Fantasy's Flower: The Orc?
It's a bit different from your typical orc, but anyone who saw it would agree it looked plenty scary.
Wait, but the face? It's not that different from my original one. Aside from a bigger nose and sharp fangs poking out past the lips... it's just me.
Ah, I get it now. So that's how scary I look deep down.
It hurt my feelings a little. Fine, thanks. For showing me my true self.
With a pang of resentment, I tore the Cinematic Card .
And just like that, I was thrust into an unimaginable experience.
If I'd known it'd turn out like this, no matter what the reward was, I never would've torn that cinematic card or whatever it was.
On a vast, rugged plain stretching endlessly, hundreds of men lounged on the midway slope of a hill, passing the afternoon.
All of them were hulking brutes with sun-bronzed skin and arms thicker than the average man's thigh—pure muscle monsters.
And it wasn't just their muscles that were monstrous. Their looks were straight out of nightmares too.
Heads a full size larger than a human's, massive boxer noses, fangs twice as long as ours that slipped out even with closed mouths.
These were all males of the orc race.
And there I was, plopped down casually among them, looking no different from the rest.
This place was Urkmanistan, known as the orc plains. So vast you couldn't even guess its size, dotted with countless orc tribes.
The one I belonged to was Kok Bour—the Blue Wolf, a pretty cool name.
They called me Temir Bas. In orc tongue, "Iron Head." Basically, a clueless brute with no smarts to speak of.
Getting called dumb by orcs, of all people? A bit unfair, but looking back on my life so far, I had nothing to say in my defense.
In this unfamiliar land, I really was a total know-nothing brute.
Dropped right into the middle of orcs out of nowhere—who wouldn't be clueless about local customs or the environment?
Thankfully, orcs were pretty forgiving toward their own kind when it came to food and survival. No issues there.
If not for their custom of hauling hunt spoils back to the village for a festival-like butchering and sharing, I'd have been starving nonstop.
So why the hell was I here? Using the cinematic card had turned me into the village's resident loser orc.
Everyone knew me, but I knew none of them. I panicked at first.
Luckily, Temir Bas wasn't some standout figure. Only a few paid me any mind.
And those few who approached and chatted answered my questions faithfully.
Seems original Temir Bas was a bit slow; they didn't bat an eye at questions any long-time villager should know.
Thanks to that, I blended in without much fuss.
My first feeling? Pure shock.
I'd figured a cinematic card meant watching a movie—or maybe a super-immersive one.
But getting shipped to another world? No clue if this was real or some high-level VR, but damn, it felt real.
Nothing seemed fake. Eating, seeing, hearing—it matched reality perfectly.
Fine, being isekai'd for a vivid adventure? Cool.
But days dragged on with me just trailing the orc herd, watching hunts like a tourist.
None of what I'd expected—like conquering fantasy races as written on the Costume Card .
No elf conquests for hot elf pussy, no beastkin hunts for beastgirl sex, no dragon-slaying for dragon dickings...
Hmm... Maybe I had to achieve it myself? Finish the scenario by banging some interracial babe, like past AV Master experiences?
Makes sense, right? The intro even mentioned a quest:
- Use the provided cards to create an awesome work.
"Work" means porn, obviously. With me as orc lead, interspecies ravishment fits.
But easier said than done.
First hurdle: zero clue on orc habits. One wrong move, and trouble brews.
Quest fail? Or worse.
So for now, focus on adapting.
One worry: When do I get out and back to reality?
Day three already. I'm AWOL from work nonstop.
Probably fired. Eh, paycheck's no biggie, but I liked the job.
Minus that bitchy team leader lately, it was solid.
Whatever. Cross that bridge later.
Priority: Clear quest, return.
So I became one of the orcs. Quest solution's gotta be there.
Orc life was monotonous. Like today—lounge in plains, hills, lakesides till prey shows, then charge.
They hunted anything: rabbit-sized eye-bunnies to massive Hipatos herds that'd shame elephants.
Sometimes tough; dozens charge, most get wrecked.
Then hundreds more pile in. Reckless? Only word for it.
Today too. Garganquia flock thundering like an earthquake—ostrich-like flightless birds, giraffe-sized, hyena-vicious predators.
More like carnivorous dinos than ostriches—long-necked T-rex vibes sans forelimbs.
"Tupa!"
The biggest orc hefted his axe, bellowing. Mangod, the group's loose leader.
"Tupa!"
Orcs raised weapons skyward, chanting back. Wave of Tupa! spread like wildfire. Epic sight, even from the center.
"Tupa!"
Excitement surged; I stood and yelled with them.
My voice? Louder than the rest. Hundreds roaring, yet mine dominated?
Nah, imagination.
Suddenly, all eyes on me. Even Mangod. They looked pissed...
Imagination, right?
"Tupa!"
They roared tenfold louder. Mad at my volume? Spooked, I yelled softer next time.
They ignored me. Relieved.
Garganquia herd closing in, individuals visible. They veered, spotting us as lunch.
Orcs' eyes gleamed.
"Tupa~"
Outskirts orc charged first. No hierarchy—whoever's closest dives in, battle starts. Chain reaction.
In under five minutes, hill cleared—brave orcs swarming the flock.
Left: Dozens of young orcs. And one adult: me.
Me, always. Any world, unchanged.
Safety first. No way I'm axe-in-hand dinosaur-diving like those idiots.
Coward label? Fine. Not my real life.
"Whoa!"
"Kill 'em!"
"Tupa!"
Kids jumped up, thrilled watching adults risk it all. Dreaming of joining the charge someday.
Whatever. If they rush prematurely, not stopping 'em. Not my kids.
War ended. Not a hunt—full war.
Over ten orc warriors Garganquia chow. Dozen more with irrecoverable wounds.
Amputees limping back on crutches, a bit down—but just that.
No despair over a limb. Turns out, orc arms regrow. Lizard-level regen, primitive as hell.
Trade-off: Twenty-six Garganquia carcasses. Ton-plus each—month's food secured.
Post-hunt, I sauntered to the site, helped haul. Fair for shares.
Orcs shared freely, even with spectators like me pitching in minimally for festival access.
Wandering orcs sometimes joined; tribe accepts as brothers, no strings. Tradition. Impressive brotherhood.
Hauling back: Festive. Bragging feats. Me? Struggling under rope-draped weight.
Village feast erupted. Barbarians, but preferred grilled over raw—piled wood, fire roaring, carved bird chunks roasting.
I snagged a leg, grilled it. Damn good. No salt, yet gourmet-tier.
Got why they risked it.
Sigh... Do these guys even use their brains, or just charge blindly?