It begins with hooves. Not just a few, either. A dozen, at least, stomping down the dirt path like a badly coordinated musical number starring donkeys with anger management issues. The sound is chaotic, thunderous, and deeply uncivilized. Dust spirals into the air in great, choking clouds, announcing their arrival like an apocalyptic rooster call.

  The goat lifts her head, chews thoughtfully on something that may or may not be a sock, and resumes chewing with the resigned expression of someone who has simply opted out of caring.

  Ren is outside. Of course he is. Planting something, probably. Carrots, maybe. Or cabbages. Or daisies. Possibly hope. The boy seems to collect it like stray pebbles.

  He hears the hooves and, true to form, does not panic. He doesn’t even frown. He simply brushes the dirt off his hands with a soft pat, squints at the horizon, and tilts his head like a man waiting for guests who have shown up three hours early and forgotten to bring snacks.

  I, meanwhile, am propped inside the window, positioned with all the dignity of a lawn ornament that’s been cursed with awareness. From here, I can see it all—the charging riders, the dust, the vague outline of trouble wearing leather armor and questionable facial hair.

  The lead bandit has a scar across one eye. Not a cool one. Not the kind that says “I won a duel.” This one looks like he got into a bar fight with a squirrel and lost. His companions aren’t much better—tatty cloaks, mismatched weapons, and a collective aura of poorly planned bad decisions.

  “Alright, old man!” Scarface yells, puffing himself up like an aggressive pigeon. “This here’s a toll road. Hand over your coin, your goods, and your livestock—or else!”

  Ren, bless him, doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t run. He just blinks once and says, “But this is my front yard.”

  Scarface grins. “Then consider it a premium location tax. For occupying our walking space.”

  I hum. Not with delight—though I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t a little thrilled—but with anticipation. This is it. My moment. The fire in my forged bones rises like a storm long held in check.

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  Let me at them. Let me taste blood. Let me reintroduce the concept of *regret* to these bargain bin villains.

  Ren, however, chooses violence in a different way.

  He smiles.

  “Would you like a sandwich?”

  There is a silence so thick even the dust seems to pause. The bandits blink. One of them—who had been picking his teeth with a rusty dagger—lowers his hand slowly.

  “What?” Scarface grunts.

  “I made extra,” Ren explains, already pulling wrapped bundles from his satchel with the gentle flair of someone offering gifts to forest spirits. “They’re mushroom and leek. Vegetarian, but hearty.”

  I am aghast. Outraged. Offended on a molecular level.

  This is not how battle begins. This is how tea parties start.

  Yet, somehow, impossibly, it works. The bandits stare. Then one of them steps forward and—hesitantly, like the sandwich might explode—takes it. He sniffs. Takes a bite. Blinks.

  “It’s... warm,” he mutters.

  “Warm and slightly peppery,” Ren beams. “I didn’t skimp on seasoning.”

  Another bandit follows. Then a third. By the time the fourth begins to sob into his bread, something about missing his mother’s turnip stew, I have reached a level of psychic pain that defies understanding.

  Scarface clears his throat, attempting to salvage the remains of his authority. “We’ll, uh… just take the food and be going, then.”

  “Of course,” Ren says, cheerful as ever. “Here, take a few extra. And if you go west, there’s a stream. Nice place to wash up.”

  They leave. No blood. No fighting. Just lunch and unsolicited travel tips.

  I am incandescent with disappointment.

  And then, of course, the system chimes in. Its tone is chirpy, saccharine, and deeply punchable:

  [Quest Completed: Resolve Hostile Encounter Nonviolently]

  [Reward: +2 Heart, +1 Local Reputation, +1 Affection (Bandit Leader)]

  [New Title Acquired: The Soft Blade’s Wielder]

  The Soft Blade’s Wielder.

  I was the last breath before war. The fang of rebellion. The apocalypse in alloy form. Now I have a *title* that sounds like a bedtime story written by a grandmother with access to scented candles.

  Ren strolls back into the house not five minutes later, looking pleased. He picks me up with the same gentle care one might reserve for a sleeping kitten or a very nervous cake.

  “You did so well out there,” he murmurs.

  I did nothing. I was window decor during a hostage negotiation powered by hospitality.

  And yet…

  A notification glows across my mind.

  [New Passive Ability: Aura of Reassurance – Nearby Allies Regain +1 Morale Per Minute]

  I hum.

  He thinks I’m purring.

  The goat snorts like it wants to change species.

  And me? I sit there, burning with frustration and something else. Something quieter.

  Could kindness be a weapon?

  Could I be wielding it?

  One sandwich at a time.