The forest slowly began to thin.
After hours of walking and fighting smaller monsters along the way, Ren finally noticed a change in the landscape. The glowing trees grew shorter. The air felt less heavy. The distant sounds of beasts were replaced by something unfamiliar yet comforting.
Human voices.
He stopped at the edge of a hill and looked down.
Below him, a small settlement stretched across a clearing surrounded by broken wooden fences and watchtowers barely standing upright. Smoke rose from simple huts made of stone and patched cloth. A few torches flickered weakly even though the sun had not fully set.
It looked… fragile.
Not like the grand capital he remembered.
This place felt forgotten.
"…A village," he murmured.
For a moment, hesitation gripped him.
The memory of the kingdom's rejection still lingered like a scar. Humans had been the ones to abandon him. Humans had sent him to die. Walking into another settlement meant risking disappointment again.
But he was no longer the same man.
He adjusted the rifle on his shoulder and began descending the slope.
A sharp voice immediately rang out.
"Stop right there!"
Several figures emerged from behind the crude fence, raising spears and rusted swords. Their clothes were worn and mismatched, their expressions tense with fear rather than aggression.
They were not soldiers.
They were survivors.
Ren raised one hand slowly.
"I'm not your enemy."
The villagers exchanged uncertain glances. One older man stepped forward, his beard streaked with gray and his eyes hardened by years of struggle.
"No one comes to this place by accident," the man said.
"State your purpose."
Ren considered his answer.
What was his purpose now?
He could not call himself a hero. Not after what had happened. Not after the anger quietly growing inside his chest.
"I'm just someone who needs a place to rest," he replied at last.
The man's gaze shifted to the rifle.
Murmurs spread among the villagers. Weapons like that were rare even in the larger cities. Seeing such power in the hands of a lone traveler made them uneasy.
A child peeked from behind one of the huts.
"Grandpa… is he a knight?"
The question hung in the air.
Ren almost laughed.
"No," he said softly.
"I'm not."
The old man studied him for a long moment before lowering his spear.
"This is a village for those who have nowhere else to go," he explained.
"Exiles. Runaways. People the world decided to forget."
Ren felt something tighten in his chest.
He understood that feeling better than anyone.
"…Then maybe," he said quietly,
"I belong here."
The tension slowly faded. A few villagers approached cautiously, curiosity beginning to replace fear. Someone handed him a cup of warm broth. Another offered a blanket worn thin by countless winters.
Simple kindness.
It felt unfamiliar.
As night fell, Ren sat beside a small fire near the center of the settlement. He listened to the murmured conversations around him — stories of lost homes, failed dreams, and endless battles just to survive another day.
This place was not strong.
But it endured.
For the first time since his rebirth, he felt a faint sense of connection forming with the world around him.
Then a sudden scream shattered the quiet.
A lookout on one of the towers shouted in panic.
"Monsters approaching from the east!"
The peaceful moment vanished instantly. Villagers grabbed their weapons. Torches flared to life. Fear spread like wildfire across the clearing.
Ren slowly stood.
His hand moved toward the rifle.
It seemed his rest would have to wait.