The air in the countryside was thick with the scent of dust and decay, a stark contrast to the sterile, filtered air of the city. Our new home was a dilapidated shack, a hollow shell of our former life. My mother, once a vibrant socialite who curated art and commanded charity galas, was now a ghost, her spirit crushed by the weight of our fall. She spent her days staring out at the desolate landscape, her silence a more profound agony than any scream could be. I, meanwhile, was consumed by a quiet, burning rage, a fire that felt both destructive and, strangely, purifying. It was a rage against Chairman Harms, against Anya, against the world that had so easily discarded us.
One evening, unable to bear the suffocating quiet, I walked out onto the land. The ground was so parched it looked like a shattered mosaic. I kicked at a large clod of dirt, watching it crumble into fine powder. My fury was a physical thing, a phantom ache in my bones. As I strode along the edge of the property, my foot struck something hard. I knelt, pushing aside the dust to reveal a small, heavy book. It was bound in what looked like ancient, cracked leather, its cover etched with strange, swirling patterns that seemed to pulse with a faint, internal light. It felt ancient and alive.
I picked it up, and the moment my hand closed around it, the light emanating from the glyphs on the cover intensified. A warm, ethereal glow enveloped me, a feeling of deep-seated power that was both unsettling and exhilarating. I felt a surge of energy, a strange, profound connection to the very ground beneath my feet. The world around me seemed to spin, colors blurring into a kaleidoscopic vortex. I lost control, my eyes rolling back as I slipped into a disorienting haze.
I awoke to the cool air of the evening. The stars were a brilliant, untainted canopy above me, each one a pinprick of defiant light against the overwhelming dark. The exhaustion from the ordeal weighed heavily on my limbs, but the rage that had been a constant companion now felt strangely muted, replaced by a cold, quiet curiosity. The book was still in my hand, its light now a soft, pulsing ember. I stumbled back to the shack, the book held tightly in my grasp.
After a silent dinner, I lay on my cot, the book resting on my chest. I stared at the ceiling, my mind replaying the bizarre events of the evening. The book, the light, the strange connection to the earth... what did it all mean? Suddenly, a translucent, shimmering screen flickered into existence before me, its light a soft, unearthly green.
Name: Kenji KaitoAge: 26Height: 5'11"Weight: 75 kgsProfession: Farmer HeirLand: 4000 square metersSoil Fertility Rate: -0.5
My mind reeled. The screen had my details, but the "Profession" was wrong, and what was "Soil Fertility Rate"? A new, cold dread, different from my usual rage, began to settle in my gut. I reached out, and my fingers passed through the screen as if it were a ghost, a perfect illusion.
My mother, hearing my sudden gasp, came to the doorway. "What is it, Kenji? Are you all right?"
"Did you see that?" I asked, my voice barely a whisper. "The screen, it just... appeared."
She looked at me, her face a mask of weary concern. "There's nothing there, dear. You must be seeing things. It's the stress. Just get some rest." Her words were laced with a gentle pity that stung more than any insult. I was not just ruined; I was now, in her eyes, losing my mind. As she turned and walked away, the screen flickered again, and a new title appeared under my stats: [Profession: Farmer]. A single, bold line of text appeared at the bottom: [Quest: Restore the Land. Cultivate what was lost.]
A bitter, humorless laugh escaped my lips. Farmer. The system, whatever it was, was a cosmic joke. I, a man who had never done a day of manual labor in his life, was now being tasked with restoring a dead piece of earth. But then, a flicker of something new appeared on the screen, a new kind of challenge. My hands, once accustomed to holding only a glass of champagne, were now trembling with a quiet, burning resolution. The man who had taken everything from me had forgotten one thing: a man with nothing left to lose is a man capable of anything. The game had changed, and I, the poor bastard they had abandoned, was about to play