(Weak transmigrator）
(Light novel style.)
(Readers seeking "modern knowledge overpowering medieval settings" should look elsewhere.)
Status Bar: Ian Raven
[Ian Raven]
[You are utterly worthless.]
The text on the system's status bar mercilessly mocked Ian.
"Worthless Ian"—that was his current title and reality.
If he had to be given another designation, it would be "Ian, son of Farmer Ian."
In this medieval world of swords and magic, being a farmer's son meant being worthless.
So, the system wasn't wrong.
Ian, the farmer's son, was the only child in the village with jet-black hair.
His mother had bright yellow hair, his father fiery red, yet Ian's hair was dark as ink.
Because of this, his parents had argued frequently when he was young.
"Tell me the truth! Whose child is this?!"
"Yours, of course! Who else's?!"
"Don't lie to me, you unfaithful woman!"
"How dare you say that to me?!"
Such quarrels were common.
The name "Ian Raven" was largely inspired by his black hair. (Raven)
Naming conventions in this village were simple:
First, the given name—whatever the parents liked. If they liked "Dogegg," then Dogegg it was; if they preferred "Second Dog," then Second Dog.
Ian's parents preferred simple names, so they called him Ian.
Why simple? Because Ian's father was also named Ian.
And his father's surname was also Ian.
It was somewhat like naming traditions where multiple generations share similar names.
Thus, Ian's full name was Ian Ian Raven.
To make it more amusing, Ian's grandfather was also named Ian.
Some families included the grandfather's name in the child's name—so it would be Ian Ian Ian Raven.
But no one actually called him that.
Ian was somewhat grateful—at least he wasn't named "Dogegg."
Otherwise, things would have been even more awkward.
To distinguish between them, villagers called Ian "Little Ian," and his father "Old Ian."
As for Grandpa? "Old Old Ian"—you'd have to find him in the graveyard.
Generally, the naming farce should have ended here, but some people didn't stick to conventions.
Ian's jet-black hair stood out starkly in the village.
So, among the children, he earned the nickname "Raven Ian."
"Haha, look, the raven brat is passing by."
"I heard Ian washes his hair with ink every night."
Watching these mocking children, Ian merely snorted softly.
If any other ordinary child were teased like this, they might have gotten angry or even started fights.
But Ian simply found them childish.
Because Ian was a transmigrator—a man from China—and naturally wouldn't bother arguing with children.
"Chen Ping'an."
Ian wrote his pre-transmigration name in the sand and then erased it.
He knew everything from his past life was meaningless now.
He had just been admitted to university and was on summer vacation when a truck sent him flying into the sky, transmigrating him to this world years ago.
He touched his hair, dark as ink—the same color as before his transmigration.
Perhaps even his hair had transmigrated with him; otherwise, there was no explaining its color.
Unless his true identity wasn't himself but this hair?
Following that logic, what about bald people...?
Hmm...
In any case, Ian Raven was the son of a farmer in the Kohlbrent region.
Like other farmers in the empire, Ian's family was poor.
"Poor" meant that even with backbreaking daily labor, they sometimes went hungry.
This was the Middle Ages—underdeveloped productivity made life harsh for the lower class.
Ian was the third of four children and was almost always hungry.
With two adults and four children in the family, daily hard work only earned enough food for four people. Who should eat it?
The farmers' standard answer: the two adults plus the eldest and second eldest.
This distribution made sense—those who worked needed energy; otherwise, they couldn't work, and the whole family would starve.
The eldest was already fifteen. In modern society, he'd be a teenager, but here he was a strong young man capable of heavy labor.
The second eldest could together handle an adult's workload.
But the third and fourth were different—still mere children.
They couldn't work and didn't eat much, so they could go hungry. If they were truly starving, they could catch grasshoppers in the fields to eat.
Thus, Ian's daily routine was as follows:
Wake up before dawn, have breakfast with the family. His parents ate the most, while Ian and his youngest sister shared a small piece of bread.
They had to savor it—this small piece had to last them both until noon.
His parents and older brothers went to the fields to work, while Ian took his sister to the forest to forage for food.
They spent the entire day searching for things to eat—wild berries, insects, bird eggs, wild vegetables.
Return home after dark.
If they were lucky, they'd have dinner together; if not, they went straight to sleep.
The next day, the sun rose, and the same cycle repeated.
Ian knew exactly how miserable his life was.
From waking to sleeping, all he did was search for food—was he a child or a wild beast?
School?
The forest was his school, the beasts his teachers—he lived a savage life.
A life with no learning opportunities, just counting the years as they passed.
Of course, when he grew up, he'd join his parents in the fields, working himself to the bone.
It wasn't that he feared hardship—the problem was that after all the suffering, he gained nothing but a body that filled and emptied itself.
No income—that was the common ailment of farmers in this era.
In fact, Ian's parents weren't ordinary farmers but serfs.
While both farmers and serfs farmed the land, serfs were bound to a specific area.
The advantage was that they received protection from knights within high walls.
Unlike ordinary farmers, who were often robbed by bandits or eaten by monsters.
But there were drawbacks—they had to submit to the lord's rule.
The price of protection was obedience to the lord's dominion.
They couldn't leave the territory without permission, had to surrender part of their produce, and provide labor and military service when needed.
Since his parents were serfs, Ian naturally was one too.
Not all serfs were the same—wealthy serfs could save to buy armor and weapons, becoming well-treated infantry in times of crisis.
But Ian's parents were at the very bottom.
The land they farmed was rented from the lord, and poor harvests every year forced them to borrow grain, sinking deep into debt.
They worked tirelessly every day but gained nothing—such was the life of debtors.
If they fell ill from overwork, they could only wait quietly to die and be buried in the soil.
That was his parents' fate.
And his future fate.
Ian couldn't leave the territory—because his parents were debtors, and children inherited their parents' debts.
Other professions were unthinkable; without education, how could he gain skills?
"What kind of life is this?"
Ian sighed deeply. This transmigration might as well not have happened—at least in his previous life, he had enough to eat and wear, and freedom.
Watching his little sister devour roasted fish amidst the ashes, his mood grew even gloomier.
"Brother, aren't you eating?"
"No, you have it, little sister."
[Ian Raven]
[You are utterly worthless.]
As Ian willed it, a translucent interface appeared before his eyes.
This was the proof of his transmigrator's golden finger!
Could this be considered a system?
But why did Ian still have no abilities?
The system hadn't issued any tasks either.
How Ian wished his system would be useful.
Then, even the lord would jump in fear, knights would bow in respect—he would be a breathtaking genius, standing at the world's peak!
Then he'd pile up food and feast with his family until the world turned upside down!