If this were a game, that last moment would have been game over—and I could have picked a new character on a different map. But in real life, the rules only kick in when you least want them to.
‘Wait—did I just faint?’
Patrick struggled to open his eyes, but his eyelids felt like lead. Still, though his eyes refused to work, his ears didn’t slack off.
‘Who’s there?’
He heard voices around him. Focusing, he caught snippets as if his hearing were coming back into focus.
“…Aren’t wizards supposed to be smart and all?”
“If he lived on land, he might not know. Still, lucky we found him.”
“Still, who eats a top shell without even spitting out the salivary gland?”
“Well, someone who hates seafood might not know. Haha.”
“But look—he took out the innards?”
“Guess he knew just enough to gut it poorly.”
“If you didn’t know, you could’ve asked, right? Good grief—ate four of these giant ones and wonders why he’s paralyzed?”
“Musta been too tired from the journey to think straight.”
The voices belonged to a middle-aged man and an elderly woman.
“I’ve got a lot to teach him. Tsk tsk—if you’re hungry, come into the village instead of roaming around eating whatever you find.”
“Looks like the soldiers didn’t explain anything to him.”
“That’s just them.”
The grandmother clicked her tongue, but even as Patrick’s body stayed immobile, the sound didn’t grate on him. Beyond the scolding, he felt genuine concern for this young stranger.
“Anyway, he’s been dosed. He’ll wake soon. Bring him round to my place for a proper meal.”
“Yes, ma’am. You go ahead. I’ll watch him a bit longer.”
“All right. Thank you for your trouble, village chief. Ugh—this gate needs fixing too. It won’t open!”
The grandmother’s slow footsteps receded, and Patrick felt strength returning to his limbs.
“Ugh…”
“Feeling more with it, Wizard?”
He blinked several times and discovered a kindly man waving his hand in front of Patrick’s face.
“Top shells…”
“Your hearing came back first. That’s right—shells. You really ate them whole?”
“Yes…”
“You didn’t know the glands are inside the meat.”
“I thought you just removed the guts.”
“Ha. Some things you only learn by experiencing them. Here—water.”
“Thank you.”
Patrick, now more lucid, saw a few pills beside him and offered his thanks.
“Thank you. Getting help on my first day.”
“We all help each other here. The soldiers should have handed you off to me, but they left in a hurry. I heard the boat sailed, so I rushed over and found you collapsed.”
“Oh… I just thought I needed to eat as soon as I was hungry…”
He recalled the soldiers eager only for their tavern outing. Embarrassed, he scratched the back of his head, and the chief chuckled.
“I believe you’re the village chief?”
“That’s right—I am. This is a tiny place with only a few households, so we rotate the role every few years. Feel free to treat me casually. You took medicine, so you’ll be fine, but don’t overexert yourself for a few days.”
“Yes.”
“I’ve left a sack each of flour and potatoes in the kitchen—at least that’ll tide you over. We can’t spare much more, but if you ask, we’ll teach you farming or fishing. Come into town often.”
“May I really?”
“Why not?”
“First, I’m still a convict…”
Patrick’s spirits fell, and the chief silently patted his shoulder.
“I hear you were caught up when the bigwigs bungled things?”
“…Yes.”
“Life’s full of unfair blows. Use the field behind your house as you like.”
“Thank you. How much rent should I pay?”
“Rent? It’s ownerless land—just use it. Well, I must go. You’ve traveled far; rest well! Ah—and don’t leave again!”
With a triumphant clatter of the gate, the chief departed.
‘That came out of nowhere.’
It felt like only moments since he’d gone to the shore for shells, yet the day had been a whirlwind.
‘I should’ve met the chief sooner.’
Those damned soldiers—if they’d done their handover properly, I’d already have flour and potatoes to make pancakes and spent a quiet first night.
‘Thankfully, these villagers aren’t hostile.’
Patrick’s optimism reemerged. Though he’d never planned real homesteading, his YouTube algorithm knew his tastes—he’d watched countless vlogs of rural resettlers.
‘I heard the toughest part is dealing with neighbors.’
Rural YouTubers’ villages were filled with content-worthy villains: extortion over water fees, residents blocking driveways, random invasions of privacy—each day a spectacle.
But after talking with the chief, those worries seemed unwarranted.
‘Tomorrow I’ll check that field behind the house.’
His heavy eyelids threatened to close again. Thus, Patrick’s first day ended.
“Ugh!”
He shot awake, sunlight pouring in—and more importantly, a shift in mindset. In his old life, he’d begged for “five more minutes” again and again, but at the thought of seeing “my field,” he rose without hesitation.
‘Clearly, I belong in the Neolithic, not the Paleolithic. Forget foraging—let’s go straight to farming!’
When it warms up, he’d ask the chief for seedlings, plant some of the flour and the sprouting potatoes from yesterday’s sack.
‘This year, no big ambitions. I’ll just plant a variety and see what thrives.’
Creak!
He pushed open the gate and followed the wall around. Since nobody had lived here for ages, the path was overgrown, weeds up to his knees.
“Strange. He said it was right behind the house…”
No matter how hard he searched, there was no sign of the chief’s field.
“He didn’t strike me as the joking type. Maybe ‘behind’ means further off?”
Just as Patrick longed for GPS,
“Ugh…could it be…”
His face twisted in dismay. The soil beneath his feet looked oddly different from the roadside dirt. The weeds were the same, but here the ground was smoother and free of big rocks.
“This is supposed to be the field?”
Unable to accept reality, he collapsed onto the ground, sniffling.
“Are you really a wizard?”
“Wha—!”
A child’s head popped up out of the weeds. Startled, Patrick fell backwards, and the kid doubled over with laughter.
“Who…who are you?”
“I’m Ben. Hello!”
“Oh…nice to meet you—not! Why are you here?”
“They said a wizard came, so I came to see.”
The friendly tyke approached with playful eyes.
“Can you show me magic?”
“Go away. I don’t feel like playing.”
“Why not?”
“Look at me. Does this look like someone in the mood for fun?”
“What do you look like?”
“A pathetic sight.”
“Why pathetic?”
Ah—this is the Question-Bomb Killer. Do I have to answer?
Patrick decided to treat the kid like an NPC.
“See? I was happy to get a field, but do you call this a field?”
“It’s not a field?”
“It’s a field all right—a weed field.”
“Why’s that a problem?”
The child’s question almost annoyed him.
“Why is it a problem? Don’t you see? I need to grow crops on this land to eat, but it’s a disaster from the start. Who’d be happy with such useless ground?”
“Need help?”
“What?”
The child grinned as if it were obvious.
“I’ll help. If we pull weeds together, it goes faster.”
…
Patrick was momentarily speechless, then washed with shame.
‘What was I saying to a kid?’
No matter how different things turned out, the child wasn’t at fault.
‘Pathetic, huh.’
And here he was, being consoled by an irritable kid.
“But can’t you do that with magic?”
“Huh?”
“They said you’re a wizard.”
“Right…?”
“Isn’t there a spell for this?”
Oh, yeah. I’m a wizard.