The rain had not stopped.
For days it had fallen in heavy, unrelenting sheets, turning the streets of the capital into shallow rivers of mud and reflection. The sky remained a low, bruised gray, as though the clouds had decided the world below no longer deserved sunlight. Water drummed endlessly against rooftops, windowpanes, and the stone walls of the guild hall—a constant white noise that seeped into every conversation, every thought, every dream.
Inside the small room Beatrice and Elara shared on the third floor, the sound was louder—sharper—because the window faced directly into the storm. Beatrice stood with her arms crossed, forehead resting against the cool glass. Raindrops raced down the pane, blurring the city lights into smears of gold and amber. Her glowing orb hovered at her shoulder, dimmed to a soft blue pulse, as though even it felt the weight of the weather.
"It's been raining non-stop for days," Beatrice said, voice low, almost lost under the drumming. "Since the day they returned from Shadowmoon."
Elara sat on the edge of her bed, knees drawn up, a thick wool blanket wrapped around her shoulders. She had barely spoken since the scouting mission. Her fingers twisted the blanket's edge in a small, unconscious rhythm.
Beatrice turned her head just enough to glance at her friend.
"It's like they brought something back with them."
Elara's fingers paused.
"You're overthinking it," she said quietly.
Beatrice gave a small, tired laugh that held no humor.
"Am I?" She looked back out the window. The street below was empty except for a single lantern swaying violently on its post. "We don't even know anything about the summoner. Or Deathwing. Or the—"
Elara's voice cut in, sharp and brittle.
"Let's not talk about the incident."
She closed her eyes. The memory flashed anyway: the field of corpses, the purple storm, the way rain had washed blood into the earth until everything looked the same color. She had knelt beside an orc—no visible wounds—and felt the life inside already gone, crushed from within like a fruit squeezed too hard.
"Enough, Beatrice," she said, eyes still closed. "Let's not speak about this again. For now we need to focus on ourselves."
Beatrice watched her for a long moment. The orb above her shoulder dimmed further, as though agreeing.
She turned back to the window.
The rain kept falling.
Downstairs, in the guild's common room, the fire had burned low. Only embers glowed in the wide stone hearth, casting faint orange light across the long wooden tables. The smell of wet wool, old leather, and spilled ale hung in the air. Most tables were empty; the storm had driven everyone to their rooms or to taverns closer to the city center. Only three men remained—Haldir already drunk and slumped in the corner.
Raymond sat near the fire, elbows on the table, a half-empty tankard in front of him. He had not touched it in over an hour. Across from him, Darius leaned back in his chair, arms folded, staring into the flames. Kufa sat beside him—the big man who usually filled the room with laughter and bad jokes—strangely silent tonight. His tankard was full, untouched.
The fire popped.
Kufa finally spoke.
"I've heard of taurens and orcs for a long time," he said, voice low and careful. "They're built different. Stronger. Pure raw strength. Immune to magic. Whatever—or whoever—killed them… must have been way stronger. Something we can't even imagine."
He paused, staring at his hands—big, scarred hands that had broken shields and cracked skulls.
"And by the looks of those corpses… it looked like one person. Or something. Killing thousands."
The words fell like stones into the quiet room.
Raymond felt them settle in his chest, cold and heavy. He had maxed-out skills, potential, regeneration—and yet Kufa's words still sent unease sliding down his spine.
Someone—or something—more powerful than me.
He stared into his tankard. The ale had gone flat.
Darius shifted in his chair.
Kufa kept talking, voice quieter now.
"I don't scare easy. But that field… the way the bodies were torn open from the inside… no blade did that. No spell I know. It was like the life just got squeezed out of them."
He looked up at Raymond.
"Whatever did that… we're not ready for it."
Raymond felt the words land.
He looked at Darius—the commander who had led them this far without hesitation.
Then at Kufa—the tank who never backed down from a fight.
Both were watching him now, waiting.
Something shifted inside Raymond.
Not power.
Not ambition.
Resolve.
He set the tankard down.
"The only thing we can do now," he said slowly, "is get stronger. Level up. Recruit more people—no matter their background. Rich or poor, weak or strong. We should also help the newcomers grow."
