As Marin was out in the air, he thought about the life he had lived till now. His heart pounded louder than the wind whistling past his ears. Panic turned to reflection. He began begging silently for forgiveness from all those he had ever wronged—intentionally or not. Was he really that bad a person to deserve this? A fall from the sky with nothing but faith?
To his disbelief, as he hit the deserty soil, there was no pain. The sand broke his fall, and while his clothes were tattered , his body was... unharmed. No broken bones, no sore muscles, not even a scratch.
He lay there for a moment, confused.
"How am I still fine ...?" he whispered.
Before he could dwell too long, Orien came down next, landing with the grace of a practiced soldier. His boots hit the sand with a thud, and he stood up like nothing happened.
"Oh, you're up already?" Orien called out, brushing dust off his pants. "Kid, you've got some serious plot armor. I remember my first drop—flat on my face, couldn't move for what like three or four hours. But you? You're hopping around like a rabbit."
Marin looked down at his hands, still not fully believing his own safety. "Shouldn't we have landed at a nearby airport? I mean... there's gotta be a more safe way to get here. Then just jumping of the plane mid air... like we could have driven here or something?"
Orien chuckled and shook his head. "Kid, the work we do isn't about comfort. We save lives. A landing on the nearest air strip and then driving here would've taken six more hours and we would have reached this point by midnight. In that time, who knows what the rogue would have done here. We go where the trouble is fast ,we cannot know the future but we respond to the call of help faster than anyone else can ."
Marin picked himself up and followed. "Trouble? What kind exactly?"
"This village is being harassed by a rogue plot armor holder," Orien explained. "We call them rogues. They hide in remote places like this, thinking we won't find them. But we do."
Marin raised a brow. "Why would the gods give people like that plot armor?"
Orien sighed, his tone more serious now. "Because gods are a lot like humans. They react—to beauty, to horror. When someone does something awe-inspiring or appalling, they can't help but take notice. These rogues provoke hatred, create chaos, and draw divine reaction. That's how they gain their plot armor.To make matters worse, some are geniuses who immediately figure out how to use plot armor and cast genre injections , they are the worst ones, a pain in the ass. It's because of bastards like those who have casualties."
Marin mumbled, almost to himself, "So we just... eliminate them?"
"Yes," Orien said flatly. "In extreme cases. No courts, no trials. If they're dangerous enough, we take them out."
Marin was silent. The idea of skipping due process didn't sit right with him, but he was too new to challenge it.
"So... how do we use plot armor?" Marin asked after a moment.
Orien stopped walking. "Wait. Are you telling me no one explained this to you?"
Marin hesitated. "I was told you'd teach me."
Orien groaned, rubbing his temples. "That woman... she should've handled the basics. Alright, kid. Come here."
He stepped behind Marin and placed his hands firmly on the boy's back.Marin thought , "are we cultivating ki here because it will look the same to anyone who sees us like this will think we are cultivaters who got isekaied in this world." But he didn't said anything out loud to make fun of and slowly tried to focus on what Orien was saying to him.
"I'm going to let you feel a bit of my plot armor. Once you sense it, all you have to do is recreate the sensation. That's it. That's the secret."
Marin nodded, standing still.
There was a subtle warmth that spread through his spine, then his chest, his limbs. It was not heat—it was energy. Like a shield or presence wrapping around him.
"You feel it?"
Marin's eyes widened. "Yeah. It's... weird."
"Good. Now try recreating it while we walk. We've got to reach the village before sunset."
As they resumed walking, Marin focused inward. The feeling was faint now, but he chased it, trying to reignite it.
After a few minutes, he asked, "What about food? I haven't eaten since morning."
Orien snorted. "Rookie. Food's a luxury now. With plot armor, we don't need it. You can go weeks without eating and still operate at full strength. We eat for taste now, not survival."
Marin frowned but didn't argue.
"Now concentrate," Orien added. "Once you've recreated the feeling, try infusing it into your legs. It'll boost your speed."
Marin breathed deeply and visualized the earlier warmth. It responded, like a flame rekindled. He funneled it downward, toward his legs. His steps grew lighter. The earth beneath felt softer, his balance more precise.
"I think I've got it," Marin said. "This is... amazing."
"Good. Now try running. Slowly. Don't overdo it."
Marin grinned. He took a step, then another, then burst into a sprint—too fast.
"Kid, slow down!"
But it was too late. His foot caught a ridge, and before he could react, he slammed full force into a rock structure ahead. The stone cracked and exploded on impact. Dust and debris clouded the air.
Orien sighed. "You really don't do 'slow,' do you?"
Marin groaned, face-down in the sand. "I'm fine... I think."
Orien walked over and helped him up.
They both smiled while the desert wind carrying the sound into the empty horizon.