On their way out, they passed the group in matching armour. Up close, they were impressive — well-fitted plate and chainmail, quality weapons, the easy physicality of people who trained daily. Lira leaned in.
"Silver rank. The Greymarch Company. Best mercenary outfit in Millhaven."
Yuki studied them. Solid builds. Good gear. Alert eyes. The kind of people who would have been elite soldiers in his old world.
One of them — a big man with a scarred jaw — noticed Yuki looking and nodded. Professional courtesy between armed strangers.
"They're considered strong?" Yuki asked once they were outside.
"Very. They cleared a wyvern nest last season. Lost two members doing it."
A wyvern nest. Yuki had killed a dragon — a true dragon, larger and more powerful than any wyvern — in forty seconds. Alone. Without using most of his abilities.
He didn't say anything. But something shifted inside him. A quiet, cold confirmation of what he'd suspected since the dragon fight.
They're strong by this world's standards. And this world's standards are...
He didn't finish the thought.
The razorback pack was denning in a ravine about an hour north of town. Yuki and Lira walked — she had a horse but left it, saying she wanted the time.
She talked. He listened. She told him about growing up on the caravan routes — moving from town to town, never staying long enough to make friends that stuck. About her mother, who'd died when she was young. About her father, who showed love through logistics and trade margins because he didn't know how else.
"He likes you," she said. "That's rare. He doesn't like anyone who can't turn a profit."
"I sold dragon scales. I can definitely turn a profit."
She laughed. Then went quiet for a moment.
"Why won't you tell me where you're really from?"
The question was soft. Not an accusation. Just someone asking to be let in.
He walked a few steps in silence. The grassland stretched around them. Warm wind. Distant birds.
"Because the truth sounds insane," he said. "And I don't want you to think I'm crazy."
"Try me."
He looked at her. Green-gold eyes. Open face. She meant it.
"Not today," he said. "But soon."
She held his gaze. Nodded once. "I'll hold you to that."
They found the ravine. Lira took a position on the ridge — high ground, bow ready, clear sightline. Yuki walked down the slope toward the den.
The razorbacks sensed him before he reached the bottom. Eight of them, emerging from a shallow cave in the ravine wall. Same species as the ones that had attacked the caravan — bone-ridged spines, heavy jaws, built for coordinated pack hunting.
They spread out. Flanking formation. Smart, for animals.
Yuki drew his sword and waited.
The alpha lunged first. Big — half again the size of the others, a ridge of bone spurs running from skull to tail.
One thread tracked the alpha. One tracked the flankers. One monitored Lira's position. One managed reinforcement.
He didn't need thought acceleration. He didn't need spatial magic. He didn't need any of it.
The alpha reached him. He sidestepped and cut it from shoulder to hip in a single stroke. It was dead before it hit the ground.
The pack faltered. Yuki didn't.
He moved through them the way water moves through rocks — fluid, unhurried, inevitable. A cut here. A thrust there. Each strike precise, minimal, exactly enough force to kill and not a fraction more.
Eight razorbacks. Maybe fifteen seconds.
He stood in the ravine with his sword dripping and eight dead wolves around him and felt... nothing. No adrenaline. No fear. No exertion. His breathing hadn't changed. His heart rate hadn't spiked. It had been less stressful than his morning walk.
He cleaned the blade and sheathed it.
A sound from above. He looked up.
Lira was standing on the ridge with her bow at her side and her mouth open. She'd drawn an arrow at some point. Never fired it. Never had time.
"Fifteen seconds," she said. Her voice was strange. Thin.
"About that."
"You killed eight razorbacks in fifteen seconds."
"They weren't very coordinated."
"A Silver-rank party would take twenty minutes to clear that den. With injuries. With planning." She was staring at him. Not the teasing curiosity, not the warm nervousness, not any of the smiles he'd been cataloguing. Something else. Something closer to awe, edged with the first real hint of fear. "What are you?"
He looked up at her on the ridge, backlit by the afternoon sun, bow slack in her hand, and knew he'd revealed more than he'd intended. The caravan fight could be explained away — a skilled swordsman, lucky timing. This couldn't. Eight razorbacks in fifteen seconds with a flat pulse wasn't skill. It was something else entirely.
Should have held back more.
Too late now.
"I told you," he said. "The truth sounds insane."
She climbed down the slope. Stood in front of him, among the dead wolves, and looked up at his face. She was shaking. Not from cold.
"Are you dangerous?"
Honest question. She deserved an honest answer.
"Yes," he said. "Very."
She processed that. He watched her do it — watched the fear flicker, hold, and then slowly subside as she weighed it against everything she'd seen. The man who'd saved the caravan. Who'd sat by the pond and talked about missing home. Who'd eaten two bowls of stew and looked grateful for it. Who was awkward and evasive and clearly, deeply lonely.
Dangerous, yes. But not to her.
"Okay," she said quietly.
"Okay?"
"Okay." She straightened. Took a breath. Met his eyes. "You're going to tell me the truth eventually. Whatever it is. I can wait."
Something cracked in his chest again. That same thing from the road — the wound that had been tight for months, loosening one thread at a time.
"Thank you," he said. He meant it more than she knew.
They walked back to Millhaven in the late afternoon light. Lira's shoulder bumped against his twice. She didn't move away either time.
He turned in the quest at the guild counter. The administrator checked the report, verified the kill count, and stamped his record.
"Eight razorbacks. Solo. In one engagement." She looked up at him. "You sure you want to stay Iron rank?"
"For now."
She held his gaze for a moment, then shrugged and filed the paperwork.
Yuki pocketed his five silver — pocket change next to his dragon gold, but it felt different. Earned in this world's system. A first step.
On the way out, he passed the Greymarch Company again. The scarred man watched him cross the room and said something to his companions that Yuki didn't catch. They all looked over.
Professional curiosity. Maybe more.
Word travels fast in a small town.
He'd need to be more careful. Or accept that careful wasn't going to work forever.
Outside, the evening was warm. Millhaven hummed with end-of-day energy. Lira was waiting for him by the door.
"Dinner?" she asked.
"Yeah."
They walked to the Copper Hearth together. Her hand brushed his once. He didn't pull away.
Upstairs, after the meal, he stood at his window and looked out over the town. Lanterns flickering in windows. People moving through the streets. The low murmur of a world that was alive and complicated and full of things he didn't understand yet.
He thought about the Greymarch Company. Silver rank. The best in Millhaven. A wyvern nest had cost them two members.
He'd killed a dragon in forty seconds and eight razorbacks in fifteen and hadn't broken a sweat doing either.
I'm not just stronger than them. I'm not even playing the same game.
The gap wasn't a gap. It was a chasm. A canyon. The distance between a campfire and the sun.
He pressed his forehead against the window glass and closed his eyes.
So what do I do with that?
No answer came. The town hummed on beneath him, oblivious to the seventeen-year-old god sleeping in its cheapest inn.