The Gate Traveler-Chapter 4: A New Kind of Farmer

I had five stat points—enough to trade for an ability point. My eyes ran over the screen, scanning line after line, hope rising with each one. The endless lists of Spells and Skills, white text on a gray background, stretched on, the words blurring together. Every option was a lifeline, a slim chance to bring her back or at least reach her. My heart hammered, and I wiped my sweaty hands on my jeans, skimming through the descriptions as fast as I could, desperate to find something—anything—that might work.

With each item, my frustration grew. Every spell and skill category led to a dead end. There was no way to bring her back. No hidden path to reach her. My shoulders slumped and hope faded with every line. Then, I reached the Death Magic/Necromancy section.

Just reading the titles made my skin crawl. The words seemed to carry something wrong and sinister, something unnatural, like they didn’t belong in the world of the living. It felt like the screen darkened, the letters twisting into something that shouldn’t be read. My fingers curled into fists, and a cold shiver ran down my spine, warning me to stop—but I couldn’t look away.

NECROMANCY

Channel the arcane arts to wield the power of necromancy and command the forces of death.

• Raise Undead: Summon skeletal warriors or spectral guardians to serve you. The number and strength of undead raised depends on your skill level and mana expenditure.

Cost: 3 Ability Points.

• Drain Life: Siphon vitality from living beings to replenish your own health. The potency of this drain increases with the level of mastery.

Cost: 3 Ability Points.

• Dark Influence: Infuse nearby shadows with necrotic energy, cloaking yourself and your allies from detection. The radius and duration of this concealment expand with skill levels.

Cost: 3 Ability Points.

• Raise the Dead: Command the deceased to rise and do your bidding. The number of risen dead increases with the level of mastery.

Cost: 3 Ability Points.

• Mold Flesh: Use the flesh of the fallen to create creatures based on your need. The number of created and controlled creatures increases with mastery.

Cost: 3 Ability Points.

Mana Cost: Varies based on the complexity and power of the necromantic spell.

I let out a shaky breath and leaned back, my body recoiling on instinct. The hope that had burned so bright a while ago was gone, leaving only an empty hollow in my chest. Silent tears ran down my face as I stared at the screen, my spirit sinking even lower than before I’d discovered the Gate.

I slumped into the armchair by the window, the leather cold and unyielding. Outside, streetlights cast a weak glow over the cobbled streets, the light pooling in shallow puddles and leaving the shadows between the stones even darker. My coffee sat untouched on the table, long gone cold. Disappointment weighed me down. My mind drifted, reaching for something—anything—beyond this empty moment. Other worlds. Other chances.

Do I want to cross the Gate and leave?

I imagined myself crossing the Gate I visited, standing on the mountain top looking at an alien world. A sharp jolt of excitement shot through me, electric and impossible to ignore. For the first time in a long while, I felt something more than just empty routine—an actual chance to step into something unknown. A life most people couldn’t even dream of, full of worlds and possibilities that made my pulse spike. I could go places no one on Earth had even heard of, learn skills that would make me look like something out of a comic book, and finally be more than just a guy drifting between memories. The thrill was real—finally, a shot at something that might make me feel alive again.

But doubts crept in, and the excitement died down. What if I couldn’t handle it? What if I stepped through and ended up just as lost as I already was? The thought of being alone in some unfamiliar place, surrounded by people who didn’t speak my language, didn’t share my world, sent a twist of unease through my gut. Well, I might speak the language, but not really. I would understand the words, but not the people, not the way of life. Out there, I’d have no backup, no safety net—just me and whatever skills I could pick up along the way. If things went wrong, I’d be on my own. And I knew better than most just how fast things could go wrong.

Then there was the guilt, gnawing at the edges of every thought. Sophie should have been here for this. She would’ve been the first to jump in, dragging me along, rattling off all the reasons this was the best idea ever. But she wasn’t here. Her grave was. Just like my mom’s. Every time I thought about leaving, guilt crippled me, thick and bitter. Was holding on some kind of tribute to them? Did staying keep them close in some way? But what was I really holding on to?

I sat with that thought, turning it over, letting it sink in. And in the end, it was almost laughable—how everything tethering me to this world boiled down to two graves, slabs of stone marking the people I’d lost. That was it. They weren’t here anymore. They hadn’t been for a long time. Their voices, their presence—everything that had made them who they were had already left this place. I clung to memories, thinking they were keeping me grounded, but all they had done was keep me stuck, running in circles, unable to move forward.

Emptiness washed over me, cold and haunting, like wind through an abandoned house. I was grasping at shadows, pinning my life on pieces of the past that dissolved the second I reached for them. What was even left for me here? No job—that had been taken from me, thanks to Sophie’s father, who’d made damn sure of it. Friends? Not really. There were a few couples we used to grab dinner with, maybe catch a movie, but they’d been Sophie’s friends more than mine. Real friends, the kind who would be there when everything fell apart? I didn’t have a single one.

Family? That was a joke. My mom’s parents threw her out the second she got pregnant with me, and when she died, they didn’t want me. I’d bounced between foster homes until I was old enough to take care of myself. I had no one to call or who’d even notice if I disappeared. Well, maybe my lawyer, and that was because of the billable hours.

