The next three days repeated like the swing of a pendulum: fight, eat, fight, eat, fight, eat, then collapse into sleep. The rhythm was brutal, but I didn't let it consume all my focus. Survival demanded more than brute strength—I needed strategy.
On the second day, I slipped through the village under the glare of the sun, using shadows and abandoned corners to mask my movements. My goal: intelligence. The small guarded tent rotated shifts in a precise three-tick cycle. Observing quietly, I confirmed the tent held weapons. Even better, its rear was completely unguarded—no eyes, no patrols. At night, I could slip in, take what I needed, and vanish like smoke.
The village itself was small but structured. Thirteen residential tents, two supply tents, one weapon tent, the shaman's lodge, and the chief's hall. From my vantage points, I scanned the orcs, measuring their strength. At level 1, I could reliably identify other level 1 and 2 orcs. Anyone beyond that required educated guessing. By the hierarchy of orc settlements, one chief and one shaman sufficed. The compact size of this village suggested no extras.
The guards were level 3—too formidable to be level 2, not rare enough to be level 4. Their coordination, posture, and sheer presence told me everything I needed. The chief, Kackle, was likely level 4; the shaman, level 3. Weak compared to my parents, but in this village, apex predators.
I kept a keen eye on the shaman's tent. Nights found me crouched low, listening to incantations that hummed with power. The truth settled into me: when the orcs froze after my shout in the pit, it wasn't luck. I had instinctively used the curse Fear. My parents' praise finally made sense. Casting a spell mid-combat required a rare fusion of intuition and raw power—talent beyond most mortals.
Days passed, and my skill drew attention like sunlight draws insects. Kackle, the chief, a brute of a warrior, began to watch me. His gaze was cold, calculating, predatory. I could feel him measuring me, weighing the moment I would level up and become ripe for claiming.
Kackle was the type of orc who ruled through brute strength alone. Likely, he had claimed the chiefdom by killing the previous leader. Orcs followed the Right of Combat, a sacred tradition. Any challenger could approach the chief and demand a fight with the words, "I want Right of Combat." The chief could refuse at all times except for one day each year, when all challenges must be accepted. On that day, any orc who dared could fight the chief without denial.
I didn't dwell on him. My plan was simple, and Riaz, my herd companion, was essential. I whispered instructions: keep the herd quiet, and everything would proceed smoothly.
The final fight of the day was performance art. I moved with feigned desperation, staggering and shouting to sell my effort. I stayed in the center of the pit, blending with the chaos. Just before the gong, I stripped clothes from fallen orcs and poured porridge into small pouches for the road.
When darkness fell, I enacted the next phase. Shadows cloaked me as I slunk toward the weapons tent. One guard dozed, eyes half-lidded. I slid beneath the tent's canvas and entered.
Inside, the armory smelled faintly of oil and rust. Blades glinted in the dim moonlight. I selected a small, slightly rusted sword and a throwing axe—enough to defend myself without attracting notice. Retracing my steps, I returned to Riaz. Her leadership made our escape nearly effortless. The herd moved as one, a living river of muscle and fur, scaring off predators, leaving no trace behind.
At sunrise, the horizon revealed an ominous dark cloud hugging the ground. Initially, it seemed harmless, a strange fog. But instinct screamed danger. Riaz stiffened, ears twitching, body low and alert.
I was wrong. The cloud was alive—hundreds of mosquitoes, each as large as a human hand, swarming like a living storm. I shouted for the herd to lie down. Instantly, we melded with the earth. The buzzing became a deafening roar, darkness consuming the land. When it finally passed, we rose. Five members of the herd were gone—mature, strong, lost. Riaz mourned hardest, her generation struck down in an instant. We honored them, but grief weighed heavily as we pressed onward.
Later, we discovered a small pond beneath a solitary tree. Riaz inspected the water, I scanned the branches. The pond offered brief respite. We drank, shared porridge, and I observed the herd closely: Riaz's omnivorous habits, her attention to the young, her meticulous leadership. Even the foals followed her cues effortlessly.
