"I'll see you later, Madam Kimpa." I then rode a horse I named Turtle and rode off. As we left the vision of the village, I saw Madam Kimpa. She watched me the entire ride. Her dark, sharp eyes did not waver, and for a moment, it felt less like a farewell and more like she was imprinting something into my soul. After entering the forest on the way, I could almost swear she was still watching—her gaze piercing through the trees, past the twisting branches, into my back. I'm not sure how long her eyes followed, but soon I found Riaz and the other horse. They had done their job perfectly. Hidden in the tall, whispering grass, they shadowed our path until we were far enough from the village to meet up safely. She truly is magnificent; teamwork like this was rare, almost unnatural for orcs.
My journey lasted another day. During this time, the land itself began to shift. Grasslands turned harsher, and trees loomed with twisted roots, their bark carved with scars from creatures long gone. It was during this day I stumbled upon a dungeon. Its sight struck me with fear—fear that if I went in, I might not come back out. The entrance yawned like the mouth of a beast, damp air spilling from within like the breath of something ancient. I swallowed my fear and walked in alone, for the same reason as before: the entrance was too small for Riaz.
The layout of the entrance was very similar to the previous dungeon. Cut boulders lined the entire passage—floor, ceiling, walls—each stone too perfect, too uniform for any natural cavern. The air smelled of cold dust and charred oil, for torches flickered faintly in their sconces. This passage, however, was shorter than the previous one. It felt less like a descent and more like stepping through a door into another world.
Inside, I was met with a long hallway. Shadows stretched with each torch. Along the walls, iron poles had been shaped into cages. The crude bars bent in places, dark with rust and moisture. Inside these metal prisons hung shackles and chains, their bite marks and dried stains telling the story of past captives. I thought about taking them, maybe selling them later, but the metal was crude, brittle, and far too heavy. At most, I'd get a single copper for an entire chain. Worse, they would slow me in a fight.
At the end of the hallway, a single door stood. No other passage. No other choice. I pressed forward. Past the door was nothing but an empty room—dusty stone floors, silent air—save for another door on the wall to my right. Confusion gnawed at me, but with no other direction, I pressed on.
The next room was lined with rows of beds—four on each side. The sheets were thin, brittle with age, and crawling with dust. This was a place of rest, once upon a time. I flipped and tossed a few, searching, but found nothing of worth. The only salvageable thing was the sheets themselves. With a little work, they could serve me as a makeshift backpack. Frustrated but unwilling to stop, I pressed on through the door at the end.
The next chamber greeted me with choice: three doors, one on each wall. The air here was colder, as if holding its breath, waiting.
I chose the left first. Inside lay something that stopped me cold: the bones of a creature unlike any I had ever seen. Its ribcage stretched wider than any beast I knew, its skull jagged with alien fangs. It wasn't in the beast-pedia. I couldn't even compare it to anything. It felt wrong. Otherworldly.
Even after all these years, power clung to those bones. I could sense it. The remnants still pulsed faintly at level 3. Alive, it would have easily been level 4, perhaps more. Judging by the decay, it had been dead for at least a hundred years. A relic of another age. I grabbed a bone or two, recalling from books that bones of rare creatures could serve curse users well.
Leaving the bones behind, I went to the second room. My breath caught. Weapons—bows, swords, daggers, and more—lined the walls and tables. At first glance, it was a treasure trove. But nearly all of them were destroyed. Rust had eaten the steel, hollowing out their once-sharp edges. Handles cracked, leather straps rotted. They looked more like corpses of weapons than tools of war. Still, an idea formed in my mind.
I could take the bed sheets from before, bundle these rusted husks, and haul them to the port town. A silver, at least, could be made from bulk scrap. But luck gave me more than silver. Among the rot sat two swords, neatly boxed. Their wood packaging, though dusty, had shielded them from the dungeon's damp curse. I pried them free, and the blades gleamed faintly in the torchlight.
Though I wasn't a blacksmith, I knew enough. One was a level 1 sword, reliable and balanced. The other carried a heavier presence: level 2. My arm sagged under its weight. I was too weak to wield it properly yet—level 1 strength was not enough. But someday, it would be mine.
I almost left then, ready to gather the sheets and haul my prizes, but I stopped. One room remained. Leaving it unchecked would be foolish.
Inside were eight barrels. I approached, pried one open, and the sharp, sweet scent of alcohol filled the air. Strong. Valuable. This wasn't just fortune—it was power. Soldiers and lords alike would pay dearly for liquor this old.