And that was it—the truth I couldn’t ignore anymore. There was nothing left for me here.

I took a deep breath, slow and steady, and something in me let go. Like I’d been carrying weight I didn’t realize was there. The air tasted cleaner, like I’d just exhaled something stagnant, something that had been suffocating me. I wanted to leave. Not to run away, not because I had no other choice—but because I wanted to see what else was out there.

Now, it didn’t feel like a risk. It felt like a choice—one that was completely mine. I chose to leave. I had no idea what was waiting on the other side of the Gate; there was no plan or safety net. But for the first time, that didn’t scare me. Maybe stepping into the unknown was exactly what I needed. A life that was finally mine to shape—without the weight of the past holding me back.

I was ready to find out what was out there, waiting for me.

I pulled up the abilities list. If I was going to travel, understanding different languages was a must. Learning the language and talking without barriers was a solid step forward. I converted my free stat points to an extra ability point, then unlocked Local Adaptation - Spoken Language. Finally, I was doing something, going somewhere, not just running in circles. One thing settled. That was progress.

Curious, I tried converting another five points from my Vitality, hoping for another ability point. Nothing. I frowned at the screen, wondering what I’d missed. Maybe because those points were already part of me, and only free points could be converted? It was something to look into later. There was a lot to figure out, and I needed every advantage I could get.

I dove into the Archives, looking for anything helpful. Under World Information, only Earth showed up for now, but there was a General Knowledge section—practical notes and advice, like breadcrumbs left behind by other Travelers. I dove in, reading entry after entry, trying to figure out what living this kind of life meant.

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As I scrolled, I spotted a small icon in the upper left corner labeled Tips & Tricks.

Hmm, that looks interesting.

The first tip was a game changer: I didn’t have to leap into the unknown right away. I could stand by the Gate, touch one of the portal stones, and read the world’s information before stepping through. That was a relief. No blind jumps into the unknown, but a way to get my bearings first. Whoever had left that tip got it. I could almost hear them saying, You’re not alone. We’ve been here, too. It was exactly what I hadn’t known I needed.

Maybe I was being overly cautious, but jumping blind into some unknown world full of gods-know-what wasn’t exactly appealing. This? This was smart. A way to test the waters before diving in. A safety net I hadn’t realized I’d been hoping for.

I kept reading, and picked up more nuggets of wisdom. One tip stood out—borderline genius. Really. If I put in the effort to learn a skill the hard way—actually train, practice, and develop it through experience—I could later convert it into an ability point. But there was a catch. Once converted, the skill would be locked, meaning I’d never be able to level it up like a usual Skill. I’d retain the knowledge, sure—I’d still remember how to swing a sword or play an instrument—but I’d never be able to refine, level, advance or grow it beyond that initial baseline.

And once a skill was converted, that was it. No do-overs. No going back and relearning it as a regular Skill. If I sacrificed something, I had to be damn sure I wasn’t going to need it later. It was a one-time deal, and if I picked wrong, I’d be stuck with a static version of that skill forever.

It was an opportunity, but it came with strings attached. To make the most of it, I had to be strategic—choosing skills that were easy enough to learn and that I could get by with at a low level. Ideally, they should be something I’d never need or use in the future, and nothing I’d regret locking in place. The key was finding skills where being just okay was good enough—something I wouldn’t miss refining later. A balancing act between effort, usefulness, and what I could afford to sacrifice.

I couldn’t help but grin. It was a clever loophole to squeeze every advantage out of the system—but only if I played it smart. I loved the sneakiness.

Then there were the trading advice—a masterclass in gaming the multiverse for profit. The idea was simple: buy cheap, mass-produced goods from tech-heavy worlds and sell them in low-tech mana worlds for a fortune. Stuff like knives, cookware, bright fabrics, even basic wooden toys—all worth their weight in gold in places where everything was handmade. And it worked the other way, too: Buy handmade weapons, bows, or armor from a no-tech world, then sell them in a tech world as "Artisan Craftsmanship Made with Traditional Methods." I laughed, imagining some rich collector paying a small fortune for a basic sword just because it had a fancy label. Flipping worlds for profit? Yeah, I could get behind that.

Then came the practical survival stuff. Advice that would save me a lot of pain later. Things like always having transport options for different terrains, carrying gear for all kinds of weather, and planning around the fact that tech wouldn’t work in mana worlds. It was like having an experienced Traveler holding my hand, and pointing out rookie mistakes before I made them. Sadly, no AI assistant. But honestly? This was good too.

Quite a lot of posts covered currency. Not surprising—cash didn’t transfer between realities, but jewelry did. Rings, chains, pendants—preferably silver or gold. Coins worked too, but the advice was to rough them up a bit, make them look worn so they’d pass as “foreign” rather than obviously mass produced. In tech worlds, the trick was to stick to jewelry and sell it at small pawn shops to avoid raising any flags. There was something quietly thrilling about the whole thing—like slipping between the cracks of reality, bending the rules just enough to get ahead.