I climbed the tree to scout. The savannah stretched endlessly, punctuated by scattered trees. Far off, I spotted another village—larger than the last but smaller than my birthplace. Supplies to take, then leave. I ensured Riaz and the herd were ready; our group of ten moved like one, even the foals keeping pace.
"Riaz, two weeks together… this life is amazing," I murmured.
She surged forward, wind whipping my hair as we raced across the plains. Her speed and coordination reflected her level 2 rank.
The village gates came into view. Predictable as before, I used the same words to enter: "Small kid, looking for food."
Eyes fell on me faster than last time—not the chief, but the shaman. Level 4. Her previous apprentice had died attempting a dungeon. Instead of fleeing, I embraced the mentorship opportunity.
She was everything my parents were not. My mother taught theory and understanding, my father instinct and brute practice. This shaman embodied knowledge, skill, and experience.
"Would you like to learn?" she asked.
"Yes," I said.
She scanned me with a sharp, practiced eye. "Good. You have the voice. Let's see if your skills match it."
Inside her tent, the air was thick with parchment, herbs, and faint ozone. Books, charms, and relics surrounded her, each item humming faintly with latent power. Her robe shimmered softly, her staff radiated level 4 energy. She placed a tattered book on the ground: Fear. The curse could freeze enemies mid-combat, a skill I already instinctively wielded.
"You've mastered this at eight," she said. "Either you're extraordinarily talented, or a Dark Orc. Either way, you're special. I've wasted decades hoping for a successor. Perhaps that successor is you."
Her words resonated. She offered guidance freely, not demanding obedience. I would follow her path, at least for now.
"You remind me of myself," she said, voice softening. "I'll make sure your wings are admired by all. I hope I live to see it."
Lessons began immediately. She guided me through classes, skills, and the subtle advantages and limitations of each: Marksmen, Tamers, Fighters, Mages, Warriors. Each choice carried permanence and power.
"Each class has their benefits and each class has their flaws, the real question is, what you would like to do? As once you truly decide in your heart there is no going back. Fear not of only picking one class as you'll have your main class and your sub class. Your main class being at full strength and your sub being at half."
"Marksmen, using bow, crossbows or guns. They are the most deadly at a range with their main flaw being that they don't have an ultimate."
"Tamers, as it sounds you tame creatures and use them for battle whether you tame them by force or friendship the choice is yours."
"Fighters Or Martial Artist, powerful with their fist but are limited to the scroll they can acquire, their main benefit being that their scrolls have higher quality than even mages scrolls."
"Mages, by far the most versatile class with so many spells that there isn't something you cant do, the only problem being that you either have to find these scrolls or buy them."
"Warriors, almost all Orcs are pure warriors, a versatile class where you create your own moves and your own ultimate."
"Which will you decide on my student."
This couldn't have been a harder choice, each and every single one of these classes are powerful. If I choose a mage their ultimate's are far superior than a warrior and they have a larger variety since you don't have to stick with just one Ultimate, although its a good choice but probably wont be my main. Being a martial artist in the Orc continent will be difficult as the scrolls are extremely rare. I could be a tamer but it seems lackluster and also dangerous as my firepower comes from the creatures and not myself. Whether its the competitive Orc in me or if I just feel like it's the best choice it didn't matter. I had my choice set, I began the small ritual in which I choose my official class.
I began to meditate, going deep within my own conscious. I envisioned the classes with symbols. The Marksmen with a bow, The Tamer with a lion, The Fighter with a fist, The Mage with a staff and The Warrior with the sword.
After walking through my own subconscious I saw my previous experiences. Although blurry I saw the fateful night again I noticed a detail, they had a small symbol on their wrist. It was like a flower but a flower not native to the orc continent, from my guesses it seems most likely human but I cant be for certain. As I was examining the blurr the conscious started to rise again, I almost lost my chance to have a class. Quickly, I chose to main class as a Warrior and sub class as a Mage.
A smile popped on my masters face as I chose my classes. "Its a perfect fit for you." I thought so too, I already planned exactly what my ultimate would be.
It will be fit for a war.