Oh Great! I was Reincarnated as a Farmer

by Benjamin Kerei

  Oh, Great! I was Reincarnated as a Farmer

  Benjamin Kerei

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author's imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or in any means – by electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise – without prior written permission.

  Copyright © 2021 Benjamin Kerei

  All rights reserved.

  Contents

  Acknowledgments

  Preface

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  Chapter 41

  Chapter 42

  Chapter 43

  Chapter 44

  Chapter 45

  Chapter 46

  Chapter 47

  Chapter 48

  Chapter 49

  Chapter 50

  Chapter 51

  Arnold’s Final Stats

  Also by Benjamin Kerei

  Acknowledgments

  A lot of work goes into publishing a novel. But there is literally years more work that goes into publishing your first novel. Unlike a lot of writers, my family and friends have always been incredibly supportive. So I’d like to thank my parents for always showing support and never questioning my decision to pursue writing, even when half decade went by with no results. I’d like to thank my brothers for listening to me for hours when I needed to bounce ideas off someone. I’d like to thank my friends and relatives who never gave me flack for chasing my dreams and actively encourage me. You are all awesome people and I love you.

  Now to acknowledge the people who helped make this novel great. Luciano Fleitas, thank you for bringing my ideas to life through your cover art. It is truly awesome. Genevieve Lerner, thank you for all your thoughts and insights during the editing process. Thanks for typesetting all of this Nikko. I honestly have no clue how to do any of what you’ve done.

  Lastly, I would like to thank my beta readers. Each of you changed this novel in many small ways making it better than what I could do alone. So thank you. However, two of you put in so much effort that I’m still amazed. So I would like to give a special thanks to Ben and Russell. Without your insights and corrections this novel wouldn’t be what it is.

  Preface

  Warning, this novel is a framed story which means that the first scene is written from the future. Far in the future. This series will not catch up. If you think that’s too much of a spoiler for you then jump forward to the first ornamental break and read from there.

  Chapter One

  DEATH, REINCARNATION, AND DISAPPOINTMENT

  My grandchildren’s giggling laughter rang through the palace, echoing off vaulted ceilings and polished floors, easing away my frown and leaving a content smile in its place. Family, a good one, is the most precious gift you can receive in life. And I have been lucky enough to receive two.

  A thought, a brief effort of will and mana, and my study door closed, cutting off the playful sounds of a happy life. Without the laughter the study’s richness faded. Luxury and excess covered every surface, but without joy it held no value. Gold, jewels, trinkets, and rare artefacts…you live long enough and all these become meaningless shiny baubles.

  My gaze landed on the blue leather-bound book waiting on my old jade desk. My smile dropped to a scowl.

  I sighed, scratching the back of my neck. “What is the point in being one of the most powerful men in the kingdom if I am too afraid of my wife to tell her I don’t want to do this?”

  The opulence in my empty study sparkled, but offered no helpful advice.

  I shook my head, made my way to the desk, and sat down, thumbing open the cover to the first blank page. New paper smell filled the room as I picked up my favourite fountain pen. I paused, looking at the pen. If I valued anything in my study it was this pen.

  It was a gift from a friend.

  The design appeared to be the same as any dwarven-made steel pen, —meaning beautifully etched, yet simplistic and functional. It was utterly unremarkable in a palace.

  Unless you knew one small fact: the iron used in its creation was formed from the blood of an ancient dragon. That one detail made a simple pen into something extraordinary, utterly unique. Something not easily replicated.

  And it was a joke.

  And a very good one, by dwarven standards.

  It goes like this. A plainly-dressed human walks up to a dwarf chief and addresses him as an equal. The chief head-butts him.

  It’s funny because dwarves have trouble telling humans apart. They see our people so rarely that most of us look the same to them. They identify our station from the clothing we wear. So when a dwarf chief meets a man dressed no differently than an ordinary merchant who talks to him like an equal, of course he is going to head-butt him for his audacity. And of course, years later, when he needs to make a gift for that same man, his friend, he is going to do so in true dwarven fashion, with an utterly unique pen that looks no more impressive than something which can be found in any dwarven shop.

  My smile returned.

  After I was finished with this nonsense, I would go and see how the old goat was doing.

  I began to write.

