The long night passed and the first rays of morning sun peeked over the horizon, Rebecca made her way to the caravan's location. She arrived to find the three mercenaries already waiting by the wagons, but there was no sign of Tobin.
As she approached, Ora—having heard the trio's conversation the previous night—felt a moment of uncertainty. Lirael's ability to sense his monster presence was a problem he could solve, but he was stuck between two options: erase his presence entirely and leave her dumbfounded and even more cautious, or reduce it just enough to make her question her own instincts. In the end, he chose the latter—to reduce it and plant doubt in her mind.
The effect was immediate and clear. Lirael's eyes widened slightly, shock flickering across her face before she quickly masked it. The unease she'd carried all night seemed to falter, replaced by confusion—as though the feeling she couldn't name had suddenly dimmed, leaving her second-guessing herself. She blinked, frowned, and glanced around as if trying to recapture the sensation, her hand reaching for her bowstring for a moment before relaxing. The certainty she'd felt the night before now felt slippery, like a dream half-remembered, and it unsettled her more than the original feeling ever had.
Rebecca reached the group and greeted them calmly.
"Good morning."
Muel returned the nod, casual but watchful.
"Morning. Tobin's still in the village. He's arranging the last of the goods he wants to buy from the locals. It'll be a while before we're ready to leave."
Rebecca accepted that with a small nod and took a position near the wagons, waiting.
By the time the sun was high in the sky, Tobin returned with a small group of villagers in tow—some of them casting weary, sidelong glances toward Rebecca as she stood beside Muel. No one spoke to her directly, but the tension in their eyes was unmistakable.
With Tobin's arrival, there was no further delay. Rebecca and the mercenaries climbed into the main wagon and settled in. Tobin and the rest of his crew took their places on the various carts and wagons, and the caravan finally departed—wagons creaking into motion, oxen straining forward, the village slowly falling away behind them.
As the caravan continued its journey through the woods, the main wagon rocked gently over the uneven dirt road, wheels creaking in rhythm with the oxen's steady plodding. Inside, the air was close—warm from bodies and the lingering heat of the day, scented with leather, oiled metal, and the faint metallic tang of weapons.
Rebecca sat near the back, legs crossed, the bundled scythe resting against her thigh. The gear Wotah had prepared for her hugged her form like a second skin: a deep emerald-green tunic of fine, supple leather reinforced with subtle steel plates at the shoulders and ribs, the neckline plunging low to reveal the generous swell of her breasts, the fabric straining slightly with every breath. A black cloak draped over her shoulders, hooded and clasped at the throat with a silver star pendant that gleamed faintly in the dim light filtering through the canvas. Beneath the tunic, a matching green skirt split high on both thighs allowed freedom of movement, the hem edged with intricate gold embroidery that caught the eye even in shadow. A wide brown leather belt cinched her waist, accentuating her hourglass figure—full hips flaring dramatically, the belt holding twin daggers and pouches. Thigh-high black boots laced tightly, the leather polished to a dull sheen, and long black gloves reached past her elbows, leaving only a strip of pale skin visible at the upper arms. Every curve was accentuated, her voluptuousness impossible to ignore: heavy breasts rising and falling with each breath, waist cinched tight, hips swaying subtly with the wagon's motion.
Muel sat across from her, trying—and failing—to keep his eyes on the road ahead. His gaze kept drifting: first to the way the leather tunic clung to her chest, the deep cleavage rising with each inhale; then to the way the split skirt revealed smooth, toned thighs whenever she shifted; then to the curve of her hips pressed against the bench. Each glance was quick, guilty, but repeated. Finally, she caught him—her head turning slowly, green eyes locking onto his with calm amusement.
Muel froze, cheeks flushing beneath his stubble. He bowed his head quickly, voice rough with embarrassment.
"Sorry. I didn't mean to stare."
Rebecca tilted her head, a small smile playing at her lips. She glanced down at herself—taking in the way the tunic hugged her breasts, the belt emphasizing her waist, the skirt parting to show the length of her legs—and gave a soft, acknowledging hum.
"It's fine," she said quietly. "Wotah made sure the gear fit… properly."
Her tone was light, almost teasing, but her eyes held his a moment longer than necessary. Then she looked away, toward the canvas flap, as if the matter was already forgotten.
Lirael, seated near the front, had watched the entire exchange. Her expression darkened—lips pressing into a thin line, ears twitching once in irritation. She didn't speak, but the disapproval radiated from her like heat from a forge.
Rebecca noticed. She covered her mouth with the back of her hand and let out a soft, muffled chuckle—barely audible, but enough to make Lirael's eyes narrow further, her knuckles whitening on her bow.
The merry mood inside the wagon didn't last.
Later, the caravan slowed. The lead wagon halted abruptly, oxen snorting and stamping. Rebecca leaned forward to look out the flap. A handful of thick trees had fallen across the road—recently cut, by the look of the clean, angled stumps. She expected Gaara to step out and shove them aside with his brute strength, but no one moved. The air inside the wagon grew heavy, thick with sudden silence.
