Ren walked slowly along the cobblestone path that had grown familiar, so familiar he could almost recall every direction by heart, picture every uneven patch and each small turn along the way.
The worn stones, smoothed in places by the countless footsteps of players who had once come and gone, seemed to whisper untold stories.
Some had left the village in triumph to the cheers of others. Some had failed quietly and never returned. But each had left behind something, however small, in the cracks beneath Ren's feet.
The sun had already dipped beyond the distant hills, leaving only faint streaks of light stretching across tree branches and slanted rooftops.
The twilight no longer burned bright, but instead bathed the road in a soft golden hue, as though a gentle layer of time had settled over everything.
Though evening had fallen, the village wasn't entirely silent. Familiar sounds continued to echo, like the background music of life itself.
Hurried footsteps from players returning from mines or hunting grounds, some newcomers fresh from the Starting Town.
Laughter from small groups sharing their spoils, the heavy clang of hammer against metal from a forge down the alley...
Together, they wove a steady, comforting rhythm, proof that the village of Medai was slowly coming back to life.
Ren took a few turns into smaller paths, passing rows of humble wooden houses where quest boards leaned against the walls, sometimes no more than a scrap of leather nailed onto an old wooden plank.
One by one, he turned in the completed quests: slaying low-level monsters near the southern fields, collecting herbs growing between the rocks, gathering materials from beasts fallen to his blade.
None of these tasks offered breakthroughs or great rewards, but each formed a quiet foundation, a steady step forward to survive, to stand firmer in this world.
Each time a completion notification popped up, it did so with cold detachment. Yet behind the numbers were moments full of warmth.
An old NPC woman with trembling hands received a pouch of herbs, her cloudy eyes lighting up with a tenderness only a true grandmother could have.
A young NPC boy rushed forward to hug an old, worn-out toy, bursting into carefree laughter as he spun in circles in the courtyard.
Even knowing it was all just lines of code, pre-written scripts, Ren still paused for a beat.
Perhaps it was because he, too, was searching for something real in a world where everything could be wiped clean with a single reset.
When the final quest was complete, Ren closed his menu. The weight behind the numbers seemed just a little lighter.
He strapped his sword back to his side and turned to glance down the road he'd just walked, as if to make sure he hadn't left anything behind.
The sky had darkened, and the first lanterns lining the road began to flicker in the cool breeze. Their warm amber glow swayed gently, like the heartbeat of a village quietly welcoming back each player after a long day.
The air carried a trace of burnt wood from the forge, mingled with the scent of freshly baked bread from a familiar eatery, an embrace of comfort, as if Medai was silently holding onto those who had chosen to stay.
The day came to a close without any major incident, no intense battles, no life-or-death confrontations, but left behind a quiet sense of wholeness, a subtle peace that Ren hadn't realized he needed so much.
And so, he kept walking, not hurried, not rushed, toward the light and music gradually rising from the central plaza, where two friends were waiting for him, with smiles and warmth in a world that never ceased to be dangerous.
Yuna's familiar lute played softly from afar, gentle like a breeze brushing past his shoulder, slipping into the quiet corners of his mind.
The melody wasn't grand or elaborate, but its simplicity gave it weight, as if each note was whispering, soothing the weary souls who had spent their day confronting the dangers of this world.
For a brief moment, the peaceful scenery turned breathtaking, not because anything had changed, but because the music had given it life, made it feel real.
Ren paused.
He didn't turn toward the music, but his hand instinctively brushed the hilt of Black Fang at his side, a gesture part reflex, part affirmation.
A thought flickered through his mind, vague and formless, that if he kept walking this path, if he held firm and didn't fall...
Then maybe, just maybe, something would be waiting for him at the end of it.
Not a reward. Not fame. But a shift, a change, however small, that might be enough to kindle hope.
Tonight, Ren didn't head toward the village center, where the lanterns glowed bright and Yuna's voice still floated over Medai.
He didn't stop by the tavern either, the evening meal, once a well-earned treat after a long day, now pushed aside without a second thought.
Without a word, without even a backward glance, Ren walked straight toward the training ground on the village's edge, where night had fallen and only a few magical lights flickered weakly in the dark.
There, there was no laughter. No music. Nothing to make the air feel easier to breathe.
Only dust, scarred wood from past sword strikes, and the heavy breathing of those who had yet to reach what they longed for.
And there, Ren would swing his sword again.
Not for experience.
Not to complete a quest. Simply because, he was still not strong enough.
Ren placed his hand on the hilt of Black Fang, the cold steel swallowing what little light remained in the training yard.
The blade seemed dormant, yet the chill that crept along his fingers hinted at a power still buried deep within, something beyond mere stats or damage numbers.
This sword was his trophy. Ren had defeated the Alpha and forged this weapon using its fang and refined steel.
A deep breath escaped his chest, carrying weariness, impatience, and a hint of self-reproach.
No haste. No hesitation. Just an old habit etched into muscle memory.
He stepped forward, his feet bearing the invisible weight of failures, close brushes with death, and expectations no one had placed on him but himself.
In front of him stood a crude wooden post, nothing tall or special, but its surface was covered in a dense web of cuts, hundreds, perhaps thousands of overlapping strikes.
Each nameless scar was a testament to those who had come, tried, and then walked away.
Ren didn't wait. He shifted his stance, adjusted his footing, and gripped the hilt tightly with both hands.
Then the cold steel sliced through the dim glow of the lanterns.
The wind whistled as the blade swept through the air, swift and clean like a silent bolt of lightning.
Up. Down. Twist. Slash. Thrust. Dodge.
A seamless chain of motions, constant and precise. There was rhythm, there was force, but no soul.
Each swing, though nearly flawless, lacked one invisible piece, small, but essential. The piece that would make swordsmanship an extension of the self, instead of a rehearsed skill.
Ren pressed on.
Sweat soaked into his hair, dripping down his chin, falling to the ground and mixing with the dust at his feet. He didn't stop. He couldn't stop.
Because every pause brought back the echoes in his mind, monsters howling, comrades gasping after battle, the shattering of trust, and the long-lost voice of someone who once told him:
"Don't let go of your sword. Never."
His wrists burned.
Shoulders stiffened to the point of numbness. Legs trembled under the weight of holding his stance. Yet the blade kept moving, as if stopping now would lead not to rest, but to a pitch-black abyss with no way out.
Weapon Mastery: Beginner (99/100).
Just a number. Yet it loomed like a towering wall of stone between him and the rest of this world.
He used to believe: "If I train enough, if I push myself hard enough, I'll reach my goal."
But day after day, blood and sweat yielded no new skill. No flash of light signaling progress.
Only the sound of air being torn by steel, and a growing void within.
He swung his blade as if to sever the doubt in his heart.
Swung it to defy the fate that mocked him from behind.
Swung it to prove: "I haven't stopped. I'm still here."
And time passed, minutes, tens of minutes, then hours.
Night had fully fallen. The faint magical lamps cast his silhouette against the wooden wall behind him, a solitary figure, not shaking, not leaning, just standing tall in the dark.
There were no cheers. No comrades beside him. No system giving out rewards.
Only Ren.
And Black Fang, still singing softly with each falling strike.