The orc woman standing at the edge of the clearing looked entirely unbothered by the corpse of the beetle, the scorched ground, or the light chemical haze still curling in the air. She leaned onto the nearby tree, arms crossed, her posture was deceptively relaxed—balanced in the manner of someone who could move very quickly if she chose to. Her gaze was amused and openly appraising.

  She did not look like a hulking, slab-jawed caricature that populated early concept art and bad fantasy novels. Formidable yet cunning were more correct descriptions of her. She was tall, though not towering, slender, built for speed rather than brute force. Her skin carried a muted gray-green tone, smooth and healthy, catching the sunlight with a subdued sheen. