The return journey to Valdios Farm with Lysiane offered Ragnar a moment of quiet after the market's bustle. He mentally tallied his expenditures: the sturdy spade, the new hoe, the large canvas sack, and Elara's generous amount of fertilizer. The total came to just under three hundred gold coins. He still had a comfortable sum to begin investing in his new life.

  As they walked along a path lined with trees boasting vibrant foliage, the sound of a familiar voice interrupted them. “Ragnar! Lysiane! What a surprise to see you together!”

  It was Borin, leaning against a cart half-filled with empty barrels, in front of a small shop selling leather and furs. The air there reeked of tanning and animal hair. Borin grinned broadly, clearly pleased to see them again.

  “Borin! What are you doing around here?” Lysiane asked, a slight frown creasing her brow.

  “Came to fetch some hides to mend the tavern seats,” Borin replied. “Passing warriors aren’t always the gentlest on the furniture.” His smile faded slightly as he added in a more serious tone, “But that’s not what I wanted to talk to you about.”

  He glanced around cautiously before leaning towards them. “I’ve heard things… rumors going around the tavern. Travelers speak of troop movements in the north. And it seems the agreement between King Theron of Veridia and King Vorlag of Kaldor is about to materialize.”

  Lysiane’s fists clenched. “You mean… the exploitation of our mines?”

  Borin nodded, looking grim. “That’s the word. And worse… it seems the Kaldor army itself is expected to arrive here, in Valenbois, as early as tomorrow. To ‘ensure the security’ of the operations, they say.”

  Worry etched itself onto Lysiane’s face. “Tomorrow? That’s much sooner than we anticipated.” She looked into the distance, her blue eyes filled with concern. “I’ve warned my men. They’re ready to defend our lands if the Kaldorians overstep. But an army…”

  She sighed, then turned to Ragnar, a determined look in her eyes. “We need to prepare, Ragnar. The whole village must be ready to react if things go badly.”

  Ragnar, though new to this world, felt the palpable tension. The idea of a foreign army invading their peaceful village made him uneasy. He nodded silently.

  “We must go,” Lysiane said to Borin. “Thank you for the information. Keep us informed of anything else you hear.”

  They left Borin by his cart, the shadow of worry hanging over them. The journey back to Valdios Farm was made in thoughtful silence, each absorbed by the grim news.

  Once they arrived at the farm, Lysiane let Ragnar head towards his plot of land. The sun was beginning to set, bathing the fields in a golden light. Ragnar took his spade and began to turn the soil, his muscles working with renewed determination. Each thrust of the spade was an act of possession, an affirmation of his right to this small corner of this new world.

  The System interface displayed regular notifications:

  The freshly turned earth exuded a rich, damp scent, promising future harvests.

  After several hours of hard labor, Ragnar’s small plot was entirely plowed. Fatigue set in, but the satisfaction of the completed work was stronger. He took out the bags of fertilizer and began to spread them methodically, dividing his plot into distinct sections for different crops. He planted the seeds he had bought at the market: watermelon, cabbage, onion, and other vegetable seeds whose specific needs Lysiane had explained.

  As he planted the last of the seeds, a new notification appeared:

  Immediately afterward, another notification announced:

  A feeling of simple and profound joy washed over Ragnar. In just a few days, he had gone from a lost stranger to a landowner with nascent skills. The interface displayed an estimate of his future harvests: with proper care and the Basic Farming skill, he could expect to harvest the equivalent of over three thousand gold coins once the crops matured.

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  However, another piece of information tempered his enthusiasm: the growth cycle for these crops was estimated at seven months. Seven months felt like an eternity. He thought about what Lysiane had told him about magic. If he mastered magic, perhaps he could accelerate the growth of his plants. But he checked his statistics:

  His mana was still at zero. He had no apparent magical aptitude. His hit points had improved upon leveling up, and he still had five attribute points to distribute. But the seven-month wait for his crops felt endless, especially with the looming threat of the Kaldor army’s arrival. He would have to find a way to speed things up or find other sources of income while waiting for the harvest. The shadow of war and the promises of the land mingled in his mind, sketching an uncertain but potentially promising future.

