The route ahead was straightforward.
The road was dry and stony, a rough mix of gravel and packed dirt, though here and there puddles of murky water formed in depressions. Patches of grass lined the edges, and occasional clusters of trees offered brief pockets of shade. People moved along the road in both directions—some on foot, others riding in carts drawn by horses or other creatures. One such beast resembled an enormous, fantastical chicken, fully grown and taller than a man, its feathers a mix of strange, vibrant colors. Talons jutted from its legs, clicking against the ground as it moved. He wasn't sure if "hooves" would be the right term for them—they were more like clawed, armored feet, perfectly built to carry the weight of a carriage and its rider.
Honey…?
He murmured to himself as one of the carts passed by. A faint, sweet fragrance drifted through the air, wafting from barrels stacked high in the back. The cart's driver, dressed in a simple black outfit, guided the strange bird-like creature with a firm hand, urging it forward as it trotted along the uneven road.
So many carts… does this route lead to a city? Or is it simply a trade road? he wondered, observing the constant flow of traffic, the sound of wheels rattling over stones and the occasional clatter of hooves—or claws—against the ground.
Then suddenly, a large, imposing carriage rolled past him. Its polished black surface gleamed under the sunlight, intricate carvings etched along the edges giving it an air of wealth and authority. The carriage was drawn by a team of black horses, their muscles rippling beneath sleek coats as they moved in perfect synchronization.
Behind them, several guards in brown armor marched in formation, spears held at the ready, and swords strapped across their backs catching glints of light with each step.
Must be a noble's carriage…
He thought, noting the unmistakable aura of prestige. Only someone of significant wealth—or status—could afford such a display, and the precision of the guards suggested a high-ranking individual indeed.
However, suddenly, the carriage came to an abrupt halt. The coachman yanked hard on the reins, the black horses rearing up with a furious neigh, their hooves kicking dust and grit into the air. The guards instantly moved into formation, armor clanking as they drew their weapons—spears leveled, eyes sharp and tense.
Screams broke out from the people nearby. Panic spread like fire. Some dropped the goods they carried—baskets, crates, even whole sacks of grain—while others bolted toward the sides of the road, tripping and scrambling over one another in desperation. A few dove behind the carriage or crouched behind the guards, trembling and pale.
Huh?
He frowned, walking closer to the frightened crowd, spotting a man clutching his child and backing away in fear.
"Hey, what's going on?" he asked sharply.
"O–Oh, sir knight!" the man gasped, pointing ahead with a trembling hand. "A group of orcs—there's about forty of them! Armed… they're coming this way!"
Hearing that, he pushed through the scattering civilians until he reached the front line of the chaos.
The open road stretched far ahead—dry, dusty, and lined with scattered debris. A few broken carts lay overturned, their contents spilled across the dirt. One or two bodies could be seen further down the path—merchants or travelers, their lifeless forms half-buried in dust, blood faintly staining the stones beneath them. The faint scent of iron lingered in the air.
And in the distance, he saw them.
Orcs. A full horde of them, marching steadily closer. Towering brutes, each nearly eight feet tall, their skin a coarse, sickly green and their bodies thick with raw muscle. They wore crude armor of leather and rusted metal, and carried weapons that looked more like slabs of iron than swords.
Even from afar, their guttural roars carried across the plain. Their faces resembled monstrous pigs—snouts twisted in rage, tusks gleaming under the sunlight, patches of black fur clinging to their arms and chests.
Dust rose beneath their heavy footsteps as they advanced, the distant tremors pulsing faintly through the ground beneath his boots.
Those are some ugly motherfuckers, not gonna lie.
He thought, squinting at the advancing figures. Still, he had to admit—these orcs actually looked closer to the lesser kind described in fantasy stories. Most depictions made them more humanlike—big, brutish, and green, sure, but not quite as… grotesque as the ones trudging down the road toward him.