  The first chronicles of Arnold Parker, as told by me:

  As I recall my many exploits, I must admit one simple truth: the beginning of my tale is not overly unique. I was born in another world, another universe. We called my world Earth and the land the kingdom of Radian resides in America and Mexico. There was no inherent magic in my world, only that which we created ourselves, with nothing but our minds and labour.

  Earth was a beautiful world. It was not perfect or easy, but we were making it into something extraordinary. I’ve often wondered what it might be like now, but alas, that is not why you are here. You are here because you believe this is where you will learn about my many legendary accomplishments.

  Nevertheless, this is my story, and I will tell it how I prefer, so if we are going to begin this tale anywhere, it will be where I choose, and I choose to start at the beginning. Back before all the fame and glory, back when I was a simple farmer, back to the events that led to the creation of that damned awful song that has plagued me since it came into my life.

  Yes, this is the story of a song.

  That song.

  I know you know it. There isn’t a child over five in any of the eleven kingdoms that doesn’t know it by heart. And I know you’ve gotten drunk and belted out the words along with t
he children during a threshold party or festival. Everyone sings Silly Arnold. It’s as well known as the Chicken Dance or Macarena in my own world.

  And I could honestly live with that if that was all it was. But would you like to know what really pisses me off about that song? It’s not the ridiculous words or the silly nature. It’s not the fact it has made my life a bit of a joke. It is the fact that it has earned me more fame than anything else I have ever done. I’ve checked my logs, and none of my other accomplishments come close.

  It is utter bullshit.

  So, you are not going to read what you want to read until you learn the truth behind the song. Now, I will admit the truth makes me look like a bit of an idiot, but I was young, so possessed many of the worst qualities of youth, and I would rather look like an idiot than the alternative.

  So we are going back to the beginning, back to before I was incarnated, back to when I was only late for a tournament.

  Sweat trickled down my back, soaking my shirt, as I squeezed my way through the overcrowded bus to the rear door and slapped the bell. The ding caused everyone to scowl. We were all late for something, cursing the Houston public transport system.

  The bus slowed to a stop. The door hissed open, allowing a wave of hot summer air to rush in, destroying what little progress the air conditioning managed to achieve in the past few minutes.

  The space in front of the Waller Convention Centre stood empty. The crowd of two thousand who brought tickets had long since entered. A massive Warlord’s banner hung above the entrance, rippling in the breeze, and reflecting the Houston sun.

  I leapt onto the sidewalk and started running for the players’ entrance to the right of the main door, knowing the place from past tournaments. My worn trainers pounded out a beat as I sped across the hot concrete. The only thought going through my head was…fuck, another curveball.

  A more perfect analogy for my gaming career probably didn’t exist. Being late for my last tournament summed it up nicely.

  A few years ago, I might have been angry. However, the bus breaking down was just another curveball life had thrown my way. I had been standing at the plate so long that striking out didn’t faze me anymore. If anything, the curveballs made me more resilient. You have to be when your pro gaming career spends nine years on the edge of a home run without ever quite taking that final step which pushes you from semi-pro to pro.

  If you don’t become resilient, you break down or become one of those basement trolls who live with their parents and spend their free time watching professional matches, yelling at their computer screens, deluding themselves into thinking they could do better. The only difference between those guys and those washed up high-school athletes is they never got laid as much.

  I’d seen it happen to my friends. Charley, Max, Don—one by one, our old team’s lack of success drove them away. They went straight, got real jobs: mechanic, programming, a male nurse. Yeah, we all gave Don shit for that.

  Now it was my turn to go straight.

  My turn to let go of my dreams.

  My new team, if you could call us that, was third in the line-up. The second teams were already facing off and halfway through their match. I could hear the commentator through the live stream on my phone. The delay was about ten minutes behind, and if I didn’t get inside in the next few minutes, we would forfeit.

  I needed this win.

  Not to go pro, that dream was as dead as a hooker in a Vegas hotel bathroom. No, this win was to pay the bills. My university tuition was covered. I’d always been bright, so I’d earned myself a decent scholarship even at twenty-six. But I had other expenses.

  Expenses the wealthy parents of the high school kids I was coaching promised to cover if I could make their little assholes place in the top three. If they failed, I was looking at weekends of flipping burgers. Five grand wasn’t much to some people, but it would keep me in ramen and TV dinners for the next year, and by then, my accounting papers would qualify me for work that didn’t require manual labour.

