Jacob cut through the village square with his collar turned up against the lingering chill, hands stuffed deep into his pockets to keep from fidgeting.
Market day had already wound down, leaving only a few stalls packing up and a scattering of people talking in small knots. Smoke from cookfires mixed with the smell of grain dust and old wood, a familiar blend that usually calmed him.
Today, it just reminded him that his fields were useless.
His boots scuffed the packed dirt while his thoughts ran ahead toward the crooked lane on the far side of the square.
At the end of that lane waited old Thom with the house that did not entirely sit in one place.
The doorway that opened into too much space, and the shelves that did not quite line up with the walls. If anyone in the village knew about strange weeds and stubborn plants, it would be him.
Jacob's tongue still remembered the flat, mineral sting of the east field. The memory dragged his thoughts backward, past this world and into the other life he carried like a half-hidden scar.
Farm Online had handled salt differently.
He could see the game field in his mind, neat tiles and shimmering overlays, numbers ticking up in the corner of his vision.
There, when the land was salted from overuse and bad water, the solution had not come from more ploughing or more rain. It had come from a particular grass that thrived in estuaries.
The description had called it something complicated involving halophytes, but he had just tagged it simply as salt grass.
You planted that grass in the ruined tiles, and it pulled brackish water along with nutrients into itself, then pushed the extra salt out along its leaves, leaving a fine crystal dust that had sparkled in the game light.
Then it was a simple matter of harvesting the grass and carefully clearing the salt crust, which slowly resulted in the tiles recovering enough for normal crops again.
The memory now felt less like a bad dream of fractured scenes and more like a clue.
He stepped around a cart and started down the narrow lane that led toward Old Thom's twisting doorway.
He did not know if this world had any real version of salt grass, but someone had to know which plants tolerated bad ground and left strange residue on their leaves.
If such a thing grew anywhere near Ruvka, the old man would have heard about it, even if the rest of the village just called it a worthless marsh weed.
Jacob drifted through the square, half aware of the people around him, turning over names of plants in his head.
Marsh reeds, salt weeds, rushes, shoreline grasses that clung to river edges. Anything that might drink bad water and leave cleaner soil behind.
He was still chewing on the memory of glittering salt on game leaves when a sudden laugh cut across his thoughts.
"F-rank or not, a gate is a gate," someone said near the well.
"North side, other side of the village," another voice answered. "You can see it from the low ridge now. The whole thing is just sitting there, pulsing with power."
Jacob slowed and finally looked around instead of through people. He noticed what his mind had skipped over at first.
There were packs with real frames. Leather hardened in the right places. Spears bundled with care instead of thrown together. A bow with fresh wax gleaming along the string.
Adventurers, or close enough for this part of the world.
A pair of them passed close by, talking in excited whispers that carried anyway.
"First confirmed dungeon in this region in ten years," one said.
"F-rank is perfect for beginners," the other replied. "Less competition from the big guilds, and there will still be cores."
Jacob's hand dropped to the side of his satchel almost on its own. Inside, wrapped in cloth, waited the knife he had just finished and the sword he had enchanted earlier in the season.
Neither piece would impress a noble, but either would serve someone who needed gear that worked better than it looked.
He slipped off to the side of the square, opened the satchel, and drew the sword free.
The familiar weight settled against his palm with a kind of reassurance that the enchantment sent out to its wielder.
He slid the belt through the worn scabbard loops and buckled it around his waist, adjusting it until the hilt sat at a comfortable angle at his hip.
If adventurers were going to flow through the village to test themselves against a new dungeon, some of them would need blades that cut true and lasted more than one delve.
If he were lucky, one of them might notice the way his sword handled.
Gold could buy seed and tools, or even an expansion of fields. And that would give Jacob the time he needed to increase the productivity of the farm.
He gave the strap one last tug, then turned back toward the narrow lane that led to Old Thom's impossible door, thoughts split now between salt grass, dungeon gates, and the possibility of selling the sword at his hip to an adventurer who could recognize its worth.
Jacob made it halfway down the lane before the flow of people thinned. The noise of the square faded behind him, replaced by the creak of wagon wheels and the occasional shout from a distant yard.
Behind him, one of the adventurers paused.
He was broad through the shoulders, with a dented breastplate strapped over worn leathers and a small shield riding weightlessly across his back.
He had noticed the boy only in passing at first, just another villager with more problems than coin. Then his gaze snagged on the sword at Jacob's hip.
The hairs on his arms rose a fraction of an inch.
A familiar chill brushed the back of his mind, followed by the flat, clear tone of something that was not quite his own thought.
Combat Insight has triggered.
Item detected: Unregistered blade.
Assessment: Uncommon quality.
Structural resilience and cutting potential exceed local standard by three tiers.
He kept walking a few steps, his jaw clenched as he focused.
'Unregistered,' he thought. 'You sure it is not just polished nicely?'
Rechecking. Surface appraisal complete. Maker or enchanter unknown.
Recommendation: Acquire if possible.
The man exhaled slowly through his nose. That calm inner voice had never lied to him. It had kept him alive through ambushes, assassination attempts, bad contracts, and one very ugly C-rank nest.
A gift from the system for the successful completion of a special-rare grade quest. If it said a child's sword was worth attention, then he would listen.
He turned off the main flow as he cut through the moving villagers and adventurers alike, lengthened his stride, and stepped into the narrow lane ahead of Jacob, planting himself squarely in the boy's path and bringing him to a halt.