Tribal Culture may not be something you hear much about in the Imperial Capital, but upon understanding its essence, one realizes it’s merely one of the commonplace societal forms found anywhere.
Where there are humans, there are groups, and where there are groups, a few powerful individuals take charge. The leaders provide protection in exchange for profit, while those under their protection contribute to the collective’s strength, leveraging numbers for advancement.
It’s a truly common paradigm, the kind that makes you wonder why it hasn’t been recognized as such until now.
“What’s wrong, Miss? Are you tired?” said Kevin, the Dog Demon, in the impeccably ordered courtyard, a stark contrast to the tavern’s clamor, as I prepared by lifting my garment’s hem. He leaned languidly against what appeared to be an empty barrel, resting his cheek on his hand—an infuriating yet undeniably cool pose. An untamed ferocity inherent to his kind, distinct from us of the Human Race, made him appear powerful even in his casual stance.
“That, right? That thing about Ogres?”
“Combat addiction?”
“That’s it, exactly.”
The wooden training sword was crude but not poorly made. There were no odd twists, and the core metal was properly inserted, balancing the weapon close to that of a real sword. Though slightly on the longer side for my preference, it wasn’t unwieldy and thus, acceptable. After all, not being picky with weapons is the greatest advantage of our battlefield swordsmanship.
“Still, Miss, while you’re strong, there seems to be a lot you’re not handling well.”
“Is it a lack of opponents?”
“That’s part of it, but among us, there’s an understanding—an Ogreworld dry spell—that only Ogres can truly grasp.”
He gazed reflectively at where the Ogre was finishing her combat preparation.
The over-sized overcoat she wore, large enough to be repurposed as a tent for dwarves, was hoisted up and bound under her chest. She pulled the trouser legs up to her knees before tying several ropes previously fastened around her waist. The unruly hair upon her head was roughly slicked back, and her brass-like auburn hair was hastily bundled up.
With her posture corrected, she was an imposing beauty. Her sharp features gave a stern impression, yet her slightly slanted eyes, which created heavy creases when paired with furrowed brows, made her look formidable. Even her small but high nose added to her strong character, while the long canine teeth that peeked through her thin lips enhanced her intimidating aura.
Truly, a captivating figure of raw, commanding beauty. If adorned with traditional Japanese makeup to accentuate the corners of her eyes, she would resemble the idealized consort of a crime syndicate leader, an image that would suit her well despite her casual tavern-hopping demeanor.
Even Kevin perhaps found it wasteful to see such presence confined to drinking in the sofa of a tavern. As he ran his fingers through his mane, characteristic of his Noole race, an indescribable tone escaped him.
“Complaining about inadequacies while gulping down booze—that’s how she goes. Yet despite that, she can fling us around like kindling; honestly, I don’t fully get it.”
“That stands to reason. Even Dog Demons must have aspects of their culture that Humans can’t comprehend, right?”
“Of course. Y’all wouldn’t understand the misery of our shedding cycles either,” he chuckled as he referenced their natural shedding process.
“That’s why, seeing as we’ve followed in your strength to some degree, we’ve been having our own thoughts.”
“……So, if there are even rookies who might be slightly useful, you plan to use them to vent the frustration, right?”
“Yup. Sure, we could be the ones to face off, but it’d be too dangerous,” he said, grinning broadly. It irked me a touch—just lightly, honestly. If someone as resilient as they were couldn’t take it, then the consequences for weaker, softer beings like us was crystal clear.
“Still, did I mention it? If you decide to stop here, simply paying half your funds as an entrance fee to the Tribal Culture is all you need to do. After that, just contribute a tenth of your profits, and under Miss’s name, you can work in peace,” he assured casually.
So this was a recruitment pitch. The kind that extorts money if you try to flee from an unfair fight, or worse, subjects you to vigilante justice if you refused—even spreading damaging rumors that would ruin your reputation as an adventurer.
Indeed, it’s a fatal setup. Regardless of how daunting fighting an Ogre seems, letting go without resistance while being in such a rugged occupation would bring eternal ridicule.
“I understand why Miss would want you to enjoy yourself, but I lack the taste to laugh watching someone young get beaten up. So, for the final time, rookie,” Kevin called out, adjusting his stance as the towering swordswoman readied herself.