  I reached the bottom of the stairs and took them two at a time, holding out my player pass. “Arnold Parker, I’m in team Archomundo,” I shouted to the overweight security guard in front of the door.

  I ran most days to keep fit. So the little run for the door hadn’t left me anywhere close to panting and my words came through clear. The guy, only a couple of years older than me, who had been mildly concerned by my speed, immediately lost interest, going so far as to step out of my way, waving me through.

  As he stepped aside, a small blonde cosplay girl, wearing some sort of white robe with gold stitched runes came into view. She’d hidden behind his bulk, her eyes downcast as she muttered under her breath, blocking the player’s entrance.

  “Coming through,” I shouted, not wanting to slow.

  The girl remained in place, muttering. Something about her presence triggered my inner nerd instincts, telling me she was in character, the way hardcore cosplayers loved to be. She was just a kid, not even old enough to be in high school, so she was probably just playing a game with people, testing their nerd credentials.

  I smiled.

  My sister Sophie was the same at her age.

  If I could remember who she was cosplaying, maybe I could say some sort of phrase and she would get out of the way. She was definitely a side character from one of the newer fantasy anime. Any of the older ones and I wouldn’t need to think about it. Her character’s name sat on the edge of my tongue, which annoyed me more than her being in my way. There was a time I could literally name any character any cosplayers were impersonating at any con, but the last few years I’d been missing more and more.

  I had to face facts.

  I was getting old.

  I didn’t have endless hours to waste watching anime.

  I reached the top of the stairs, and the name failed to appear. I slowed to a quick walk, marching up to the girl, intending to squeeze past since I couldn’t remember who she was pretending to be.

  I turned side on and began to squeeze by. “Pardon me…argh—”

  The girl’s palm slammed against my chest glowing with a nebulous green light. There was a flash of pain as the muscles around her hand constricted. The pain doubled and then doubled again. I felt my heart beat, once, twice, and then I was falling.

  The security guard stepped through the girl, making her vanish like a mirage, concern engraved on his features. His lips moved, but no sound came out. And the world got smaller and smaller.

  I absently scratched at the tattoo between my new man boobs, trying and failing to adjust to the body that Damella had forced my soul into, as I continued to vent. The last thirty minutes were like striking out at an endless supply of curveballs while riding a roller coaster blindfolded. “So, let me get this straight! In an attempt to call back a spirit from the afterlife and resurrect your universe’s version of me, she somehow ripped my soul out of my body and shoved it into the dead body of your universe’s version of me,” I shouted, glaring at Damella, the young acolyte who’d been standing in the doorway in my world, and was now standing next to me in my apparently new one.

  The girl blushed a brighter shade of red, matching the colour of the silk altar cloth I’d quickly wrapped around myself after rousing and discovering I was naked. She dropped her gaze and clutched at her acolyte robes, which I’d mistaken for a cosplay outfit, nervously balling them between her fists.

  Varla, the archbishop of whichever god’s temple I was in, nodded her head, still fiddling with the magical ring she’d slipped onto my finger that allowed us to communicate.

  Varla was a few years older than me, early thirties, and gorgeous enough to almost distract me from my anger. She was on the tall side for a woman, almost six feet, with dusty blonde hair tied back in a bun, and soft, intelligent blue eyes. It was mostly her ornate white and red robes that gave her a presence of authority. “That’s basically what seems to have happened, Arnold. It is a complication of the resurrection process.”
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  “A complication of the resurrection process”—that was too delicate a way of saying that Damella had killed me. I turned to the giant golden serpent on the white marble wall to my right, trying to distract myself while I counted to ten. Maybe they worshipped it. Maybe it was just a symbol like the cross is to Christians. Right now, I didn’t care. I was trying to calm down.

  It didn’t work.

  The foreignness of the symbol made me angrier.

  This curveball was a little bigger than the ones life usually hits me with.

  I wanted to shout, scream, swear, and vent my frustration. The sight of the girl made me angrier than I’d ever been in my life. This was too much to deal with. The ramifications of the archbishop’s statement was...was not something I could face this second. I felt like I was drowning and anger was the only thing keeping me afloat.

  A small growl escaped my mouth. My hands began to shake. “You know, up until about an hour ago, I would have told you there is no good reason to hit a child.” My fist came up. “But I’d never been killed by one before, so what did I know?”