The rhythmic sound of hooves against dirt rolled through the village like distant thunder. Not loud—but heavy. Measured. Like the calm knock of fate before it kicks the door down. Each step of that warhorse echoed down the old paths like the ticking of a countdown clock.
Villagers paused mid-task. A farmer froze, sickle halfway through a stalk of rice. A potter dropped a jar—its crack swallowed whole by the silence. Even the wind, which had just been teasing laundry lines moments ago, now held its breath.
Then the mist parted.
A tall figure emerged—mounted atop a massive black warhorse. Rider and beast moved like one, wrapped in the same quiet dominance. The horse, jet black, was plated in dulled armor stained with the dust of distant lands. The rider? A weapon disguised as a man—tall, lean, built like a blade. Armor clung to him like a second skin, trimmed in silver and etched with runes of the royal order. A long blue cloak flowed behind him, its gold embroidery catching slivers of light.
He didn't move like someone returning home.
He moved like someone surveying a battlefield.
The village—usually half-asleep at dawn—felt wide awake now. Alert.
Before my brain could make sense of what I was seeing, a shout shattered the silence.
"BIG BROTHER, YOU'RE BACK!"
Kaito.
He tore down the road like a lightning bolt with limbs, arms flailing, voice slicing clean through the fog. His eyes were wide, glowing with something purer than joy—something close to reverence. Like a kid seeing a god step off the page of a storybook.
The shout was a matchstick to dry leaves. Windows creaked open. Faces appeared behind shutters.
And then the murmurs started.
> "Is that…?"
"Could it be Maito-sama?"
"The Demon Spear of the Eastern Front…"
The rider pulled his horse to a flawless halt. One tug of the reins. Immediate response. He dismounted in a single, fluid motion—like gravity obeyed him, not the other way around.
He removed his helmet slowly.
Sharp jaw. Piercing eyes. Dark blue hair, tied back, catching light like polished obsidian. And that smirk—unmistakable. Not warm. Not friendly. The Kasama family's mark. A grin that said, I know something you don't. And I never plan to tell you.
"You're still as loud as ever, Kaito," he said—voice smooth, deep, edged like drawn steel.
Kaito didn't care. He launched into him with a full-body tackle-hug, slamming into the man like joy incarnate. And for a moment—just a moment—something almost human flickered in Maito's eyes.
"Maito! It's really you!"
Maito Kasama.
Even the name stirred the air.
> "Maito-sama has returned."
"The prodigy of the Kasama family."
"An elite of the royal army."
"They say he tamed a wyvern battalion… alone."
"If he's here… we're safe."
Safe… or condemned.
The words hung between the breaths of every watching soul.
Then something strange happened.
I focused on him, expecting the usual flicker of my interface to kick in.
But—
Nothing.
> [System Error: Target exceeds Grade B+. Information unavailable.]
Grade B+. That's the line.
That's the threshold where 'strong' stops meaning 'human.'
My last battle with Ryoji nearly tore me apart—and he was already high Grade B.
But Maito…?
He stood beyond that. Somewhere in the zone where legends breathe. Where monster and hero are just two sides of the same coin.
I felt the gap between me and that level stretch like a chasm. Like trying to chase the moon barefoot—bloody soles, breathless lungs, and all.
Then his eyes turned to me.
And it wasn't warmth. Or curiosity.
It was calculation. Like a hawk eyeing its prey. Like a general measuring terrain before a war.
I froze.
"And who's this?" he asked.
No friendliness. No real question. Just assessment.
Kaito, still glowing like a sunrise, jumped in. "Big brother, this is Hiroshi! He's my friend—and guess what? He's the one who killed the Direwolf!"
Silence.
A woman dropped her basket of fish.
> "He WHAT?"
"The Direwolf?!"
"That thing was a Grade 3…"
"A mere student killed it?"
Maito's gaze narrowed, blade-sharp.
One step. Two.
Now he was in front of me.
"You?" he said. "You killed a Grade 3?"
I nodded. "…Yeah."
Nothing moved for a moment.
Then that smirk again. That dangerous, knowing grin. Like he'd just read the last page of a book we hadn't even opened yet.
"Interesting."
No praise.
No awe.
Just that word—laced with something that tasted like pressure.
Behind me, a door creaked open.
Ryoji.
He stood in the doorway, arms folded. Watching. Silent. Like he'd been expecting this moment. Like he already knew the tide had shifted—and he wasn't sure which way it would go.
Maito turned without another word.
"Father," he said. "Let's talk inside."
The two of them vanished into the Kasama household. Shadows swallowing them whole.
I stood beside Kaito, who was still vibrating with excitement.
"You don't get it, Hiroshi—Maito's a legend. Not just in the village. Everywhere. Scouted by the capital at fifteen. Led a platoon before twenty. They say he snapped a warbeast's spine with one spear thrust!"
I didn't answer.
I wasn't thinking about legends.
I wasn't thinking about awe.
I was thinking about that look in his eyes.
About the system refusing to even show me his stats.
Maito Kasama hadn't returned as a brother.
Or a hero.
Or a savior.
He had returned as a standard.