Chapter 1: Trapped in the Great Depression

"Cough, cough—"

Mark Thompson choked on the dry air, his throat feeling like sandpaper. His eyelids were heavy, as if filled with lead, but he forced them open with great effort. What he saw made his mind freeze.

A shabby wooden cabin. The walls were peeling, revealing the weathered planks beneath. An old iron-framed bed took up half the room, and on the bedside table sat a rusted alarm clock, its hands pointing to 7 AM.

On the other side of the room, a wobbly wooden desk held a kerosene lamp and a stack of yellowed newspapers. The edges were curled, suggesting they had been flipped through countless times.

Through the window, he saw a barren farmland. The soil was cracked, and a few withered trees stood alone in the distance, as if whispering tales of despair.

"What the hell is this place?" Mark frowned, trying to sit up, but his entire body ached, especially his right leg, which sent a sharp pain shooting through him. Looking down, he noticed he was wearing an old pair of work pants, covered in dirt.

He struggled to recall last night. He was in his Kansas farm in 2024, drinking a cold beer and watching a baseball game. How the hell did he wake up here?

"Mark! You're finally awake!"

A raspy female voice came from the doorway.

Mark turned his head. A weary-looking middle-aged woman walked in, holding a bowl of steaming hot soup.

"The doctor said you took a bad fall. You need to rest. Here, drink this."

Mark froze. Who was this woman? Why was she calling him Mark? And when did he fall?

He accepted the soup, his gaze unintentionally landing on the newspaper on the desk.

The headline read:

"1930 Economic Crisis Worsens, Farmers in Despair."

Mark's hand trembled, nearly spilling the soup.

1930?!

His heart pounded as he jumped up—only to stumble as pain shot through his leg. Ignoring it, he grabbed the newspaper and checked the date.

April 15, 1930.

"I... traveled back in time?" Mark muttered, his voice filled with disbelief and a hint of fear.

The woman looked at him with concern. "Mark, are you running a fever? Just drink your soup and stop saying nonsense."

Mark ignored her, staggering toward the window and staring at the farmland outside.

The land was dry, and several workers toiled under the sun, their faces gaunt and exhausted.

"Oh, come on! You've got to be kidding me!"

Mark slammed his fist against the window frame, his mind a swirling mess of anger, frustration, and helplessness.

He was just a semi-retired farmer, living a comfortable life—not rich, but at least peaceful. Feeding livestock, shooting coyotes, drinking beer, watching sunsets—his life was easy, thanks to modern mechanized farming.

But now...

He was stuck in the Great Depression?!

His expression darkened. He had studied agriculture, but he also knew history. The stock market crash of 1929 had triggered an economic crisis, hitting farmers the hardest—bankruptcies, famine, and violent uprisings became common.

He looked down at his calloused hands. New memories surged into his mind—memories that weren't his.

In this world, he was still Mark Thompson, the owner of this farm. But the farm was in deep debt, barely staying afloat. A few days ago, he had injured his leg while repairing tools.

His life had hit rock bottom—again.

Mark's thoughts drifted back to his real past.

Before becoming a farmer, he had a very different life. After graduating from college, he spent two years working at an agricultural research institute, endlessly conducting plant breeding experiments. The monotony suffocated him—until a twist of fate led him to the world of mercenaries.

With nothing to lose, he quit his stable job and stepped into the dangerous underworld. For three years, he fought in foreign war zones, starting from the bottom, taking on escort missions, infiltrations, and even counter-terrorism operations. He had seen the brutality of battle and learned how to survive in chaos.

That experience gave him exceptional shooting skills, tactical awareness, and survival instincts.

During one mission, he met an American agricultural tycoon. Impressed by Mark's sharp mind and pragmatic nature, the tycoon offered him a position managing a small farm in the States.

Tired of bloodshed, Mark took the offer. It was supposed to be his peaceful retirement.

But fate had other plans.

From a modern farmer, he was now a bankrupt farmer in 1930.

"My retirement…" Mark muttered bitterly, raising a middle finger to the sky.

No matter what, he had to survive.

The woman at the door glanced at him again, her voice soft but weary. "Your leg's still hurt. Stop moving around. Drink your soup. I'll go check on the fields."

She left, and Mark stared at the bowl. A few wilted vegetable leaves and tiny bits of meat floated on the surface.

He let out a bitter chuckle.

This was probably the best meal this household could afford.

"1930. The Great Depression. This is one hell of a nightmare."

Mark muttered under his breath, his mind racing.

He couldn't just sit here and wait to starve. He needed a plan.

"System! Come out!" he shouted in his mind, half-joking, half-hoping for some miraculous cheat code.

Silence.

Only the dim glow of the kerosene lamp flickered in the dusty air.

…

Nothing happened.

"Oh, come on! Not even a system?! Damn you, universe! You're really screwing with me!" Mark cursed out loud.

Just as he was about to lose it, the world around him wavered.

The worn-down cabin dissolved, replaced by vast farmland.

Modern irrigation systems stretched neatly across the fields. In the distance, a spacious warehouse stood, filled with grain and cutting-edge farming tools.

Mark's eyes widened. His breathing quickened.

"Wait… This… this is my 2024 farm?!"