took another sip, gathering himself, then continued, "And that's actually why I wanted to speak with you. We have a shipment heading out to town—a fine chance to sell our produce to merchants who pay well. I thought it would be a perfect opportunity for you to help."
"Help?" Boyd echoed, curiosity sparking in his eyes.
"Yes." Jonas paused, choosing his words carefully.
"You have two paths before you, Boyd. One day, all this," he gestured to the room around them,
"could be yours. The land, the farm, the workers—all of it. You could make a name for yourself here, continue the Longman legacy."
Boyd felt a flicker of something—an odd sense of familiarity. In his former life, he'd wanted to become a knight, to escape his family's fishing trade and forge his own path. And now, this new life offered him the same choice—to stay, to inherit, or to break free and pursue something greater.
"Or." Jonas continued, voice calm but weighted, "you could pursue your own dreams, wherever that may lead you. I know you once wished to be a knight, Boyd. Perhaps that dream still holds true for you."
Boyd's gaze dropped to the floor, lost in thought. The weight of the choice felt heavy, almost foreboding. His eyes strayed to Gerard, who stood silently, gaze lowered. The man who had raised him, his true father, was now nothing more than a servant in this world. How could he abandon him?
Finally, Boyd looked up, meeting Jonas's gaze. "For now… all I want is to be here, to be there for you, Father."
A flicker of relief crossed Jonas's face. "I'm glad to hear that." He raised his goblet, taking another sip.
"Very well, then. Tomorrow, I'll have you accompany one of the farmhands into town with the shipment. You'll need to understand these things if you're to inherit this land."
Boyd nodded, a mixture of determination and uncertainty swirling within him. "I'll do my best."
Jonas leaned back, a satisfied smile gracing his lips. "That's all I ask." Boyd stood, preparing to leave, when Jonas called out softly, "You've made the right choice, Boyd. I'm certain of it."
Pausing, Boyd looked back, nodding, before exiting the room.
As he stepped out into the midday sun, his eyes adjusted to the bright light. Ahead, three large horse-drawn carriages were being loaded with crates overflowing with produce: ears of corn, bunches of millet, sacks of potatoes, and an array of colorful vegetables that filled the air with a faint, earthy aroma.
Boyd took a deep breath, feeling the weight of the future pressing down on him.
Boyd stepped out of the mansion and into the sunlit yard, his boots stirring up small puffs of dust as he made his way toward the waiting carriage. The servants bustled around, securing bundles and finalizing preparations, their voices a quiet murmur in the warm afternoon air. He exchanged a few words with them—brief, low, indistinct from a distance. A faint smile tugged at his lips, an ease in his posture as if he was finally settling into his place here, if only for the moment.
Soon, the servants climbed into their positions, and with a low creak of wood and a snap of reins, the carriage started its slow roll down the path, carrying Boyd and the shipment toward town.
Unnoticed, from a shaded corner near the barn, a lone figure watched Boyd's every movement with silent intensity. He was tall and lean, dressed in a dark, rough shirt tucked into worn trousers, giving him an air of rugged composure. Sunlight caught the edges of two short knives strapped to his forearms, their dark handles barely visible against his sleeves, almost as if they were part of him.
He folded his arms, his expression narrowing as the carriage receded down the road. His gaze stayed fixed on Boyd, an odd mixture of suspicion and calculation in his eyes, as if he were tracing every step, every word, every gesture Boyd had made with cold precision. The corner of his mouth twitched slightly, a faint smirk that hinted at some unspoken thought, some plan waiting just below the surface.
As the last traces of dust settled in the carriage's wake, he lingered in silence, unmoving, like a shadow tethered to the ground. Whatever his intentions, whatever questions filled his mind, one thing was certain—his presence was no accident.
The figure squinted into the distance, his eyes sharp with purpose. And as the carriage disappeared from view, he turned, his expression unreadable, as if already planning his next move.