"Martial artists aren't welcome here."
The air went tense. The village elder and a handful of villagers stood firm, gripping their farming tools tightly, eyes sharp and wary.
It was a good thing he was wearing peasant garb, with his tail wrapped and hidden.
Merun raised his hands slowly, keeping his posture relaxed. "Ah good. I'm not a martial artist," he said calmly. "Just a farmer."
The men blinked. "A farmer?" one of them asked suspiciously.
Merun walked slowly toward them, his gaze scanning the tools in their hands. "That's a hoe," he said, pointing at one. "And a sickle." He nodded toward a pitchfork. "That one's for turning the soil."
His tone was casual, like he was just talking about his day on the farm.
The men exchanged uncertain glances.
"What kind of crops do you guys plant?" Merun added, lifting a simple wooden rake. "I assume rice? Did you know that in Gifu, they actually purchase rice in bulk, and the Logistics administrator there was previously a peasant, so he actually pays more just because he wants to help out!"
The villagers' eyes widened and started murmuring to each other excitedly.
The elder lowered his grip slightly, exhaling. "He's just a farmer," he muttered. After all, why would martial artists bother knowing all that?
Merun smiled faintly. "I just passed through," he said. "Got a little lost on my way to Odani, that's all."
The tension broke. The villagers relaxed and scattered, muttering among themselves, leaving the path clear. The village chief sighed deeply and motioned for him to follow.
"Come, let's talk inside," he said, guiding him toward the tavern.
He led Merun to the tavern, the one place in the village that hadn't been completely destroyed. Inside, they sat across from each other at a rough wooden table, and the chief explained the events that had brought the village to ruin. Two clans had fought over the territory. The Kaze Clan had won, but their martial artists had left the village battered, broken, and terrified.
"How can I help?" Merun asked. He gestured at the tilled, half-destroyed fields outside. "It seems like there's much to do, and you need all the bodies you can use."
The chief considered him for a long moment. "If you are willing, you may stay. Food and lodging will be provided, in exchange… help rebuild. Repair huts. Restore the fields. Anything we cannot manage ourselves."
Merun nodded. It was simple, and it was enough.
The taste of the watered porridge told him enough about the current state of the village.
He set to work immediately. His hands, though young, moved with surprising skill and efficiency. Structures were reinforced, roofs repaired, walls patched.
When he turned to the fields, he moved with the precision of someone who had tilled soil all his life. His raw strength allowed him to pull plows through stubborn earth, his stamina unmatched, yet he deliberately pretended to tire, wiping his brow with exaggerated effort.
After all this was very easy for him and his new powered-up body. It's a good thing his father taught and raised him well, after all, he was a proud farmer himself.
One villager, a stocky man with dirt-streaked hands, watched him carefully. "What's his name again?" he muttered to another. "Merun…? I didn't see him sweat once." Suspicion lingered, but curiosity mixed with relief.
Over the next few days, Merun continued tirelessly. He helped rebuild homes, haul heavy loads, and retill fields that had been trampled during the clan battle.
As he worked, the villagers slowly began to warm up to him. They shared stories of loss, of fear, of anger toward martial artists who had trampled their lives. And while he said little in response, his presence alone seemed to offer reassurance—they felt heard, protected, even if he only nodded and showed basic empathy.
The simple rhythm of work, shared labor, and quiet company wove him into the village fabric. By the end of the week, most of what had been damaged was restored. They were thoroughly impressed with his never-ending stamina and dedication—months worth of labor was done in a week!
That evening, the villagers gathered for a small, humble celebration by the central fire. It was nothing extravagant—just rice with potatoes, a few lanterns, and the warm glow of gratitude—but to Merun, it felt like a rare, human peace.
In their eyes, he was just a capable young farmer who had helped when it mattered most. Nothing more. And for the first time in days, he allowed himself to simply be a part of the world around him, even if only for a moment.
But moments like this barely lasted.
Boots crunched against dirt at the edge of the village. Too many. Too heavy.
Around twenty men emerged from the dark, laughter carrying ahead of them like rot. They wore mismatched martial garb—some still bearing faded clan crests, others stripped clean. At their center strode a man with a wide belly and thick arms, his presence heavy and confident.
The Iron Claws.
They were infamous. Bandits who hunted villages freshly scarred by clan-sanctioned wars. Places no army would touch for a month, where politics granted silence and time to heal. Time enough to raid. To pillage. To leave nothing worth investigating.
By the time officials arrived, they were always long gone.
The men spread out.
