Rumors traveled faster than system messages.

  By the time Rourke finished sorting through his inventory and repairing his gear, Lena had already returned from the blacksmith with a message waiting for him: a friend of hers had reached out. Another village—farther north, deeper in NPC territory—was bracing for an attack.

  Raiders. Organized, brutal, and smarter than random mobs.

  There was no system-wide alert. No flashing red banners. Just quiet word of mouth and players who cared enough to listen.

  “They’ve hit three places in the last week,” Lena said as they walked. “Never the same group. Never the same time. Always fast. Always lethal.”

  “And no one’s doing anything?” Rourke asked.

  “The big guilds don’t care. There’s no loot in protecting outposts that don’t offer returns. Too far from the main hubs.”

  Rourke frowned. “So it’s just us?”

  Lena shrugged. “A few others. Players I trust. Some decent tanks. A couple mages. No real coordination yet.”

  They arrived at the village just before nightfall. It was a small place—maybe a dozen buildings, a well, and a watchtower cobbled together from planks and rope. NPCs moved nervously between huts, their idle dialogue laced with fear: “Will they come tonight?” and “We can’t afford to lose the grain stores.”

  Rourke saw the defenders—six players, scattered around the square. None wore guild tags. Some were low-level. All of them looked tired.

  Lena introduced him simply. “This is Rourke. He’s the reason I’m still breathing.”

  That earned a few nods. No one asked questions. No one needed to.

  The first warning came as a scream.

  Not a system ping or an NPC cry for help—just the sharp, panicked yell of a player stationed at the edge of the fields. A moment later, flames rose on the eastern side of the village, and shadows spilled into the crops like a tide.

  Rourke followed Lena as she sprinted to the front. The raiders were already advancing—players in mismatched armor, some on mounts, some cloaked, their usernames flickering with hostile red tags. There were a few monsters mixed in, likely charmed or paid off—slavering beasts and summoned creatures that moved with inhuman precision.

  No speeches. No formations. Just violence.

  The first clash was a blur. A young sword user tried to hold the gate alone and was immediately overwhelmed. Lena loosed two arrows before Rourke had even arrived, dropping one of the enemy’s summoned hounds.

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  He took his place behind the defenders and began casting.

  Minor Heal. Quick, rhythmic. He targeted the tank first, then the archer, then the frontline brawler trying to hold three enemies at once.

  His mana dipped. He used a potion without breaking his rhythm. His heart pounded—not from fear, but from focus. This wasn’t like the dungeon. This was chaos in the open air.

  Then the raiders pushed harder.

  Two players flanked the left wall, breaching a side path and sending fire arrows into the huts. NPCs screamed. A few defenders peeled off to help—but they were outnumbered, and injured.

  Rourke scanned the field.

  Too many wounded. Too little time.

  He took a breath and stepped forward.

  Mass Heal.

  The wave of golden light pulsed across the village square, washing over every defender within reach. Burns vanished. Bleeding stopped. Downed players stood back up, blinking in shock.

  The defense line stabilized.

  Someone whispered, “What the hell was that?”

  Rourke didn’t answer. He was already moving again.

  The tide didn’t turn.

  It bent.

  With Mass Heal resetting the field, the defenders dug in. Rourke moved like clockwork—dropping Minor Heals with precision, calling out when someone needed to fall back or when they could safely push forward. He didn’t bark commands, but people started listening. His presence gave structure to the chaos.

  Lena stayed mobile, pinning enemies with clean headshots and drawing pressure away from weaker defenders. She trusted Rourke’s range, timing her retreats to line up with his heals without ever needing to ask.

  They fought as if they’d done this a hundred times.

  At one point, a pair of raiders broke through the far line, making a run for the village granary. Rourke didn’t panic—he marked their path, shouted for a mage to cut them off, and moved laterally to heal the intervening defender.

  The granary held. The line held.

  One of the tanks turned to him mid-fight, breathless. “You coordinated this?”

  “No,” Rourke said, casting again. “Just patching holes.”

  But the truth was obvious. He wasn’t leading by title.

  He was leading by presence.

  As the final wave hit, the raiders began to pull back—disorganized and bleeding. Several were taken down in retreat. The summoned monsters vanished. Fire died out. The village square held its silence like a breath.

  It was over.

  No system banner appeared. No loot chest spawned.

  Just exhausted players standing together in the flickering torchlight, realizing they’d done what the bigger guilds wouldn’t.

  They had defended the helpless—and won.

  They didn’t disband right away. Someone passed out food. Someone else repaired armor using a basic kit. The tank who’d asked Rourke about coordination sat beside him now, wiping blood off his blade.

  “You ever think about forming a real team?”

  Rourke shook his head. “I’m not a guild leader.”

  “No,” Lena said as she approached, “but you’re something close.”

  The others joined slowly—six players who’d come to help because no one else would, now sharing food around a fire and talking like they’d been through something sacred. No grand declarations. No dramatic swearing of oaths.

  But when someone asked, “Are you all going to help defend the next village too?”

  Lena answered without hesitation.

  “Yes.”

  Rourke glanced around.

  No one argued. No one left.

  The tank leaned forward. “What do we call this?”

  There was a pause.

  Then Lena looked at Rourke.

  He hesitated, then said, “Outlanders.”

  Someone laughed. “That fits.”

  They didn’t assign ranks or roles. No emblems. No promises. But the name stuck.

  And when the villagers brought out bread and fruit and offered thanks, no one turned it down.

  They stayed the night in Greenhaven. What passed for an inn was little more than shared bunks and cold stew.

  It didn’t matter.

  They had held the line.

  And they weren’t done.

  —

  Rourke logged out late, muscles tense from hours of stillness. The hum of his neural interface faded, replaced by the soft buzz of the apartment light overhead. He sat there a moment, staring at nothing, letting the silence settle.

  The smell of something reheated drifted in from the kitchen. He padded in quietly, trying not to wake anyone, but Emily was already at the table, scribbling math problems onto a wrinkled worksheet.

  “You were on for a while,” she said without looking up.

  “Yeah,” he murmured, opening the fridge and pulling out a bottle of water.

  “Did you win?”

  He thought about that. The fire. The broken defenses. The way they held anyway.

  “Kind of.”

  Emily finally looked at him. “Did you do something important?”

  He paused at the question. Thought of the golden light spreading across the field. The way people had started listening. The way no one left after the fight was over.

  “I helped,” he said carefully.

  She nodded, satisfied with that answer. “Cool.”

  He turned to leave, then hesitated. “Hey, Emily…”

  She looked up again.

  “If anyone ever says the name Outlanders to you… just remember it started with six people and a healer who didn’t know what he was doing.”

  She grinned. “I’ll remember.”

  Rourke shut off the light on his way to bed.