Chapter 1: Provence

"Wake up, we're almost in Marseille."

A gentle shake at his shoulder pulled Ronan from his deep sleep. As he opened his eyes, the first thing he saw was the mountain range rushing past the train window, and the ochre-colored houses scattered across the slopes, clinging to the land in harmonious clusters.

Bathed in the intense sunlight, the train seemed to be gliding through an endless, mysterious mirage.

Ronan stared blankly out the window, pointed at the houses atop the hills, and asked the middle-aged woman beside him, who had just woken him up, "Are we in Luberon already?"

Luberon—situated in the southern mountain region of Vaucluse, France, was also known by another, far more famous name: Provence.

Strictly speaking, Provence encompasses Vaucluse, Bouches-du-Rhône, the Upper Alps, and the Cote d’Azur along the Mediterranean. But the most distinctive part was undoubtedly Luberon.

Endless fields of lavender, sprawling vineyards, over three hundred days of sunshine each year, dozens of well-preserved medieval villages… This was the dreamland for countless people.

The middle-aged woman beside Ronan folded her arms across her chest, her face, etched with brambly wrinkles, softened into a smile.

"Yes, those are the famous 'bird's nest villages' unique to Luberon. In the turbulent Middle Ages, the people of southern France built their defenses along the mountainsides to escape disaster. Now, these little hilltop villages are the most beautiful sights in Provence..."

The woman spoke in a rapid, thick Marseille accent, making it somewhat difficult for Ronan, who’d grown up in Paris, to follow along.

As she continued her animated explanation, a pale blue panel appeared before Ronan’s eyes.

[Blissful Life System loaded. Host, please enjoy a leisurely and contented life!]

[Level 1 Construction: 0/100]
[Level 1 Planting: 0/100]
[Level 1 Gathering: 0/100]
…

Dozens of skill names filled the page—he had to scroll down for quite a while to reach the bottom.

[Available Experience: 12]

A month ago, Ronan, a French-Chinese man, had unexpectedly been reborn into 1986, and with him came this so-called [Blissful Life] system.

As long as he did things that brought happiness, his happiness level would rise, which could then be spent on improving his skill experience.

But in Paris, most of these skills were of little use. In that great metropolis, living at the bottom rung of society, happiness was a rare commodity; the accumulation of experience was painfully slow.

Yet in 1986, there was one thing that, every time he recalled it, filled Ronan with deep regret.

As an interior designer, he had more access than most to property listings—having first-hand information made it easier to find potential clients for renovations.

At that time, a Parisian businessman was in a hurry to sell a farmhouse at the foot of the Luberon mountains. By market value, it should have gone for three to four hundred thousand francs, but in his desperation, the seller listed it for only two hundred thousand.

In his previous life, an elderly couple bought it as a retirement home. But three years later, with the tourism boom in Provence, the farmhouse sold for 1.2 million francs. The couple took the money back to Paris and bought a luxury apartment for their golden years.

But Ronan, who had returned from 2024, knew that 1.2 million francs was far from the peak. With the arrival of the euro in the twenty-first century, property prices in Provence would soar to even more outrageous heights. Even if he simply ran a small business from the farmhouse, he would reap a fortune.

So this time, Ronan didn’t hesitate. He was determined to buy that farmhouse, no matter how much his parents and friends tried to dissuade him.

The system’s skills would flourish in the scenic beauty of Provence, and he could use the coming years—before prices exploded—to enhance the property’s value as much as possible, ensuring greater wealth down the line.

Ronan saw no reason to refuse. He came without a second thought.

But the price was steep. In order to acquire the farmhouse, he took out a 130,000-franc loan. His parents were so furious they nearly disowned him, convinced he’d lost his mind.

Yet all this was temporary. Once he established himself in Provence, Ronan believed, everything would work out—financial pressures and family tensions alike.

...

The train soon pulled into the station at Marseille.

After exchanging contact information with the talkative woman beside him, Ronan stepped off the train and set foot on this land of new beginnings.

The farmhouse was in Lourmarin, a village in Petit Luberon, about two hours from the Marseille station.

Louis, the real estate agent and his soon-to-be neighbor, was waiting to pick him up. The two had developed a strong friendship during the purchase process. Without Louis—a resourceful local—Ronan never would have completed all the preliminary steps in just a month, nor left Paris so quickly to come here and “take possession” of his new home.