  The sun still hung high in the amethyst sky, granting Ragnar several hours of daylight before nightfall. With his land plowed and his seeds planted, he felt a sudden urge to explore Valenbois a bit more. Perhaps he would find other opportunities or simply a way to distract himself from Borin's somber predictions.

  He left his newly constructed plot and headed towards the village center, following the paths he had taken with Lysiane. The atmosphere was more relaxed than at the market, the villagers going about their tasks with a certain nonchalance. Rounding a corner, he heard lively voices and bursts of laughter coming from a small, shaded square. Curious, he approached.

  He discovered a group of men gathered around a roughly hewn wooden table. On the table was a board with figurines representing wild animals and hunters. They were clearly engaged in some kind of strategy game. The atmosphere was both focused and noisy, punctuated by exclamations and curses.

  Ragnar watched for a moment, trying to understand the rules. The game seemed to simulate a hunt, with tactical movements to trap animals or evade opposing hunters. Some of the players were particularly expressive, their faces contorted in concentration or illuminated by victory. Insults occasionally flew, phrases like "son of a bitch" and "shut your mouth" punctuating moments of tension.

  A burly man with a red beard had just won a game, raking in the few copper and silver coins that had been wagered. He stood up with a hearty laugh, casting a challenging look at the others. “Who else wants to measure themselves against the master hunter?”

  Ragnar felt a sudden impulse. He had never played a game like this, but the idea of testing his intelligence and perhaps winning some money appealed to him. He stepped forward timidly. “If you don’t mind, I’d like to try.”

  The red-bearded man sized him up, a mocking smile on his lips. “You, the newcomer? You look more used to wielding a spade than setting a trap. Got anything to wager, peasant?”

  Ragnar hesitated for a moment. He had a little over eight hundred gold coins left after his purchases. Betting a portion of his meager savings was risky. But the opportunity to win more, and the desire to prove something to these villagers, decided him. “I have… two hundred and fifty gold coins.” It was almost all the liquid wealth he possessed.

  The red-bearded man burst into laughter, echoed by a few other onlookers. “Two hundred and fifty coins? Look at this, lads! The little newbie wants to play with the big boys! Alright, peasant. But you’ll quickly be heading back to your turnips.” He swept his hand across the table. “I’ll bet five hundred. Who else wants to wager on the farmer’s defeat?”

  Several voices rose, offering various sums. The idea of a stranger challenging the “master hunter” and risking a significant amount had clearly piqued the curiosity and greed of the other players. In a few moments, a small fortune was amassed on the table, the majority of the bets against Ragnar.

  The red-bearded man quickly explained the rules of the game, pointing out the different figurines and their movement capabilities. Ragnar listened attentively, trying to absorb the information as quickly as possible. The game seemed complex, requiring anticipation and strategy.

  The game began. His opponent, confident in his experience, maneuvered his pieces with assurance, threatening Ragnar’s “animals” with his “hunters.” He didn’t stop taunting him, certain of his victory. “So, peasant, do you see the difference between your fields and a real hunt? You’ll soon be crying over your gold coins.”

  Ragnar remained focused, studying the board intently. His opponent’s derogatory remarks didn’t reach him. He analyzed each position, each possibility, trying to find a flaw in his opponent’s strategy.

  After a few turns, as his opponent prepared to make a decisive move, Ragnar smiled slightly. “Actually,” he said in a calm voice, “that was a strategy.”

  In two or three quick and unexpected moves, Ragnar trapped his opponent’s hunters and placed his animals in an unassailable position. Surprise spread across the red-bearded man’s face, then turned to disbelief and finally to rage.

  “What? But… that’s impossible!” he stammered, staring at the board in astonishment.

  The other spectators murmured, impressed by the turn of events. The “peasant” had not only stood his ground against the master hunter, but he had defeated him with disconcerting ease.

  Ragnar collected the gold coins on the table, a considerable sum that left him almost dizzy. As he pocketed his winnings, a notification appeared:

  Ragnar smiled. Even a simple game could bring him new skills. Perhaps his new life, far from being a “shitty life,” held unforeseen surprises. And with the money he had just won, he could consider other investments to develop his farm more quickly.