Sell Sword

The morning air hung thick with mist, the faintest sunlight beginning to pierce through the haze that enveloped the village of Eldermire. At the edge of the cobbled square stood Ren Valter, silently observing the assembling group of villagers who were nervously clutching crude weapons and worn armor. Ren shifted slightly, feeling the familiar weight of a rusted short sword strapped awkwardly at his side—a hand-me-down from one of the militia guards. The blade felt unfamiliar yet reassuring, a symbol of his newfound resolve.

Ren glanced at his rough, calloused hands, reminders of a life spent tilling fields and hauling harvests. Life had always been tough in Eldermire, but lately, bandit attacks had turned mere hardship into a desperate struggle. When the baron's men announced an expedition to eradicate the bandit threat, Ren had immediately volunteered. It wasn't heroism that drove him, but something deeper—a quiet defiance against the helplessness that had long plagued him. The memory of his home burning and the fearful cries of villagers haunted his nights.

"Nervous?" came a gruff voice from his right.

Ren turned to see Toren, a stout farmer in his forties, gripping a spear fashioned hastily from farm tools. The older man had been like an uncle to him, patient and steady through countless harsh winters and blistering harvest seasons.

"Maybe a little," Ren admitted quietly, adjusting his grip on the sword hilt.

Toren chuckled softly, lines creasing around his eyes, "Good. Nerves keep you alive, boy. Just remember, stick with the group and keep your head down. Watch the veterans—they know how to handle themselves."

Nearby, other villagers whispered anxiously, some exchanging stories or prayers, trying to find comfort in familiar rituals. Among them was Darek, a broad-shouldered blacksmith whose powerful arms usually shaped horseshoes rather than weapons. Next to him, Ella, a wiry woman known for her skill with herbs and healing, tightened the straps on her small leather satchel, determination etched deep in her features.

A few feet away, village militia members checked their gear with a practiced but tense routine. Ren noted the quiet competence in their movements; though mere E-ranks according to his newfound system, they still stood taller and moved more confidently than the untrained peasants around them. Ren found himself unconsciously mimicking their careful preparations, feeling an odd sense of kinship and solidarity.

A sudden commotion at the front drew Ren's attention as Sir Gerald, the Knight sent by Baron Alric, stepped forward. His polished armor caught the early sunlight, making him appear almost otherworldly. The aura of confidence and power around him was unmistakable, his stats clearly far above anyone else present. Ren felt a small pang of envy mixed with awe as his strange, secretive system flashed before his eyes, displaying Gerald's overwhelming strength. Strength and dexterity scores blazed intimidatingly, far surpassing anything Ren had imagined possible.

"Listen up," Sir Gerald's voice resonated clearly, authoritative and firm, cutting through the murmurs effortlessly. "This isn't an easy task, but we can rid Eldermire of these parasites once and for all. Stay together, follow my orders, and we'll come back victorious. Understood?"

A murmur of agreement rippled through the gathered villagers, their voices blending into a single determined chorus.

"Form ranks," Sir Gerald commanded, beginning to lead them away from the village, his steps measured and confident.

As the group began their cautious march into the forest beyond Eldermire, Ren found himself walking alongside Lyra, a girl from his village who had often worked fields beside him. Her long hair was tied back tightly, and a determined set in her jaw mirrored Ren's own resolve. Lyra had always been resilient, facing hardships with quiet strength that Ren had admired from afar.

"Think we'll make it back?" Lyra asked quietly, her eyes darting nervously between the shadowy trees that loomed around them.

Ren took a deep breath, choosing honesty over hollow reassurance. "If we stick together and trust each other, we have a chance."

She nodded, comforted by his steady tone, and offered a faint smile. "I trust you, Ren. You always knew how to keep calm when things went wrong."

The sincerity in her voice strengthened Ren's resolve further. He glanced briefly around at the faces of his companions—farmers, laborers, old and young—all bound by the singular purpose of protecting their home. Each face held a mixture of fear and determination, a reflection of Ren's own conflicted emotions.

The village militia formed a protective ring around the group, alert and vigilant. Their presence provided a thin yet reassuring barrier against the unknown threats lurking within the forest. Ren quietly assessed his own stats, reflecting on his limited abilities: 

〚 Strength: 4

〚 Dexterity: 6

〚 Endurance: 5

〚 Intelligence: 5

〚 Perception: 6

—barely above average but potentially enough to survive, if he stayed careful and observant.

The sun rose higher, its rays piercing the mist and bathing the woods in an eerie golden glow. Birds sang obliviously, their songs mocking the tension-filled silence of the marching villagers.

"Eyes sharp," Sir Gerald called from the front, his voice steady yet edged with urgency. "We're entering enemy territory."

Ren gripped the hilt of his short sword tighter, feeling its worn leather binding bite into his palm. Every step deeper into the forest seemed heavier, each heartbeat louder, anticipation mixing with dread. Whatever came next, he was ready—ready to fight, ready to survive, ready to become something more than just another helpless villager.

