Orcs Hate Flashbacks
Sudden, but orcs hate flashbacks. I used to be human. Well, more precisely, in my previous life.
What? Where'd that bombshell beauty knight go, and why the hell are you suddenly spilling my life story? Everything's gotta have an order to it. I was striking all sorts of dramatic poses, even laying down some fancy monologue, so if I don't seize this chance to dump my backstory—my one and only shot—I'll never get to flashback again. I get it. Sure, I know the "whoa! hot knight lady, hehe" vibe is tempting, but don't you wanna know stuff like, "Huh? Why're you living alone in the woods?" Or who the hell I am and why I live like this? You've gotta have at least that much context, right? Honestly, there might be folks who couldn't care less about me. People are different. But this? This I'm not budging on! If you just wanna "hehe" your way through, go watch some porn instead!
...What am I even monologuing to myself for? Nobody's listening anyway. Anyway, I don't even remember when exactly, but the day before I was reborn here, like clockwork, I jerked off hard to some Hitomi before bed. Woke up to blinding light, thinking it was morning, but my mom—who always lazed around—was nowhere. Instead, some fang-protruding Shrek and Princess Fiona types were grinning viciously at me, like they were gonna pierce the sky with their teeth.
At first, I thought it was a dream, but the goosebumps crawling over my skin felt way too real. Open my eyes, and that hideous grin freaked me out. Close 'em, and this shitty new reality hit me. That whole day, I swear I'm not lying, I bawled my balls off.
Crack an eye, and I'd see my orc dad's pleased gaze, sending chills down my spine and fresh tears flowing. He'd prod me for food, thinking I was hungry, and try to shove a tit in my mouth—cue even bigger chills and louder wails. If my balls had actually dropped that day, it'd have been a mercy.
The old saying that a loud cry means general material? Turns out it holds up in the modern world or fantasy—didn't matter. The second I weaned off the tit, my orc dad decided he'd raise me as the next great warrior. While other kids toted candy, I lugged a club. While peer orcs played tag, I had a bleeding slab of meat strapped to my back, playing life-or-death tag with a bear hot on my heels.
Hell, I probably grabbed that bear's paw more than my own mom's hand. Once, I wondered if my previous-life parents were worried about me. But after entering the forest, no time for that—worries about them flipped to worries about my own ass the second that bear showed up.
Early on, I'd get clawed and nearly bitten, but orc bodies are nuts. Muscles developed fast, recovery was top-tier—even a broken pinky toe healed in half a day. Once I adapted to the bear's patterns and strength, I started teasing it while running, turning it into my personal game.
Would you believe a kid playing strong-arm with a bear? I lived it, so yeah. Meanwhile, what kind of dad tosses his not-even-toddler son to a bear? The prick would watch me flee yelling, "Don't run! Fight back!" Classic fantasy parenting—over-the-top as hell.
...A few weeks later, back in the village, I saw the local orc brats sucking on random shit and nearly cracked my thick club over my dad's knee. Of course, visions of my bean sprout skull and spine getting yanked out stopped me.
But this dad's antics didn't end there. He'd perch on trees or peaks, munching while watching me get chased. At mealtimes, he'd force-feed me snakes or poison weeds crawling the dirt. Once I got good at evading the bear, he'd toss me in the woods and sneak off to the village for some sloppy makeout with the hot orc MILF next door (...). I bided my time, snitched to mom, and that night? Learned bears aren't the only ones who can rip a man apart.
No bullshit—dad's left arm got torn clean off. Took days to reattach the mangled stump, but it healed like magic.
Dodging that bear like a roach fleeing Raid, I started getting why folktales have kids reverse-sweeping bears and tigers. Hell, maybe some ancestors were orcs. That's how chill I got—until I found the bear dead.
Not by my hand—old age. It was already twilight years when I showed up. A few more of my teasing chases, and stress accelerated the decline. Human equivalent? Died of rage-stroke.
Sudden death of my playmate bear—what now? My "panties"—that pathetic rag—weren't cutting it, so I skinned it, draped it like Woody, and strutted back. Cue village feast.
Dunno why, but later I figured: rumors spread I solo'd the bear unscathed, unlike the club-waving peers. Elders hyped me up like I was headed to space in a Tesla. Local orc kids picked fights at first, thinking I was bluffing, but after forced dental work, they whimpered off. Dad loved his son disciplining the youth, so no interference. Just when I thought life'd ease up...
I was the orcs' enemy. Not like arch-traitor or arch-nemesis. These tribal fuckers trash-talk hard, but word spreads village-wide—hell, species-wide—like some orc forum. Any cocky punk flocks to the "famous spot" (me) for a challenge. They eyed me like battlefield kills, so yeah, personal enemies.
Rumor of a kid solo-bear-slayer spread continent-wide. Big-shot orcs swarmed our village to check. Remember my ball-dropping parental freakout? One morning, stretching outside, I faced a horde of jacked orc studs huffing at me like horny gays.
Shocked me like Macaulay Culkin in Home Alone—screaming my lungs out. Warm bear-pelt sleep was nice, but wake to ancient orc fossils here for "newbie training"? Terrifying.
After that, nonstop brutal brawls with shameless orcs. They screamed honor and glory but ganged up on a kid like petty thugs. I'd bolt without looking back. Honor? One-on-one, bitches—why the coordinated beatdown?
Finally escaped childhood forest for peace, but these psycho orcs chased me back like salmon upstream. Beating one kid? Worth the trek—they pursued relentlessly.
Perverted freaks. No proper sleep those nights. Nod off? Primitive "ugga-bugga" with dick flopping from leather thong swings a club at my head.
Mealtime? Pops from underground. Flee to mountains? Boulders rolling like avalanches. Worst perv: lurked in a pond—tiny puddle, not a lake—till I drank, thinking he was hidden. Mud in his breather, he frog-jumps out boiling; I forehead-smashed with a rock.
Days in, I starved and fatigued, but survival instinct kicked in. Body evolved—solo muscle gains, adult-orc strength—without proper food. Smashed the skull of a backstabber, starting my real fights against thinking foes.
Club guy? Clubbed back. Machete? Gut-punched. Rock-thrower? Returned with interest.
More days, roles reversed—I hunted them. Vented grudges, smashing all in sight. Soon, only me standing unscathed in the woods. Beat every challenger!
Challengers—embarrassing term, but they came for blood.
Smashed the dojo-breakers; now solo peace! Nope—years later, human-demon king tensions peaked. Perfect timing: rising star, future great warrior, orc supernova me gets drafted. No resistance—like a leaf in the wind.
Ah, fuuuck, really even here?