Underneath the Surface

The farmer stood barefoot in the muddy corner of his field, frowning at a shallow ditch where water had pooled unevenly. His arms were crossed, sleeves rolled up to the elbow. He glanced at Ren, then back at the handmade scoop plow that sat beside them, its edge dull and warped.

"You said it'll work even on dry weeks?" the farmer asked.

"If you install the trough at an angle and run it straight from the collection barrel," Ren replied, crouching beside the field's edge, "gravity will do most of the work. The filter will keep the runoff clean, and this,"—he pointed to a circular clay valve half-buried under straw—"will control the flow rate."

The farmer knelt next to him, picked up a handful of soil, and let it crumble through his fingers.

"Folk around here say the gods punish those who tamper with land."

Ren wiped his hands on his trousers. "Is the land better off flooding your grain beds every spring?"

The man didn't answer. He stood, then jerked his chin toward the narrow slope beyond the trees. "You'll need help lifting the stone ring. It's buried beneath all that brush."

Ren nodded. "I'll need four strong hands and a sledge."

"You'll get two. Don't push it."

---

By late afternoon, the filter ring had been dug free and moved into position, its carved channels carefully aligned beneath a freshly packed basin. The barrel system hadn't been tested yet—but it didn't need to be perfect. It just had to move water without soaking the whole lower crop bed.

Ren dusted off his palms, watching as the farmer's sons packed gravel around the final outlet pipe. The design was crude, no more than packed clay sealed with beeswax and sand—but it was airtight, and most importantly, it was replicable.

A girl not much older than ten approached him, carrying a cracked clay cup filled with lukewarm water. Ren took it with a nod and drank slowly. The girl watched him with cautious curiosity, then ran back toward the farmhouse when her mother called.

That's how it always started—curiosity, suspicion, a test of usefulness.

Nobody cared where Ren came from, not really. What mattered was that when something broke, he could fix it.

And if something didn't exist yet, he could build it.

---

He returned to the inn after sundown, boots caked with dried mud, a faint ache between his shoulder blades from hauling stone. The tavern was louder than usual. A card game had spilled into an argument near the hearth, and the cook was scolding a boy who'd spilled oil on the stairs.

Ren slipped through the side entrance, avoiding the worst of the crowd, and went upstairs. The hallway smelled of smoke and boiled barley.

In his room, he washed up, lit a lamp, and opened his notebook. A new page. Fresh ink.

Multi-ring filter design — test performance over time

Field report: water flow holding at 3 degrees downhill over 12 paces

Note: clay seals degrade under pressure. Source resin alternatives?

He flipped to the next page, where a larger diagram spread across the paper—his earlier idea for a dual-barrel setup, one that used elevation instead of manpower. With the fluid dynamics ability, he could now predict when a pipe would bottleneck and when it wouldn't. He didn't have to guess.

The system had done more than give him tools.

It had given him confidence.

---

As he scribbled new refinements, a soft knock came at the door.

Ren paused, tensing.

Another knock. Two slow taps.

He opened it cautiously.

It was the same clerk from the guild—short, wearing a faded red sash. She looked exhausted.

"You're late," she said without any greeting.

"For what?"

"The practical exam. You registered."

Ren checked the sky through the window. "It's past dusk."

She sighed. "One of the examiners is still at the range. You want your shot or not?"

Ren didn't hesitate. He stuffed his notes into a satchel, tied his boots tighter, and followed her down the stairs.

---

The guild's outdoor range was behind the main hall, marked by rows of training dummies, a small obstacle course, and a circle of charred sand used for magic demonstrations. Torches lit the edge of the field. Two guilders stood waiting—an older man with one arm and a lean woman with twin daggers crossed behind her back.

"He's the late one?" the woman asked, voice dry.

The clerk shrugged. "He's here."

Ren stepped forward. "Ren Hoshikage."

"Bronze-level candidate. You've done field work but no combat certs," said the man. "Today's a field practical. Problem-solving under pressure. That an issue?"

"No."

"Good. Let's begin."

The woman with the twin daggers gave Ren a glance that was hard to read—half assessment, half warning. She gestured toward a cluster of barrels and crates positioned at one side of the practice field.

"First task's simple," she said. "We've got a 'supply run' setup. Your job is to transport all five crates across the obstacle lane without damaging the contents. No help, no spells, no shortcuts. You can inspect the crates before you start."

Ren approached the crates, squatting beside one. They were packed tightly with straw padding and sealed with coarse rope. A sharp slosh from inside told him they were filled with liquid. He tapped one—ceramic or thin clay, fragile under pressure.

"How long do I have?"

