Rain drummed against the sturdy wooden roof of the farmhouse. The sound remained as constant as Arthur's own heartbeat. He stood by the window and watched the gray mist roll over the fields of Ruvka.
To a stranger, this village in the barony of Baron Talbot looked like a graveyard of mud. The festering swamp to the south breathed a heavy dampness into the air.
Arthur felt the warmth of the beef broth through his mug. Most families in the kingdom settled for watery gruel, but his larder stayed full. He looked at the mud and saw the foundation of a dynasty.
The Sinclair Kingdom was one of the smaller powers on the continent. It was a geopolitical runt. It lacked the massive iron legions of the north-western kingdom and the ancient sorcery of their eastern enemies.
However, the soil here was so dark and fertile it looked like crushed velvet. The rain never stopped, and Sinclair was able to feed the surrounding nations. This reality made farmers like Arthur the most protected assets in the realm.
He watched a group of laborers trekking toward the newly cleared tree line. There were dozens of them. They moved with a sluggishness born of exhaustion.
Three years ago, running two farms would have broken a man of nineteen. The Sickness had changed everything. It had swept through the valley and claimed the middle-aged with terrifying precision. It had taken his parents as well as May's parents.
The plague had left a generation of orphans to hold the plow.
Arthur had not spent his days in prayer or mourning. He had merged his family farm with May's lands. He had walked into the camps of displaced workers and offered a deal.
He gave them a place to build shacks in his forest. In exchange, they gave him their sweat for a fraction of the standard coin. The housing was technically temporary, which meant no crown inspector bothered to check the foundations. The workers had a dry place to sleep, and Arthur had an army of hands for sheckles.
He turned from the window and walked to his desk. The heavy oak piece groaned under the weight of his ledgers. Most peasants in Ruvka could not even read a tavern sign. Arthur opened a leather-bound book with a spine that had been reinforced with twine.
His father had died before he could pass on the secrets of the trade. This book had served as his tutor. It had taught him the skills of the gentry. As he focused on the columns of numbers, a blue box flickered in his peripheral vision.
[Mathematics: Level 10]
He ignored the text. The System provided a useful metric, but it had a hard ceiling for men of his station. He could calculate faster than any merchant at the market. He could read a contract for hidden clauses. Yet, he would never reach the levels required to be a royal scholar. He lacked the variety of high-level skills needed to push past the tenth level.
"You are going to burn a hole in that page with your eyes," May said.
Arthur looked up. May sat in the rocking chair by the hearth. She looked tired. Her dark hair fell loosely over her shoulders and caught the orange light of the fire. Her fingers moved with a blurring speed as she mended a tunic, displaying all the splendor of a level 8 seamstress.
In the crib next to her, the newborn remained perfectly still.
"The numbers for the autumn harvest are higher than I expected," Arthur said. He walked over to the fire. "If we sell the surplus to the southern border, we can buy the stone for the new granary."
May stopped her needle. "Is that all you see when you look at the world? Stone and grain?"
"I see security," Arthur replied. "I see a world where our sons don't have to live in a shack in the woods."
"This one doesn't seem interested in shacks," May whispered. She leaned over the crib. "He hasn't cried once today. He just watches us, his little curious eyes always looking around. He spent an hour staring at the way the light reflected off the kettle earlier today. Caleb was a terror at this age, but this one is different."
Arthur looked down at the infant. The boy's eyes were focused. They didn't have the cloudy, aimless wandering of a normal newborn. The child seemed to be cataloging the room.
"Have you decided on a name?" May asked. "Or should I just call him the Little Accountant?"
Arthur looked back at the journal on his desk. That book had saved them from the poverty that claimed their neighbors. It was the reason they wore fine wool instead of rags. The man who wrote those pages had been a visionary.
"Jacob," Arthur said. "His name is Jacob."
May repeated the name softly. "Jacob Hemlock. It sounds like the name of someone who builds things."
"It does," Arthur agreed. He reached down and let the baby wrap a tiny hand around his calloused finger.
Arthur did not know that the soul inside his son was actually twenty-seven years old. He did not know the boy had once managed the logistics for a sprawling virtual empire. He simply saw his child and felt a surge of ambition.
He would teach this boy the way of the land. He would teach him to butcher a cow and sow the spring fields. He would teach him to outwit a merchant and read the words of his ancestors.
Little Jacob let out a small yawn. His eyes flickered open for a second before he drifted back to sleep.
"Welcome to the farm, Jacob," Arthur whispered. "We have a lot of work to do."