Darius raised an eyebrow.
Kufa blinked.
Raymond continued, voice steady.
"We can't wait for the storm to pass. We have to be ready when it breaks again. And if something out there is stronger than us… then we make sure we're not alone when we face it."
Silence.
Then Darius gave a small, rare smile—the kind that reached his eyes.
"You're right."
He leaned forward, elbows on the table.
"Then from tomorrow onward, let's hold a meeting at King's Hall. Before that, I'll send notice to every guild leader to be present and discuss this matter."
Kufa finally picked up his tankard.
He lifted it in a mock toast.
"To getting stronger," he said. "And to not dying horribly in the process."
Raymond gave a small, tired laugh—the first real one in days.
"To not dying horribly."
They clinked tankards.
Outside, the rain kept falling.
The small house on the hill—the only home Vael had allowed himself in this life—groaned under the weight of the water. Roof beams creaked. Windows rattled in their frames. Every seam and crack in the old wood had become a river.
Vael stood on the slanted roof, bare feet gripping wet shingles, hammer in one hand and nails clenched between his teeth. Rain plastered his hair to his forehead and streamed down his face in cold rivers. Below, the vegetable patch his mother had tended so carefully was drowning: carrot tops bent double, lettuce leaves torn and floating, tomato vines sagging like broken necks. The soil had turned to soup; roots were rotting before they could grow.
He drove another nail into a cracked shingle, the metal ringing sharply against the constant hiss of rain. The sound felt good—ordinary, human, something a normal man would do. No wind blades. No shockwaves. No blood spears tearing through flesh from the inside. Just a hammer, nails, and calloused hands.
He had promised himself that much.
No more skills.
No more power.
The system had betrayed him once already—offering "True Demon King" like a crown of thorns after he had slaughtered thousands he never wanted to kill. Every time he used even a fraction of what he could do, something worse followed: betrayal, guilt, a new wound that never quite healed. The child's cry still echoed in his ears, high and terrified, and the arrow that answered it still burned behind his ribs even though the skin had closed long ago.
So he ignored the itch in his fingertips—the faint hum of mana waiting to be shaped, the easy whisper that he could mend the entire roof in one breath, dry the fields in a single gesture. He ignored it the way a man ignores a loaded crossbow pointed at his back.
He would fix this house the way any son would.
With sweat.
With time.
With hands that bled and blistered like anyone else's.
"Vael! Vael!"
His mother's voice rose from inside, sharp with worry.
"Here too it's dripping! Quick—fix it before the floor gets wet!"
He leaned over the edge of the roof, rain streaming off his nose. Through the open window he could see her—small, gray-haired, shawl clutched tight—pointing at a dark stain spreading across the wooden boards.
"No worries, Mother," he called back. "I'll fix it soon."
He drove three more nails in quick succession, the hammer steady despite the slick handle. The leak slowed to a trickle, then stopped. He tested the patch with his palm—solid. No give. No drip.
"There," he said, mostly to himself. "It's done."
He smiled—small, tired, but real.
It felt good.
Not the rush of power, not the cold satisfaction of a clean kill. Just the simple relief of a job finished with ordinary tools and ordinary effort. For a moment the rain sounded less like punishment and more like background music.
He climbed down the ladder, boots slipping once on the wet rungs, and ducked inside.
The kitchen smelled of stew and damp wood. His mother was already wiping the floor with an old rag, muttering about mold and ruined flour sacks. She looked up when he entered, rain dripping from his cloak onto the threshold.
"You're soaked through," she said. "Go change before you catch your death."
"I will." He kicked off his boots, leaving muddy prints he'd clean later. "Roof's holding. Vegetables… not so much. But we'll replant when it stops."
She gave him a long look—the kind only mothers can give, equal parts worry and pride.
"You don't have to do everything alone, you know."
He smiled again, softer this time.
"I know."
Dinner was quiet.
Stew from the last of the carrots, bread already starting to mold at the edges, a single candle burning low between them. They ate without speaking much—the rain filled the silence. His mother's hands trembled slightly when she lifted the spoon; he pretended not to notice. After the meal he cleared the table, washed the bowls with rainwater caught in a bucket, and helped her to her room.
