As the sun began to rise over the hills of Sagres, Marino ran shirtless through the morning light, wearing only black pants and a pair of tailor-made, suede-soft medieval shoes. His breath came in ragged gasps—he was sweating like a sinner in church and panting like he was in the final stage of an asthma attack.
Every day for the past five weeks, he'd woken up at the crack of dawn to run. Today was special—he was determined to finally hit 10 kilometers. The legend of One Punch Man had inspired him deeply, and though this wasn't exactly a world with anime or caped bald heroes, Marino was sticking to the grind. He'd started at just 5 kilometers before nearly blacking out. Not because he was weak, of course—he would argue it just felt like impending heart failure.
Sometimes, his parents joined him for a bit of morning exercise, though lately, they'd been busy doing their own workouts in bed. He tried not to think too hard about that.
The dirt road curved through the northern end of town, flanked by dry scrubland, small hills, thick bushes, and the occasional lonely tree. Sagres was a quiet place, and Marino's rhythmic footsteps echoed in the crisp morning air.
That's when he saw her.
Off to his left was a small one-story farmhouse made of red brick and capped with clay tiles. There was only one dirt path leading to the house, and standing on it was a girl—tall for her age, with long dark hair that shimmered slightly in the sun. She was maybe a year or two older than Marino, and she had a look in her eyes that caught him completely off guard.
Their gazes met.
They both smiled. They both waved.
Then she vanished behind the brush, leaving only the sound of chirping birds and Marino's thumping heartbeat in her wake.
Her family sold eggs sometimes, and Marino's parents had stopped by her house more than once—but she'd never been there during the transactions. Until now.
Motivated like never before, Marino surged forward. The burning in his legs, the tightness in his chest—none of it mattered. He had to reach the goal today. For fitness. For ambition. For love?
The final stretch came into view. The dirt path leading to his home's front gate.
He pushed harder.
He sprinted with the force of a man chasing a dream—and the dream was made of ships, sandwiches, and maybe just a little romance.
Then, at last, he made it.
He dropped to his knees in front of the gate, thrust his fist triumphantly into the sky and let out a breathless cheer. Then promptly collapsed on the ground, face-first, like a true hero.
Lying flat on the ground, gasping for breath, Marino was greeted by his biggest fans—his fluffy little admirers, the lambs. They surrounded him, bleating cheerfully as if congratulating him on a job well done.
Ah, recognition. Sweet, sweet recognition.
Marino smiled. Being celebrated always felt good—until he arrived.
The father goat.
A menace. A tyrant. A beast with zero chill.
Without warning, the goat trotted up and bit his hair, either mistaking it for food or just being a total ass.
"Ow! You son of a—" Marino instinctively slapped the goat square in the face, stunning it for just a second.
That was all the time he needed.
He scrambled to his feet and turned to face the beast, chest heaving, eyes narrowed. The standoff had begun.
The goat let out a furious bleat, lowering its head in preparation for the charge.
Marino hunched down, hands ready, fully aware he had no chance of outrunning it. Two meters. That was all that separated him from doom. He wasn't going down like a coward. Not today.
This was no ordinary goat. It was 113.5 kilograms of pure rage, with a height of 106.7 centimeters at the shoulder. Marino, meanwhile, was a mere 45 kilograms and 150 centimeters tall.
The odds were against him—but he had a plan.
They faced each other like dueling gladiators on the sandy dirt path.
The beast let out another angry bleat and charged, head down, horns gleaming.
But Marino was ready.
The moment the goat took its first step, Marino struck. He'd partially buried his right foot in the soft dirt ahead of time. Now, he kicked up with force, sending a spray of sand and grit straight into the goat's eyes.
Blinded and enraged, the goat let out a pained howl and kept charging forward.
Marino launched himself to the right with a push from his left foot, narrowly dodging the beast.
The goat, now blind and furious, crashed headlong into the thick wooden door of Marino's house with a thunderous BANG—like a riot squad smashing through a drug dealer's front door.
Marino winced. Please, Sighard, he prayed, don't let my parents have heard that.
But there was no time to dwell. He had to finish the fight.
In his past life, Marino had spent far too much time watching the Angry Ram channel. And now, that very specific knowledge was paying off.
He dashed toward the dazed beast, grabbing its left horn with his left hand and snatching up its right back leg with his right.
The goat bucked and kicked, furious and wild, but it was too late.
With one swift motion, Marino pulled the horn toward himself while pushing against the beast's side with his head, throwing all his weight into the takedown.
With a final dramatic bleat, the beast toppled over onto its right side in the dust.
Marino stood over it, victorious.
"Ha haa," he smirked. "Get powned, noob."
After a minute of undignified squirming, the goat gave up, utterly humiliated. Marino let go and stepped back, arms crossed, breathing hard but satisfied.
He had won.
Satisfied with his triumph over the goat, Marino walked toward the house. As his hand reached for the door, he paused and glanced back at the road—the same dusty road that led to the lone farmhouse where she lived.
The girl with the dark hair.
He silently thanked her in his heart. Her smile that morning had sparked something in him—pushed him to new heights. And for that, he was grateful.
Then, with a determined breath, he opened the door and stepped inside.
What followed was less glorious. His body screamed for rest, but hygiene came first. He needed a bath.
Unfortunately, this world's baths didn't come with hot water and a tap. No, here he had to carry every bucket from the well like a common peasant. With a groan, he got to work.
Meanwhile, back in the yard, the beast—head hung low in defeat—returned to munching on dry grass. The lambs gathered around, snickering and bleating mockery at him behind his back. For once, the tyrant had been humbled.
Luckily, the door hadn't broken under the goat's assault. And his parents, still in their own "morning workout," had remained blissfully unaware of the legendary battle that had just taken place outside.
That evening, during dinner, Marino's fork hovered over an empty spot on his plate. His eyes narrowed.
"Mother, where are the eggs?" he asked, a bit too sharply.
Mary blinked, then turned to Jesus. Jesus set down his wooden spoon with a sigh.
"Now now, son. Don't blame your mother for this. It's you who ate them all. Ten eggs a day? That's madness."
Marino frowned. Sure, it sounded like a lot. But to him, it was essential. The average man here barely hit 168 centimeters in height. Unacceptable. This was his second chance at life, and he would not let a weak diet hold him back.
So he pressed. "Can't we just buy more from the farm up north? They've got at least forty chickens."
"They told us we can only buy seven a day," Jesus said firmly. "We can't just take them all for ourselves. Eggs are a precious commodity. Besides, if we're going to build your ships, we need to start saving. We can't pour all our earnings into food."
Marino reluctantly nodded. Jesus was right.
Still…
Seven? That wasn't even a full day's supply. And the fact that peasants—people whose entire lineage would fade into obscurity—had the audacity to place limits on him? It boiled his blood.
He said nothing, but his silence spoke volumes.
Mary, sensing the storm brewing in her son's mind, smiled warmly. "Don't worry, my boy. We may not have all the eggs, but we still have plenty of goat milk and meat to keep you strong."
"You're right, Mother. I shouldn't be too greedy."
His words calmed them. But inside, Marino wasn't calm. He wasn't satisfied. In fact, ever since his reincarnation, something had been growing within him—a shadow in his heart. A quiet voice whispering that he was better.
Better than these villagers.
Better than their petty rules.
They were just tools, really. Stepping stones on his path to greatness. Inferior, even to the sheep his family raised. Only his parents—and the Just Lord—deserved a semblance of his respect. But even then… they were still bound by this world's simplicity.
The farm up north? They had dared to tell him what he could and couldn't have.
His jaw clenched.
That won't happen again.
With those thoughts, he finished his meal in silence and retired to bed—eyes open long after the candles had burned out.