Luis didn't know how much time had passed when he vaguely sensed the damp, fresh scent of spring grass. The rustling of leaves seemed to seep into his very muscles. This soothing sensation—he hadn't felt it in ages. His eyes remained tightly shut, as he feared that opening them and seeing the reality around him would shatter this moment. If this was a dream, he begged not to wake up.
But the sensations grew sharper, making the dream feel all too real. His back registered the soft prickle of the grass beneath him. His face was caressed by sweet, gentle breezes. His hand felt slightly wet, as if something was nibbling…
"Hold on! Wait a second! What's chewing on my finger???" Luis jolted upright, only to find a small dog gnawing at his finger, its face etched with concern.
A dog! Why was there a dog here? And more importantly, where was here?
He looked around, bewildered. Luis was sitting on a lush green lawn, next to a towering tree that cast a cool, sprawling shade over the area. The tree swayed lightly in the moist, refreshing breeze, as if whispering, "Go back to sleep!" Beside him was a small, crystal-clear pond, its surface rippling gently.
Luis was still dazed. A haze seemed to cloud his vision, making it impossible to pinpoint where he was or how he'd gotten here. Sharp stabs of pain pulsed through his head, clouding his ability to think clearly or focus. The only thing he remembered was that he'd been on his way "home." So why was he here?
And then there was the dog sitting at his feet. This little guy stirred an oddly familiar feeling, though Luis couldn't recall ever meeting him. He'd only owned one dog in his life—a loyal companion his father had given him when he was seven. That friend had left him when Luis was twenty-five. In those first twenty-five years of his life, that was the first time he'd felt such profound pain. A friend, a companion, a pillar of support in his weakest moments, gone. After that, he never got another dog, nor did he give one to his son as his father had done for him. To meet only to part—he didn't want his son to endure that kind of pain.
But the pup nibbling his hand wasn't his old friend. This one was a Japanese Akita, with soft brown fur, still quite small—a puppy. It sat at his feet, chewing on his hand with a worried expression. Luis spoke to reassure it: "Alright, alright! I'm fine."
Hearing his voice, the pup wagged its tail joyfully and scampered in circles around him. A rare smile crept onto Luis's face. Now, the next issue to tackle was… where the hell was he? The clearer his mind became, the more his panic intensified.
Luis sprang to his feet, trying to get his bearings. After a moment, he pieced together a rough picture. This place seemed to be an old, dilapidated farm, spanning about ten to fifteen acres. In the distance stood a small house, surrounded by a neglected plot of land overrun with weeds and rocks, and a few structures that might have been a barn or stable—he wasn't sure. But they all shared one thing: they were old, rundown, as if abandoned for years. For some reason, the sight of this desolate scene stirred a pang of sorrow in his chest. In some distant memory, this place hadn't been like this. It had been beautiful, vibrant, filled with laughter. He didn't know where this memory came from. He'd never set foot here before. He was a city boy, his grandparents didn't own a farm, and he'd never visited one during his school years. So what was this place, and why did it evoke such a sense of loss?
A second later, a realization hit him so hard he wanted to scream in panic: this wasn't his body. This wasn't the worn-out, exhausted, ailment-ridden body he knew. This one was healthy, strong, and far younger. The clothes he wore weren't his usual threadbare office shirt and slacks but a pair of jeans, an orange T-shirt, boots, and a backward baseball cap. Since when had he become a farmer?
Luis began patting himself down, inspecting his body. Phew, thank goodness, he was still a man. He let out a sigh of relief. This body seemed to belong to a guy around twenty years old, but not a true farmer. His hands lacked calluses, and his skin didn't look like that of someone who toiled under the sun and rain. He looked more like a college student now. Nothing seemed amiss—a good sign. He hurried to check his reflection in the pond's clear water. The image was blurry, but his features were decent: a long face speckled with freckles, red hair tucked under the cap. He didn't look like a seasoned farmer in the slightest.
This appearance felt oddly familiar.
Pushing aside questions about the body, he began searching for items that might reveal the identity of its original owner. Sure enough, he found a card that looked like an ID, but it wasn't a U.S. citizen ID. It bore his name—yes, "Luis Adam." There were other details he couldn't make sense of. Alongside the ID, he found a strange bank card with the number 500 printed on it, some black-and-white photos, and a few yellowed letters.
He assumed these belonged to the body's previous owner. Before diving deeper, he wanted to explore his surroundings. If this was a farm, where in the U.S. was it located? Could he find a way back home? There were still so many things waiting for him to handle. He'd slept through the night, so he'd likely missed today's pitching meeting. He was probably fired by now… A flood of chaotic thoughts from reality surged into his mind, making him anxious and restless.
He hurried toward what he assumed was the farm's gate—though he wasn't certain, as it was just as dilapidated as the rest. He hoped to find someone who could point him toward home.
As he reached the gate, a wave of unease washed over him. He saw a small path leading from the farm to a village below. Along the way were other farms filled with chickens, cows, and sheep, suggesting people lived here. But what unsettled him was that the architecture of the village houses didn't resemble anything he'd seen in the U.S. Still, whatever, as long as there were people. He rushed down the path to the nearest farm. This one was smaller than the one he'd woken up in, likely the town's poultry farm, with a flock of over a hundred chickens. Trying to stay calm, he knocked on the door of a charming house surrounded by flowers—probably owned by a woman.
After fifteen minutes, he gave up. Though the house showed signs of habitation, no one answered. Undeterred, he tried other houses, but after hours of effort, the result was the same. The village was picturesque, brimming with life, yet eerily devoid of people. It was bizarre. Having spent half the day wandering with no answers, he decided to return to where he'd woken up, hoping for clues.
Luis trudged back to the most rundown farm in the area and began inspecting it more closely. He approached the small house. Though old and worn, it was still livable, and most importantly, the door was unlocked. He stepped inside.
Inside, he took stock. Not bad. Aside from a bit of dust, everything was neat and orderly. What caught his eye was a television in the middle of the room—an old, bulky model, not a modern smart TV. He checked it and found it seemed functional. Luis pressed the power button.
"Here's tomorrow's weather forecast, 2-Spring! It'll be sunny and dry all day!"
The woman on the screen repeated the forecast. A torrent of questions flooded his mind. Tomorrow was the 2nd, so today was the 1st? But of what month? Spring—springtime? The 1st of spring? Did this place not use the international calendar? Was a year here just divided into four seasons?
He tried other channels. There were only three more: one about a New Year's festival, another sharing farming tips, and oddly, both looped the same content repeatedly.
The final channel was even stranger. A woman calling herself the Harvest Goddess spoke directly to viewers through the screen, and it seemed he could respond to her. This place felt familiar, he told himself. He was on the verge of realizing something but didn't dare confirm it. This was too absurd. His confusion and anxiety mounted by the minute.
Luis moved to a bookshelf beside the TV—a potential goldmine of information. The books were unusual, mostly farming guides, along with two maps and a few letters. Letters?
He pulled the letters from his pocket and placed them on the table alongside those from the bookshelf. The more he read, the more he sweated. He'd confirmed what he'd feared.
He'd been isekai'd!!