Year 1458 of the Saint's Calendar, Autumn.
Summer had blazed in full glory, but by September, the breeze turned crisp, rustling golden wheat across the heart of the Central Plains.
It was harvest season. Grapes hung heavy with sweet scent, laurel trees whispered in the wind.
At the edge of a forest road stood a quiet checkpoint. The clatter of wheels and hooves steadily approached.
A black carriage raced forward, pulled by white steeds. At the reins sat an old man in a crisp butler uniform, a noble crest pinned to his chest like a badge of honor.
A young guard stepped forward to inspect it—only for his captain to pull him back with a sharp glare.
The carriage rolled through unhindered, heading for the borderlands of the kingdom's northern province, leaving a ghostly trail in its wake.
Leaves spun in the air.
One yellow leaf floated through the carriage window, landing neatly between the pages of an open book.
Inside, a beautiful young man stared blankly at the leaf—and then, like a tsunami, memory hit.
Wait... I transmigrated?
And not just anywhere—this was clearly a fantasy world of swords, magic, and questionable life expectancy.
Actually… it looked suspiciously like Phantom Wing, the Fanstasy-themed MMO he was just playing.
Good thing my browser history wipes itself.
Yeats inhaled slowly, trying to gather his thoughts.
Anyone with experience in dimension-hopping could see the signs.
This wasn't a random world—it was probably the game itself.
And if that was true?
Then all he had to do was cheese the system. Meta the dungeons. Speedrun the plot.
Profit. Easy.
Thunk.
Yeats shut the book and rubbed his temples.
...Except there was one little problem.
He wasn't some battle-hardened raid tank or high-DPS spell slinger.
He was a life skills main.
While the others were min-maxing builds and nuking bosses, he'd been back at home base planting potatoes, fishing, and unlocking gourmet cooking achievements.
Plotlines? He remembered squat.
But cooking recipes with 500% resale value? Oh, those were burned into his soul.
Yeats sighed.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimmer from the bronze mirror mounted inside the carriage.
Reflected back was a teenager—maybe fourteen, maybe fifteen. Tousled hair. Deep green eyes. A tailored embroidered robe cinched at the waist. His entire appearance screamed: "Noble oil painting, Limited Edition."
Yeats calmly adjusted his collar.
Guess I'll have to survive on charm and cheekbones.
"Young Master," came the voice of the butler from outside. "We're headed for Morningfrost Ridge. It'll take seven days. I'm afraid we may have to spend nights in villages or under the stars."
That was Farkas—faithful butler and, judging by inherited memories, Yeats' current travel companion.
Yeats started recalling the basics of his new life.
The previous host of this body had the same name. His late father had been a count under the Lionheart Crown—a noble from the once-famous House Brontë. On his deathbed, the count divided his lands among his legitimate sons.
Yeats, the youngest, inherited a plot of land too insignificant to notice. A minor barony tucked away in a remote northern frontier, somewhere between "God Forgot This Place" and "Here Be Monsters."
And just a bit farther north?
Blizzards. Barbarians. Orcs. Sea raiders. Monster migration season.
A real who's-who of "Things That Kill You at Night."
So yeah.
Not a noble appointment. More like a DIY survival challenge.
Yeats shook his head, sighed again, and thought about the alchemy formulas still floating around in his mind. Hope flickered.
Even the worst land is still land.
And if there's one thing I've inherited, it's farmer DNA.
Worst-case scenario? I open an Etsy shop for magic potions.
And with the right know-how? Cement. Booze. Explosives. Rifles…
He stared at the ceiling of the carriage, hope draining from his face.
Oh no.
He couldn't remember how to make any of that.
He was the kind of student who made teachers believe in reincarnation—because clearly, this soul had already returned the knowledge to the universe.
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"Burn her!"
"Burn the witch!"
The angry shouts outside the carriage were getting louder.
Yeats leaned toward the window.