Working quickly, I stripped sheets and fashioned a ramshackle saddle. My father's training guided my hands, each knot strong, each fold purposeful. Soon, I had a harness to carry all eight barrels. One by one, I loaded them. Wealth was mine.
I carried the first two barrels out to Mortimer. Mortimer was an old horse, his once-dark stripes faded like ghosts across his hide. He, Riaz, Turtle, and Stripes were my strength, my herd. Turtle bore most of his stripes across his back, making him resemble his namesake. Stripes, on the other hand, wore so many it was almost comical—he looked like he'd been painted by a drunken artist.
But as I walked out of the dungeon, something shifted. The barrels on my back… felt lighter.
I leveled up. Finally. It had taken about a week since leaving the village with Kackle, but I had done it. Relief washed through me. If I had stayed, I would've been chained under a slave contract by now. Instead, I walked free, with wealth and weapons at my side. And I would never go back.
With eight barrels and a mountain of weapons loaded onto my herd, we pressed on toward the port city. It wasn't just a village—it was so large, so filled with life, that it earned the title of city. The humans called their great homes "cities," and now the orcs did too.
In three hours, its sprawl came into view. Tents gave way to structures. Wood, stone, brick. Real buildings, sharp against the sky. Smoke curled from chimneys, and the air buzzed with voices, the clash of markets, and the smell of roasted meats. My heart pounded as I considered my entrance.
Before, humility had always worked. Bow my head, speak little, and pass through unnoticed. But those were small villages. Few orcs. Here, without family or tribe, humility would mark me weak. No. This time, I would show strength.
I entered with the whole herd. Hooves struck stone, and eyes turned. I wanted to be feared. I wanted no one to even think of touching me. And it worked.
The city was unlike anything I had known. The orcs here seemed more refined, their clothes less ragged, their posture straighter. Other species walked among them, rare faces from faraway places. Leather tents were replaced by wooden homes, stone walls, tiled roofs. The people called them buildings and houses. To me, they were monuments of another world.
Wandering deeper, I found a larger building. Its sign bore the mark of plants. A herb shop. Perfect. I could sell the bones and the plant here. I entered alone, leaving Riaz and the herd outside.
Inside, the air smelled sharp and earthy. Bundles of dried herbs hung from the rafters. At the counter stood an older woman, her eyes sharp, her smile thin. Cunning. Dangerous. I knew at once not to trust her.
"Yes, how may I help you, boy?"
"Hello, I want to sell these." I placed down the bone and the plant.
"Sorry, boy. That plant is useless—just a withered water lily. But those bones, I'll buy for 50 copper."
She seemed genuine enough, so I agreed. "Sure. And with that 50 copper, could you sell me a few level 1 potions?" Quantity mattered more than quality now—for me and for the herd.
"Here you are, boy." She slid me ONE potion.
Shock burned through me. A scam. My mother had taught me currency well: 100 copper made a silver, 100 silver made a gold. A single level 1 potion worth half a silver? Impossible.
Still, I smiled. "Why, thank you, ma'am. I truly appreciate this." I turned to leave.
On the road to the city, I had studied the rings and glove. The glove could fire ten level 2 fireballs, one recharge per day. The rings were more cryptic.
"With the five rings of the snake, you can take possessions. But the thief can only take what they can carry, so be wary."
From what I gathered, the rings allowed me to steal only what I could carry. The warning puzzled me. Until now.
As her back turned, I tested the rings. A snake slithered forth, slick and silent, and returned my stolen goods, along with the 50 copper. But the woman was sharp. She caught me before I could flee, seizing my collar in a grip like iron. She snatched the items and potion back.
"I should take your clothes and the rest of your things, but I'll show mercy to a child." With that, she hurled me outside. As I hit the dirt, the rings collided. A deafening clang rang out, tenfold louder than normal. That was the warning. Fail, and the rings would announce my theft to all.
Normally, I would've swallowed the loss. But the humiliation burned. Being tossed out like vermin left bile in my throat. Maybe it was ego, maybe pride. I didn't care.
I slipped my hand under the tent flap. The snake slid out again, this time taking five level 1 potions. I gathered the herd and left.
But as I turned back, something unsettled me. A faint glow pulsed inside the shop. Her voice followed, sharp as a dagger.
"Precognition."
The word meant nothing to me. But the weight of it, the tone, chilled me. It was an omen.
And with it came a revelation. I loved Riaz and the herd. They had carried me far. But in true battle, they could only do so much. If I wanted to survive, to thrive, I needed a party. Comrades with their own strengths and gifts. A real team.
I'm sorry, Riaz. If I had chosen to be a tamer, maybe I could have unlocked your true potential.