Why are they even here though? he wondered, brow furrowing. If my fantasy trope knowledge serves right, orcs aren't the type to attack in broad daylight. Sure, they're brutes, but they usually stick to building their own territories, raiding small villages for resources—or, well, women—for breeding. Unless these ones act differently…
He exhaled through his nose, eyes narrowing. Well, if slimes in this world can be completely different from the ones in fantasy series, then I guess the orcs can be too.
He shifted his stance slightly, hand sliding to the hilt of his sword. The familiar weight was reassuring beneath his palm.
If I were alone, I would have immediately turned around and left this mess behind… fortunately, that's not the case. There are the noble's guards—at least a hundred of them by rough count—each armed and armored, holding their ground with spears and shields. The orcs number, if that traveler's estimate is correct, maybe forty. So it's a two-to-one advantage, he calculates. Not bad.
His lips twitch in the faintest hint of a grin—well, at least what his emotion suppressor allows. Besides… they'd make good EXP.
"Listen, carefully guards of the noble of family of Converella, Don't let the orcs pass through. Anyone who run away will be punished harshly—and so will your families!" the coachman shouts, his tone sharp and uncaring, more like an order than a plea. The soldiers stiffen, fear flashing in their eyes as they tighten their formation under his command.
"it will shame to our family if these orcs pass here and with us unable to stop them even with number advantage, and also those who die protecting the Converella family's honor—your families will receive five gold coins!" he adds, his voice cold and detached, as if he were talking about livestock rather than men about to fight for their lives.
From the carriage window, a face suddenly appears—a young woman, beautiful and composed, perhaps sixteen or eighteen. Her long blonde hair glimmers faintly in the sunlight, and her sharp blue eyes sweep across the guards.
"Don't make fools of yourselves!" she says curtly, before drawing her head back inside.
The guards charge at the orcs, but the orcs don't rush to meet them. They simply walk forward, slow and sure—like a tide moving in to crush something fragile. It looks less like an army meeting an enemy and more like predators approaching prey that won't put up a real fight.
Why do I feel like these guards aren't going to be able to do a thing?
"Coachman, you should take the young lady and go. You're betting on the wrong side—those guards won't win," he says bluntly.
"And who are you to speak so lowly of the Converella family's guards?" the coachman snaps.
"What I am doesn't matter. I'm giving you advice that could save your life—and the young lady's," he replies. He doesn't care much for the noble herself, but her survival matters for other reasons: a dead noble could spark chaos. Her death might trigger inheritance disputes, ignite family blood-feuds, or even spiral into civil unrest—and he has no desire to be dragged into that mess. He's already seen enough fantasy stories to know exactly how these scenarios play out.
Better she stays alive.
"Is that an orc mage?!" someone nearby shouts, panic lacing their voice.
He glances quickly and spots it—a towering orc wielding a staff topped with a human skull. Its eyes glint with malice as it raises its hand, aiming directly at the carriage. Around it, the other orcs are tearing through the guards like ants beneath a boot, crushing them without effort.
"Coachman! The orc mage is aiming at the carriage!" he yells, and the coachman's eyes widen as he finally grasps the danger.
The coachman yanks open the window and shouts, "Young lady, get out now! The orc mage is targeting us!"
The young lady wastes no time. She scrambles out of the carriage, followed closely by her maid. They sprint toward a small patch of grass a few meters away, along with other bystanders, hearts pounding.
At that exact moment, the orc mage releases a fireball. It streaks through the air, striking the carriage and engulfing it in flames, the wood cracking and melting, smoke rising in thick, black plumes.
He, on the other hand, leaps over the fiery explosion, landing amidst the chaos of the fight between the guards and the orcs.
"Let's go!" he shouts, drawing his sword in one fluid motion.
He charges, moving faster than ordinary human reflexes, slicing through orcs one by one. His strikes are precise, aiming for necks and decapitating several in swift succession. Spotting the orc mage preparing another spell, he hurls his shield with deadly accuracy. The shield strikes true, crushing the mage's skull and cutting off the threat before the spell can be unleashed.
