The last thing he remembered was a spreadsheet file.
Not his family, not his dreams, not even his own name, really just that goddamn quarterly report glowing on his monitor's screen at 2AM, the coffee going cold beside his keyboard, and the sudden tightness in his chest that felt like someone had wrapped steel cables around his ribs and started pulling.
He died at his desk, and it probably looked pathetic, too. At least he had closed his browser tab with the online 'poker' game before he went down.
Silver linings.
■■□□□□□□□□□□□□□□■■
His head cracked against something hard.
Pain lanced through his skull, sharp and immediate, with a faint feeling in his chest because he was supposed to be dead, wasn't he? Dead people weren't supposed to feel pain. Dead people didn't smell manure and wet earth, and something that reeked like fermenting cabbage.
"Ugh…" The groan that escaped his throat sounded too young and rough.
He cracked open his eyes slowly, his vision blurring slightly as his eyes contracted and steadied.
Wooden rafters, a thatched roof with visible holes where moonlight filtered through and the ceiling looked like it had been assembled by someone who had learned carpentry from a drunken beaver.
Where the hell am I?...
He sat up too fast, and the world tilted, his vision swimming as memories that weren't his crashed into his brain like a freight train.
Finn Barrow. That was this body's true name. He was eighteen years old, and the eldest son of a farmer who had three kids.
And a complete bastard, apparently.
The memories came in sudden flashes: one was of him gambling away the seed money his father gave him or him selling fake "miracle fertilizers" to the villagers that killed Mrs. Chen's entire herb garden or that time he — no, the original Finn — tried to forge his father's signature to sell the farm to pay of his debts to the Red Lotus gambling den.
"Oh, you've got to be kidding me." Finn pressed his palms against his eyes. "I transmigrated into the body of a scumbag?"
Of all the protagonists he could have become — heroic warriors, genius mages, even a decent merchant with a conscience — he got stuck with the village disappointment.
Perfect, just perfect.
He swung his leg off what he now recognised as a wooden cot that creaked like it was about to collapse. The room was small, barely ten feet across, with nothing but a cracked mirror, a wooden chest, and a chamber pot that looked like it hadn't been emptied in days.
But most of all, it was the mirror that caught his attention.
The face staring back at him wasn't his. Same general age, maybe, but the features were sharper, more angular. Messy dark hair that looked like it had been cut with a rusty knife. Dirt smudged across his cheeks, dark circles under his eyes that were a strange amber colour, almost gold in certain light.
He looked…..well, 'slightly handsome' was a generous word. It was more like, "Would clean up okay if he bothered to bathe regularly."
"Fantastic," Finn muttered to his reflection. "A slightly handsome scammer."
A sudden sound from outside made him freeze, soft voices moving through the night.
He crept to the window — more of a hole in the wall with a wooden shutter than a window, but it worked — and peered out into the night.
The farm spread out before him, illuminated by moonlight. But "farm" was a generous term. It looked more like a disaster waiting to finish happening. The fields were patchy, with more brown than green and a barn that leaned so far to one side it looked like a stiff breeze would finish it off. The fences far ahead held up together with rope and prayer.
And there, by the well, stood two figures.
One was an older man, maybe in his late forties, with broad shoulders and hands that looked like they had spent decades working soil. His hair streaked with grey, his face lined with the kind of exhaustion that came from fighting a losing battle.
He was his father, according to his memories. His name was Marcus Barrow.
The other figure was smaller, wearing merchant's robes that looked expensive even from this distance. Sharp features, cold eyes, and the kind of smile that never quite reached above the cheekbones.
"— three months, Marcus." The merchants voice carried in the still night air. "Three months and you haven't made a single payment."
"I know, Chen Wei. I know." Marcus's voice was rough, sounding tired and defeated. "The Ironshade store, they've taken most of my customers. Nobody wants to travel out here when they can get everything in the city for half the price."
"That's not my problem." Chen Wei's smile widened in the dimlight. "You borrowed five hundred gold to expand your operations. The interest alone is now two hundred gold. If you can't pay…"
He let the sentence hang mid conversation.
Marcus's shoulders sagged. "What do you want?."
"Its simple. I want the farm." Chen Wei gestured expensively at the dilapidated property. "Sign it over, clear your debt. I'll even let you stay on it as a tenant farmer. Generous, considering your son tried to scam half the village."
Finn's stomach dropped at the mention of his name.
This wasn't just some random transmigration into a fantasy world. This was a crisis.
