The waterfall had been a decent place to hole up for the night.
Not exactly five-star luxury—wet rocks, chill mist, and the occasional blood-sucking bat fluttering under the moon—but it beat sleeping out in the open jungle, where every snapped twig could mean death.
Freya had nestled herself into a mossy alcove tucked behind the cascading water, a veil of rushing white shielding her from the outside world.
Grant stood nearby like a statue, silent but ever-watchful. His sentry mode was definitely on. It had been a peaceful night… by murderous jungle standards, anyway.
By dawn, the mist had thinned into golden ribbons. The jungle yawned to life beneath the rising sun—birds trilled, insects buzzed, and distant creatures rustled through the undergrowth like half-forgotten nightmares.
Freya stirred as a warm shaft of light brushed her cheek. She groaned and shifted beneath the coarse hide of Mr. Wolfie, then slowly sat up with a long stretch.
Time to get moving again.
"Good morning, Sir Grant," she mumbled, her voice still thick with sleep. She stretched lazily, arching her back with a soft yawn before rubbing the sleep from her eyes.
The bulky skeleton nearby let out a low, gravelly grrrrk—somewhere between a growl and a groan.
Freya smiled faintly. "Good morning indeed, milady," she replied in a posh nobleman's voice, stifling a giggle. "May your day be free of deadly ambushes and… Godzilla."
She blinked blearily at the jungle beyond the veil of falling water.
"Yeah. Right. Like that's gonna happen."
Still foggy-headed, she slipped out of the alcove and padded barefoot to the pool at the base of the falls. The water was cold and clear, dark stones glittering beneath its surface.
She knelt beside it, cupping her hands and splashing her face with a sharp gasp. The cold bit into her skin, chasing the last of the drowsiness from her bones.
"Gah! Morning punch to the soul," she hissed, wiping her face with her sleeve.
Then she caught her reflection in the rippling water—and paused.
Pale skin like porcelain, glistening under the morning light. Crimson eyes that gleamed like rubies. Silvery hair tumbling in tangled waves around her delicate, youthful face. If vampires had their own Vogue magazine, she'd definitely make the cover.
"I'll be damned," she murmured, tilting her head. "Look at you. A walking, talking gothic masterpiece."
She tucked a few strands of hair behind her ear and gave herself a smug little smirk. "If I die again, I want this face back. You hear that, God?"
With a final splash and a satisfied sigh, she rose to her feet, giving the pool a parting glance before turning to Grant.
"Alright, Sir Bonehead. Let's see what horrors the jungle has in store for us today."
She didn't linger. The jungle wasn't going to explore itself, and loitering felt like asking fate to toss her something Godzilla-ish just to spite her.
With Mr. Wolfie's hide draped over her shoulders and Grant lumbering at her side like a loyal knight, Freya began her new adventure and stepped into the waking forest.
The ground squelched softly underfoot. Dew clung to every leaf like tiny gems. The air smelled of earth, moss, and unnameable wild things.
A few minutes into the walk, something caught her eye—a subtle break in the pattern of leaves and dirt.
"Hmm?"
She slowed, crouching low. The ground here looked too clean. No fallen twigs. No moss. Just a slightly sunken patch of soil that looked freshly disturbed.
She poked at it with the tip of her scythe. Nothing.
Then she picked up a stick and jabbed it downward.
Snap.
The earth gave way.
A hole—deep and wide—opened like a mouth beneath her, revealing a crude but nasty array of sharpened wooden stakes jammed into the pit's floor. Each one stained with something dark and unpleasant.
Freya raised an eyebrow.
"A hunting trap."
"Primitive, but definitely made by humans," she muttered, stepping back. "So there are people nearby…"
Grant grunted behind her, unimpressed.
She scanned the area more carefully now, eyes narrowing.
"Whoever set this up is gonna come and check on it eventually…" she murmured. "Should I stay and try to make contact?"
She paused, then frowned. "Wait—no. This isn't Earth. And Isekai natives probably not running a neighborhood watch program either."
She backed into a dense thicket and crouched low. "Better play it safe."
She motioned for Grant to stay hidden. The big guy didn't need to be told twice.
Minutes passed. A beetle crawled across her boot. Something shrieked in the canopy above.
Freya held her breath, every muscle tightening.
