EPISODE 4: Rage and Wounds

The gold badge engraved with the scale and crossed swords lay on the small wooden table in Zenoda's room, catching the light of a full moon that crept in through the window. Several days had passed since Master Vivaldi's convoy departed from Kaigan Village, yet the echo of the merchant's offer continued to revolve endlessly in the fifteen-year-old's mind.

"Would you consider visiting the city of Koreson?"

Those words seemed to carry a magic of their own. Since that day, Zenoda had spent his hours in a state of quiet restlessness. To silence the discomfort gnawing at his thoughts, he threw himself into extreme physical training. Behind the rocky cliffs where no villager could see, he pulverized enormous boulders with his bare fists, ran up mountain slopes for hours without stopping, and let his body be drenched entirely in sweat.

But he wasn't doing it to grow stronger. His body had already inherited Transcendent Physical Strength. He trained solely to drown out the noise inside his own head.

In the evenings, once fatigue began seeping into his human muscles, Zenoda sat on the edge of his bed and stared at his own hands — now calloused from rough labor.

"Should I leave this home to see a wider world?" he asked the silence of the night.

In his previous existence as Ursilium, he had seen the entire order of the universe laid bare before him. But seeing from atop a cosmic throne was an entirely different thing from setting one's feet directly on ground that was dirty and soaked in blood. He had reincarnated to experience true adventure. Koreson — the kingdom's central city on this continent — surely held things he would never find in this quiet coastal village.

"But... what about Father and Mother?" his thoughts fractured in another direction. "If I leave, will they be alright? They are the people who gave me the warmth of a family. Leaving them feels... wrong."

His heart felt as though it had been split cleanly in two. On one side, there was a fierce, surging longing to push past his own limits and explore the vast world beyond. On the other, there was an emotional anchor called family, binding him firmly to Kaigan Village. This kind of turmoil was entirely new to the former God. It was a thoroughly human dilemma — and for reasons he couldn't quite name, it made him smile with quiet bitterness before sleep finally took him.

The next morning, the sunrise brought its familiar routine. The coastal air was fresh and clean. Zenoda was already in the backyard with his father, Brunt. Winter was drawing close, and the village's supply of firewood needed to be stocked up without delay.

THWACK. THWACK.

The sound of an axe splitting wood rang out in steady rhythm. Brunt swung his axe with labored breaths, while Zenoda split the logs with machine-like precision — though he deliberately slowed his rhythm so as not to appear too conspicuous.

"You seem unfocused today, Zeno," Brunt remarked, wiping sweat from his forehead. "Still thinking about that merchant's gold badge, are you?"

Zenoda stopped mid-swing and looked at his father. "I'm just... thinking, Father."

Before Brunt could respond, the sound of light footsteps and a cheerful call broke into their conversation.

"Zenoda! Uncle Brunt! Good mooorning!"

Both of them turned. Leaning on the wooden fence of their yard stood a teenage girl with reddish-brown hair in two braids, wearing the light leather attire of a beginner adventurer. Her name was Annesia — one of Zenoda's peers in the village, and one who harbored serious ambitions of becoming a great adventurer someday.

"Morning, Anne," Brunt greeted her warmly. "Early visit today. What brings you?"

"Ah, Uncle Garrick sent me!" Annesia waved toward Zenoda. "Zeno, Uncle Garrick wants you at the Guild training ground. A few groups of new adventurers from outside the village showed up, and he's overwhelmed. He's asking if you can come help him train and supervise them today."

Zenoda planted his axe into the side of a large log. He knew well that Garrick often relied on his sharp combat instincts to evaluate passing adventurers. Sometimes, outsiders caused trouble, and Zenoda's presence was reliably effective at tamping down any chaos — without anyone needing to uncover his true identity.

"Understood, Anne," Zenoda answered calmly. "Tell Uncle Garrick I'll finish stacking the firewood here with Father first. I'll head over to the training ground this afternoon."

"Yes, Boss!" Annesia gave an exaggerated salute, then jogged away from their yard toward the center of the village.

After finishing his work as the sun reached its peak, Zenoda cleaned himself up and prepared to head out. He went to his room. He put on no iron armor, no expensive equipment — only a dark linen chemise and cloth trousers comfortable enough for free movement.