The farm was dying, his father was drowning in debt, and the previous Finn had apparently burned every relationship bridge to anyone in a fifty mile radius.
He was inheriting a dumpster fire.
"I…I need time." Marcus said quietly. "Let me talk to my family. One week—"
"No, three days." Chen Wei interrupted, his voice cold as ice. "Three days, or I send the Red Lotus to come collect, and you know they won't be as….diplomatic as I am."
He turned and walked away, his expensive robes swishing in the night air.
Marcus stood there for a long moment, staring at nothing. Then his shoulders shook before he straightened and walked back toward the house with the gait of a man heading to his own execution.
Finn stepped back from the window, his mind racing.
Okay….assessment time.
Situation? Absolutely screwed.
Assets? One failing farm, one devasted father, two younger siblings(according to his memory), and a reputation so bad that people probably crossed the street to avoid him.
Skills? Office worker knowledge from his previous life(fat lot of good that would do here), and whatever this body came with, which, according to his memories, was a cultivation talent so pathetically weak that the village testing stone had literally cracked from embarrassment when young Finn touched it.
Plant affinity, bottom-tier. Basically, trash-grade.
In a world where people could fly on swords and punch mountains in half, Finn could make flowers grow slightly faster.
Wonderful.
He slumped against the wall, sliding down until he was sitting on the floor.
Three days. His father had three days before the vultures circled them.
And Finn had….what? No money, no reputation, no power. Nothing but the fading memories of a dead office worker and a body that everyone in the village would happily see thrown in a ditch.
Great, just great.
[DING!]
Finn's head snapped up at the sound of a bell.
The sound wasn't external. It resonated inside his skull, clear as hell, accompanied by a sudden warmth that spread through his chest.
Golden light bloomed in his vision, texts appearing in midair like some kind of video game interface, except he could tell instinctively that only he could see it.
[System Initialising….]
[Welcome, Farmer]
[The farming system has awakened]
[Current level: 1]
[Current title: Low Grade Trash- Tier Farmer]
[Blue points(BP): 0]
[Experience points (EP): 0/100]
[You have inherited a legacy of failure. Will you cultivate a new path, or let the weeds of your past choke your future?]
[Beginner Quest Available]
[Evolve your first plant]
[Reward: 50 BP, 100 EP]
[Time Limit: None]
Finn stared at the floating text, his mouth hanging open. Then he started laughing.
It wasn't a happy laugh. It was the kind of slightly unhinged laugh that came from a man who had died of a heart attack at his desk, woken up in a scammer's body in a failing farm in a fantasy world, discovered his new family was about to lose everything, and then got hit with a video game system like some kind of cosmic caricature.
"A farming system," he wheezed, clutching his sides. "Of course it's a farming system. Why would it be anything useful like 'infinite money system' or 'Become Immortal instantly system'? No, lets give the trash-grade plant boy a farming system."
The laughter died in his throat.
Finn stood up slowly, staring at the interface that only he could see.
Evolve your first plant.
His mind — trained by years of office work, problem solving, and finding angle in impossible situations — started turning. The gears clicked into place with cold efficiency of someone who had spent a career making spreadsheets balance and finding loopholes in quarterly reports.
Plant Evolution. If he could make plants better — stronger and more useful — then maybe he could create something the Ironshade store couldn't mass produce.
Something unique, something….valuable.
He looked out the window again at the dying farm, at the fields that represented his new father's entire life's work about to be stolen by loan sharks.
Three days.
He had three days to figure out if this system was real or if he had simply lost his mind along with his life.
Either way, doing nothing wasn't an option. It had never been, not in his old life, and sure as hell wouldn't be now.
Finn cracked his knuckles, a habit from his previous life, and felt a grin spreading across his dirt smudged face.
"Alright then," he said to the empty room, to the system and to whatever cosmic force had dumped him in this situation.
"Let's see what this trash-grade farmer can really do."
The golden interface pulsed as if in acknowledgement of his new resolve.
Outside, the first hints of dawn were touching the horizon, painting the sky in shades of amber and gold. The farm looked just as pathetic in the growing light.
But Finn Barrow, formerly a dead office worker and currently a disgraced farmer's son with the worst reputation in the village, allowed himself one small, calculating smile.
He had built quarterly reports from incomplete data. He had salvaged projects that everyone said were doomed. He had found profit margins in losses that accountants swore didn't exist.
A failing farm and a plant evolution system?
'Challenge accepted.'