Rain drummed against the sturdy wooden roof of the farmhouse, a sound as constant and familiar as Arthur's own heartbeat.
Arthur stood by the window, sipping a mug of hot broth. He looked out over the gray, mist-shrouded fields of Ruvka. To a stranger, this village in the barony of Baron Talbot might look dreary. The only notable landmark was the festering swamp to the south, and the rolling hills were perpetually soaked in mud.
But Arthur saw gold in that mud.
The Sinclair Kingdom was the smallest of the three great powers on the continent, a geopolitical runt surrounded by hungry neighbors and vast oceans. It lacked the military might of the north or the magical pedigree of the east. What it did have, however, was soil so fertile it looked black, and rain that never ceased. Sinclair fed the continent. That made farmers like Arthur the most protected assets in the kingdom.
Arthur took a sip of the broth. It was rich with beef fat. Unlike the city dwellers who scraped by on gruel, his family ate meat three times a day.
He watched a group of laborers trekking toward the newly cleared tree line. There were dozens of them. Six years ago, running two farms would have killed a man of twenty-eight. But the Sickness had changed everything. It had swept through the valley, targeting the middle-aged with terrifying precision. It had taken his parents. It had taken his wife May's parents.
It had left a generation of orphans and young adults with no guidance, no land, and no food.
Arthur had not wasted time mourning. He had merged his family farm with May's, creating a massive tract of land. Then he had offered a simple deal to the displaced sons of merchants and laborers who were starving in the wake of the plague. He offered them land to build shacks in his uncleared forest in exchange for labor at a reduced rate.
Technically, the housing was temporary. Technically, no inspector had certified it. But the workers had a roof, and Arthur had an army of hands for pennies on the dollar.
He turned away from the window and walked to his desk. It was a heavy oak piece, cluttered with ledgers.
Most peasants in Ruvka could not read the tavern menu, let alone a ledger. Arthur opened a leather-bound book, the spine cracked and worn. This was the legacy of the Hemlock line.
Great-Grandfather Jacob's Journal.
Arthur ran a thumb over the page. His father, Caleb, had been a good man, but he had died before he could teach Arthur much. It was this book that had raised him. It was this book that taught him the 'Aristocratic Skills.'
A blue box flickered in the corner of his vision as he focused on the numbers in his ledger.
[Mathematics: Level 10]
He ignored it. The System was useful, but for a peasant, it had a hard ceiling. He could read, write, and calculate better than any merchant who tried to swindle him at the market, but he would never reach the levels required to be a royal accountant or a scholar. He lacked the diversity of knowledge required to push past level ten.
"Arthur?"
He looked up. May was sitting in the rocking chair by the hearth. She looked tired but radiant, her dark hair falling loosely over her shoulders. She was mending a tunic, her fingers moving with the dexterity of a level eight Seamstress.
In the crib next to her, the newborn slept.
"He's quiet," Arthur said, walking over.
"He's a thinker," May smiled. "Just like his father."
They already had one child running around. Caleb, named after Arthur's father, was two now and already causing trouble in the barn.
But this one was different.
Arthur looked down at the baby. The boy had barely cried since he arrived. He just watched everything with eyes that seemed too focused for an infant.
"Have you decided?" May asked softly.
Arthur nodded. He looked back at the journal on his desk. That book contained instructions on everything from crop rotation to contract negotiation. It was the reason they were wealthy enough to buy imported cloth instead of wearing rags. It was the reason their cattle were the fattest in the barony.
The man who wrote that journal had built the foundation of their lives.
"Jacob," Arthur said firmly. "His name is Jacob."
May tested the name on her tongue. "Jacob Hemlock. It sounds strong."
"It is," Arthur agreed. He reached down, letting the baby wrap a tiny hand around his calloused finger.
Arthur didn't know that the soul inside his son was actually twenty-seven years old. He didn't know that the boy had once managed logistics for a virtual empire. He simply saw a sleeping child and felt a surge of pride.
He would teach this boy everything. He would teach him to butcher a cow, to haggle with a merchant until they wept, and to read the words his great-grandfather had left behind.
Little Jacob let out a small yawn, his eyes fluttering open for a second.
"Welcome to the farm, Jacob," Arthur whispered. "We have a lot of work to do."