Before leaving, his gaze fell on a weapon resting in the corner of his desk. It was a short dagger — not a powerful magical blade, but a piece carefully crafted by the village blacksmith that he had maintained with meticulous care. Its blade was the length of his forearm, sheathed in a black leather scabbard. Zenoda picked it up and strapped it to his lower back, concealed neatly beneath his short outer cloak.

That afternoon, the air over the dusty training ground behind the blacksmith's forge felt hotter than usual. Not because of the sun, but because of the tension that had already built among the people gathered there.

When Zenoda arrived, Garrick was standing with his jaw clenched, visibly restraining his anger, facing a group of unknown adventurers. In another corner, Annesia was sitting with three young outsiders who looked awkward and uncertain.

"Oh, Zeno! Thank the gods you're here," Garrick exhaled with relief, as though a great weight had been lifted from his shoulders. "Come here, son."

Zenoda's arrival immediately drew the attention of the unfamiliar group. They were five adult men, their bodies covered in old scars. Their equipment and gear made it clear these were no rookies. Between them they carried a great sword, a pair of dual axes, and a worn magical staff.

"Uncle Garrick, are these the ones I'm supposed to be working with today?" Zenoda asked in a flat, emotionless tone, his gaze sweeping over the five rough-looking men.

At his question, one of the men from the group — apparently the leader, a bald man with a long scar running down his face — let out a sharp, contemptuous snort.

"Hah?! Hold on a second, old man," the scarred man fixed Garrick with a hard look. "You're joking, right? This runny-nosed brat is supposed to train us? The Iron Fang — who've slaughtered dozens of monsters on the southern border?!"

"Watch your mouth, Dargan!" Garrick snapped, the veins in his neck rising. "In Kaigan Village, age doesn't determine skill. This boy's technique surpasses all five of you put together!"

The man called Dargan spat on the dusty ground, as though his pride had been ground beneath someone's heel. "Tch! We came to this backwater village to rent a training facility and find an experienced instructor — not to be made a laughingstock! We refuse to be trained by some kid who isn't even old enough to drink!"

Garrick balled his fists, prepared to draw his broadsword and teach those arrogant adventurers a lesson personally. But before he could step forward, Zenoda raised his right hand, signaling Garrick to stop and stay out of it.

With measured, unhurried steps, Zenoda moved to the front. His face displayed nothing — no fear, no nervousness, not even the faintest flicker of offense. That absolute calm, paradoxically, only made the five grown men in front of him feel even more thoroughly disrespected.

"So then," Zenoda's voice flowed evenly, cutting through the heat simmering over the training ground, "you genuinely refuse to be trained?"

"Obviously not, you little wretch!" one of Dargan's companions carrying the dual axes shot back. "This is an insult to us!"

Zenoda gave a slow nod, as though carefully filing that information away in his head. His eyes then shifted to the far corner of the ground. Near Annesia stood three other young adventurers around his own age — part of the outside group, but ones who had kept their distance from the Iron Fang's posturing from the start.

Two young men: Karham, a quiet-looking spear user, and Ziryal, an archer with a sharp, attentive gaze. Beside them, a gentle-faced girl who used healing magic named Linaya. All three were watching the situation unfold with tense expressions.

"You three," Zenoda addressed Karham, Ziryal, and Linaya directly. "You're not joining their refusal?"

Karham shook his head quickly. "N-no. We're independent adventurers. We were only traveling the same road as them. We're happy to follow this village's rules."

"Good," Zenoda turned back to Garrick. "Uncle, please take Anne and those three away from the center of the ground. Pull back at least ten paces behind the boundary line."

Reading the look in Zenoda's eyes as they began to darken, Garrick understood exactly what was coming. He immediately guided Annesia, Karham, Ziryal, and Linaya to the edge of the training ground, opening up a wide, clear space in the middle.

Now, in the center of the dusty training ground, it was only Zenoda facing five fully armed adult men.

"What exactly is this supposed to be, boy?" Dargan curled his lip in a dismissive sneer and drew his great sword from its sheath. The screech of metal rang sharp through the air. His four companions began to draw their weapons as well. "You're challenging us? Think you're the big hero of this little village?"

