The smell hit first — damp earth, rotting meat, and the iron tang of old blood soaked into the wood and stone.
Daemon stood at the edge of the clearing, where the forest gave way to the crude border of the ogress village. Behind him, hidden in the dense brush, Caldrin waited, reins tied loosely to a dead tree. The horse had already started pawing the dirt, ears twitching in warning. Even an animal could sense it.
This wasn't a place for the living.
Daemon's boots scraped the packed mud as he moved forward, toward the massive, jagged gate carved from tree trunks and old bones lashed together. His heart wasn't racing. His hands weren't shaking. But his mind sharpened like a blade.
He knew this was suicide.
A lone fighter, even at Fifth Star, would barely scratch the surface here. The were-ogresses weren't brainless beasts. They were battle-born, tribal war machines raised in blood and fire. They ate human flesh, sharpened their bones into weapons, and turned their kills into trophies.
And Daemon? Right now, he was a single heartbeat away from being one of those trophies.
But that's what made it perfect.
From behind the gates, something stirred. Heavy footfalls crushed the dirt and echoed against the walls. Then the gate creaked open, just enough for the towering figure to step out.
An ogre. Green-skinned, muscles coiled like thick iron cables, and skin inked in crude red tattoos. Not many — only two, wrapping around his thick legs.
Two marks.
Daemon remembered the old mercenary stories from his past life:
Orcus Viridi, the green ogres.
They lived by strength. Every mark earned in blood, every scar proof of survival. The higher the marks, the higher their rank.
Two marks meant this one was low-born. A gate guard. Still, it stood twice his height, eyes yellow as a dying sun, tusks gleaming wet with spit.
The ogre snorted, lowering its head as it stepped closer. A deep, guttural growl crawled out of its throat.
"Kik... stupid... huuumaan... how dare... you come here."
The words were thick, slurred, barely human — but the meaning was sharp as any blade.
Daemon's lips twitched into a smile, calm and cold.
"No introductions, then?" He tilted his head. "Fine. Let's skip to the part where you try to kill me."
The ogre's nostrils flared, breath hot and rancid, fists curling tight — the invitation to violence clear.
And Daemon stepped forward, boots silent, eyes steady.
This wasn't about survival.
It was about sharpening the blade.
His own.
"GROOOOOOOWWWL"
The ogre's growl split the air like thunder, deep and bone-rattling — more than a sound, it was pressure.
The wind rippled outward, shoving Daemon back a step.
"Damn it"
His legs locked, muscles coiled tight, but even he couldn't stop the instinctive tremble crawling up his spine.
That wasn't just a roar. He recognized the technique from old battlefield stories.
Battle Cry.
A primal skill, used to break the will of lesser foes before the fight even began. And the worst part? The ogre hadn't even roared at full strength. It didn't see him as a threat.
It thought he was weak.
It could sense his core level. Fifth Star.
And like any beast drunk on power, it underestimated him.
The ogre moved first. A blur of muscle and bone, hoisting a crude axe carved from stone and beast bone — a weapon so large the earth split beneath its swing. The impact shattered the dirt, sending a shockwave through the ground.
Daemon leaped back just in time, the force alone almost enough to crack his ribs if he'd hesitated a second longer.
One hit. That's all it would take. One mistake, and it would split him in two.
But he didn't retreat.
He lunged forward, blade flashing, trying to close the gap — but the ogre's reflexes were faster than he expected. It dodged, a creature its size shouldn't have moved so easily.
"Kik... weak... huuumaan... you weak."
The words stung sharper than the axe. The way it grinned down at him, tusked mouth stretching wide, made his blood burn hotter.
Mockery. Pure and simple.
But Daemon didn't slow. He closed the gap again, sprinting low, feinting left — then launching up the ogre's axe like a ladder, running straight along its arm toward the throat.
But the beast had seen this kind of desperation before.
It slammed its tree-thick arm against the ground with brutal force.
The shockwave sent Daemon flying, his back slamming into a tree, the bark splintering around him. He hit the ground hard, rolling to a stop.
His chest heaved. Blood dripped from his lips. Bones ached. But the fury inside didn't fade.
It sharpened.
He wasn't strong enough yet.
Not for this.
But this — this was the beginning.
He wiped the blood from his mouth, standing slowly, his core pulsing with black-red light.
"This feeling... I'd forgotten what it's like to be this weak," he muttered to himself, lips curling into a bitter smile. "Good. Let's start here."
The ogre stomped forward again, raising its axe high for the kill — the blow that would end him.
And Daemon, bracing himself for the next exchange, felt the hunger for survival twist into something darker.
His real training had finally begun.