Hands grabbed women. Fists slammed into husbands who resisted. Laughter followed every cry.
The fire at the village center flickered wildly.
Merun stood up and walked towards them.
Hands grabbed his arms, his clothes, pulling him back.
"Don't—!"
"Run!"
"Merun, don't throw your life away!"
Merun exhaled slowly.
"It's fine," he said. "Trust me."
He stepped forward.
The bandit leader noticed him immediately and burst into laughter. "Look at this," he said, cracking his knuckles. "A farmer wants to be a hero. Don't you know me? The infamous Death Grip?"
He moved fast, a crushing fist slammed into Merun's head.
The man grabbed his skull with one hand and squeezed, muscles bulging, veins standing out. He waited.
Nothing happened.
Merun yawned.
The bandit leader was confused "...Huh? I have a strength of a Martial Squire! how are yo—"
"…Are you massaging my scalp?" Merun asked lazily. "It's actually pretty nice. You guys should rename yourselves from Iron Claw to Iron Masseuse. And you—" he glanced up, "—from Death Grip to… Tender Touch."
A few bandits snorted.
The squire's face darkened with fury. He brought his other hand up and squeezed with everything he had.
Still nothing.
"What—?" someone muttered.
Even the villagers froze, confusion cutting through their terror.
Merun took a step forward.
The squire was dragged with him, boots carving trenches in the dirt as he tried to brace, tried to crush harder, tried anything.
Merun's eyes locked onto a bandit holding a struggling girl.
"Let her go," Merun said quietly.
The bandit hesitated.
Then, seeing their leader helplessly dragged across the ground, he released her immediately and stumbled back.
Merun stopped.
He looked down at the squire.
"You wanted to hold hands, right?"
He peeled the man's fingers off his head and clasped them gently between his own.
The Martial Squire forced a nervous laugh. "You think you can crush—"
Crunch.
Merun crushed both hands.
The scream was instant and raw.
"Yikes," Merun said, releasing him. "Bro screams like his hands got turned into minced meat or something. Oh—wait."
The squire collapsed, clutching his mangled hands.
Merun turned to the villagers.
His expression softened.
"…I'm sorry," he said. "I lied to you all."
Before anyone could respond, he grabbed the squire by the collar.
"This," Merun said calmly, "is the price of hurting the innocent."
He moved.
BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM BAM
A hundred punches landed in seconds. The squire tried to scream, tried to beg, tried to fight back.
He never stood a chance.
When Merun let go, the man hit the ground unconscious, battered and bloodied.
The bandits ran.
They sensed he overwhelming difference between them.
But they didn't get far.
Merun caught them one by one—each taken down with a single blow. He dragged bodies behind him, catching the next before the previous even stopped sliding. One arm, then two. A growing trail of unconscious men.
Minutes later, he returned to the village center and dropped them all in a heap.
He tied them. Every last one. Even the leader.
When he finally stood, the villagers stared at him in silence.
Fear.
Shock.
Old wounds reopening.
Merun felt it immediately.
He bowed silently.
It was fun while it lasted.
Then he turned away, tying a long rope around the pile of bandits and preparing to drag them toward Odani.
A small hand tugged at his clothes.
Merun looked down.
A little boy stared up at him with wide eyes.
"Thank you," the boy said softly. "Big brother Merun."
Merun opened his mouth to reply—
"THANK YOU, MERUN!"
The words came in waves. Not unified, not rehearsed—but sincere. People bowing. Crying. Grateful.
"You'll always be welcome to Sabae!"
Something shifted in Merun's chest.
Something warm...
He didn't know what it was, but it felt... good.
He waved once, awkwardly, and began walking.
Two dozen men dragged behind him as he left the village bathed in firelight and gratitude.
He purposely walked on rocky roads on the way back.
Hello! Thanks for reading!
Since work has become more serious these days.. (software dev)
I've decided posting schedule is Monday, Wed, Friday.
But I have setup Patreon[1] so you can get 3 advanced chapters, or help support me & my cat to get all advanced chapters (currently up to Chapter 44)... as well as having your name in the story as cameos or even full-fledged side characters. Thank you!
https://www.patreon.com/posts/chapter-40-good-150618636?utm_medium=clipboard_copy&utm_source=copyLink&utm_campaign=postshare_creator&utm_content=join_link
[1] https://www.patreon.com/posts/chapter-40-good-150618636?utm_medium=clipboard_copy&utm_source=copyLink&utm_campaign=postshare_creator&utm_content=join_link