"I only want to see," Zenoda replied conversationally, both hands still resting loosely at his front, "whether your arrogance matches your ability. Come on then. I'll let you strike first."

That provocation was the spark that detonated the Iron Fang's fury.

"Kill him! Teach this village a lesson!" Dargan roared.

In an instant, all five adult adventurers charged forward.

And at that moment, Zenoda registered something: these men were genuinely not amateurs. Unlike reckless fighters who attacked blindly, the five of them moved with lethal coordination. They spread out rapidly, forming a perfect encirclement. Two men swept wide to cut off any escape route from the flanks, the mage at the back began chanting a binding spell, while Dargan and the dual-axe user drove straight at him from the front.

Zenoda clicked his tongue quietly.

His main problem at this particular moment was that his mind was still weighted down by the question of his future — his focus was fractured. On top of that, he was working hard to suppress his transcendent physical strength to keep up a convincing appearance of being human. He had dialed his speed all the way down to its lowest setting.

When Dargan swung his great sword in a vertical arc aimed at Zenoda's head, the young man tilted his body aside with ease to avoid it. What he failed to account for was the dual-axe user suddenly dropping low from a blind spot to Zenoda's right, sweeping the sharp edge of his axe sideways at Zenoda's ribs.

At the speed he was currently simulating — that of an ordinary human — the movement was too fast to avoid.

SLASH.

The axe blade tore through Zenoda's linen chemise and bit into the skin along his right side.

Time seemed to freeze.

To the onlookers at the edge of the ground, it was a fairly deep graze. But to Zenoda, it was a phenomenon that shook the very foundation of his existence.

Fresh red blood seeped through and spread across his shirt. And then — the sensation arrived.

Heat. Pain. A sharp, stinging, pulsing burn.

Zenoda's eyes flew wide open. His heart hammered hard, pumping blood to the torn area. His human nervous system sent screaming signals of danger directly to his brain.

This was pain.

In the billions of years of his existence as the Supreme God Ursilium, not a single thing in all of space and time had ever been able to pierce his skin, let alone draw his blood. He had watched mortal creatures whimper and weep from injury countless times, without ever truly understanding what it felt like from the inside. In the prologue of this life, he had longed for exactly this. He had wanted to feel it.

And now he felt it.

It was terrible. It was torturous. But at the same time — the pain ignited something. A primitive emotion that had lain sleeping at the very bottom of his soul for all eternity.

Pure, unfiltered rage.

Zenoda staggered one step back, pressing a hand to his bleeding side.

"Hahaha! Got you, kid!" Dargan's laughter burst out as he sensed the advantage shifting his way. "Told you not to play games with real adventurers! Now get on your knees and beg—"

Dargan's sentence was cut off by the aura that suddenly detonated from Zenoda's body.

In a fraction of a millisecond, the air across the entire training ground grew heavy, as though gravity itself had been yanked toward the black-haired young man standing at its center. The eyes that had been so calm moments ago were now as sharp as an executioner's blade. He was no longer remotely interested in suppressing his speed to human levels.

He was genuinely angry.

His hand moved behind his back. He gripped the handle of his short dagger. But he did not draw the blade from its scabbard. He left it sheathed, using the rigid leather tip of the scabbard and the iron pommel of the handle as blunt weapons instead.

BZZZT.

Without the sound of a single footstep, Zenoda's figure vanished from the sight of all five men.

"What—?!" Dargan hadn't even begun to process what was happening when Zenoda's figure materialized directly in front of him — appearing from the blind side created by the arc of Dargan's own falling great sword.

With a rotation of his hips that detonated pure kinetic force, Zenoda drove the iron pommel of the dagger handle squarely into Dargan's solar plexus.

BOOM.

The sound of the impact was like a steel mace demolishing stone. Every particle of air in Dargan's lungs evacuated instantly. The large man vomited blood, his eyes rolled back in his head, and his body was hurled five full meters before it crashed through the wooden fence, shattering it. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.

The other four froze in shock — but before their brains could issue a single command, Zenoda's shadow was already moving again.