"Fifteen minutes," she replied. "Every broken flask counts as a deduction."

He nodded. It wasn't a combat test. It was logistics under stress.

Ren scanned the lane. There were uneven planks, small steps, two low hurdles, and one narrow balance beam set over a mud trench. No ladders, no inclines.

That meant weight distribution mattered more than speed.

---

He carried the first crate against his chest with both arms, keeping his knees slightly bent and taking careful steps. The first half of the lane was easy, just dirt and minor elevation shifts. When he reached the balance beam, he paused.

It was barely wide enough for one foot.

Ren looked back at the crate, then down at the trench. If he dropped this one, it would splash. Worse, it might crack just from the fall.

He didn't risk it.

Instead, he set the crate down, stepped over the trench, crouched, and built a stable two-hand grip from the far side. The beam groaned slightly, but he got it across.

He repeated the process four more times, switching hand positions and taking short rests to prevent muscle fatigue. Each trip he took a different rhythm, adjusting for the angle of the planks and wind direction. It wasn't elegant, but it was methodical.

When he lowered the final crate and stepped back, the woman nodded silently. The man with one arm scratched something into a slate.

"Next task," he said. "There's a locked chest behind the shed. You'll retrieve its contents and return them—without breaking the lock. The key isn't hidden. You just have to find it."

"Is there a time limit?"

"Ten minutes."

Ren turned and jogged toward the rear of the guild yard, rounding the weathered shed that smelled faintly of rope and oil. Behind it sat an old iron-banded chest and a wooden post.

No key in sight.

He scanned the area—no rocks overturned, no visible hollow logs. He looked up. Sure enough, the key dangled from a nail driven high on the post, nearly two meters up. Not unreachable, but deliberately placed to force him to think.

The chest was too heavy to move far. Ren checked the ground and found a splintered crate lid near the base of the shed. He propped it upright, wedged a loose stone under one edge, and stepped up carefully. The board wobbled but held long enough for him to reach up and dislodge the key.

The lock clicked open cleanly.

Inside was a cloth-wrapped bundle. Ren unwrapped it—three narrow glass tubes, sealed with wax. Probably mock potions.

He rewrapped them, set the lock back in place, and jogged the bundle back to the examiner.

"Careful with those," said the woman. "Some folk get lazy and drop them right before the finish line."

Ren handed them over without a word.

---

The final test was unspoken until they led him to the back circle—the one with scorched sand and blackened runes drawn deep into the dirt.

The man tilted his head. "You've no visible magic aura. That correct?"

Ren nodded. "As far as I know."

"Then this one's a soft evaluation. Tactical judgment. A simulated 'threat.' You're to engage, then withdraw. Do not destroy the dummy. Just prove you know when to run."

A straw-and-hide construct stood at the far end, crudely shaped like a humanoid beast, painted with faded red along its arms. Someone had embedded small steel plates into its joints to simulate armored weak points.

Ren was handed a training stick—blunt wood, heavier than it looked.

The woman gave him a sharp look. "You get hit more than twice, you fail. We'll be counting."

He entered the ring, raising the stick into a high guard, feet spaced shoulder-width apart. No one explained how the dummy would move—but the moment he stepped forward, a mechanism underneath kicked into motion.

The thing lunged.

---

Ren rolled to the side, barely dodging a wide swing. It moved faster than expected, guided by wheels beneath the platform and a rope-pulley system triggered from the observers' booth.

He didn't try to block the second swing. Instead, he pivoted behind the dummy's left arm and jabbed the stick into its lower back, right where one of the metal plates left a gap. It jerked but didn't slow.

He circled once, keeping his steps light. Two more attacks came fast—one overhead, one low.

He took a glancing hit on the side of the leg—one point counted against him. But on the third cycle, he ducked under, faked left, and touched the side of the dummy's knee with the stick.

Then he backed away.

Hands up.

"I'm withdrawing," he called aloud.

The motion stopped.

Smoke vented from one of the pulleys as the mechanism powered down.

---

When he returned to the examiners, both were quiet.

Then the woman gave a curt nod. "You follow instructions. Good sense of timing. We've seen worse."

The man scratched the final mark into his slate.

"You passed."

Ren exhaled.

"Come back tomorrow," the man added. "You'll get your Bronze plate."

Ren returned to the inn just before sundown, the guild's stamped paper tucked safely in his pouch. The weight of the day settled across his shoulders, but beneath the fatigue was a strange satisfaction. He'd passed. Not spectacularly, not in style—but he'd passed.

When he opened the door, the scent of roasted roots and boiled greens hit him first. The common room was quiet, with only three other patrons eating at separate tables. Behind the counter, the old innkeeper looked up and gave him a nod.

