Guardian: Derek Walker 4
A horde of orcs, each towering over 250 cm tall on average, charged toward the makeshift wooden palisade, hurling stones and swinging their clubs. Every time their thick clubs smashed down, the palisade posts crumbled.
To ordinary folk, orcs were like ironclad chariots pulled by brave warhorses—disasters that could only be barely held at bay by archers firing from atop thick barricades. With arrows running low now, it was only a matter of time before the front line broke.
Just as everyone in the village thought it was the end, the brown-haired woman drew a pair of curved swords from her waist.
Her body vanished in an instant.
"What?!"
Gibbs realized the woman wasn't just a beauty—she was a skilled mana user. She moved with effortless speed that surpassed human perception, the mark of a true master.
The dual-wielding beauty reappeared right in front of the tattered palisade. The muscle-bound orc horde erupted in excited cheers at the sudden arrival of such a stunning woman on the front line.
"Chwiik! Beautiful breeder! Kill and fuck!"
"Chwiik! Me first!"
"Don't kill her! She's my female! Chwiik!"
Orcs possessed rudimentary intelligence, mimicking human speech clumsily. Among the smarter ones, some even wielded shamanistic magic akin to spells.
The orc pack raised their groins stiffly and hefted their clubs. Luna's eyes swept over them once.
"Filthy trash."
The dual scimitars in Luna's hands sliced through the air. Her movements were swift and precise. The straight lines her blades traced formed beautiful arcs, bisecting the waists of the orcs charging from the left. The rogue orcs lunging at her were neatly severed into upper and lower halves, turning into true orc halves.
"Chwiik! Fast and strong!"
"You lot are slow and weak."
Luna moved like lightning. Her speed was such that one had to keep eyes unblinking just to barely track her. The overconfident orc that had boasted of ravaging her was reduced by half in under five minutes.
The village men, who had been desperately holding out behind the palisade, stared at her in bewilderment. It was as if a goddess had descended from the heavens to save them. In truth, Luna was as beautiful and powerful as any goddess.
"M-My god!"
"Is this a dream or reality?"
In just ten minutes, Luna had wiped out eighty percent of the orc horde that had overrun the village. The survivors finally grasped the overwhelming gap in power and began retreating.
"Chwiik! That female's too strong!"
"That's why I want her even more! We'll be back for sure! Chwiik!"
Luna sheathed her used blades back into the scabbards at her waist. Astonishingly, not a single drop of blood stained them. Orcs were too weak and slow to dirty her scimitars.
She returned to Walker's side in a flash, her movement akin to teleportation—just as when she'd sortied. In fact, no villager had properly caught sight of her path.
"All handled."
"Well done."
Walker praised her.
Gibbs, who had watched the entire scene from behind, gaped in shock. Even seeing it with his own eyes, he couldn't believe what had happened in ten minutes.
This was a miracle. Or rather, from his perspective, it wasn't quite a miracle.
'D-Damn it! I missed my chance to run!'
"Looks like it's more or less taken care of."
Walker muttered beside Gibbs. Drobin, the young leader of the village militia, waved as he approached Gibbs.
"Chief! We're saved! What in the world just happened?"
That was exactly what Gibbs wanted to ask. He stared at Walker with a bewildered expression.
"Th-These folks saved us."
"Ah! Thank you so much. I'm Drobin, leader of Allen Village's youth militia. Might I have the honor of your names, our benefactors?"
Drobin asked Walker politely—a refined manner impressive for a rural youth.
"Derek Walker, head of the Walker Merchant Company."
"Ah! So you're merchants. And the beautiful lady beside you...?"
"This is my maid, Luna. And this is the mercenary Parakellia."
Luna and Kelly bowed slightly toward Drobin.
"Luna."
"Parakellia. Call me Kelly for short."
A flush spread across Drobin's face. But he shook his head and composed himself.
"Ahem! Ahem! Chief, it seems rude to keep our benefactors standing."
"R-Right. Benefactors, please follow me."
Gibbs led Walker's group for now. Entertaining outsiders was one of the chief's duties, after all.
*-*-*
A cool breeze rustled through. The gracious wind gently caressed every being on the plains. Anyone who had set enemies on such open plains couldn't help but feel grateful for the wind's kindness.
"Squeak!"
The prey let out a final screech as it met its end. Nature was a cycle of predator and prey. For one to live, another had to die. This natural law governed the world, applying not just to humans but to orcs as well.
"A fine cool breeze."
Orcs were famed for their muscular builds among physical races, but even among them, this exceptionally burly giant orc muttered as he picked up the rabbit corpse with its head smashed.
