It had been a long time since he had tasted the flavor of good liquor. Savoring the moment, the ogre let the scorching alcohol wet his tongue, his eyes glistening with pleasure.
Lorans, one of the ogres born under the most common of circumstances—his birthing bath being the war tent where soldiers prepared for battle—regarded himself as a laggard.
He stopped counting his age sometime after turning fifty when it became bothersome, but he had crossed over eighty battlefields, taken part in over twenty major battles, and dueled more than sixty fierce opponents. Upon being honored with the title “The Unrestrained One” at a tribal council, he took heads of renown totaling eighteen.
Those were the good days. At an early stage within the tribe, Lorans had earned a nickname as a warrior—though female ogre warriors are simply called warriors and not “warrior women”—and life had been smooth sailing.
However, the problem arose during a ceremony where he received combat paint alongside his opponent.
Her name was Lauren, now one of the most revered warriors of the tribe, known as “The Fierce One,” a title reserved for only the most prestigious warriors.
When did it begin? They were of the same generation, so it was natural for them to compete and polish their skills. They fought shoulder to shoulder on the battlefield, but gradually, Lorans found himself falling behind.
He couldn’t match her in strength, height, or combat achievements. Even with a sword, he could not hold his ground.
Feeling his limits, he learned the technique of wielding two blades from a foreign hero, but Lauren returned with the heads of famous adversaries that were celebrated in poems and songs, as if to say his efforts were trivial.
Eventually, she surpassed him even in terms of nicknames. Worse yet, in a duel to which Lorans staked everything, he was utterly defeated, the extent of his loss unfathomable.
Pounding his fists on the ground in despair, Lorans questioned the meaning of his existence. Even worse, her cheerful voice declared, “That was a fine battle,” like a dagger through his heart.
What made it a fine battle? Where was the merit? Had it not been for his pride as an ogre, he would have grabbed her by the collar and screamed in her face.
All that remained on his tongue was the bitter taste of defeat. Convinced he could never win, he decided to set out on a journey of leisure.
It was unclear why he followed her path. Perhaps it was to escape the tribe. Lorans could not recall now.
Instead of becoming a mercenary, he chose the path of an adventurer for fear, or perhaps out of a lingering attachment to combat. Regardless, he survived on rough jobs, and before he knew it, much time had passed.
He didn’t pay much attention to the vibrant color of the adventurer’s badge around his neck, but somehow, followers gathered around him. He formed a kind of family and eventually even earned steady income without much effort.
He no longer clashed with strong opponents as he used to, even though they existed among his peers in the adventurer’s guild.
Now, his days were spent keeping his followers in shape, occasionally sparing with the young recruits brought to him for entertainment.
That all changed in a fleeting moment.
The sensation of a wooden sword grazing his side jolted him like lightning, and the heat of dislocation in his left hand felt as intimate as a caress.
For a long time, Lorans had forgotten the happiness that warriors like ogres sought in the depths of battle. No amount of words could capture the essence of that forgotten taste of strife.
How bittersweet the taste of that once bitter defeat had become.
This was precisely the moment when Lorans realized the true nature of ogres as warriors.
The regret was in not having fought to the death. The thrill of life flowed through the steel, and wooden swords left him wanting. Especially when he alone held the weapon capable of killing his rival, the situation felt unbearably wasteful.
Worst of all, the opponent sitting beside him, casually sipping his drink, hadn’t fought seriously either, leaving Lorans feeling quite bitter about it.
“Hmm… Does the wine of the north not suit your palate?”
“It appears my tongue is still too young.”
The fault lay with himself; he hadn’t managed to bring his rival to fight seriously. With his own blade and a weapon more familiar than a wooden sword, he could have moved faster—but that would have been an excuse, as his opponent had put on a brilliant display with a weapon never held before today.
Still, it was frustrating not to see the full depth of his skills. He longed for the thrill of risking life in exchange for victory.
During their battle, he caught a glimpse of a faint hesitation, a brief moment of subconscious desire for an ace—a technique every warrior kept up their sleeve.
Lorans wanted to see this skill someday, in some form.
After this revelation, the ogre drank his potent liquor in one gulp.
“How unsatisfying.”
Yet, there was something lacking. It was frustrating that the high spirits he had gained could not be properly channeled.
“Ma’am, if you’d like another round, we have plenty.”
“Oh? Yes, let’s have another.”
Though the diligent attendant filled up his cup with amber-colored distilled liquor, it wasn’t what he truly craved.
But it couldn’t be done. Thinking about the aftermath of indulgence, Lorans decided against it.
Moreover, their current situation was quite awkward.
The ogres are a race instinctively driven to revel in conflict. They possess a modicum of rationality to prevent fighting amongst themselves, but their culture remains largely war-focused.
Among these customs is one known as “spit-touching.”
In the distant past, they had a peculiar tradition of leaving vengeance seekers as opponents, believing such individuals who trained fervently were the most worthy foes. In fact, the cries of battle and war declarations were often declarations of “your enemy awaits here.”
The strength of a grudge is unmatched. In ancient times, long forgotten even in oral traditions, the ogres suffered harsh retaliation due to their arrogance, reducing the once-renowned eighty-two tribes to only thirty-one.
Realizing they had gone too far, the ogres reformed, but this culture persisted in a gentler form.
This is referred to as “spit-touching,” a way of claiming one’s future rival.
For ogres, the lips are the second most sacred body part after the hand that wields the sword. Before combat, they recite oaths, reveal the glory of their tribe’s name, and, in the final moments, honor their most cherished enemies with praise.