From behind the thick ferns ahead, shadows shifted. Heavy footfalls crunched over undergrowth. Branches snapped under something big. Something not trying to be quiet.
Freya's eyes widened as the figures emerged from the bush—and her breath hitched.
There were two at first—towering, monstrous figures. Not human.
Not even close.
They were easily seven feet tall, each built like a truck made of meat and rage.
Their skin was a mottled, sickly green—weathered like old leather and marked with crude tribal tattoos that twisted across bulging limbs.
One carried a massive iron axe slung casually over his shoulder, its blade dark with dried blood.
The other dragged a freshly slain boar behind him, blood pooling in its wake with every lurching step.
Their armor was a savage patchwork of bone, fur, and rusted scrap metal—like something ripped straight out of a Warcraft loading screen.
But this wasn't a game. There were no hit points, no respawns. Just blood, steel, and very real danger to Freya.
Her heart thudded in her chest. A cold shiver slid down her spine.
"Holy shit…" she breathed. "Those are freaking orcs."
Then more came.
Three. Six. Nine.
Twelve.
A whole patrol.
They were snarling, grunting, joking in guttural tones. The jungle seemed to bend around them.
Freya could feel their presence like a weight pressing on her chest. Their breath steamed in the morning air. The earth trembled beneath their boots.
She shrank deeper into the thicket, barely daring to breathe.
The lead orc lumbered toward the pit trap, his heavy boots squelching in the damp earth. He paused at the edge, sniffed the air, then squatted low to inspect it.
Freya tensed, as she saw him reached down and picked up the snapped stick she had used to test the trap.
The end was splintered clean—too clean.
A low, guttural grunt rolled from his throat.
Another orc ambled over, dragging the boar carcass like a sack of potatoes. The two exchanged a few sharp words in a harsh, snarling tongue.
Then the second orc turned, nostrils flaring as he sniffed the air like a bloodhound.
Freya didn't move. Didn't blink. Even the insects crawling along her skin went unnoticed.
The orc snorted and grunted again, this time louder. Several of the others turned their heads.
One spat into the dirt. Another growled and thumped the haft of his axe against a tree trunk, sending a pair of startled birds screeching into the sky.
Then the first orc stood. His thick hand gestured in an arc around the trap, indicating the broken soil, the missing leaves. Something had disturbed their handiwork.
Freya's heartbeat thundered in her ears.
Shit, shit, shit.
They began to spread out, stalking through the jungle like hounds on a scent. Broad nostrils twitched. Dozens of eyes scanned the brush.
One of them passed within a breath of Freya's hiding place—so close she could smell the rank stink of his sweat and the iron tang of blood drying on his armor.
His axe dragged along the ground behind him, gouging a deep furrow in the earth.
Freya froze, buried beneath shadows and foliage, wrapped in Mr. Wolfie's hide like a shroud of silence.
Even Grant, hulking as he was, hadn't moved a bone. His stillness was absolute—like a real "dead" skeleton.
Minutes passed. It was agonizing, tormenting.
Then, at last, one of the orcs let out a loud, gruff bark. A signal. The others began to converge back on the path, some shaking their heads, others snarling in frustration.
The trail was cold.
The lead orc gave the tampered trap one last scowl, then spat into it.
He barked another order, and the group began to move again—trudging deeper into the jungle, dragging the boar and their weapons behind them.
Leaves rustled in their wake. Blood from their kill left dark splotches in the undergrowth.
And then…
They were gone.
Freya waited.
And waited.
Only when the last echo of stomping boots and guttural grunts had faded into the distance, did she finally let out a breath she hadn't realized she'd been holding.
She slumped back against the trunk of a tree, heart still pounding like a war drum.
Grant shifted beside her, his skull tilting as if to check whether she'd melted into a puddle of stress.
Freya wiped her brow and gave a shaky laugh. "Well," she whispered, "so much for a quiet morning walk."
She peered at the blood-smeared trail the orcs had left behind.
She swallowed hard and muttered, "And we are so not top of the food chain out here."
Then, softly, she added, "Let's not be here when they come back."
She pushed herself to her feet, legs still trembling, and gave Grant a nod. The undead knight rumbled quietly and fell into step behind her once more.
Freya took another glance at the blood-stained path—and turned the opposite way.
For now, she just want to stay as far as she can from those orcs.....