The sight before her was surprising to say the least, but Rebecca felt little to no turmoil. The clearing, once a simple stretch of road flanked by thick woods, was now a battlefield littered with fallen orcs—their massive, pig-like bodies sprawled in pools of purple blood, the metallic stench mixing with the earthy scent of torn soil and crushed leaves. The air hung heavy, thick with the residue of violence: the sharp tang of sweat, the low groans of the dying, and the distant rustle of leaves in the wind, as if the forest itself held its breath.
Gaara was barely hanging on to life by a thread, slumped against a splintered tree trunk that had taken a blow from an orc axe, its bark shredded like paper. His massive armor was dented and gashed, blood seeping from his broken hands—fingers twisted at odd angles, bones protruding through torn gloves. He breathed in ragged, shallow gasps, his chest heaving under the weight of his plate, eyes half-open but unfocused, clinging to consciousness through sheer will.
Muel was in quite the situation; he seemed to have been drained of energy, his body limp on the ground like a discarded rag, face pale and slick with sweat. No major injuries marked him—no deep cuts or broken bones—just the telltale slackness of utter exhaustion, as if his stamina had been siphoned away in the heat of battle. His longsword lay a few feet away, blade dulled with purple gore, his chest rising and falling slowly in shallow, uneven breaths.
Lirael, on the other hand, was on the ground, her slender frame pinned beneath the orc commander's massive bulk. She tried to resist, her body twisting weakly, barely restrained sobs catching in her throat as tears carved clean trails through the dirt and blood on her face. Her legs were forcefully spread apart, thighs trembling, shorts pulled down in disarray, as the orc commander—its pig-like snout buried between her legs—licked and tongue-fucked her with eager, slobbering slurps. The rough, slimy tongue delved deep, eliciting unwilling gasps and shudders from her, her hands clawing futilely at the ground, nails digging into the dirt as she fought back waves of humiliation and pain.
Her head turned slowly toward Rebecca, eyes wide with desperation and shame, locking onto her figure in the treeline. Her fragmented words could barely be heard over the orc's wet, guttural noises, a broken whisper carried on the wind: "P-please... help..."
But the orc commander also noticed her pleading, its tusked head lifting slightly, ears pricking. It saw nothing at first, beady eyes squinting into the shadows. Just as it was about to continue, lowering its snout again with a satisfied grunt, it paused—nostrils flaring as it took a deep sniff of the air. The scent of human female, mixed with something darker, something unnatural, filled its senses. It grunted low, rising to its full height, muscles rippling under green skin scarred from battle.
Though it was missing an arm from a little above the wrist—severed clean in the earlier fight, purple blood still oozing from the stump—it had no problem wielding the axe one-handed, the massive weapon balanced in its remaining grip like an extension of its body.
Having been exposed by the orc's keen sense of smell, Rebecca proceeded to step into the open, emerging from the treeline with measured calm. She stared down the orc commander, her green eyes cold and unyielding, the sickle still clutched in her hand, blade dripping with fresh poison and blood.
The orc looked at her with barely contained lust, its small eyes raking over her form—lingering on the curve of her hips, the plunge of her tunic. A slight bulge could already be seen on its loincloth, swelling against the crude armored plates that restrained it, the creature's breathing growing heavier, more ragged.
Rebecca clicked her tongue in anger, the sound sharp and disdainful. "You see me as your prey."
The orc charged with a bellow that shook the leaves, its one good arm swinging the axe in a wide, crushing arc. Rebecca retreated swiftly, dodging the blow by inches—the blade burying itself in the ground with a thud that sent dirt flying. She put her hand to her back, expecting to grasp her scythe, only to remember she had thrown it previously during the earlier skirmish. The weapon lay somewhere in the chaos behind the horde.
She let out a sigh, steadying herself, and reapplied fresh poison from her blood to the sickle's blade—the cut on her arm sealing almost instantly. Engaging the beast head-on, she dodged its next attack—a downward smash that cracked the earth—and saw an opening in its wide swing. She struck its chest, but the outcome was a metallic cling, the blade rebounding as if hitting steel. She immediately thought it was a skill—some kind of hardening defense. Undeterred, she delivered multiple rapid attacks, slashes and stabs in quick succession, expecting it to have a cooldown. But even after the cooldown passed, her blade bounced off it's hide; she could not get a deep enough cut to deliver the poison, the orc's skin unyielding like iron even without the skill's effect.