Over and over, different Travelers repeated the same advice: learn to fight. Apparently, it wasn’t optional. At a minimum, I needed to get good with at least one weapon, learn some basic hand-to-hand combat, and—if I was smart—invest in a defensive spell, a ranged attack, and a healing spell. It was practically a starter pack checklist.

That got me thinking. I needed ability points and had to convert skills to get them. The problem was that I didn’t have skills I was willing to part with. Then I got an idea—tennis. I hadn’t picked up a racket in years and doubted interdimensional aliens would be interested in a friendly bout. Seemed like the perfect candidate.

After a few calls, I booked a lesson at a local tennis center for two days later. Not exactly the epic training montage I’d imagined after reading the fantasy books—no wind whipping through my hair, no dramatic music—but a point was a point.

To “farm” ability points, I looked into private courses and workshops that could teach me specific skills. Of course, I gave myself a well-earned mental pat on the back for using the right jargon.

Making handmade pasta — I would like to learn this for myself; I love cooking.Ceramic workshop — a strong contender.Pencil sketching workshop — one more in the bag.Macramé workshop for jewelry making — I will never need this skill.How to make beer workshop — this I might need on my travels, worth checking out.Painting on vinyl records workshop — one more point.Flower weaving workshop — and another point.Iron wire sculpture workshop — definitely another point. Lining up all the options was oddly satisfying. I was planning my interdimensional future, one Macrame workshop at a time. A grin tugged at my lips as I looked over my list: some skills I might use, others I’d never touch again. I made the calls and filled up my schedule for the next week and a half. A sense of pride filled me—I was taking steps to realize my decision.

On my way to the tennis lesson the next day, I tried out the Identify skill on everything I passed—people, signs, anything that caught my eye. The results were, to say the least, underwhelming. Everyone appeared as “unintegrated human male” or “unintegrated human female.” Not exactly groundbreaking. Objects fared little better. “Door,” “Stairs,” and “Street Sign.” Useful in a magical world? Maybe. Here? Just noise.

At least my tennis idea worked out. Fifteen minutes in, I scored my first point against the instructor. As soon as I did, the red light started blinking.

You have learned the Skill [Playing Tennis]

Immediately, I clicked it with my mind, with the intention of giving it up.

Are you sure you want to convert the Skill [Playing Tennis] into an Ability Point?

Y/N

Yes, please and thank you.

You have 1 new Ability Point.

Yes! It worked! Bless you, anonymous Traveler.

In the following days, I attended all the workshops and learned the Skills. The class description wasn’t kidding; learning skills was easy. I kept the pasta, beer, and pencil sketching since I liked them, but converted the rest.

This content is taken from freёnovelkiss.com.

With six more Ability points in the bag, I first purchased the skill [One of the Crowd].

Thinking about protection, I purchased the spells [Mana Dart] and [Mana Shield]. At first, I wanted to get the fireball spell but eventually realized that avoiding any potential fire hazards might be prudent.

MANA DART

This offensive spell conjures a dart of magical energy. Often used by battle mages and sorcerers, it delivers precise attacks, with the number and potency of darts increasing when the level of the spell rises.

Cost: 1 Ability Point.

MANA SHIELD

This protective spell surrounds the caster with a barrier of magical energy, offering protection that starts weak but strengthens with use. Favored by wizards and sorcerers, the shield absorbs incoming damage, allowing the caster to endure more with each level.

Cost: 1 Ability Point.

In addition, I invested another ability point into my Storage. Based on everything I read in the Archive and the books, I would need the space. Now, I had 512 cubic meters.

Many Travelers in the Archive recommended getting a healing spell, so I opened the Healing Magic section. Right away, something stood out—a lot of spells were grayed out, like they were listed but not actually available for purchase. My class was supposed to let me buy anything, but apparently, that wasn’t entirely true.

No matter how many times I clicked on those spells, nothing happened. Curious, I checked other categories. Some had locked spells too, but far fewer than in Healing Magic. Here, almost everything was off-limits. Ultimately, the only spell I could buy was Minor Heal.

Minor Heal

A staple for adventurers. For 50 mana, Minor Heal mends broken bones, cuts, scrapes, and common ailments like colds. It provides quick relief for minor injuries and ailments but won't heal severe wounds or complex diseases. Its effectiveness improves slightly with each level.

Cost: 1 Ability Point.

Something in me rebelled. I paused, staring at the spell description, and all my years of medical training flashed through my mind. The all-nighters, the crammed study sessions, feeling tired all the time between studies and work. The knowledge that was a part of me. My white coat wasn’t just clothing but proof of everything I’d worked for. Using a spell to heal would feel like invalidating all that, like throwing away years of hardship. And yet, I couldn’t argue with the recommendation. It was smart—no matter how much medical knowledge you have, a broken leg is a broken leg. I thought about the risks medical knowledge couldn’t prepare me for. A quick heal would make an enormous difference.

Mends broken bones, cuts, scrapes, and common ailments like colds.

Finally, I sighed and bought it. Yes, my mind rebelled against the idea, and it felt like I was betraying all the hard work to become a doctor. But on the other hand, being injured and helpless in a strange place sounded worse.