One of the shieldbearers, a quiet woman with a chipped axe and no patience for theatrics, gave a small nod. “We’ll try it your way.”

That was it. No praise. No gratitude. Just a simple agreement. And somehow, that meant more than applause.

The raids had changed. They were smarter now—coordinated waves that tested their timing and punished hesitation. Rourke had seen enough to know that healing alone wasn’t enough anymore. It wasn’t just about endurance. It was about synchronization.

Not them reacting to him. Them moving with him.

He stood at the edge of the training field, watching as the defenders ran drills. They simulated fallback formations, positioned for optimal line-of-sight, and practiced burst coordination. He didn’t shout. He didn’t lecture. He just gave the callouts, and they responded—sometimes clumsily, sometimes with precision.

It wasn’t perfect.

But it was better.

They weren’t treating him like the soft-spoken tagalong anymore. They were treating him like someone whose word mattered.

That was all he’d wanted.

Midday, Rourke logged out.

The silence hit like a wall. His headset came off, and the hum of the apartment settled in—dishwasher cycling in the background, faint voices from the TV in the living room, Emily’s laughter drifting through the hall.

Normal life. Still waiting for him.

He leaned back in his chair, joints stiff from hours in-game. For a long moment, he didn’t move. Just breathed. Let his heart slow.

His mom passed the doorway, a folded towel in one hand. She paused, gave him a warm but tired smile, then kept walking. No questions. No pressure. Just... presence.

He appreciated that more than she’d ever know.

Dinner was quiet. Emily told a story about something funny at school. Dad grumbled about tech support calls. Rourke nodded along, said just enough to seem present. But his mind drifted. Not because the game was more important—just louder. Sharper. In-game, his choices mattered second to second. Out here, everything moved at a slower rhythm.

After dinner, he washed up. Helped his mom clear the table. Sat for a bit while Emily watched videos. Then, when the apartment had gone still and night had fully taken hold, he logged back in.

The village was calm.

Practice drills were already underway. One of the defenders gave him a silent nod as he spawned in. Another tossed him a spare potion, no words exchanged. Rourke caught it, gave a quiet nod back.

He moved into position. No one asked him where to stand.

They already knew.

The raid hit just past midnight.

No warning. No buildup. Just torchlight on the western ridge and the first clash of steel.

Rourke was already casting.

They moved like they’d practiced—measured, disciplined, tight formations curling around the fallback point he’d marked earlier. His Minor Heals came quick, sharp pulses, timed between steps as fighters repositioned. When the first wave hit, he dropped Mass Heal—perfect timing. The front line held.

No panic. No breakdown.

Someone got separated—he saw it, called it, adjusted. A triangle shift snapped the formation back into place. They closed ranks before the raiders could exploit the gap.

Rourke didn’t shout. He didn’t freeze. He just moved.

Mass Heal again—this time after a delay, timed to catch a second group of defenders rotating in. They’d talked about it earlier that week. “Delay two seconds on the second pulse,” someone had said. “Let them catch up.”

It worked. Clean. Coordinated.

When the last raider fell, no one cheered.

But someone clapped him on the back.

Another passed him a flask. A third just gave a quiet nod, eyes meeting his for half a second.

It was enough.

They didn’t worship him. He wasn’t a hero. But they trusted him now. Not because of titles or gear—but because he’d shown up, again and again, and done exactly what he said he would do.

That trust? It felt better than any system reward.

Rourke exhaled slowly, letting the fatigue settle over him.

For the first time since starting this class, he didn’t feel like he was catching up.

He felt like he belonged.