With a wave of her hand, Lysiane signaled Ragnar to follow. She guided him through the flourishing fields of her farm, a vibrant mosaic of colors stretching as far as the eye could see beneath the amethyst sky. The air hummed with the buzzing of bees and the sweet fragrance of wildflowers. As they walked, Lysiane began to explain the fundamentals of agriculture in this region.

  “The land here is generous, Ragnar,” she said, her clear, melodious voice blending with the birdsong. “But it demands respect and hard work. To plow, you need to know the right time, to feel the moisture in the soil. And each crop has its own needs.” She showed him the different plots, distinguishing the young cereal shoots, the orderly rows of broad-leafed vegetables, and the vines climbing along sturdy trellises.

  She also explained animal husbandry, introducing him to her few gentle-eyed dairy cows and thick-fleeced sheep. “Animals are a precious resource. They provide milk, wool, meat… but they need constant care, fresh grass, and safe shelter.”

  As she spoke with a communicative passion for her craft, Ragnar couldn’t help but notice her natural beauty. Her blonde hair, illuminated by the morning sun, framed an expressive face where intelligence and determination were clearly etched. Her movements were graceful and efficient, evidence of a life spent in contact with nature. A silent admiration grew within him.

  Finally, he dared to ask the question that had been gnawing at him since the previous day. “Mistress Valdios… I was wondering… why did you act that way with those soldiers yesterday evening? They were from Veridia… the capital, if I understood correctly. Why take such a risk for a stranger like me?”

  Lysiane stopped, her gaze drifting for a moment into the distance, beyond the fields. “Because it’s not the first time the royal guard from Veridia has come to stir up trouble in Valenbois. And because we, the inhabitants of this village, are tired of being considered pawns on their chessboard.”

  She turned to Ragnar, her intense blue eyes meeting his. “Veridia is a vast city, built on a fertile plain at the confluence of several large rivers. It’s the heart of the kingdom, the seat of King Theron. A man… whose ambition is matched only by his cruelty. The kingdom stretches for hundreds of square kilometers, encompassing dense forests to the west, mineral-rich mountains to the north, and agricultural plains like this one in the center.”

  She sighed slightly. “Valenbois is a small, peaceful village, but our lands are rich. Rich in quality wood, in pure water… and apparently, rich in other resources that interest King Theron and his allies.”

  “Allies?” Ragnar asked, feeling a shadow fall over this seemingly idyllic land.

  “The kingdom of Kaldor,” Lysiane explained, her voice growing darker. “A cold, mountainous kingdom beyond our northern borders. Theron signed a secret treaty with King Vorlag of Kaldor. A shameful treaty that gives them the right to exploit the mineral resources of our lands. They talk about ‘development,’ about ‘progress,’ but we know what that means: the destruction of our forests, the pollution of our rivers, and the enslavement of our communities.”

  Her grip tightened slightly. “We, the villagers of Valenbois, do not agree. This land is ours; we have cultivated and protected it for generations. If Theron and Vorlag try to plunder us, we will defend ourselves.”

  They arrived at the edge of a small wood, bordering Lysiane’s cultivated land. “Here is your land, Ragnar,” she said, gesturing to a plot of about one hectare, fringed by majestic trees. “It’s a good spot. The soil is fertile, and the wood will provide you with materials to build shelter.”

  She pointed to a small, rudimentary lean-to against some trees. “You’ll find an axe behind that shed. It’s not new, but it will do to start felling some trees.”

  Lysiane glanced at the sun, a thoughtful expression on her face. “I have obligations at the farm. But don’t hesitate to come see me if you have any questions. And welcome to Valenbois, Ragnar. I hope you find the peace you’re looking for here.” With a final look, she turned and walked away, returning to her fields.

  Ragnar stood motionless for a moment, contemplating his new property. One hectare of land, his own patch in this strange new world. A mixed feeling of excitement and apprehension washed over him. He walked towards the small shed and found the axe, an old iron blade fixed to a worn wooden handle. It was heavy and rustic, but it represented the beginning of something.

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  He approached the first tree, a thick, gnarled trunk. Taking a deep breath, he raised the axe above his head and brought it down on the wood with a dull thud. Splinters flew. He continued, the rhythm of his blows becoming more regular. Fatigue began to set in, but a fierce determination pushed him to continue.

  As he felled his third tree, a notification appeared in his field of vision:

  Ragnar stopped, breathless, and stared at the interface. His statistics were increasing based on his physical activity. It was… logical, in a way. Working his body made him stronger and more enduring.

  He resumed his labor, the axe falling with more vigor with each swing. A few minutes later, a new notification appeared:

  Ragnar smiled, a glimmer of hope shining in his eyes. Even the most rudimentary tasks seemed to have significance in this world governed by the System. He might only be a level 1 peasant, but each swing of the axe, each drop of sweat, made him a little stronger, a little more skilled.

  The prospect of building his own home, of working his own land, offered him a purpose, a direction in this still-so-strange universe. The threat of King Theron and his ally still loomed, but for now, Ragnar was focused on the immediate task: shaping his future, one felled tree at a time.

  Ragnar toiled relentlessly, the axe becoming an extension of his arms. Each felled tree, every lopped branch, each log dragged to the site of his future dwelling was a victory, an affirmation of his new existence. The System interface showered him with discreet notifications:

  Gradually, a rudimentary structure began to take shape. Posts rose, forming the walls of a modest cabin. Then, with the aid of long branches and thick foliage, he constructed a basic but protective roof. Each step was a lesson learned on the spot, a practical application of his will and the strength that the labor conferred upon him.

  As he secured the final piece of foliage onto the roof, satisfied with the result of his arduous day, a more significant notification appeared:

  Ragnar blinked, surprised. A combat skill? He had expected improvements in his woodcutting or building abilities, but not this. He opened his skill list, a new entry shining at the top: [Vigorous Strike (Level 1)].

  Intrigued, he decided to test this newfound ability. Venturing a little deeper into the woods behind his plot, he spotted a dead tree trunk, still solid. He focused, feeling a new energy coursing through his limbs. He raised the axe and brought it down on the trunk, imbuing his movement with a new intent. The impact was more powerful, the wood cracking more deeply than before.

  A new notification confirmed the use of his skill: [Vigorous Strike (Level 1) used. Additional damage dealt.]

  Satisfied and a little more confident, Ragnar returned to his half-built cabin as the sun began to dip below the horizon. He had a roof over his head, land to cultivate, and now, a rudimentary combat skill. Perhaps this new life as a peasant was not as devoid of potential as he had initially believed.