As the villagers and militia ventured deeper into the dense forest, Ren took a moment to silently reflect on the strange power he'd recently acquired—the system. It was a curious ability that allowed him to perceive numerical representations of his and others' abilities, strengths, and potential. The whole thing felt surreal, like a bizarre dream he couldn't shake off, yet it was undeniably real and tangible.

Ren quietly murmured to himself, summarizing what he understood of the mysterious system so far, hoping to cement his grasp on its mechanics.

"Strength measures raw physical power," Ren muttered softly, careful not to attract attention. "Dexterity represents agility, speed, and precision. Endurance determines stamina and toughness. Intelligence seems connected to magical or mental capabilities, and perception reflects awareness of surroundings and people."

Feeling increasingly curious, he discreetly glanced toward Lyra, who walked steadily beside him, her brow furrowed with concern. Ren recalled many occasions when she'd impressed him with her quick wit rather than her physical prowess. A quick mental command displayed her stats clearly before his eyes.

"Lyra," Ren whispered softly, reading the numbers silently. 

〚 Strength: 3

〚 Dexterity: 5

〚 Endurance: 4

〚 Intelligence: 6

〚 Perception: 5

She was slightly weaker physically but sharper mentally. Her stats suggested she relied more on wits than raw strength—a strategy Ren deeply respected. It comforted him knowing Lyra possessed an intellect that could guide her safely through perilous situations.

Next, Ren turned his attention to the nearby militia members, carefully studying their demeanor. Their collective presence provided the group with a sense of security, their disciplined movements radiating confidence. He quickly assessed the nearest militia guard, a seasoned fighter named Marcus, whose broad shoulders and steady gaze projected authority and experience.

"Marcus," Ren observed, eyes narrowing slightly.

〚Strength: 26

〚 Dexterity: 24

〚 Endurance: 25

〚 Intelligence: 6

〚 Perception: 8.

Their physical prowess was undeniably superior, reflecting countless years of training and real combat experience, but their mental stats were only marginally higher than his own. Ren concluded that while they were undoubtedly proficient in combat, they were not Mages—useful allies in battle, but not fireball slinging old men.

Ren's gaze shifted ahead, toward Sir Gerald, who strode confidently at the group's forefront. Sir Gerald was an imposing figure, clad in meticulously polished armor, and his mere presence seemed to inspire courage among the group. Ren concentrated for a brief moment, revealing Gerald's formidable stats. The realization prompted a brief pang of envy and profound admiration within Ren.

"Sir Gerald," Ren noted internally, breath hitching slightly at the magnitude of what he saw. 

〚 Strength: 62

〚 Dexterity: 58

〚 Endurance: 60

〚 Intelligence: 10

〚 Perception: 12 

This knight existed on another level entirely—more than ten times Ren's own strength. He was clearly their strongest asset, a reassuring ally yet also a stark reminder of Ren's modest capabilities. The gap between them was vast, yet Ren found himself strangely motivated rather than discouraged.

Suddenly, Ren's assessment was violently interrupted. A chorus of wild shouts erupted from the trees, arrows whizzing through the air, embedding themselves into trees and shields. Panic instantly swept through the villagers, cries of alarm mingling with hurried, frantic orders. Confusion reigned as villagers and militia scrambled to form a cohesive defensive line.

"Bandits! Defend yourselves!" Sir Gerald bellowed, instantly drawing his sword with practiced ease, his voice cutting clearly through the chaos and grounding everyone in the immediate reality of danger.

Ren barely had time to draw his rusted short sword, adrenaline surging through his veins. Bandits, a ragtag mix of F and E ranks, emerged swiftly from their hiding spots, brandishing crude weapons and bearing expressions twisted by desperation and aggression. Their numbers were greater than Ren anticipated, creating a daunting spectacle of violence about to unfold.

"Stay together!" Ren shouted instinctively, moving protectively closer to Lyra. His voice resonated clearly despite the surrounding turmoil, a surprising strength in it that he hadn't expected from himself.

A large, rugged bandit lunged toward Ren, brandishing a heavy club with vicious intent. Ren ducked swiftly, his high dexterity saving him from a crushing blow. Reacting quickly, he swung his sword upward, the rusted edge catching his assailant off-guard, leaving a shallow but painful wound across the man's arm. The bandit roared in pain and stumbled backward momentarily.

"Hold the line!" Sir Gerald roared from ahead, effortlessly dispatching bandits who dared challenge him directly. His overwhelming stats allowed him to dominate his foes, bolstering the villagers' courage. Each swift movement of Gerald's blade was precise, methodical, and devastatingly effective, inspiring awe and renewed resolve in those around him.

Ren quickly checked on Lyra, who had cleverly positioned herself behind a fallen log, thrusting her makeshift spear defensively at approaching enemies. The sight of her holding her own strengthened Ren's determination.

"Stay alert," Ren urged her urgently, his heart pounding like a war drum in his chest. "We can make it through this. Just stay close!"

Lyra nodded resolutely, her eyes reflecting both fear and determination, her knuckles whitening around the spear. Ren turned again to face the chaos, gripping his sword tightly, knowing that survival now depended entirely on quick thinking, unity, and resilience in the face of overwhelming odds. The reality of battle had found them at last, and Ren knew this clash would test them in ways they had never imagined.