The next morning, I woke to the smell of meat roasting.
My first thought was: Did I somehow get good at this overnight? My second thought was: Wait… no. Of course not.
Sure enough, there was Borgu, crouched by the fire with some kind of wild boar leg skewered on a branch as thick as my arm. He was humming to himself—a deep, rumbling sound that rattled in his chest like thunder.
I sat up, rubbing my face. "…You've been awake long?"
"Since dawn," he replied casually. "Hungry. Went hunting."
I glanced at the boar leg. "…With what? You don't even have a weapon."
Borgu grinned, showing those sharp tusks. "These are weapon." He flexed his massive hands.
I decided not to ask further questions. My sanity was fragile enough already.
Breakfast was good, though. I hated to admit it, but orc cooking was leagues better than my "burnt fish and crushed berries" routine.
As I chewed, Borgu squinted at me. "You need muscle."
"I have muscle," I protested, jabbing at my arm.
He snorted. "That twig? Hah."
"…I was a soldier for fifteen years, you know."
"Yes," Borgu said bluntly. "And now you soft."
I nearly choked on my food. "Soft?!"
"Too much sitting. Too much sighing. No training. Body forgets fast." He tore another hunk of meat and chewed noisily. "We fix. Training start today."
I blinked at him. "Excuse me? Who decided that?"
"Chief," he said, pointing a greasy finger at me.
"For the last time," I groaned, "I am not the chief."
He ignored me.
And that's how I ended up running laps around the clearing while Borgu barked orders like a drill sergeant.
"Faster!" he shouted. "You run like sleepy donkey!"
"I'm—thirty-six!" I gasped, stumbling through the dirt. "This—body—doesn't—!"
"Excuses!" Borgu roared, stomping along behind me. "Again!"
By the time we were done, my lungs were on fire and my legs felt like jelly. I collapsed onto the grass, sweat dripping down my forehead.
"Good," Borgu said, satisfied. "Tomorrow, more."
"…I'm going to die," I wheezed.
"Better than dying slow with weak body," he replied cheerfully.
I hated that he had a point.
Later that day, I tried chopping firewood again. This time Borgu hovered nearby, arms crossed.
"Hit center. Straight. Not like drunk chicken," he instructed.
I glared at him, raised the axe, and swung. The blade sank cleanly through the log with a satisfying crack.
"…Oh," I muttered. "That… actually worked."
Borgu nodded. "Better. Still bad. But better."
I wanted to strangle him and thank him at the same time.
By evening, we were sitting around the fire again. Borgu was carving something from a bone, and I was nursing my sore arms.
"You complain too much," he said suddenly.
"I do not," I muttered.
"Yes," he insisted. "But… you try. That good."
I glanced at him. Was that… praise? From Borgu Meatfist? Well, mark the calendar. "…Thanks," I said awkwardly.
He grunted, and that was that.
The forest was quiet, save for the crackle of fire and distant crickets. I leaned back, feeling almost… peaceful.
And then the bushes rustled.
Borgu froze, nostrils flaring. "Something coming."
I sat up, hand instinctively reaching for the rusty sword I'd stashed by the fire. My heart thudded in my chest.
Branches parted.
Out stepped… a girl.
Or rather, something girl-shaped, with long ears peeking out of her tangled hair. An elf.
She looked half-starved, clothes torn, eyes wide as she stumbled into our clearing. The moment she saw us—me and Borgu sitting there by the fire—her knees buckled, and she collapsed face-first into the dirt.
"…Well," I muttered, staring. "So much for peace and quiet."
Borgu smirked knowingly."See? Village start."
I buried my face in my hands.
This was the beginning of the end.