The reason was plain as day an ambush.
From the trees on both sides stepped the perpetrators—hulking figures, grey or brown-skinned, pig-like faces twisted with snarls, tusks jutting from broad jaws. They stood two metres tall, round stomachs protruding heavily over wide belts of crude leather and scavenged metal. Axes and clubs were gripped in thick, calloused hands, eyes glinting with hunger and malice.
The trio of mercenaries were already moving—Gaara rising first, armor clanking as he stepped out, Muel drawing his longsword in a smooth motion, Lirael nocking an arrow before her boots even hit the ground.
Rebecca sat in the carriage, watching attentively. The orcs were charging now, pig-like faces twisted in snarls.
She activated her inspection skill, eyes narrowing as status windows flickered into view.
[Orc Warrior – Level 18]
[Orc Raider – Level 17]
[Orc Warrior – Level 16]
…..
Rebecca closed the windows with a small nod. Already deciding that none of the orcs could threaten them.
Muel's voice cracked through the wagon like a whip.
"Everyone—ready!"
The trio burst out of the carriage. Gaara led, heavy armor clanking as he charged forward, shield raised. Muel followed, longsword flashing in a clean arc. Lirael leaped to the side, already drawing and loosing arrows in a smooth, practiced rhythm.
The fight was over almost before it began.
Gaara met the first orc head-on, shield slamming into its chest with a bone-jarring crunch. The orc staggered, round belly compressing under the impact. Gaara's warhammer followed, smashing into its skull with a wet crack—orc down, twitching once before going still.
Muel danced between two more, longsword cutting precise lines across throats and tendons. One orc swung its axe in a wide arc; Muel ducked under it, rose, and drove his blade upward through the creature's jaw. The second tried to flank him—Muel spun, blade slicing across its stomach, spilling green blood and entrails. Both collapsed, gurgling.
Lirael's arrows flew in a deadly rhythm—two to the chest of one orc, piercing its thick hide and dropping it mid-charge; a third arrow took another through the eye, the shaft quivering as the orc fell backward into the dirt.
Rebecca watched from the wagon, arms crossed, expression calm. The mercenaries hadn't even broken a sweat. The orcs lay dead in less than three minutes—bodies sprawled, blood soaking into the road.
Muel sheathed his sword with a soft click, breathing steady.
"Gaara—clear the trees."
Gaara grunted, rolling his shoulders as he stepped toward the fallen logs. His massive hands gripped the thickest trunk, muscles bulging under armor. With a low growl he heaved—wood cracked and splintered as he lifted and shoved the barricade aside, clearing the path in repeated motions.
Muel turned to Lirael, who was already kneeling beside the corpses, pulling her arrows free with quick, practiced tugs.
"Lirael—scout ahead. Check for stragglers."
Lirael nodded, wiping a bloodied shaft on a fallen orc's hide.
Before she could stand, a sharp whistle cut the air.
An arrow streaked from the trees—aimed straight for her back.
Muel moved without thought. He lunged forward, shoulder slamming into Lirael and knocking her to the ground. The arrow punched into his shoulder with a meaty thud, the impact spinning him half around. He grunted in pain, blood blooming dark across his armor.
Gaara was already moving—shield raised, rushing forward to cover them both.
Muel gripped the arrow shaft, teeth gritted, and yanked it free with a sharp twist. Blood welled, but he ignored it. Lirael scrambled up, face pale, and tore open a pouch at her belt. She pulled a small vial of glowing blue liquid—healing potion—and pressed it to the wound. The liquid hissed as it touched torn flesh; the bleeding slowed, skin knitting in seconds, though Muel's arm still hung stiff and pained.
From the bushes on both sides emerged more orcs—warriors with crude axes, archers nocking arrows—dozens of them, grunting and snarling. But their presence was nothing compared to the single figure that stepped forward last.
The Orc commander.
Tall, heavily muscled, clad in spiked armor of black iron and bone, It carried massive double-headed axes that gleamed with dark enchantment. Its eye glowed faintly red, tusks longer and sharper than the others'. It wore a tattered cloak of scalps and armor that were etched with marks of use.
Lirael's voice came out in a disbelieving whisper.
"An Orc commander…"
Muel stood back to his feet, wound healed but arm still stiff, pain etched in the lines of his face.
The air grew heavier, the forest suddenly silent except for the low, guttural breathing of the orcs.
But a sudden thud sounded behind them—deep, heavy, vibrating through the ground.
Their scalps tingled, fear of another orc commander's presence flashing through the group. They turned sharply.
Rebecca stood at the wagon's edge, the cloth that had wrapped her weapon now falling away in slow motion. The scythe gleamed in the dappled light—long, curved blade of dark steel, edge honed to razor perfection, haft reinforced with intricate silver inlays. The weapon was massive, yet she held it effortlessly, one hand on the haft, the other resting lightly along the curve of the blade.