The village did not sleep easily anymore.
Even after the monster attack ended, tension lingered like smoke after a fire. Guards remained on watch through the night. Torches were kept burning until dawn. Every distant sound made hearts race.
But life had to continue.
Ren stayed.
Not because he felt attached…
But because he had nowhere else to go.
Days passed.
He helped reinforce the broken fences. Cleared nearby monster nests. Walked the forest paths alone, growing familiar with danger as if it were a quiet companion. His strength increased steadily, guided by the strange system that only he could see.
Still, he avoided forming close bonds.
Kindness made him uneasy.
On the seventh night after the attack, rain fell heavily across the clearing. The village fires struggled against the wind, casting long trembling shadows between the huts.
Ren sat beneath a wooden shelter near the edge of the settlement, cleaning the silver-lined barrel of his rifle. The weapon pulsed faintly, reacting to his touch like a living thing.
Then he heard it.
Footsteps.
Not cautious like hunters.
Not heavy like monsters.
Human.
His eyes narrowed.
Across the dark field beyond the fence, silhouettes moved silently through the rain. Cloaked figures carrying curved blades and short bows. Their movements were practiced. Organized.
Bandits.
A low whistle cut through the storm.
Within seconds, arrows rained down upon the watchtower. A guard cried out and fell. Another barely managed to sound the alarm before a second volley struck.
Panic erupted.
Villagers stumbled from their homes in confusion as masked attackers poured through the eastern gate. Some carried torches despite the rain, determined to burn what little these outcasts possessed.
"Take the food! Take the women!" one of them shouted.
Ren stood slowly.
So monsters came for survival.
Humans came for greed.
His fingers tightened around the rifle.
He could leave.
Again, this was not his fight.
But something inside him had begun to change since that night of defending the village. Watching innocent people suffer no longer felt like a distant tragedy. It felt personal.
A bandit kicked down the door of a hut where children were hiding.
The sound of their screams shattered Ren's hesitation.
Thunder roared — not from the sky.
The first shot tore through the attacker's chest, throwing him backward into the mud. Before his body even hit the ground, Ren was already moving through the rain, his silhouette flickering between flashes of lightning.
Bandits turned in shock.
"What the hell is that weapon?!"
He did not answer.
He fired again.
And again.
Each bullet became a streak of light slicing through darkness. Torches were extinguished by the shockwaves. Weapons flew from numb hands. Panic replaced arrogance as the raiders realized they had become prey.
One of them charged recklessly with a raised blade.
Ren stepped forward and struck him down with a close-range shot that sent sparks dancing across the wet ground.
The battle ended as suddenly as it had begun.
Surviving bandits fled into the storm, dragging wounded comrades behind them. Silence returned except for the sound of rain and ragged breathing.
Villagers stared at Ren with wide, uncertain eyes.
He had saved them once more.
But this time, whispers followed.
"Who is he…?"
"A wandering knight?"
"No… something else…"
Ren lowered the rifle.
Names did not matter.
Reputation would come whether he wanted it or not.
And somewhere in the darkness beyond the forest, those who survived this night would begin telling stories about a man who wielded thunder itself.
The legend of the unknown warrior had begun.