The group entered the town cautiously.

From a distance, the towering walls gave the impression of a mighty fortress, but once past the gates, the reality was far less impressive.

The houses were simple—mostly wooden structures with a few cracked concrete buildings scattered around. The streets were paved, though time had left them uneven and broken.

It was hard to gauge this world's technological level—a strange blend of antiquity and modernity.

Despite being "heroes" sent by the gods, there were no cheers or celebrations waiting for them.

The streets were eerily quiet.

The only sounds came from hushed whispers behind shuttered windows, where wary eyes peeked out, filled with curiosity and suspicion.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, shadows stretched across the town, making the already somber atmosphere feel even heavier.

The group, however, seemed unfazed. They laughed and chatted like nothing was out of place.

All except Finn. He walked with his head down, dragging his feet beside Daion, avoiding eye contact with the villagers.

The tension in the air thickened—until a sudden burst of laughter broke the silence.

Daion turned his head.

In a nearby alley, a group of children were playing—except their "toys" were old helmets, rusted rifles, and battered spears. The weapons were real, but the kids treated them like they were nothing more than playthings.

Jack noticed Daion's interest and stopped beside him, watching.

At first, the children didn't seem to notice them. But then, one by one, their laughter died down as they realized they were being watched.

Their expressions shifted. Curiosity turned into wariness.

A boy—grimy-faced, dressed in ragged clothes—stepped forward, gripping a rifle that looked heavier than he was.

He locked eyes with Daion, his voice firm despite the slight tremble in his hands.

"What are you staring at, Summoned?"

Daion felt a pang of pity.

"...Are you guys okay?"

The children exchanged glances, momentarily caught off guard by the question.

The boy with the rifle lowered his weapon for just a second. There was fear in his eyes, but also defiance.

"Don't be stupid." His voice wavered, but he forced himself to sound tough. "What do you want? Here to screw us over again?"

Jack took a slow step forward, brows furrowed at the boy's words.

Before he could speak, the kid raised his rifle again—and pulled the trigger.

Click.

The empty chamber echoed in the alleyway.

Daion flinched, his heart pounding.

When he looked up, the boy was smirking.

"Heroes?" he scoffed, his voice dripping with bitter amusement. "Yeah, right. Just a bunch of cowards."

He turned away, rejoining his friends.

Then, with a casual flick of his hand, a brick flew straight toward Daion.

By pure instinct, Daion dodged just in time, the brick whizzing past his head.

The boy's laughter rang out behind him.

"You should leave." His tone was sharp. "We'd be better off without you."

The group stood in stunned silence.

Daion clenched his fists. Not just because of the hostility—but because of what he had just witnessed.

Telekinesis...?

How the hell had the kid done that?

But more than that... a much darker question gnawed at him.

What had the previous heroes done to make these children react like this?

A memory surfaced—the hooded man looting corpses, unbothered, like it was just another task.

And then, Daion remembered the words of that god.

Nothing special.

They weren't chosen.

They weren't heroes.

Just a bunch of unlucky bastards who had the misfortune of dying.

Jack was the first to break the silence.

"Let's go."

Daion exhaled, forcing himself to move forward.

As they walked, the villagers' murmurs followed them like ghosts.

Jack smirked slightly. Daion noticed—but chose to ignore it.