Of course, Louis had his own reasons for being so helpful.

He had never seen a buyer who insisted on completing the transaction without a single site visit. Louis guessed his new employer must be a wealthy young heir. If he could help Ronan settle in Provence quickly, perhaps he’d have the chance to recommend more farmhouses, estates, and resources—his friends would surely be just as “generous.”

Louis was a tall, gentle-natured man, and unlike other Provençal locals, he spoke at a calm, measured pace, making the journey all the more pleasant for Ronan.

“Lourmarin sits at the foot of the Aiguebrun valley,” Louis explained, playing the role of tour guide with gusto. “The village curls slowly outward from its old church like a snail’s shell. In the summer, you’ll see lavender, olive trees, and rosemary everywhere. Even now in winter, Provence still has its colors... Young man, I swear, you’re going to fall in love with this place.”

“I hope so,” Ronan replied, full of anticipation.

Everyone who heard he was moving to Provence told him the same thing—you’ll fall in love with it.

What kind of magic did Provence possess, that every local spoke of it with such pride?

As the scenery outside the old Citroën shifted from city to farmland, then from farmland to lush groves of cedar, pine, and oak, and finally, after a turn in the road, the mountains rose up like a conjurer’s trick, Ronan began to glimpse the true allure of Provence.

The sunset painted the clouds in shades of brilliant orange and red, waves of color rippling across the sky, echoing the lofty peaks.

It was the most vivid palette Ronan had ever seen.

“All the colors are turned up to full contrast…” he couldn’t help but sigh.

Louis dropped him off in front of a vineyard, pointing to a sizable, two-story yellow stone house at the far end.

“There you are—your house. You’ll have to cross the vineyard to get there, unless you want to take the road to the door. I’ve been telling Michel to fix that for years.”

Michel was the previous owner.

“I swear I’ll give that suggestion serious thought,” Ronan replied, taking in the surroundings as he hefted his luggage and stepped into the vineyard.

His “new home” was larger than he’d imagined—not just a farmhouse, but several acres of vineyard as well.

While pondering this, a car horn sounded behind him. Ronan turned.

“I doubt there’s anything in the house tonight. Come dine at my place in about two hours,” Louis called, rolling down his window and pointing to a spot off in the distance.

Earlier, Louis had described his own home’s location—about a kilometer away.

In the city, you might go a year barely exchanging two words with the neighbors on the other side of the wall, but in the countryside, your neighbors might live several kilometers away, yet your relationships are much closer.

“Thank you, Louis,” Ronan replied, grateful but still a little reserved.

...

Instead of going straight indoors, Ronan circled his new home.

It was an irregularly shaped, two-story yellow-gray stone house in the medieval style, likely expanded two or three times over the centuries. The different sections weren’t all built in the same period, but each seemed sturdy enough—though he’d know for sure only after inspecting the inside.

By Parisian standards, this two-story house could only be called a “mansion.”

But even more thrilling than the house’s size was its setting.

Behind the house, a fenced garden held cherry trees, cypresses, and some other species he couldn’t name.

Ronan’s professional instincts took over. With a single glance, he was already designing how the garden might look.

“An outdoor kitchen, a barbecue area, a dining space for a dozen or more, a terrace of weatherproof wood or stone, a swing, and if possible, a swimming pool…”

Excited, Ronan sat under a cherry tree, wrapped his arms around his head, and gazed into the distance, dreaming of the beautiful future ahead.

“No, no, that’s just the beginning,” he suddenly burst out laughing.

Before his eyes, the endless Luberon mountains bathed in the afterglow of sunset, shining brilliantly.

This was Provence—not Paris.

Ronan’s backyard should stretch not just a few meters, but dozens, even hundreds of kilometers.

From the Alps in the north to the Mediterranean in the south—all this, too, was part of his new home.

After a long day’s journey, he closed his eyes for a brief nap.

There was something different about sleeping in a big house—when Ronan awoke, the corners of his mouth were curled upward.

He stretched lazily, eyes half-closed in comfort, when suddenly a voice echoed in his mind.

[That refreshing little nap increased your happiness by 1 point.]