Perhaps as a side effect of my soul having been swapped, the memories of ‘OLD’ Patrick didn’t surface unless I willed them into focus.
‘Is it because I think of them as someone else’s memories?’
That was why, despite being called “Wizard dude” all the time, I never thought to use magic for this.
“Let’s see…what spells can I actually cast…”
Like typing into a search bar, I summoned keywords in my mind—and at last a few things coalesced.
‘Not much.’
I was only a novice wizard who’d just reached 2nd circle. Even if I registered with a mercenary guild, I’d be valued more as a handy technician than a true wizard.
But I couldn’t dash the hopes of the wide-eyed child waiting to see magic!
“Watch this! This is what it means to be a wizard—Water Ball!”
With a melodramatic incantation, I spoke the activation phrase and a soccer-ball–sized globe of water materialized above the grass.
Whoosh!
On contact with the blades, droplets exploded outward in every direction.
“Wow! Whoa! Woooaaah!”
Ben, who’d been staring at empty air, gasped “Wow!” and hopped in place as if he couldn’t believe his eyes.
“Sir! Do it again, please? Again! It’s so cool! I’ve never seen a wizard!”
“It’s nothing special.” I sniffed.
Truth be told, I was a bit stunned too.
‘Holy—damn!’
It really was magic. Even if its power and utility were modest, water had truly appeared before me—how could I not be surprised?
“Sir, can’t you use magic to pull weeds now?”
My brief high faded at Ben’s question, and reality settled over me instantly.
“I wish I could.”
“Huh?”
“There’s no weed-pulling spell.”
“…?”
“Magic isn’t omnipotent.”
At the Tower, I’d never been considered a top talent. Sure, I had ability—but so did every other apprentice who’d entered at a young age. What mattered was whether your mentor favored you.
— “Master, here are the magic stones my family sent to aid your research, per my father’s request.”
— “Why not train this summer in our fiefdom? Up north it’s quite cool.”
— “Good thing the sub–Tower Lord kept a promising student. Have you heard the guild donated to the Tower? The amount is…”
Magic was expensive. Research required magic stones, monster byproducts, rare minerals. No wonder wizards were called money-eating ghosts.
‘Who can you blame?’
Wizards naturally invested in the students who could bring in funds.
Of course, everyone knew a wizard’s worth. But:
— “Did you hear? Lord Loropian—he signed a year’s contract with the Derek Guild. He must be earning a hefty salary.”
— “Meanwhile, Lord Maximus broke through the 4th-circle barrier!”
— “What? Weren’t they rivals?”
— “Not anymore. Maximus is undeniably a high-circle wizard now! And here’s a secret…psst: Loropian lost some circle size while with the guild!”
— “My goodness. Well, who could research under those conditions?”
In the Tower, you heard such gossip daily. Wizards who sought income left to contract with clients. Those clients squeezed every drop of value out of their services, leaving little time for training or research.
Circle levels weren’t immutable. Without constant upkeep, they shrank—or even shattered. Meanwhile, rivals who remained in the Tower grew ever stronger.
Money and advancement—and few could secure both. Hence, most wizards clamored for wealthy pupils, a structural issue.
As an orphan, I’d always done menial tasks. The Tower taught only the basics, so by twenty I’d learned no more than entry-level magic. Yet I’d stayed because they fed and sheltered me—things I couldn’t risk losing by trying mercenary life.
“Look, that’s all the magic I’ve got.”
“It’s fine.”
The little boy tapped my shoulder with his tiny hand in comfort.
“I can’t even climb trees well.”
“Huh?”
“But I know more herb names than any kid in our village. Even if you can’t pull weeds with magic, making water orbs is just as impressive.”
“What does that mean?”
“It means cheer up.”
Ben’s oddly mature kindness made me chuckle.
“Yeah, I’ll cheer up. Hup! I won’t finish today, but if I keep pulling, someday I’ll clear it all, right?”
“I’ll help!”
“Thank you.”
No one said life was easy.
‘Just talking helped clear my head.’
From the moment I awoke in this body—prison, trial, exile, paralysis—I’d been on edge. Simple labor, it seemed, was the best balm for a tangled mind.
Weeds came out easily. A refreshing breeze blew. Beside me, Ben hummed as he wrestled plants as big as himself.
“But, little one,”
“Ben.”
“Yes, Ben. Did you eat breakfast?”
“Of course. Though it’s always fish, so I complain.”
“Fish?”
“Yes—my dad’s great at catching fish.”
“Your father’s a fisherman?”
“No—he makes rice wine.”
“Huh?”
“Um…”
“Never mind.”
This tiny island even had a distillery.
‘I should explore the village tomorrow.’
As I resolved this,
“Oh! Sweet potatoes!”
Ben tugged on a dried-up vine with all his might and pulled out five sweet potatoes in a row.
“Whoa! Are those real sweet potatoes?”
“There’s a sweet potato patch down there—must’ve scattered up here.”
Purple-skinned sweet potatoes emerging from the weeds made me dance with joy.
‘I’ve never tasted sweetness before!’
Sugar didn’t seem that rare, but circumstances had always left me craving it.
“Should we roast them?”
“Huh? I found them!”
“They’re from my field—let’s share.”
“Okay! But you have to boil them for me?”
“Of course!”
My stomach growled loudly just then.
Excited, I scrubbed the pot that had held the shells, added two potatoes and three sweet potatoes. Two sweet potatoes remained as emergency rations.
Only water was edible yesterday—and today I had flour, potatoes, and sweet potatoes.
‘Why do I feel so proud?’
Despite the absurdity, I didn’t mind.
Bubble…bubble—
As the pot boiled, my patience waned. I tapped my foot, eager for them to cook. Like thirty seconds in a microwave feeling like three minutes, those few minutes stretched on.
Plop—
Just before every fork plunged cleanly through the potatoes and sweet potatoes, signaling they were done—
“Done!”
I rinsed them in fresh spring water, then carried the entire pot outside to share with Ben.
“Ben, it’s ready. Ben?”
But Ben was nowhere to be found.
“Where did he go?”
The rascal who’d claimed the biggest sweet potato had vanished.
“Well, I cleared a fair bit.”
Despite the overgrowth hiding the plot’s borders, the space looked more like farmland now. One hour’s work already visible.
‘Eat these, then pull as many as I can.’
Without salt or kimchi, the boiled potatoes and sweet potatoes were still quite edible. I saved one sweet potato.
‘You never know when I’ll get back here.’
I’d promised to share—must keep that promise.
After eating, I resumed weeding—and found more sweet potato vines. Not as large as the first haul, but palm-sized tubers appeared.
“Dig the ground and find food—nice.”
Sniffling, I muttered, “Is this a beginner farmer’s spirit?” Sweat drenched my clothes, but I kept at it, elated.
How long had passed?
“Hoo—”
After a full day of weeding, I’d cleared less than half. I lacked technique—and the field was bigger than I’d thought.
‘It’s tough now, but by autumn, I’ll feel differently.’
Imagining the land lush with crops split my face into a grin.
Dinner would again be potatoes and sweet potatoes—but that was more than enough.
Cock-a-doodle-doo!
The next morning, faint rooster crows drifted through the window.
“Ah—slept great…ugh!”
Patrick, who’d passed out early the previous night, nearly lost his mind again to full-body muscle pain.
“Why is it always torture when I wake up?!”