The battlefield falls momentarily silent, punctuated only by the crackling of the burning carriage and the groans of the fallen.
"Who is this knight? Look at him—he cut down ten orcs and even the orce mage so easily?!" the young lady exclaimed, her blue eyes wide with disbelief, her voice trembling.
"I don't know, but that's not an ordinary knight for sure. Could he be a Holy Knight?" the coachman muttered, his brow furrowed as he watched the display.
"A Holy Knight? But… aren't they all stationed at the capital? Every single one of them?" the young lady asked, confusion mingled with awe.
The coachman said nothing. There was nothing he could add.
Their eyes remained glued to the scene. The lone knight moved with uncanny precision, each swing of his sword felling orcs effortlessly. A faint green glow had briefly radiated from him, casting an almost ethereal aura, before vanishing entirely. Yet they also noticed that the knight's movements accelerated, becoming a near blur, each strike faster and sharper than the last.
The remaining orcs, shaken and terrified, dropped their weapons and attempted to flee.
With a single, sweeping strike, the knight sent a wave of force through the air, cutting down the rest of the orcs. Their bodies crumpled lifelessly to the ground. The young lady could only stare, her mouth slightly agape, as the reality of the knight's skill sank in.
"Yeaaahhh!"
Cheers of victory echoed around them, but the young noble lady didn't pay them any mind. Her eyes stayed fixed on the knight as he walked toward her, sliding his sword back into its scabbard and removing his helm.
"So… handsome!" the young lady murmured, her voice filled with awe, as she took in the sight of his sharp features and black hair that waved lightly as he moved.
"If it weren't for me, you'd all be dead," he said plainly.
"What's your name, sir knight?" the young lady asked, her tone both intrigued and slightly flustered.
The knight paused for a moment, considering, before answering. "Axel. My name is Axel Wellington."
"Axel Wellington…" the young lady repeated, savoring the name.
"Anyway," he continued, turning his attention back to the surviving guards, "you're on your own now. You still have enough men alive to escort you wherever you were going to."
"Sir Axel, if you don't mind, would you also escort us toward the city? As you said, our guards are quite… ineffective," the coachman said this time, his tone unusually humble, bowing slightly. The sudden change in demeanor made Axel raise an eyebrow, suspicious. He quickly strapped on his helmet and replied, "I guess I could, but only as an escort. I have other important matters to attend to afterward."
"That shall be sufficient," the coachman said, nodding respectfully.
Then the young lady spoke, her voice laced with curiosity. "Lord Axel, are you a Holy Knight?"
Holy Knight? Axel thought, pondering the term. Perhaps it implied some paladin-like status, but he couldn't be certain. "No, I am not a Holy Knight," he replied simply.
Her expression, along with the coachman's, shifted to one of genuine surprise. They had clearly assumed he was one.
"If you're not a Holy Knight… how are you that strong? You cleaved through those orcs like they were nothing!" the young lady exclaimed, awe in her eyes.
"Let's just say… I am that strong," Axel replied calmly. Then he asked, "Do adventurers exist in this country?"
He asked not out of idle curiosity, but to confirm whether adventurers truly existed in this world. If they did not, it would save him the effort of searching for an adventure guild, freeing his time for other pursuits.
"Yes, we have some… but they generally don't dress like knights," the coachman explained, assuming Axel to be one of them.
"I see. Though I should clarify, I am not an adventurer either—I am just a wandering traveler," Axel said, then added, "We can continue the chit-chat later; we should be moving now."
He gestured forward, signaling it was time to resume their journey, his calm composure fully returning as he led the way.
They walked on for what felt like an hour, the sun slowly dipping lower in the sky, casting long shadows across the road. Then, in the distance, something massive began to take shape on the horizon.
At first, Axel thought it might be a cliff or some jagged stone ridge. But as he drew closer, the silhouette became unmistakably clear—tall walls, impossibly wide and fortified.
A city.