"Back in one piece."

Ren nodded in return and moved straight toward his corner room. He didn't feel like talking—not until he had a moment to review everything.

He set his pouch on the table, pulled out the guild slip, and laid it flat. Tomorrow, they'd engrave his name on a copper badge and log him as an official Bronze adventurer.

That was the beginning.

He reached for the small strip of rough cloth tied around his wrist and untied it slowly. The edges were stained from days of use. It had once been part of the satchel he'd arrived with—his only link to the morning he first woke up in this world.

---

He leaned back against the wall and stared at the ceiling. His thoughts drifted, not just to the guild, but to the work he'd done over the last several days: hauling crates, gathering supplies, sharpening tools for the carpenter, and helping villagers set up fences. Small jobs, low pay—but each one taught him something about how this world worked.

The system window had remained quiet all day.

No new messages. No abilities gained. Just the knowledge that came from actual sweat and learning.

That was something he respected.

He stretched his legs and picked up his notes. The ones he'd started after the second night—tracking which days brought abilities and which didn't, trying to find a pattern. So far, he had five entries. The skills were varied: one let him instinctively understand carpentry principles, another had taught him the basics of fire-starting with wet wood. But the most important had been the one that let him read the local script.

Without that, guild registration would've been impossible.

He checked the system again—nothing.

With a sigh, he placed his notes aside and opened the small side drawer beside the bed. Inside was the simple copper token used for meals. He'd earned it yesterday from helping clear debris near the well.

Dinner could wait.

For now, sleep might bring something more valuable.

---

When Ren woke up the next morning, the light through the shuttered window was soft and gray. No rooster crow this time—just the distant creak of a wheelbarrow outside and the murmur of a woman sweeping the corridor.

But Ren's attention was on the interface hovering quietly above him.

> [New Ability Acquired]

Skill: Soil Analysis (Basic)

— You instinctively understand moisture, composition, and fertility of soil upon contact.

— Passive effect.

— Can be enhanced with experience or related abilities.

Ren sat up, rubbing his hands against the blanket.

Soil Analysis?

He touched the wooden floor lightly. No feedback. He'd have to try it outside.

That changed things.

---

By midmorning, Ren stood in the same open field behind the guild where he'd taken the test. The obstacle course was cleared now, replaced by a gathering of villagers and several novice adventurers receiving instructions.

Ren kept to the edge.

He crouched down near a tree where the roots exposed a patch of loose soil. The moment his fingers brushed the ground, information flooded his senses—not as words or numbers, but impressions.

Dry. Sandy. Lacking nitrogen. Poor drainage.

It was like the way someone might notice a strange taste in food, except it was the land itself telling him what it needed. Not in words—but in feel.

He tested another spot a few meters away. Different composition—more clay, better moisture. Slight acidity. Still poor for vegetables but could support tubers or herbs.

Ren stood slowly.

That was powerful.

It wasn't magic in the usual sense, but if he used it right, it could help with farming, hunting, building foundations—even detecting signs of monster activity if it disrupted soil layers.

It wasn't flashy.

But it was real.

---

Later that day, he returned to the guild to complete his registration. The process was straightforward: he handed over the stamped form, confirmed his details, and watched as the clerk behind the counter engraved his name onto a simple bronze plate.

"Ren Hoshikage," the man muttered as he etched, then held up the badge. "You're official now."

Ren nodded and took it. The plate was warm from the engraving tool, but the weight in his hand felt symbolic.

The clerk slid over a folded parchment. "Starter jobs are posted at sunrise. You'll need to report back here by dusk for completion checks. Any questions, ask the front desk. Don't die."

That last part wasn't said with humor.

Ren clipped the badge to his belt and stepped back into the main hall. He didn't know what kind of jobs he'd be assigned next—probably menial work, maybe escorting traders, or clearing brush—but it was a start.

He scanned the job board, noting tasks related to herb gathering, path clearing, and even one asking for someone to map a nearby forest glade.

That one caught his attention.

He didn't take it yet, but he kept it in mind.

Tomorrow, he'd come early.

---

That night, back at the inn, Ren sat with a bowl of barley stew and a half-loaf of dark bread. He listened to the low chatter of travelers and the clink of cutlery without engaging.

His mind was elsewhere.

He'd started with nothing—waking in a strange land, alone, without skills or status. But now, he had a roof, a path, and a guild badge.

And most importantly, he had momentum.

The system would give him tools—but it wouldn't carry him.

He had to build his place here with his own hands, skill by skill.

One night of sleep at a time.