The orc commander, frustrated, stomped the ground with a massive foot—the impact sending a shockwave through the dirt, trying to knock her off balance. But Rebecca leaped sideways, feet finding stable ground, the tremor passing beneath her without effect.
Seizing the moment, she kicked high—her boot connecting with the axe haft in the orc's grip. The force jarred it loose, sending the weapon flying through the air. Rebecca pursued the spinning axe, leaping after it, and pierced the handle mid-flight with her sickle, splintering the wood and leaving the axe head to fall useless to the ground.
The orc commander turned around and sprinted, massive legs pounding the earth as it fled into the woods—its movements frantic—but the brief glance over its shoulder held a glimmer of calculated intent. Rebecca gave chase, her breaths steady, sickle in hand, weaving through trees and underbrush.
But as she caught up, the orc spun suddenly—grabbing Lirael by the legs from where it had dropped her earlier—and swung her like a makeshift club. The elf's body whistled through the air, slamming into Rebecca with bone-jarring force. Rebecca staggered back, pain exploding in her side from the impact, Lirael's form crashing against her chest before falling limp in the commander's grasp.
Lirael, on the other hand, her mind was a haze of pain and violation. Memories of how She, Gaara and Muel had saved Caps. After this quest, they planned to hire a mage to join them so they could advance to C rank, dreaming of bigger adventures. She remembered refusing all of Muel's advances even though she liked him, her heart fluttering at his smiles but her pride keeping her distant. Regret bloomed now as she remembered how Muel protected her from the arrow after the ambush, diving in front of it with no hesitation, and how he fought the orc commander with rage and grief when Gaara fell, his sword a blur of desperation. The memories fueled her—pushing through the fog in her mind. She proceeded to pull out the vials in her pouch, fingers trembling as she dragged herself upward, inch by inch, using the orc's distraction. With a final surge, she smashed them into the orc commander's face, the glass shattering, liquid splashing into its eyes and mouth, effectively blinding it with burning acid.
It roared in agony, throwing her with force. Lirael flew through the air, expecting to hit something hard and die—the ground rushing up, wind whipping her hair. But she was caught by none other than Rebecca, who praised her for her resolve in a soft, steady voice: "Well done. Rest now." Rebecca laid her down gently as the elf girl passed out, body going limp from exhaustion and pain.
Rebecca stood, preparing herself to finish this. The blinded orc flailed wildly, grabbing a nearby tree and snapping off a thick branch with a crack that echoed through the woods. It swung the improvised club blindly, bark and leaves flying with each wild arc, smashing into trunks and sending splinters everywhere.
With no one watching, Ora could hold back no longer. He sprouted multiple tentacles from her back—thick, purplish-red appendages whipping out like vines, lashing at the orc with slashing strikes and constricting coils. But the orc kept on snapping them one by one, its massive jaws tearing through the flesh-like tendrils with savage bites, purple blood spraying from the severed ends.
Not being able to restrain it, Ora then focused his strength on two thicker appendages, channeling more biomass into them. They proceeded to wrap the orc commander's hands, coiling around wrists and forearms like living ropes, squeezing with crushing force.
But the orc wasted no time, using its mouth to tear off the tentacles restraining it—tusks ripping through the flesh in a frenzy of bites and shakes, purple ichor dripping from its maw, unaware the flesh it devoured carried something far deadlier than it realized.
*It's over.* Ora said.
As the orc commander started writhing in agony from the poison spreading through its body, it entered into its berserk state, eyes turning crimson. Rebecca wasn't sure whether the eyes were crimson from the poison or the berserk state, the red glow pulsing like embers. It charged in the direction it could smell her, blind but relentless, massive feet thundering, hand swinging wildly.
Ora said to her, *Run.*
She then sprinted, picking up Lirael in one arm—the elf's body light but limp—and running around in circles through the clearing, dodging the orc's frenzied swings. The beast crashed into trees, splintering wood, its roars shaking the leaves above. Rebecca weaved through the chaos, heart pounding, legs burning, for a full twenty minutes—ducking under branches, leaping over roots—until the orc slowed, staggering. Blood began spilling from every opening—eyes, nose, mouth, ears—in thick purple streams. It collapsed to the ground with a final, earth-shaking thud, body twitching once before going still.
The forest fell silent, save for Rebecca's heavy breathing.
Then Ora's voice surfaced within her mind.
"The mercenaries… what should be done with them?"