The sanctity of this body part means that allowing such an action holds deep significance.
To offer this sacred body part signifies one thing:
“This is my prey. Hands off, or you’ll be killed.”
A simple yet powerful assertion.
For ogres, a worthy rival could be considered even more esteemed than a parent. Their emotional attachment runs deep. Should any fellow tribesperson harass a declared rival, even kin would retaliate with lethal vengeance.
“Spit-touching” is not done lightly. When an ogre identifies a worthy opponent, they send word to their tribe, and the message spreads through the network even among those on journeys, connecting distant tribes.
This way, they avoid losing their rivals except by misfortune.
Lorans distinctly remembered the shock when news came that Lauren, renowned as a berserker warrior, had marked someone with spit-touching. He wondered what sort of monster this individual might be.
Now, such a terrifying figure sat beside him.
Despite acknowledging it had been merely a trial match, the ogre tradition of spit-touching is no trivial matter. Damage could lead to inevitable anger.
What if the notorious Lauren unleashed her wrath and swarmed with blades?
Even thinking about it caused Lorans’ stomach to churn.
Especially if “multiple meanings” were involved…
While his aging memory still functioned well, Lorans swallowed the sour feeling growing in his mouth with more alcohol.
Meanwhile, the young one next to him was finishing his drink. For a human to consume such potent liquor without showing any change in expression warranted either praise or teasing.
“So,”
Interrupting his internal conflict with another drink, Lorans inquired of the youth beside him.
“Do you really have no intention of joining the clan?”
Earlier, during the start of their drinking session, the youth had declined the invitation to join, prefacing it with a mention of mutual refusal to accept defeat.
Lorans wasn’t overly attached to his clan that had formed almost unintentionally. Yet he played the role of leader out of courtesy, ensuring those who had gathered under him were not left neglected.
While the situation occasionally became complicated when he had to step in for appearances only to later resolve issues effectively and teach some eager young fighters a trick or two, this wasn’t the reason for the invitation.
Lorans wanted to legally train with this young man under the guise of clan practice.
It was simply dismissed with a firm shake of the head.
“I’ve made a promise.”
A “promise”? Lorans tilted his head in curiosity, only to see the youth lower his gaze towards his knees.
Recalling a similar promise with a childhood friend who had challenged him to a drinking contest only to collapse early under the strong distilled spirits, Lorans observed the youth gently caressing the hair of a girl dozing off like a cat curled up on his knees.
“We decided to work as adventurers together, so we’d like to start by trying on our own.”
The sight made Lorans’ eyes soften, and he smiled, deciding against the rude suggestion of interfering.
Finally, after emptying eight bottles of distilled liquor, they both admitted defeat, acknowledging the significant disparity in their physical capacities.
Of course, the stature of an ogre exceeds three meters, which is nearly fifty to a hundred percent taller than humans. Consequently, their stomach capacities differ greatly as well.
Though both could metabolize alcohol as much as their livers allowed, the opponent kept pace similarly, leaving no possibility of catching up through sheer quantity.
It was not so much about losing the contest but realizing an unfair regulation altogether.
Still, it was genuinely impressive. There were no jokes about noble Roman practices. Firstly, vomiting wouldn’t reset anything. The stress would contract the stomach, and the stomach acid would burn the throat. Ultimately, the body would recognize this action as illness, making the situation truly worse.
Despite the inability to settle the match cleanly, they agreed to compromise, with Lorans graciously granting permission.
However, as proof of sobriety, a sword dance was demanded.
Even wielding the sword with the “<Uwabami>” characteristic, the after-effects of heavy drinking significantly impacted the dance.
Furthermore, Lorans, seemingly unable to hold back, joined in, unsheathing his twin blades. The rhythmic, unbroken arcs from his seasoned swords felt almost like a different person altogether.
The number of exchanges was unclear; though it might have only lasted a few minutes, fatigue and the exhilaration made it feel like hours.
It was a peculiar experience.
Perhaps as a result, they were offered a free stay in a room upstairs at the Black Giant Squid Inn.
The room was simple. Compared to the disarray downstairs, the cleanliness contrasted starkly. The sheets showed no oil stains, no lice flew out when shaken, and the blankets weren’t so odorous as to require wrinkling the nose.
It seemed a lot of care went into selecting this room.
Still, it wasn’t a place worthy of being considered a base.
After the youth collapsed early during the drinking session, the childhood friend now dozed off gently on the bed. Despite her initial sleep on his knee during the festivities, she managed to stay awake albeit with a glazed look while watching the sword dance until finally succumbing to sleep.
Thinking back, the youth seemed cared for throughout—both his early collapse and current rest.
Margit’s quiet breathing indicated peaceful slumber. Adjusting her hair, Lorans loosened her collar and the edge of her clothing for comfort.
As the ink-colored adventurer’s badge tied with string slid out from her collar, Lorans was reminded of the undeniable proof of her identity.
Ah, he thought. This is truly who I am now. A sense of accomplishment washed over him.
Standing by the window, he lifted the wooden cover to look outside. The hours had passed—now the crescent moon hung in the sky, waning as it approached New Moon, akin to his past self.
Certainly, it had been a long character creation process.
With a check-off for:
– Having a non-human family member,
– Having served a lord in the past,
– Having had a mentor,
and the ultimate purpose of becoming an adventurous hero, Lorans realized this was no doubt a Level 1 Fighter.
By the way, the “This Light Novel is Incredible!” poll is still accepting votes. It would mean a lot if you could consider casting a vote for a story that might leave a lasting impression, potentially helping introduce more tabletop RPG enthusiasts to the fold.
