The moment Cale stepped into view, the chaos seemed to tilt.
The orcs paused for a moment, their sharp eyes gleaming as they took him in.
It wasn't recognition, just an instinctive reaction to the sudden shift in the air. Something about his presence seemed off, even without his Commanding Presence skill active.
But after a brief moment of scrutiny, the orcs turned back to the battle, resuming their brutal work.
They had judged him. Strange? Sure. Dangerous? Not even close.
Cale sighed, shaking his head.
Ah, yes. His stats. Barely above the basic. Even that scout, Kain, who should be more specialized in running away than fighting, had better numbers than him. And compared to these hulking, muscle-bound orcs? He'd be less than a footnote in their obituary.
But strength wasn't everything.
Cale was different.
As a hero, he'd survived battles against forces that should've crushed him a hundred times over. Raw strength was just one piece of the puzzle. Tactics, experience, and sheer mental fortitude? That was where he thrived.
Orcs? These brutes were nothing but walking points to him.
"Hey, ugly," Cale called out, his voice cutting through the clash of steel and guttural war cries. He didn't shout, but his words carried. They landed like a slap, daring someone—anyone—to look his way.
They did.
One particularly large orc turned to him. It was mid-lunge, its club raised high above a pale-haired girl who looked moments away from becoming a splatter on the dirt.
The orc snarled, its chest plate made of scrap and bone, rattling with its movement.
It changed course immediately, pounding toward Cale with steps that hit the ground like war drums.
"Why is it always the biggest idiot first?" Cale muttered, tilting his head.
The orc roared, swinging its bone club in a wide, reckless arc.
Aware of his limit's, Cale didn't dare blocking. He sidestepped the swing with practiced ease, letting the brute stumble forward.
Before it could recover, his hands darted into his cape. Two daggers glinted in the sunlight as he pulled them free.
These weren't daggers created with mana forge. They were real daggers, although a bit crude. These were part of the items he collected from Kain who went buck naked in the dungeon earlier.
Now they would come in handy since he couldn't use mana forge outside the dungeon, except he activated his Domain ability.
Without ever a moment of hesitation, Cale drove them into the orc's back.
The strikes were precise, high on the left side, just above where the heart should be. Not a coincidence. It was very much calculated.
The orc roared again, louder this time, but it was already too late. Cale twisted both blades, the grinding sound of steel against bone cutting through the battlefield noise.
Then, with a sharp kick, he sent the beast sprawling face-first into the dirt.
It didn't get back up.
"That's how you deal with something stronger than you," Cale muttered, yanking his daggers free.
The memory of facing the Demon King's army came flooding back. Fighting overwhelming odds wasn't new, it was second nature.
Sure, there were some enemies even experience couldn't help with, but orcs? Please. Even in this weaker state, they were cake.
A soft chime pinged in his mind.
[You have slain a Native Orc - Rank E. Experience gained.]
Cale's boot scraped against the ground as he tried to relieve the ache in his leg. That kick might've been a little excessive—or maybe this body was just too fragile for his usual moves.
He frowned, flexing his fingers. Weak. So damn weak. It was infuriating how far he'd fallen.
He'd fought near godlike entities, crushed armies, stood at the peak. And now? Now he had to claw his way back up like some rookie adventurer.
A bitter smile tugged at his lips.
Fine. If that's what it took, he'd start here. These orcs were only the beginning.
"Next," Cale said, his eyes scanning the battlefield for his next target.
The caravan guards stared, wide-eyed, frozen in place as they just witnessed what Cale had done
"Focus!" Cale barked, his voice cutting through their stupor like a whip. "Unless you want to die, keep those orcs off the traders!"
His sharp command jolted them back to their senses.
The young woman he'd noticed earlier, still pale but steadier now, gave a determined nod and fell back into the defensive line. Around her, the guards rallied, forming a tighter, more disciplined formation.
Meanwhile, another orc broke from the pack. Smaller but quicker than its fallen comrade, it lunged at Cale with a jagged blade. Its strikes came fast, aimed at weak points with a cunning that betrayed its savage appearance.
But Cale didn't panic. He wasn't the naive, untrained man who was plunged into that other world years ago.
The jagged blade came down hard, but Cale moved with precision. He caught the strike with one of his twin daggers, not blocking it head-on but angling his wrists expertly to redirect the blow.
The force slid past him, deflected with practiced efficiency. Even so, the impact sent a sharp jolt up his arm. His current body wasn't what it used to be, and the strain reminded him of that bitter truth.
Still, he held firm.
The orc overextended, its momentum throwing it slightly off-balance. Cale didn't waste the opportunity. With a swift pivot, he drove his knee into the creature's gut.
The blow made the orc double over, and before it could recover, his blade slashed across its throat in one fluid motion.
The strike was so clean, so fast, it left those watching in stunned silence.
The tide of battle shifted.
The remaining orcs faltered, their snarls losing their edge as they glanced at the bodies of their fallen. The guards, emboldened by the sudden turn, pressed forward with renewed vigor.
It didn't take long. The surviving orcs retreated into the shadows of the thick forest, snarling curses in their guttural tongue. Moments later, the battlefield fell eerily silent, broken only by the labored breathing of the survivors.
"Who… who are you?" the young woman asked, stepping forward. Her sword, now slick with dark blood, trembled in her grip.
"Just a traveler," Cale replied, sheathing his daggers with a practiced flick of his wrists. His tone was calm, almost casual, as though this had been nothing more than a minor inconvenience.
"Though I'd suggest hiring better guards next time."
Her cheeks flushed, though whether from embarrassment or gratitude, he couldn't quite tell. Before she could respond, one of the older traders approached—a wiry man with sharp eyes that missed nothing.
"You saved us," the man said, his voice steady despite the recent chaos. "We owe you."
Cale raised an eyebrow, his expression quite unreadable. "Owe me? I don't recall signing a contract."
"Even so," the man pressed, "we don't forget debts, traveler. If there's anything we can offer—"
"Information," Cale interrupted as if he had been waiting for this moment. "What do you know about the Stonefang Ruins?"
This was a name he had managed to force out of Kain's mouth after he stripped him naked, of course, with the eager help of those little… imps.
The trader blinked, clearly surprised by the question. "Stonefang? That's a cursed place. Ancient, filled with traps and beasts. Why would you—"
"That's my business," Cale said, his tone leaving no room for argument. "What do you know?"
The trader exhaled, his sharp gaze softening slightly.
"Not much, but… there's a village nearby. Black Hollow. They've been dealing with strange occurrences, monsters getting too close to the fields, livestock disappearing. Some say it's tied to the ruins."
"Convenient," Cale muttered, already piecing together his next move. His eyes flicked to the caravan. "You're headed that way?"
The trader nodded. "Yes. The village is holding a ritual soon. Something to protect them from the monster hordes coming out of this Enchanted Forest."
That caught Cale's attention. A horde? That sounded like an opportunity. Not just to gain experience, but to test the limits of his current strength.
He gave a curt nod. "Then I'll travel with you."
The trader didn't argue. Perhaps it was fear, gratitude, or simply the pragmatic realization that having Cale around might tip the odds in their favor should trouble arise again.
Whatever the reason, no one questioned him as he fell into step beside the caravan.