The cool breeze stroking the plains soothingly quelled the heat risen from the hunt. Having secured a meal for the day, Bargo—as always—drew two small pebbles from the pouch at his waist.
These wondrous pebbles, obtained from a human merchant, sparked a small flame with a mere clash. To ordinary orcs, they'd be worthless junk unworthy of notice. But Bargo was different. He valued them so much he'd spared the human who offered them.
"Chief! Lighting a fire again, chwiik?!"
"I always think it, but the chief's tastes are weird. Just eat the raw meat—why bother burning it, chwiik?!"
"It's not burning. It's grilling."
Bargo lightly clashed the two pebbles. The flame-attribute enchantment on them activated. No grand spell—just a simple one to create a small spark, something even a magic tower apprentice could inscribe.
Yet to orcs utterly ignorant of magic, it was a kind of miracle. Of course, Bargo was the only orc who saw it that way.
"Firewood."
At Bargo's command, his left-hand man, Pyrbu, pulled dry logs from the leather bundle on his shoulder—prepared a day prior for easy ignition. Pyrbu's primary duty was carrying Bargo's gear.
Bargo kindled the fire with practiced skill and deftly prepared the freshly hunted rabbit.
"Everyone, prepare to eat."
"Chwiik! Fun mealtime!"
"I wanna stuff myself today! Chwiik!"
"Can't we raid a human village like the other tribes!? Humans hoard food! And human meat's supposed to be super tasty, chwiik!"
Orc tribes were never quiet, but mealtimes were especially rowdy. The only time louder was mating season.
For orcs, whose earthly pursuits boiled down to eating and fighting (in every sense), meals transcended mere sustenance into sacred rituals. For these simple folk, the ritual held particular weight.
Sharing and devouring the day's hunt fostered tribal bonds, ignited rivalry among warriors, and sparked romance between males and females.
To orc tribes, mealtimes and mating blurred together—a root cause of their freakishly high birth rates.
But Bargo's tribe was different. Their chieftain, Bargo, was fundamentally unlike other orcs. To his tribe, mealtimes were purely for recharging energy.
"Chwiik! Chief! I hunted well today, so lemme do it. Got a female I like! Chwiik!"
One tactless subordinate approached Bargo as he grilled. Bargo silently raised his head. The over-3-meter giant orc glared at the fool. Bargo's charisma shone most in his gaze.
"Chwiik! I-I'll shut up!"
The subordinate cowered on his own. Bargo lowered his eyes again. Lusting during meals was uncouth—that was why he'd banned what other tribes took for granted.
The savory aroma of rabbit wafted. Bargo sprinkled salt from his side pouch onto the meat.
His comrades, eating raw, got salt from blood and needed no such seasoning. Of course, Bargo's reason went beyond nutrition. It was for flavor.
"Chwiik! Dig in!"
"No mating, but eating's still fun! Chwiik!"
Bargo's tribe finished their meal in high spirits. Bellies full, the orcs claimed spots and began dozing. Eat, fight, sleep. A simple cycle repeated until death.
"Peaceful."
Bargo leaned against a tree casting a vast shadow—the human-called bloom tree. He closed his eyes beneath it.
Savoring peace naturally birthed inspiration. A poetry-composing orc—humans would flip if they knew.
From a human view, orcs embodied primal instincts: simple, greedy lifeforms, symbols of stupidity and dullness. "Like an orc" was a continent-wide insult.
Yet every group had mutants. Bargo was one. Gazing at the clear sky, he composed a poem in his mind. He'd made countless such verses, like stars in the heavens.
'I really should learn letters.'
Humans communicated face-free via script, passing knowledge down generations—the source of their potential and power.
'If I'd learned letters, I'd remember all my poems. Regrettable.'
As he lounged, idly watching drifting clouds, a green figure raced toward his group from afar. As chieftain, Bargo naturally rose.
"Who goes there?"
Definitely an orc like him. But from another tribe. Mallak Plains held over thirty orc tribes; Bargo's was just one.
Tribes shared a tenuous solidarity against the common human foe, necessitating occasional alliances.
Yet Bargo's tribe was an outlier. Unlike typical orc packs raiding villages at every chance, they never touched humans.
The sole human Bargo had dealt with was a passing merchant, whom he'd spared. He knew provoking humans led straight to orc extinction.
Thus, Bargo's tribe faced subtle ostracism among orcs. Not outright banishment, but clear disdain and discrimination. To others, they were just cowards.
Bargo called out to the approaching orc.
"Who are you!?"
"Chwiik! From Hamar Tribe! Important news!"