How many new recruits could stand firm against such an overwhelming presence? And how many brave souls wouldn’t slip into reckless despair?
It was understandable why some, upon confronting such overbearing might, would decide joining Tribal Culture was the better option. Operating under that formidable power while paying only a tenth of quest earnings might not seem like a bad deal.
“Decide now. Do you want to stop?”
But I too have my pride. With the memories of two teachers who have honed my skills, the friends I’ve adventured with, and the foes I’ve faced, I continue. If I were to crumble pitifully here, it would diminish their worth as well. Hence, though acknowledging my own inadequacies, I refuse to label myself as weak.
“Enough said.”
No intention to be underestimated.
“Yeah, got it. Alright, then, rookie, try your best. By the way, we’ve got a monk under our house, so if you’re lucky enough and cough up some coin, you might even get stitched back together,” he joked lightheartedly.
With that remark brushing my back as I stood face-to-face with the fully prepared Ogre, I felt a towering presence akin to standing before a wall or a rock. At this point, feeling overwhelmed would not be shameful.
But despair? Far from it. Having endured countless impossible challenges with an unforgiving GM in my previous life, this level of threat doesn’t yet reach the absurdity required to defeat me.
Without word, salute, or declaration, the first strike came. An unexpected attack that surged upward from a deceptively relaxed stance—her limbs working in perfect harmony to deliver a sweeping upward slash with deceptive simplicity, despite its appearance of laziness masking high skill.
I evaded by sidestepping to the left, narrowly avoiding having my bangs swept away by the wooden blade—a heart-stopping moment.
In response, I lunged forward with the wooden sword in my right hand targeting her slightly advanced left leg, made possible by her brief step forward despite the significant height and reach difference.
Maintaining a half-turned body posture, I engaged my arm and chest muscles, efficiently driving a compact thrust. With a firm stomp on the ground, the entire body’s force was utilized, giving the impression of a solely arm-driven thrust while effectively employing the whole body’s strength.
The unmistakable widening of her golden eyes, unique to demonic races, was a testament to her impressive reaction. She swiftly raised her left leg, deflecting the tip of my sword.
Even drenched in drink, her reflexes proved she truly was a master. At this rate, with a real blade, I suspect it would have been an even safer timing.
A light seemed to spark in her previously lackadaisical gaze.
Next came an immediate counter from her kick’s aftermath, a direct strike with the pommel of her weapon now wielded by both hands. Using the weapon as a blunt object rather than a blade, aimed at armored foes but equally suitable as a quick return strike—she executed a practical choice.
Nice. She’s gotten a bit serious.
Crouching to dodge the incoming pommel strike, I attempted to enter her guard to strike with the sword, but her swift kick forced me to retreat.
It only confirmed her aversion to close range. I used the momentum from landing to propel my next leap, tightly gripping the massive sword wielded by the towering three-meter Ogre.
Facing an opponent nearly double the Human Race’s height, it’s understandably challenging. Similar to humans fighting child-sized ogres, it’s tough to cut low without harming the front leg due to the bipedal positioning, which also limits force application.
Hence the principle: “Let’s lead with whatever others avoid doing.” I don’t merely endure her hurricane-force wooden sword but weave through it, sidestepping where possible. Given my stats, direct defense would only result in being overwhelmed. Before an unstoppable mass, fancy techniques are futile—dodging or deflecting are the sole options.
Exchanging blows for over a dozen rounds, the surrounding area began to stir. The clan members who had been lounging in the tavern ventured out, likely curious why the expected screams and cries hadn’t followed their assumptions of the human recruit’s instant humiliation. Instead, the high-pitched clang of wooden swords meeting repeatedly drew their attention.
Feel free to watch if you’d like, but don’t expect the predictable.
Especially not when you have an old friend casually munching on dried meat brought from somewhere as the audience.
The momentum builds. The techniques sharpen, and a luster shines in the attacks, with limbs in full rhythm. Unreserved kicks and punches weave seamlessly into the swordplay. No longer holding back; if struck here, a human’s fragile frame would crumble like an overripe fruit under the sheer power unleashed.
