Realization...

Mark walked barefoot along the path, the cool damp earth soothing against his skin. 

As he crested a small rise and laid eyes on the fields before him, one word slipped out of his mind and into his mouth:

"Beautiful."

He let out a quiet, satisfied sigh.

Before him stretched a vast expanse of greenery, rice fields shimmering under the morning sun. 

They rippled gently with ankle-deep water, and in those shallow pools, tiny fish darted between stalks like silver glints of life. 

The sky above was cloudless, a soft gradient of blue that kissed the distant horizon. 

And at that meeting point, the earth and sky seemed to blend together, endless and eternal.

It was breathtaking.

Strangely, the fatigue from walking over three kilometers melted away the moment he saw this view. 

Back on Earth, most villages had farmland hugging their borders, sometimes even woven between homes. 

But here… the distance between village and field was odd, though understandable. 

This land was rich with natural water—he'd passed several ponds and even shallow, winding canals on his way.

There were some farmlands closer to the village, yes, but nothing like this wide-open expanse.

What truly caught his eye was the distant line of trees on the far side of the field. 

It stretched endlessly, the canopy so dense that the horizon didn't meet the ground anymore, but the forest's crown. 

He couldn't see where the forest started, and he sure as hell didn't want to find out where it ended.

Beautiful from a distance, maybe. But forests in this world weren't home to just wild animals. They housed far worse things—monsters, creatures that stalked the dark.

He turned his gaze to a bamboo structure at the edge of the field—a simple raised platform with a thatched roof of hay and split bamboo. 

It wasn't really a house, more of a shade-post or sentry hut. 

One or two men guarded the fields here, day and night, rotating shifts to ensure pests—both natural and unnatural—didn't ravage the crops.

Mark approached and saw two men sitting on opposite ends of the platform, legs dangling casually as they scanned the horizon.

Scarecrows kept the birds at bay. Insects weren't much of a problem thanks to the frogs and fish in the flooded paddies. 

But the real problems came from the forest—wild hogs, deer, and worse. Those were the true pests. Dangerous, cunning, and incredibly destructive.

One of the men spotted Mark and stood up. "Mark? What happened? You're late."

The other turned as well, his brow furrowing.

Mark recounted what had happened with Meg—her snake bite, the commotion, the concern—and both men blinked in surprise.

"Damn, we didn't hear a thing. All that going on back in the village?" one muttered, clearly frustrated.

"Alright," the other said, hopping down. "We'll head back and check it out."

Villagers here were tightly knit, almost comically over-involved in each other's lives. 

Any incident—good or bad—spread like fire. Curiosity, concern, and a sprinkle of gossip fueled it all. These two were no different.

Mark watched them jog off toward the village, their chatter already picking up as they speculated about what happened.

He climbed up onto the bamboo platform, taking their place.

The wind rustled the rice stalks. The scent of wet earth and greenery filled the air.

He sat, eyes scanning the horizon once more.

Peaceful. For now.

He and John had split up some time ago. Their posts were in different areas—two men for two zones. During the day, one was enough. 

Full daylight kept the nocturnal beasts at bay. The real threats only came crawling when the sun dipped and shadows stretched.

Mark sat alone on the bamboo platform, the cool surface beneath him creaking slightly as he shifted his weight. From here, the fields stretched wide and open, bathed in sunlight. 

It was still beautiful—calm, natural, untouched.

But beauty, he knew, would eventually fade into familiarity. One day, this view would be routine. A backdrop to boredom.

He leaned forward and peered down at the flooded paddies. Small fish swam just beneath the surface in neat little groups, ten or so at a time. "Three-eyed fish," the villagers called them. 

Not because they actually had three eyes, but because of a peculiar white marking on their heads that looked like a third eye.

Mark watched them for a while, then turned his attention to the rice stalks poking out of the water. From the look of it, they had about a month and a half to go before harvest. 

That little insight wasn't his own—it came from the memories of Mark Goodman.

Back in his previous life, farming wasn't even a consideration. The word alone summoned images of sweat-stained labor, sunburns, and poverty. 

In his world, farmers were taken for granted—looked down on, even—despite being the ones who literally fed the entire population.

"No farmers, no food. No food, no patients to save," Mark mused. "More important than doctors, really."

Even medicines needed plants, and plants needed growers.

Time passed. Slowly.

Mark kept his eyes on the horizon, shifting occasionally, listening to the quiet splash of water, the distant calls of birds, and the soft whistle of the breeze through stalks. 

It was peaceful… but the peace turned to monotony quickly.

He'd underestimated just how boring this post would be.

No excitement. No events. Not even a rabbit to shoo away.

Just... sitting.

Even his thoughts had run out. His usual internal monologues hit a wall.

He let out a groan, slumping forward and resting his chin on his hand.

"Man, this is getting boring…"

The words slipped out with a sigh. 

He tilted his head back and stared at the sky, its blue vastness now less like a painting and more like a blank screen. 

The earlier awe had dulled. The silence, once comforting, now gnawed at him.

'This is going to be my life now, huh? Sitting in the middle of nowhere, waiting for hogs or deer to crash through the fields. Every. Single. Day.'

He sighed again, deeper this time.

And kept watching the horizon.