Year 1458 of the Saint's Calendar. Autumn.
Summer had flared in all its golden glory, but by September, cool winds swept over the fields of ripening wheat like a blessing from the harvest gods.
In the heart of the Central Plains, it was a season of plenty. Vineyards burst with scent, and the breeze carried the sharp fragrance of laurel through shaded woodland paths.
At the end of one such road stood a kingdom checkpoint. A sleek black carriage approached, pulled by ivory-coated stallions. At the reins sat an elderly man in a butler's coat, family crest polished to a silver gleam.
A guard stepped forward to inspect. His captain held him back with a silent gesture.
The coach rumbled past, wheels whispering over cobblestones, bound north toward the wild reaches of the Frostmarch Province. It left behind only a swirl of mist and leaves.
A single yellow leaf broke away from the air and fluttered through an open window, settling gently between the pages of a book.
Inside the carriage, a young man froze—eyes wide, fingers clenched around his book.
And then… it hit him.
Wait. Did I just… transmigrate?
He glanced around. The smell of leather-bound tomes. The curve of the mahogany ceiling. His own reflection in the polished windowpane—youthful, dazed, absurdly well-dressed.
A different world.
A world of swords and magic.
A world eerily similar to the MMORPG he'd just been playing: Phantom Wings.
Yeats didn't panic.
No worries. I've set my browser history to "Delete Upon Death."
Priorities, after all.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
He leaned back and let his mind catch up.
Anyone who time-travels twice a week knows how this goes.
You wake up in a fantasy kingdom, you have inherited some noble bloodline, and all that's left is to speedrun your rise to power. No sidequests. No grinding. Just clip through the tutorial, glitch into the treasury, and pray to the RNG gods for high loot rolls.
Except—
Yeats lowered his book, pressing fingers to his brow.
...I'm a life-skills main.
While other players perfected combat rotations, he'd been raising cabbages and fishing rare eels.He didn't remember much of the main plot. But he did remember every top-selling dish and profitable potion recipe.
He sighed.
Then caught a glimpse of himself in the cabin's copper mirror.
The boy staring back looked about fourteen. His hair fell artfully across one brow, eyes the color of deep emeralds. He wore an embroidered high-collared robe, tailored to nobility, elegant like a classical portrait.
He adjusted his collar with a dignified cough.
Well. If nothing else, guess I'll monetize my face. It's either charm or starve.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"Young Master," called the butler from outside, "we should reach Morningfrost Ridge in seven days. I'm afraid the journey may involve sleeping in roadside villages or the occasional patch of moss."
The man's name was Farkas. Loyal, grumpy, dependable. The memories flooding in confirmed as much.
Apparently, the original Yeats—same name, different soul—was the youngest son of a noble house, the Brandy family. His father, a Count of the Golden Lion Kingdom, had passed away and divided the estate among his sons.
Yeats got the scraps.
A tiny, remote barony nestled on the far edges of the northern provinces. Technically land. Realistically wilderness.
That's not a noble title. That's an exile notice.
Worse, Morningfrost lay just south of the Frozen Reaches, where orcs, monsters, rogue tribes, and seaborne raiders routinely showed up to "borrow" things violently.
This isn't inheritance. It's a frostbitten death sentence.
Yeats sighed, but consoled himself with one comforting thought:
Land is land. And I come from a proud lineage of digital farmers.
If all else failed, he could sell potion recipes. Use science to escape poverty. Maybe even revolutionize the world.
Cement. Vodka. Gunpowder. Rifled barrels!
He paused.
Expression darkened.
Never mind. My brain's more RAM than hard drive. Tuition fees were just temporary data storage fees.
Cue the Jeopardy! loser music. I'm officially today's Uneducated King.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
A roar rose from outside.
"Burn her! Burn the witch!"
Yeats leaned out the carriage window.
The air stank of oil and smoke. Villagers shouted, wielding pitchforks and clubs. At the center of a wooden platform stood a girl tied to a post—leather-armored, hands bound behind her, head held high in defiance.
Witch trial. Old-school. Messy.
Here, unlike back home, actual witches existed. Liches. Crones. Nightmare fuel.
Still… this scene triggered something in his memory.
Wait. This is a story event. I've seen this before.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
FWOOSH.
The pyre ignited. Flames shot upward.
The girl didn't scream. Her leather armor shimmered—enchanted—and the fire swirled around her harmlessly. Her brown hair whipped in the wind.
"I told you! You've got the wrong person!"
"If fire can't hurt me, that proves I'm not a witch!"
The crowd hesitated.
Then someone shouted:
"If fire can't hurt you, that proves you're a witch!"
Yeats: "…Well. That's a flawless logic loop."
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"It was monsters that took your livestock!" the girl yelled. "Not me!"
A woman stepped forward. "I saw you take a chicken. You left the bones right there!"
The girl glared. "It walked outside village limits first! That makes it legally claimable!"
She raised her chin and shouted:
"Royal Economic Code, Page Seven, Clause Fourteen: Adventurers may claim unguarded provisions found beyond local jurisdiction!"
"So no, I didn't steal that chicken—I acquired it with lawful enthusiasm!"
The villagers stared at her as if she were speaking Elvish.
The same woman who'd accused her looked outraged.
"You admit to the theft? Witch!"
The girl slumped.
These people seriously need legal education.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
By now, Yeats and Farkas had slipped out of the coach and joined the crowd.
A blacksmith muttered beside him, "Throw her in the river. If she floats, she's a witch."
Yeats raised a brow. "And if she swims off?"
The man leaned in. "Exactly. Real witches? We don't mess with. This is just... letting her go with paperwork."
Yeats blinked.
Wait. I know her.
This wasn't a random NPC.
This was Gray, the Dragonblooded Adventurer. A key story companion.
And no—she didn't steal that chicken.
She lured it five miles with a breadcrumb trail, then waited two hours for it to legally exit the village zone before cooking it over a modest fire.
Not theft. Tactical poultry relocation.
Classic Gray.
A true spiritual successor to every Elder Scrolls player who attacked a chicken and triggered a manhunt.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Yeats stepped forward.
"I'll vouch for her," he said calmly. "In the name of House Brandy, I swear—this adventurer is no witch."
The villagers turned. Suspicion turned to uncertainty, and then…
Admiration. He was, after all, unreasonably pretty.
"Milord," said the older woman nervously, "it's not just one chicken. Other animals have vanished. Some… died in terrible ways."
"Cockatrice," Gray said instantly. "I saw its tail trail near the river. They love poultry. Sneak into villages at night. Classic behavior."
Yeats nodded.
Sounds like the tutorial miniboss.
But he and Farkas? Two unarmed dudes with the combined muscle mass of a bean sprout.
Time to get creative.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
"If I bring you the monster," Yeats said, "you'll release the girl?"
The village chief nodded slowly. "We trust you, milord. But… proof would help settle fears."
"Of course," Yeats smiled. "Untie her. Give me one hour."
Farkas stared.
This… wasn't the Yeats he knew. The old young master would've whipped the elder and moved on.
But this one?
He was planning, bargaining… changing.
Maybe hardship really does build character.
Especially when your inheritance is a monster-infested icebox.
And your only real skill…
Is turning monsters into food.