Now this isn’t just the unfiltered frustration from previous setbacks—it’s the raw essence of her Ogre heritage awakening unconsciously in her body’s heightened excitement.
I’m glad to see her getting into it—on multiple levels.
Calculating the optimal moment amidst her relentless approach, the awaited opportunity finally arose. A sweeping horizontal slash designed to create distance and set up another advantageous position—but not today.
Against the wide arc coming from her left, I braced the wooden sword on my left side.
As our swords meet, I use them as leverage to leap, tilting horizontally parallel to the ground. The sword glides along the side of mine, successfully avoiding the slicing strike thanks to this rather acrobatic maneuver—though risky, I confidently judged it possible and executed it successfully.
This confidence stems from leaning on fixed stats; knowing what’s achievable offers peace of mind. And when flashy moves fail after dramatic buildup, it’s nothing but embarrassing.
Having just narrowly maintained my positioning and landing, I thrust the tip towards the momentarily exposed right side of her torso. Regardless of her metallic armor-like skin, the thin layers of her side make the ribs vulnerable entry points for lethal strikes.
She must’ve understood this too, as she stood frozen, her eyes silently asking if I was satisfied. With a light double tap of her side with my blade, I answered affirmatively.
A few seconds later, a heavy murmur rose from the onlookers—a testament to their stunned disbelief. They had never imagined their leader would lose, needing time to comprehend the reality.
In the midst of their bewildered mutterings, a heavy sigh emerged. A lengthy exhalation, carrying the scent of alcohol, followed before she discarded the sword and turned her back. Seizing a nearby bottle from a corner of the courtyard, she unceremoniously opened it and drenched herself in its contents.
It was only water; evidently prepared for household chores, but she drank heartily from her hand after scooping up the last drops. Then, discarding the cracked vessel carelessly on the ground, she raised her sodden hair and called out.
“Kevin!”
“Huh!?”
“Bring that wooden sword over! The usual one!”
Upon receiving her command, the Dog Demon darted into the tavern and returned with quite a racket, carrying two wooden swords—a shorter one and even a smaller companion.
Accepting them cautiously, the Ogre’s demeanor underwent a shift.
Ah, I see, so she wasn’t fond of wielding the large longsword suited to her stature.
These smaller swords, well-practiced favorites now fitting perfectly into her arms’ extensions as tools of her techniques.
Unique—two swords? That’s a rarity. It’s a disadvantageous tactic in regions where shield-based warfare has evolved, rarely seen in the West.
However, since she’s an adventurer, there’s no chance this is just a fancy or affectation.
It seems my single sword won’t suffice against this.
“Is this what you need?”
As I was contemplating, Margit quietly appeared by my side, offering a shield she’d found somewhere.
“Thank you, you’re wonderful.”
“My pleasure. If this lets you display more impressive feats, it’s a small favor indeed.”
Delighted by the thoughtful gesture, I bowed formally in proper noble fashion, which she kindly reciprocated by lifting her skirt. Truly, a dependable companion who understands everything.
Awaiting our exchange, once Margit stepped back, the re-armed Ogre approached me, respectfully raising her right sword and spitting it to her forehead—a gesture of respect known as a sword salute. Though originating from a different cultural evolution than in my previous life, the similarity in these actions across cultures is indeed fascinating.
“Apologies for the discourtesy of attacking without introducing oneself or declaring intent, newcomer. I am Lorans, Lorans ‘Unbound’ of the Gargantua Tribe. May I inquire of your name?”
Her gruff speech was imbued with decorum, a sign of her sobriety and commitment to her role as an Ogre warrior.
Hiding my surprise at recognizing her as a fellow townsman of an old friend, I returned her gesture and announced my name.
“Johannes from Königsstuhl Manor, also known as Erich.”
Currently, however, I’m nothing more than this identity, not yet achieving anything noteworthy as an adventurer.
Nevertheless, this is the name I proudly bear—an adequate representation indeed.
“Ah, Erich from Königsstuhl, understood. Though it appears you’re ready, as a formality, I must ask: Even if but a playful bout, it seems unbecoming for a defeated combatant to request a rematch. Would you honor me with another round?”
In response to her query, I thrust my sword forward without words.
Didn’t I already say?
Enough said…
