He should've stayed on the road.
That was the first thing Arlen realized as soon as his foot slipped and he tumbled face-first into a pile of cold, squishy leaves. Not dramatic—just sad. Squelchy sad.
"…Okay," he groaned, spitting out something that might've been a slug. "This is fine. I meant to do that. Nature bonding ritual."
The forest didn't care.
Rain still fell. Trees leaned in like nosy aunts. The path he'd been following disappeared five minutes ago, swallowed by vines and mud. His clothes were soaked through. His boots made a wet fart sound with every step.
And he was absolutely, definitely lost.
"Why do all exiled heroes go into forests?" he muttered. "Why not—oh, I don't know—a nice library? A warm bakery? A house that doesn't smell like wet raccoon?"
His only answer was the squawk of an offended bird overhead.
He pulled his cloak tighter and pushed forward. One foot in front of the other. No map. No plan. Just whatever gut instinct he had—and frankly, his gut wasn't the best navigator. It had failed him the last time he baked muffins with mushroom flour. Hallucinated for hours. Fought a coat rack. Lost.
The woods near Wicks territory were known to be "mildly cursed" according to local legend. Which, in Arlen's experience, meant full of:
Plants that tried to bite you
Wolves that judged you silently
Mushrooms that looked suspiciously smug
Also: bears. But those were just regular bears.
Still, he hadn't seen anything magical yet. Just a lot of mud, trees, and that one squirrel who definitely threw a pinecone at his head on purpose.
He wandered.
Tripped.
Wandered more.
Stepped in something questionable.
Tried not to cry.
Until something strange happened.
The trees started thinning.
And ahead—behind a curtain of hanging moss—he saw a stone wall.
"…Please don't be a tomb," he whispered.
Because that would be his luck.
It wasn't a tomb.
It was a cave.
Not a small one, either. The entrance stood at least two stories tall, moss-covered, with faded carvings near the top that looked vaguely like someone had tried to draw vegetables with angry faces.
"Huh."
He stood in front of it, rain still pouring, staring up like the cave was about to explain itself.
"I'm not gonna lie," Arlen said aloud. "If I die in here, it's gonna be the dumbest death in family history. And we had an uncle who choked on a wooden spoon."
Silence.
That was all the encouragement he needed.
He stepped inside.
"..."
Instant regret.
Not because of monsters.
But because the floor was slick, and he immediately slipped, screamed, and landed hard on his back with a thud.
He lay there for a second, blinking at the ceiling.
"Okay," he groaned. "Still alive. That's something."
The air in the cave was weirdly warm. Like the deeper he walked, the less the rain could follow him. He lit a small lantern from his bag—one of his personal crafts—and held it up.
The walls shimmered in its glow.
Carvings.
Detailed ones.
Plants, mostly. Rows of them. Flowers, crops, roots—some that looked familiar, and some that looked like they came from a fever dream. One had tiny hands. One had fangs.
Another showed a man standing on a hill, holding something above his head. Not a sword.
A farming hoe.
"…Was this cave owned by a really dramatic farmer?"
He kept walking.
The deeper he went, the clearer the carvings became. Now there were diagrams. Plants growing in impossible directions. Notes in languages he didn't know. Weird symbols next to images of dragons and vegetables fighting.
One sketch showed a goat head-butting a tomato.
He stared at it.
"Was this guy okay?"
No answer.
Of course.
Then—he saw it.
The chamber opened up.
Stone floor. Raised pedestal in the center. Moss clinging to the edges.
On top of it sat two things:
A dull bronze ring, simple and unmarked.
And a rusty, ugly, lopsided hoe.
There was also a dry piece of paper. The only thing in this entire forest that wasn't wet, somehow.
"Oh no," Arlen said immediately. "Nope. I've read stories. This is exactly how curses start."
He looked around.
Nothing moved.
Still no monsters. No chanting. No cursed ghosts.
Just the hoe. Sitting there. Menacingly.
He walked up slowly.
Picked up the paper.
To the idiot who finds this—
Congrats. You're either very desperate, very unlucky, or exactly the fool I was looking for.
Take the ring. Take the hoe. Don't ask questions. Plant something.
And whatever you do... never eat the blue corn.
—A fellow idiot
"…What?"
He reread it.
"Seriously—what???"
There was no explanation. No instructions. Not even a fancy system interface.
Arlen stared at the ring.
Then the hoe.
He looked at the exit.
Then back at the hoe.
"…Yeah okay," he muttered. "What else am I doing with my life, really?"
He picked up the ring.
Nothing happened.
He picked up the hoe.
Still nothing.
He waited.
He waved it around a little.
"Activate... mystical farming powers?"
Still nothing.
"Alright. Guess that was just—"
Then it hit him.
A sudden pulse through his body.
The lantern flickered.
His chest seized up like someone had grabbed his ribs and squeezed.
A soft chime rang in the air—ding!—and then—
"..."
[SSS Rank Farmer System Installed]
[User: Arlen Wicks]
[Condition: Wet, Cold, Mildly Dumb]
[Initializing Core Tools...]
Arlen screamed.
It wasn't heroic.
It sounded like someone just stepped on a cat with a head cold.
"WHO SAID THAT?!"
He spun in place. The voice had come from inside his head. Cool. Totally normal. Just another Tuesday.
"Am I dead? Is this... farmer heaven?"
The system dinged again.
[No. You are very much alive.]
[You have been chosen to inherit the Multiversal Hoe.]
[This artifact allows you to plant, grow, and create life from any material in any realm.]
[You have unlocked access to the Dimensional World.]
[Would you like to enter now? Y/N]
Arlen stared at the glowing "Y/N" symbols in the air.
"…Okay," he muttered. "I've officially lost it. This is what happens when you skip breakfast and fall in a hole."
He reached out—and tapped "Y."
The cave faded.
And the world changed.
He stood in a new place.
Wide open fields stretched to infinity. The sky was bright purple-blue, dotted with clouds shaped like carrots.
There were no houses. No people. No sounds except the breeze.
Just nature.
And him.
Alone.
He looked down.
Still had his clothes. Still had the hoe. Still soaking wet, unfortunately.
A new prompt popped up.
[Tutorial: Plant something.]
[Note: Anything works.]
Arlen knelt down.
Touched the grass.
Pulled a blade of it out of the dirt.
Looked at it.
Then at the hoe.
"…Alright. Let's get weird."
He dug a tiny hole.
Dropped in the blade of grass.
Covered it.
Stepped back.
"..."
Nothing happened.
"Figures."
Then the ground shook.
And a glowing stalk burst up, ten feet tall, humming with green light.
[Congratulations! You have grown "Hypergrain" — an energy crop from the 4th galaxy.]
[Effects: One bite grants twelve hours of stamina and high-speed thoughts. Side effect: Mild hallucinations.]
Arlen slowly backed away.
He stared at the glowing grain.
Then looked at the hoe in his hand.
Then laughed.
Loud. Almost hysterical.
"Okay. You know what? Sure. Why not."
He was alone in another dimension, holding a magic hoe that could grow space drugs from grass.
His family thought he was trash.
But right now?
He felt like the king of mud.