The morning wind tousled Mark's curled-up hair as he stood just outside the house, trying to focus on his current situation.
He closed his eyes and took a deep breath—and in that moment, something strange happened.
It felt as if his consciousness was gently pulled inward, sucked into a space that didn't belong to the real world. A void? A vision? No. It was something more.
There, before him, stood a shimmering gate—large enough to fit two men side by side. It radiated a soft glow, almost like misty sunlight caught in crystal.
The space beyond it wasn't black or void-like, as one might expect from something so mystical.
Instead, it showed a vivid image of another place.
A narrow alley between two buildings.
Not mud huts. Not thatched roofs. These were proper structures—sturdy, clean, modern.
Far more advanced in architecture than anything in this village. Judging from the brickwork, window frames, and signage, it had to be a town. Maybe even a city.
Yet, despite the scene's clarity, it felt… static.
Like a paused video.
A bird was caught mid-flight in the air—frozen. The wind seemed halted in motion. No movement, no sound. It was less like a window to another place, and more like a snapshot trapped in time.
Mark studied it for a moment, then lost interest.
It wasn't going anywhere.
And right now, neither was he.
He let out a long sigh and opened his eyes, feeling the real world return to him—the scent of mud, the cool air, the sound of distant birds and clanking pails.
That glowing portal… it was his real cheat.
The true blessing he received upon transmigrating into this world—not just the memories of the dead farmer boy named Mark Goodman, or the Debuff Transfer trait that came with the body or even the Instant Regen trait that he got after entering into this world.
No, this was something else entirely.
[Portal]
That was its name. Simple. Functional. But its power was anything but ordinary.
It had two core features.
The first: The Gate.
A literal doorway to another world. One entirely unknown to him.
He hadn't stepped through it yet, but he knew instinctively—this was not a place from Earth, nor from this magic-scarred, feudal land of farmers and knights.
It was something new, perhaps somewhere in-between.
The second: Inventory and Dimension.
The Portal wasn't just a gateway—it was linked to an independent dimension. A personal space. Roughly a kilometer in size, it was timeless unless entered, meaning no time passed outside while he was inside and vise versa.
It had everything a man could need: a clear-water pond, a patch of fertile land, open ground, and even basic comforts. It was peaceful, private, perfect for training, hiding, or simply surviving.
Mark planned to explore it later. But not now.
He still had a part to play—the routine life of the old Mark. A simple villager, a farmer, a nobody.
Because in this village, nothing new ever happened.
And when nothing new happens, everyone remembers everything.
If he suddenly acted strange, if he strayed too far from how the old Mark used to behave, even the simplest folk would notice.
That was the curse of quiet, uneventful places: people had nothing better to do than observe and gossip.
The wind rustled again, tugging at his coarse brown tunic.
His clothes were hand-stitched, thick and uneven at the seams—designed more for durability than fashion. His baggy pants barely reached his ankles. He wore no shoes.
Not because he lacked them. But because, around here, barefoot was simply better.
The soil of this land was dark, sticky, and slick. Constant rains made the paths into mud traps. Wooden sandals—while traditional—broke easily in such conditions and got stuck far too often.
Going barefoot might've been primitive… but it was practical.
He looked down at his feet, caked slightly in damp earth. His hands were calloused. His skin was sun-worn. Everything about his current appearance screamed "poor farmer."
Just as Mark was drifting deeper into thought—lost in the habits and routines of the old Mark Goodman—he was jolted awake by a scream that split the morning air like lightning.
"Hey!!! Snake! A poisonous snake has bitten Aunt Meg!!"
The sharp, panicked voice of a young girl echoed through the quiet village. It struck the ears of every villager like a slap.
"Huh? What happened to Meg?!"
"A poisonous snake? Which one?!"
"Why do you care which one?! Go call the priest!"
"I'll get the horse! I'll ride to the temple and back—"
"Don't say it, just GO!!"
In seconds, the sleepy village transformed into a swarm of panic and movement. Doors creaked open. Men dropped tools. Women grabbed baskets and flasks.
The once-calm dirt paths were suddenly crowded with anxious feet heading toward the same destination—Meg's house.
Mark knew who she was. Aunt Meg—not really his aunt, just an affectionate village title. In truth, she was only a few years older than him.
She was the village widow. Her husband had died tragically at the hands of bandits while handling village trade in the nearby market town.
He'd been a good man, well-liked.
The bandits were eventually hunted down and slaughtered by adventurers after the villagers pooled resources and placed a bounty.
But Meg remained—alone, grieving, and quietly enduring.
As Mark processed this, a sudden touch on his shoulder startled him.
He turned—and found himself face-to-face with Selina.
His sister-in-law.
No makeup. No preparation. Just her raw, natural beauty framed by loosely tied hair and flushed cheeks. The urgency in her eyes made her look even more alive.
"What happened? Why's there so much noise?" she asked.
Mark snapped out of his gaze, catching himself. "It's Meg. They're saying she was bitten by a poisonous snake."
Selina's expression froze for a beat—then morphed into horror.
"What?! Bitten?!"
Before Mark could say anything more, she grabbed his wrist. Firmly. Without hesitation.
"Come on! What are you standing around for?! Let's go!"
And just like that, she pulled him into the rushing crowd of villagers.
Mark let her.
He could've pulled away—easily. But he didn't.
This wasn't some random stranger.
This was Selina—someone who'd known the old Mark since childhood. Someone who had shared childhood games, food, fights, and laughter with the Goodman brothers.
For her, grabbing his hand like this wasn't strange. It was natural.
But for Mark Cain—the man now living in Mark Goodman's body—it was jarring. His adult mind hadn't known such innocent, intimate familiarity in years. Not without ulterior motives. Not without tension.
Still, he forced himself to adapt. Forced himself to match the rhythm of the body he now inhabited.
With Selina tugging him along and the sounds of shouting villagers guiding the way, Mark ran toward the widow Meg's house.