The next day, Ian walked toward his field with a mattock he had borrowed from the village chief. He planted the blade into the soil and began turning the earth, one stroke after another.
The sun gradually climbed higher into the sky, its heat becoming increasingly oppressive as sweat rolled down his body and soaked his clothes, yet Ian didn't stop, or rather, he couldn't bring himself to stop.
His arms began to ache, his palms grew sore from gripping the wooden handle, and his breathing became heavier with every passing hour, but he continued working without paying much attention to any of it.
He needed something to occupy his mind, something simple enough that he didn't have to think about anything else, because what Destiny had told him the previous night was proving much harder to digest than he had initially expected.
Among the countless worlds he had visited throughout his lifetime, Ian had encountered theories similar to what Destiny had described.