Thick, greasy smoke filled the air. Villagers, faces twisted in rage, wielded pitchforks and wooden clubs. At the center of the commotion was a wooden pyre. Tied to the post stood a teenage girl in leather armor, her posture firm, her chin raised defiantly.
This was straight out of a historical documentary: How Not to Treat Women in the Middle Ages.
"Young Master," Farkas said grimly, "best if we don't get involved."
Yeats didn't answer immediately. In his old world, "witches" were a social panic.
In this world, though… actual liches, necromancers, and spectral grannies were very real.
Still, this scene tugged at his memory
He'd seen it before—somewhere in the game.
FWOOM!
A torch was thrown. Flames roared to life, engulfing the platform. Heat rippled through the air.
Yet the girl stood unharmed. Her armor shimmered faintly, clearly enchanted. Wind whipped her brown hair around her face as she stood like a goddess in the fire.
"I told you, you've got the wrong person!"
"If fire can't burn you, that proves you are a witch!" someone howled.
Yeats: "..."
Ah yes. Medieval logic: undefeated.
"It wasn't me! The chickens were eaten by monsters!"
A woman in a rough-spun dress stepped forward and pointed a gnarled finger.
"I saw you! You took the chicken, ate it, and left the bones behind!"
"That chicken had already crossed village limits!" the girl shot back. "You can't arrest someone for eating free-range poultry!"
She took a deep breath and recited with the precision of someone who'd had this argument before:
"As per Royal Property Statute, Section 7, Clause 14: Adventurers are allowed to secure provisions outside of village jurisdiction."
"So no, I didn't steal it. I reclaimed it with legal dignity!"
The villagers blinked. Legalese had that effect.
Then someone yelled: "You openly admit to stealing? Witch!"
Girl: (°□°)︵ ┻━┻
Local villagers clearly didn't believe in due process.
By now, Yeats and Farkas had dismounted and drifted into the crowd.
Next to him, a blacksmith muttered,"Just toss her in the river. Let her drown."
"But wouldn't she just swim away?" Yeats asked.
The man gave him a sidelong glance.
"Real witches? You wanna be the guy who kills that? Me neither. Just… give folks closure and move on."
Yeats stood still, thinking.
"Young Master?" Farkas prompted.
"Don't talk. I'm following the spaghetti logic string…"
Then it clicked.
The girl—Grey the Dragonblooded. A major NPC from the game.
Technically, she hadn't stolen the chicken.
She'd baited it with rice, lured it past the village line, waited two hours, and then—only then—grilled it.
That level of commitment?
Peak Dragonborn behavior.
A true descendant of the stealth-chicken-theft tradition.
Yeats needed people.
And she was basically an early-game SR-level unit.
He stepped forward.
"I, Yeats of House Brontë, vouch for this adventurer. By the honor of my family name, I swear—she is no witch."
Gasps rippled through the crowd. But when they saw his face—perfect features, noble bearing—they hesitated.
"Young Master," the old woman said, "it's not just one chicken. We've lost many. Some just… vanish. Some were torn to pieces."
"Told you—it's a monster!" Grey insisted.
"What kind?" Yeats asked.
"Cockatrice. I saw tracks in the dirt—serpent tails. They eat poultry, blend into the dark, slip through villages like shadows."
Yeats nodded.
That checked out with the game's beginner quest.
Mini-boss in the back hills. Not hard for a proper adventurer.
Too bad he and Farkas were more "retired librarian" than "heroic vanguard."
Time to use what he did have—life skill hacks.
"If I bring you the monster, we drop the witch thing?" Yeats asked the village elder.
"Yes, yes," the man trembled. "We mean no disrespect. Just… closure. You understand."
"Perfect." Yeats smiled. "Untie her. Give me one hour. I'll be back."
Farkas blinked.
This… wasn't like his young master at all.
The Yeats he knew would've smacked the elder with a riding crop and complained the whole way through.
But now?
Maybe inheriting a frozen wilderness had forced some growth.
Especially when that wilderness…
was Morningfrost Ridge.