THUD. CRACK. SLAM.

He was too fast. Too efficient. Too brutal.

Zenoda leaped, snapping the dual-axe user's knee sideways with a kick, then catching the man's jaw on the upswing with the tip of the scabbard. The second man crumpled. He rotated in the air, ducking beneath the simultaneous strikes of the two flank attackers, then drove the pommel into the back of each of their necks in quick succession. They dropped face-first into the dust like puppets whose strings had been cut all at once.

The mage in the back had just finished chanting his spell and had barely raised his staff when the sheathed dagger appeared against his throat. Zenoda's cold gaze drove straight through his eyes and into his soul.

"I-I-I..." the mage stammered, his entire body shaking, and dropped his staff — then simply fainted from pure psychological terror before Zenoda even had the chance to strike him.

Less than five seconds had passed.

Five veteran adventurers of the Iron Fang lay sprawled and helpless across the ground, bleeding and covered in dust.

Zenoda stood in the center of the training ground. His breathing was slightly elevated. He could feel the blood still flowing from his right side, the pain still sharp and present — but the fury in his chest was slowly ebbing, giving way to a new and particular understanding of the fragility of a mortal body. He slid the dagger back into its sheath at his back.

At the edge of the ground, Karham, Ziryal, Linaya, and Annesia stood perfectly still with their mouths hanging open. What they had just witnessed had completely short-circuited their rational minds.

Zenoda turned toward Garrick. His face had returned to its usual flat expression, though it was slightly pale from the effort of suppressing the pain.

"Uncle Garrick," Zenoda said coolly, gesturing toward the five men groaning in the dirt, "their arrogance is a poison. Men like these will put a blade in a comrade's back for a handful of gold coins. Drive them out of the village. Don't let them set foot in Kaigan again."

The words came out like the absolute decree of a king.

Garrick was silent for a moment, gazing at the five adventurers writhing in pain. But contrary to what Zenoda expected, the bearded adventurer shook his head slowly.

"No, Zeno," Garrick answered, his voice low and measured.

Zenoda's brow drew together sharply. "Why? You'd let thorns take root in our village?"

Garrick walked over to the unconscious Dargan and crouched down, looking at the arrogant man's face. "When I look at them... I see myself when I was young," Garrick said, his gaze drifting somewhere far away. "I was a volatile, arrogant young man who thought he could conquer the world. I nearly died countless times because of that arrogance, and I got a lot of people who called me friend killed because of it. If the people of Kaigan had only driven me out without giving me a second chance, I'd probably be rotting in a gutter in Koreson by now."

Garrick stood and met Zenoda's eyes directly. "They were beaten thoroughly, and you've shattered their pride, son. Under my guidance — and with the fear you've just planted in them — I believe they can become better adventurers. Let me take responsibility for the risk."

Zenoda went quiet. He absorbed Garrick's words carefully.

In his past life, if any entity had dared defy him, the consequence was total erasure from the cosmic order. But humans, it turned out, held a complicated concept called redemption. Garrick was choosing a far harder path than simply discarding the problem.

The young man exhaled slowly, pressing his hand against his wounded side. He understood the decision, even as his divine instincts pushed back against it.

"Very well, Uncle. I respect your choice," Zenoda said at last. "Do with them as you see fit."

Zenoda turned and walked with a slight limp toward the edge of the training ground. He stopped in front of Annesia and the three young outsiders, who were still staring at him with expressions caught somewhere between awe and fear — particularly Linaya, the healing mage, whose eyes hadn't moved from the bloodstain spreading across Zenoda's shirt.

Zenoda forced a thin smile onto his face.

"Sorry to keep you all waiting," he said, his voice sliding back into the easy warmth of an ordinary village youth. "Anne, Karham, Ziryal, Linaya — get ready. We're starting your training now."

That day, the first physical wound Zenoda ever received did more than draw blood. It dismantled the invisible wall that had stood between his existence as an untouchable god and his new reality — a reality in which he could be hurt, could feel rage, and could learn what it meant to have compassion for others.

And somewhere deep within him, the doubt that had kept him awake the night before began to find its answer.

This world was painful enough to matter.

And because of that — it was absolutely worth exploring.