"Good night, Mother."
"Good night, Vael."
He closed her door softly.
His own room was at the end of the short hallway—small, bare, the only furniture a narrow bed and a single chair. He pushed the door open.
The wind had come through the window like a thief.
The wooden frame had splintered; glass lay in jagged pieces on the floor. Rain had poured in unchecked, soaking the thin mattress, the blanket, the pillow he had planned to lay his head on tonight. Water dripped steadily from the ceiling beams, pooling on the boards. The room smelled of wet straw and cold earth.
Vael stood in the doorway for a long moment.
He felt the familiar itch again—stronger this time. A whisper in his blood: one gesture, one thought, and the window would mend itself, the bed would dry, the rain would bend around the house like a curtain.
He could stop this.
All of it.
He clenched his fists until the nails bit into his palms.
No.
He had promised.
He stepped inside, glass crunching under his bare feet. He ignored the sting. He righted the chair, shook out the blanket as best he could, and dragged the mattress to the driest corner. Water dripped onto his shoulders, his hair, his back. He didn't flinch.
He sat on the floor, back against the wall, knees drawn up.
The rain kept falling.
Somewhere in the dark, the system waited—silent now, but always watching.
He closed his eyes.
He would sleep here, wet and cold, like any other man.
And tomorrow he would fix the window the same way he fixed the roof.
With hands.
With time.
With nothing more.
Meanwhile, Aamon watched from the ridge where he and Gruk had fled. The rain fell in heavy ropes, but Aamon stood motionless beneath it, cloak sodden, hood low, eyes fixed on the small house across the valley. The purple storm had begun to thin, allowing faint moonlight to bleed through the clouds in cold, silver threads. It was enough to outline the figure on the roof—Vael, barefoot, hammer in hand, nailing down shingles one by one while water streamed off his back.
Aamon did not blink.
He had expected power.
After what Vael had done on the battlefield—thousands torn apart from the inside, shockwaves flattening grass, eyes wide with terror only after the killing stopped—Aamon had prepared himself for arrogance, for flaunting, for the inevitable moment when such strength demanded worship or destruction.
Instead, Vael was fixing a roof.
In the rain.
With a hammer.
Aamon's lips twitched—not quite a smile, but close.
Gruk would have laughed at the absurdity.
Aamon did not laugh.
He observed.
The small house below was humble—thatched roof sagging in places, wooden walls patched with mismatched planks, a thin chimney trailing weak smoke. A woman's voice floated up through the storm, faint but sharp with worry.
Aamon narrowed his eyes.
He moved closer—silent, shadow to shadow—until he stood just beyond the low stone wall marking the property's edge. Through the broken window he could see the room: narrow bed soaked through, mattress dragged to the driest corner, glass shards glittering on the floor like fallen stars. Vael sat on the bare boards, back against the wall, knees drawn up, eyes closed.
He did not summon wind to mend the frame.
He did not call fire to dry the bedding.
He simply sat.
Aamon remained still for a long time.
The rain drummed on his hood.
Eventually he turned away.
Gruk was waiting on the far side of the hill, pacing in the mud, cloak dripping, mood foul after the failed necromancy.
"Well?" Gruk snapped when Aamon appeared. "Is he building an empire of mud and shingles now?"
Aamon said nothing at first.
He looked back once—toward the small house, the single unbroken window, the faint candlelight that had just been relit.
"No," he said quietly. "He's just… living."
Gruk stared at him.
Then barked a laugh—short, sharp, disbelieving.
"Living?" He spread his arms wide. "In that shack? With that old woman? After what he did to those thousands? He could level mountains! He could drown cities in blood! And he's… fixing roofs?"
Aamon met his gaze.
"Yes."
Gruk's grin faltered.
For the first time since the battlefield, something like unease flickered in the demon's eyes.
Aamon turned away again, staring into the rain.
"He's refusing it," he said, almost to himself. "All of it."
The wind rose, carrying the scent of wet earth and distant smoke.
Somewhere in the dark, Vael slept on a wet floor—cold, tired, human.
Silent.
Patient.
To be continued.