The sound of waves still lingered, but softer now, as if the sea itself had grown tired after last night's raging storm. The beach shimmered under the morning sun, while flocks of strange birds darted through the endless blue sky.
Lying among the sand was Ren. His body was drenched, his face half-buried in grit, and his school uniform barely resembled clothing anymore—it looked more like a rag soaked in seawater.
Minutes passed before rough voices broke the silence.
---
"Oi, there's someone here!" a hoarse man barked.
A group of men emerged from the treeline. All of them carried crude weapons—rusty swords, short spears, and bows with frayed strings. Their clothes were patched and torn, their faces hardened, scarred from countless battles.
"Hah, a kid?" One crouched down and slapped Ren's cheek. "Still breathing."
"Where'd he come from? Clothes look weird. Like a failed jester."
"Haha, no kidding. But look at his body—no wounds, no bruises. He washed up after that storm last night? No way a normal brat could survive that."
Another grunted. "So what? Kill him, toss the body, done."
The burly man who seemed like their leader raised a hand. "Hold it. Boss might be interested in a brat like this. Let's ask who he is first."
---
Ren groaned faintly. His eyelids twitched before slowly opening. Bright sunlight forced him to squint, and confusion clouded his mind. He wasn't in his room. He wasn't even on familiar land.
Strangers surrounded him—armed, dangerous strangers.
Ren blinked at them for a long moment. Then…
"Oh. So this is heaven? Huh… everyone's ugly."
The bandits froze. A few seconds passed in silence before shouts erupted.
"WHAT DID YOU SAY, BRAT?!"
Ren weakly lifted his hand as though surrendering. "Sorry, sorry. Maybe I misheard myself. Or… wait… is this hell? Hmmm. Doesn't feel hot enough."
Some of the men gawked. Others nearly lost their tempers.
"Little shit!" One shoved his sword to Ren's face. "Answer properly, brat! Who are you? Where'd you come from?"
Ren stared at the blade for a long moment, then nodded seriously. "My name's Ren. I came from home."
"…Home?"
"Yeah. The place with fried rice."
Silence.
Then laughter exploded.
"BAHAHAHA! This brat's out of his mind!"
"Fried rice, he says! Hah! He's gone crazy!"
Ren blinked, dead serious. "What? Fried rice is no joke, you know. Don't underestimate it. It's the national treasure of my heart."
The bandit with the sword snarled. "You think this is a market stall, brat?"
Ren beamed. "Oh, is it? Then I'll order while I'm at it. Fried rice, one plate, extra spicy, sunny-side-up egg on top."
---
The bandits were torn between laughing and gutting him on the spot.
The oldest among them frowned. Something wasn't right. This brat wasn't acting like a normal person. Any sane kid would be shaking, crying, begging for mercy if surrounded by armed bandits. But Ren? He was calm. Carefree. Even joking.
Those eyes… empty of fear. Foolish maybe, but not afraid.
---
Ren slowly pushed himself up into a sitting position. His hair stuck in clumps, his clothes were ruined, yet he still smiled innocently.
"Eh, are you guys tourists? Camping here?"
One of the bandits almost choked. "Tourists?! We're bandits, you moron!"
"Ohhh." Ren nodded with exaggerated awe. "Bandits… so you actually exist. I thought you were just in movies. Wow, can I take a photo with you?"
"YOU LITTLE SHIT!" The bandit roared and swung his sword.
Ren froze. His eyes widened—not in terror, but instinct. His body moved before he thought. Hands clenched, feet shifted, weight tilted forward.
The goofy grin vanished.
His face turned sharp.
The bandit faltered, shocked to see this brat suddenly adopt some kind of stance, fists raised like he was about to punch the sky.
Ren shouted with absurd confidence:
"Super Ultra Galaxy Dragon Fist!!!"
The other bandits blinked.
"What the hell?!"
"Is he serious or just insane?!"
Ren glared straight ahead, eyes blazing with reckless determination. "If you want a fight… then bring it! I'm not scared!"
And just as the bandit swung his blade down again—
---
—darkness.