Mark slowly got up from the rough bed of hay where he'd been sleeping. There was no mattress, no cushion—just a thin cloth laid over the straw to stop it from pricking too much.
Even the pillow was a bundle of hay wrapped in worn fabric.
He sat up and took in the room.
It wasn't much.
The space was barely large enough for one person to sleep and maybe sit cross-legged comfortably. The walls, made of dried mud, were uneven—bulging in some places like swollen scars.
The ceiling above was thatched, held together by crooked wooden beams that groaned softly with the morning wind.
This was no modern world. Magic may exist here, but for the common folk, life was still tethered to the dirt. Technology had never bloomed. And not everyone could use magic, anyway.
Mark stood and stretched, his joints still getting used to this new body. He shuffled over to the door and slid aside the crude wooden lock—a simple bar that fit into a notch in the doorframe.
With a dull creak, the door opened.
Warm sunlight spilled over him.
He stepped into a small open area in front of the house—something that passed for a yard. The air was fresh with the scent of damp earth, morning dew, and burnt wood from a far-off stove.
Just then, another door clicked open nearby.
He turned and saw her.
A woman—slightly older than him—stepped out of the adjacent room. She wore a thin, robe-like nightgown, her dark hair tousled, her eyes still puffy from sleep. Her bare feet padded softly against the packed dirt.
She blinked at him, then smiled gently. "Oh, Mark. You're up already? That's good. But your brother's still dead asleep."
Mark stared at her—his eyes drifting before he could help it.
Even in this sleepy, casual state, she was stunning. A soft, natural beauty. Her robe clung lightly to her frame, failing miserably to conceal the generous swell of her bosom and the fullness of her hips.
She was just a common village woman, but her body…
It wasn't something you'd easily forget.
And with his body now at its peak thanks to Instant Regen, Mark was more aware of her curves than he wanted to admit.
He quickly shifted his gaze, masking the flicker of heat in his chest.
Mark looked out at the yard and said casually, "Let him sleep. It's not like the farmlands are going to run away."
The woman chuckled, her sleepy voice still soft. "Yeah, yeah. I'll let him sleep. I'll go wash my face first."
She walked past him, her bare feet padding gently across the packed dirt. Mark's gaze followed her before he could stop himself.
Her hips swayed naturally—nothing exaggerated, nothing intentional. Just a regular village woman walking.
But in Mark's current condition—his body running at peak after using Instant Regen—those subtle movements struck him differently.
Her two buns, firm and full, moved side to side under the thin robe with every step.
Mark groaned inwardly and quickly looked away. He stepped outside the house and took a long breath of the early morning air.
The house wasn't big—just three rooms, made from thatch, dried mud, and old wood. The yard was narrow but clean.
Off to one side stood a bamboo granary with a sloped thatched roof, used to store enough grain for three years.
For a common village household, that was a mark of prosperity.
Their village didn't have the luxuries of the modern world—no electricity, no plumbing, no metal tools beyond the basics—but they never lacked food.
This region grew rice four times a year, and the two brothers—both young and strong—managed about 50 acres between them.
Forty acres sounded absurd in Mark Cain's old world. But here? Land was endless.
The real scarcity was control. Nobles couldn't hold everything.
Villagers worked what they could, paying fixed taxes to the local baron every year—crop yield be damned. If you couldn't pay up, you weren't fined.
You were enslaved.
That was why storing grain wasn't just about eating—it was survival. Extra sacks of rice meant emergency tax. It meant safety.
Mark glanced around the village. Some men and women were already awake. A few emerged from their houses, snapping the tips off soft tree branches to use as makeshift toothbrushes.
Some chewed longer twigs for repeated use; others used short sticks meant to be thrown away after one brushing.
Mark broke up a fresh twig from the tree by the door—something the old Mark had always done.
He sighed.
It still felt strange.
This wasn't his body, but it was now his life. The man he'd taken over was also named Mark—Mark Goodman. A simple farmer. No big ambitions. No magic. Just quiet days of work and sleep.
He had died in his sleep—bitten by a snake but he didn't know, the venom slow and silent. The body gave up during the night, and that was when he arrived—Mark Cain.
Now he lived in this man's shell.
The woman earlier—his sister-in-law—was married to this body's older brother. That made it all the more awkward when Mark found his eyes drifting over her form.
That was never Goodman's habit.
But for Mark Cain, a man whose instincts had long been buried under professionalism and restraint… this kind of proximity was hard to ignore.
Even now, he could still feel the flush from earlier.
He shoved the twig into his mouth and began chewing.
Bitter.
'But that's life, isn't it?'
Mark stood by the door, chewing his twig, trying to mimic the old Goodman's habits while quietly accepting that he was someone else now—and trying not to stare too long at the woman washing her face near water reservoir in the Yard.