The war drums had been beating for as long as I could remember. Steel clashing, banners burning, comrades shouting until their throats bled dry. If I closed my eyes, I could still hear the endless roar of demons and men colliding under a sky too red for comfort.
But today… today I wasn't there.
Instead, I was walking away.
My name is Kael Branthorne, thirty-six years old. Once a proud soldier of the Royal Frontline Regiment, now nothing more than a deserter with an aching back and a really, really strong urge to never swing a sword again.
Yeah, that's right. I quit.
Not because I was too weak, not because of cowardice… well, maybe a little cowardice. But mostly because I was just tired. Tired in my bones, tired in my heart.
"Let the young ones do the hero stuff," I muttered, hiking through the thick woods. "I've had enough of Demon Lords, endless campaigns, and watching friends die for a king who doesn't even remember my name."
There was no grand betrayal. No dramatic duel against my commander. I simply slipped away under the cover of night, leaving behind a tent, a sword, and a letter that just said, 'Sorry, I'm done.'
…Yeah, they're probably hunting me right now.
But even deserters deserve a chance at happiness, right?
The forest air was different. Fresh. Alive. I didn't have to smell blood or steel. Just earth and pine needles. My armor clinked with every step, but it already felt alien to me. Like I wasn't supposed to wear it anymore.
I stumbled into a clearing and spotted a gentle slope leading down to a small river. The water sparkled in the sunlight, and the grass swayed lazily in the breeze.
"…This'll do."
I dropped my pack with a grunt and sat down by the riverbank. For the first time in years, I wasn't thinking about the next battle, the next strategy, the next death waiting to come knocking.
I was just… sitting.
It felt weird.
Too quiet.
"Ah, dammit," I muttered, scratching my beard. "So this is what freedom feels like? Just me, the birds, and the existential dread of not knowing what the hell to do next?"
I leaned back and sighed.
Maybe I'd build a hut. Plant some vegetables. Hunt for food.
You know… the whole "slow life" thing.
I could almost see it. Me, old Kael, the hermit who traded his sword for a plow. Maybe someday I'd be known as that strange guy who lives in the forest and grows surprisingly tasty potatoes.
…That wouldn't be so bad.
The problem was—I didn't actually know how to do any of that.
I tried, though. Gods know I tried.
Step one: Fishing.
I tied a string to a stick, stuck a bent nail on the end, and tossed it in the river. I sat there for hours. Not a single bite.
Step two: Foraging.
I grabbed some berries I thought looked edible. They weren't. Spent the rest of the night with stomach cramps, cursing my poor life decisions.
Step three: Shelter.
I stacked logs together and called it a "hut." Five minutes later, the whole thing collapsed on top of me.
"…So this is it, huh?" I groaned, lying under the heap of sticks. "Kael Branthorne, thirty-six, war veteran, decorated soldier… dies crushed under his own incompetence."
Not exactly the heroic ballad I had in mind.
It was on the third day of my glorious slow-life attempt that I heard it.
Heavy footsteps.
The ground shook with each one, and birds scattered from the trees. My soldier instincts screamed danger. Without thinking, I grabbed the rusted sword I'd sworn to abandon.
From the treeline, a massive figure emerged.
An orc.
Green skin, tusks jutting from his mouth, muscles bigger than my entire torso. He carried a crude axe slung over his shoulder and wore pelts around his waist. His yellow eyes locked on me the moment he stepped into the clearing.
Well. So much for peace and quiet.
"…Human," the orc growled. His voice was deep, rough, like boulders grinding together.
I swallowed hard. "Orc."
We stared at each other.
Any sane person would've run, screamed, or tried to fight. But I was too tired for any of that.
"…You here to kill me?" I asked bluntly.
The orc tilted his head. "You live here?"
"Trying to."
"…Pathetic hut."
"…Yeah," I admitted. "I'm not really cut out for this whole survival thing."
There was a pause. Then—unexpectedly—the orc barked out a laugh.
"Hah! Human with no skill. You fight war?"
"Yeah. Quit though."
The orc squinted at me. "Quit… war?"
"Yup. Too old for that crap."
"…Strange human."
I shrugged. "Strange orc."
And just like that, the tension broke.
The orc walked past me, dropped his axe, and knelt by the river. With practiced ease, he speared a fish with his bare hands, pulled it out, and tossed it onto the grass.
"Dinner," he said simply.
I blinked. "…You, uh… sharing?"
He grunted. "You starve otherwise. Pathetic human."
"…Thanks."
And so, under the fading light of day, I sat by the river with an orc stranger, roasting fish over a small fire.
Not exactly the peaceful solitude I had planned. But… it wasn't bad either.
Maybe, just maybe, my so-called "slow life" was already beginning.