Ragnar hauled himself upright, his muscles protesting from an awkward rest on the strangely yielding ground. His senses stirred slowly, as if emerging from a lengthy, hazy slumber. The air held unfamiliar scents, a sweet and earthy blend that evoked nothing he knew. His gaze swept across the immediate surroundings: trees with leaves of an iridescent green reached towards an amethyst sky, casting shifting shadows over vibrant, unusually colored foliage. None of this belonged to his world.

  Abruptly, the translucent windows of the previous notification reappeared, hovering before his eyes like luminous phantoms. They displayed a multitude of unreadable information, numbers and symbols that danced with no apparent logic. Then, a larger window stabilized, presenting clear text:

  Ragnar stared at the figures, his mind desperately trying to make sense of this surreal display. “Peasant? Level 1?” His reaction was far from that of an adventurer excited by the prospect of a fresh start.

  A bitter, sarcastic laugh escaped his lips. “Seriously? To die in a bloodbath, to go through who knows what, to be reborn… into a shitty life? A freaking peasant?”

  Anger welled up within him, a hot and familiar wave that threatened to drown the nascent despair. He sprang to his feet, ignoring the protests of his stiff muscles.

  Around him, the lush nature seemed ironically peaceful, indifferent to his indignation. “No way. Absolutely not.” He began to walk with a determined stride, trampling the strange grass, his only vague objective being to find a trace of civilization, anything that could explain this absurd return to life.

  After a twenty-minute walk through dense vegetation, interspersed with oddly shaped trees, he spotted some smoking rooftops in the distance. A village. Hope, a fragile spark, ignited within him. Perhaps he would find answers there.

  As he approached, the village came into clearer view: a collection of rustic wooden and stone houses, clustered around a central square bustling with the activity of villagers.

  Children ran around laughing, merchants displayed their wares on makeshift stalls, and farmers returned from the fields, their tools over their shoulders.

  A scene of simple, almost idyllic life, which only accentuated the feeling of absurdity in his own situation.

  Ragnar entered the village, feeling like a specter among the living.

  He approached several people, introducing himself as a lost stranger, asking for directions. Most of the villagers ignored him, absorbed in their own concerns. Some gave him a quick glance, full of suspicion or indifference, before returning to their activities. He was a ghost in their reality.

  Just as he began to feel despair, a man with a thick beard and a stained apron approached him. His sun-weathered face expressed a good-natured curiosity. “Hey, you, the newcomer! You look as lost as a lamb without its mother. Need some help?”

  Ragnar turned to him, a hint of relief in his voice. “Yes, sir. I… I’m a stranger. I don’t know where I am.”

  The man smiled, revealing yellowed teeth. “A stranger, eh? Funny getup for a traveler. Tell me, you got work? I can always use a hand at the tavern. You could serve the customers, earn a few gold coins to get back on your feet.”

  The proposition was simple, pragmatic. Ragnar had nowhere to go, no resources, and the idea of earning food and lodging was suddenly very appealing. “A tavern? Yes… yes, I can do that.”

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  “Perfect! Welcome to the Boar’s Joyful Inn. I’m Borin, the owner. Follow me.”

  Borin led him through the bustling square to a sturdy wooden building, from which a cheerful cacophony of laughter and conversation escaped. The smell of beer and grilled meat hung in the air.

  Ragnar followed Borin inside, discovering a smoky and noisy room filled with villagers seated at tables. Armored warriors, their swords hanging at their belts, mingled with rough-handed farmers.

  Borin handed him a clean apron and briefly explained the basics of serving: filling beer mugs, bringing dishes, collecting the few coins. Ragnar did as he was told, clumsily at first, then with increasing efficiency. He went from table to table, serving customers, trying not to spill the drinks.

  “Hey, Borin, is that a new one?” asked a warrior with a scar across his cheek, nodding towards Ragnar.

  Borin burst out laughing. “Yeah, Grum. A lost stranger. Looks like he’s seen a ghost, the poor sod.”

  As the evening wore on and Ragnar tirelessly served the thirsty patrons, a new notification appeared in his field of vision:

  [Description: You have acquired the basics of serving. Increases service efficiency and speed.]

  Then, a little later:

  And finally, as the night drew to a close and the last

  customers staggered out of the tavern:

  Ragnar blinked, incredulous. Skills? Levels? This “System” was stranger and more concrete than he had imagined. He had gained a “skill” by serving beer. The idea was both ridiculous and intriguing.

  At the end of the evening, Borin counted the accumulated gold coins and handed ten to Ragnar, a sum that seemed surprisingly high for a few hours of work. “Here you go, lad. That’s your share. And don’t worry about lodging, there’s a straw mattress in the storeroom for tonight. We’ll see about tomorrow.”

  Ragnar thanked Borin, his heart a little lighter. He had a roof over his head and something to eat. It was already more than he had expected upon waking up in this strange new world.

  Later, lying on his straw mattress in the dark, dusty back room, Borin came to visit him, a mug of beer in hand. “So, stranger, where exactly do you come from? You’ve got quite the tale to be so lost.”

  Ragnar hesitated for a moment, then launched into his story, recounting his former life, the betrayal, the rage, the suicide… He omitted the most gruesome details, but the gist was there. Borin listened in silence, his face shifting from surprise to consternation, then to undisguised amusement.

  “My old man, you drank some strong stuff, huh?” Borin burst out laughing, shaking his head. “A story like that… and then, look at you! You’ve got the freshness of a nineteen-year-old boy! You told me you were thirty-eight, right? That ‘fall’ into your ‘other world’ gave you a makeover, I’ll say!”

  Ragnar frowned, touching his face. He hadn’t thought about it. But Borin was right. The reflection he had briefly caught in a bucket of water in the village square had shown him a younger face, rid of the lines of fatigue and worry that had marked his former existence.

  “I… I don’t know,” Ragnar murmured, more lost than ever.

  Borin clapped him on the shoulder with a calloused hand. “Don’t worry too much, friend. This world is full of surprises. Get some rest.

  Tomorrow’s another day, and maybe you’ll understand a little better what’s happening to you… or maybe not! But at least you’ll have beer to serve.”

  Ragnar lay in the darkness, Borin’s words echoing in his head. A new world, a new body, a strange system… and a new life as a peasant. The sarcasm returned to haunt him.

  But deep down, despite everything, a tiny spark persisted. Maybe this fresh start, as absurd as it was, could offer him something he had lost a long time ago: a chance.

  A chance not to be Clyde Manson, the man broken by betrayal. A chance to bec

  ome… Ragnar. Even if for now, he was just a simple beer server with a “Super Serving” skill.