I Transmigrated Into a Farming Sim, Turns Out It Was a 18+ Game-Chapter 18: Competition

Day 1 before the competition

Eren woke up with a determination he hadn't felt since discovering soap existed in this world. He chugged a mug of weak herbal tea and stared at his fields like a man about to go to war.

Lira floated beside him, scanning the crops with her glowing blue eyes. "Moisture levels optimal. Growth status: acceptable. Owner stress levels: alarming."

"Yeah, well, welcome to pre-competition anxiety."

He spent the entire day laying down mulch, tweaking compost ratios, and using exactly zero of the weird biotech tools Lira kept offering. He wanted honest effort. Mostly. Also, he didn't trust anything labeled "quantum-root stimulator."

Mira showed up halfway through the day, cheeks flushed and carrying a basket of eggs.

"Brought you these," she said, looking anywhere but at his shirtless chest.

Eren blinked. "Why do these eggs look judgmental?"

"They came from Nana's old hens. They always look like that."

Day 2

Weeding. Hoeing. Sweating. Internal screaming.

Mira accidentally dropped a bucket of water on Eren's lap and ran off apologizing for ten minutes. Lira offered to incinerate the weeds. Eren declined, again.

At lunch, he stared at a sprouting tomato like it owed him money. "You better be juicy, buddy. Premium-tier juicy."

Day 3

A surprise downpour. The fields flooded a little. Eren cursed the skies, Mira tried bailing with a teacup, and Lira constructed a full-scale drainage system in thirty minutes out of scrap metal and angry humming.

"Remind me to give you an upgrade," Eren muttered.

"I will file this under 'empty promises,'" Lira replied.

Day 4

A traveling merchant passed by offering "soil enchantments" that smelled suspiciously like goat piss. Eren passed. Mira bought a bracelet and said it was "probably magic." It sparkled. That was good enough for her.

Eren planted late into the evening, his hands blistered, but his soil richer. The compost hummed. Literally. That worried him.

Day 5

Lira scanned the competitors' farms from a distance using her "discreet surveillance drone" (which looked like a giant metal bird and screamed like a kettle).

"Competitor brudo has genetically modified melons," she reported.

"Of course he does," Eren said. "Can I grow a genetically modified middle finger?"

Mira giggled. Then tripped over a shovel.

Day 6

The sun rose like it owed me money. That was the only explanation for how aggressively it blasted through the window and straight into my eyeballs. I groaned and rolled over.

"Morning, sleepy farmer," Mira said sweetly, way too chipper for someone whose boots were already caked with soil.

I blinked. "How long have you been up?"

"Long enough to weed your entire herb row and feed the chickens. You left the coop door open again."

I muttered something about system updates and weak hinges, but she just laughed and dragged me by the wrist toward breakfast.

The barn was coming together. Lira had installed reinforced wooden beams, Mira had cleaned out the old hay, and I had—well, I supervised and occasionally moved things while pretending I wasn't winded.

"Why are you gasping like a fish?" Mira asked as she handed me a pail of water.

"Cardio is a scam," I replied.

She smirked. "You'll be the only farmer in the competition with abs from not doing farm work."

She was flirting. I think. Or just teasing. Or both. It was Mira, and that meant my mental processing speed dropped by 40%.

Day 7

Disaster.

A local mole decided my prize melons looked like prime real estate. One tunnel later, and half the patch looked like it had been hit by a very small, very specific earthquake.

"Mole attack," I told Lira as we surveyed the damage.

"Deploying ultrasonic deterrents," she said. A second later, weird buzzing noises echoed through the garden.

Mira covered her ears. "I don't know if it's scaring away the mole or giving me a headache."

"At least it's not lewd this time," I muttered.

"It could be," Lira offered. "Mole mating season is—"

"Don't finish that sentence."

We planted backups. Mira insisted we name the new melons something inspiring.

"So we remember their sacrifice," she said with a mock salute.

We named one "Bounce Lord." I don't want to talk about it.

Day 8

Today's agenda: test crop flavor, finish fencing, ignore Mira's teasing about how I eat strawberries.

"You nibble them like a shy squirrel," she said.

"Because they're fragile and perfect," I mumbled, mouth full.

She blushed. "Stop saying weird things with that face." fгee𝑤ebɳoveɭ.cøm

"You brought it up."

Fencing went better. Mostly because Mira handled the hammering and I stood behind her pretending to look useful.

Lira calculated growth rates and soil health. Turns out, we were actually ahead of schedule. My crops were thriving. Probably out of fear.

Day 9

Market day.

We took a few extras to town to sell—onions, herbs, and a few jars of Mira's honey. She insisted on wearing the blue ribboned dress her grandmother gave her. The effect was... distracting.

"Are you staring?" she asked on the cart ride in.

"No. I'm admiring the linen weave," I lied.

She leaned closer. "Want me to spin for you like a prize turnip?"

"No!"

She spun anyway. I nearly crashed into a bush.

We made decent coin. I reinvested it into a stronger wheelbarrow. Mira reinvested hers into strawberry tarts.

Day 10

Nerves hit.

I was up before dawn, pacing the field, checking leaf tips like a worried parent.

Mira brought coffee.

"You're doing that face again," she said.

"What face?"

"The one where you look like a drama prince from a tragedy novel."

"It's my natural state."

She elbowed me. "You're gonna win. Your veggies have a shine. Like... sexy vegetable confidence."

I blinked. "That's not a thing."

"It is now."

I added extra compost, watered everything by hand, and prayed to every farming deity I could think of, including fictional ones.

Day 11

Tomorrow was it.

Lira ran final diagnostics. Mira massaged my shoulders, badly.

"You're tense," she said.

"You're using your thumbs like a jackhammer," I groaned.

She giggled. "Want me to use my elbows?"

"Please don't."

Night fell quietly. The fields shimmered under moonlight. Everything felt ready. Or as ready as it could be when your life was accidentally a lewd farming sim with monster carrots and blushing assistants.

Mira curled up beside the fire, half-asleep, head on my shoulder.

"You'll be great tomorrow," she mumbled.

"I hope so," I said softly.

For once, I didn't argue.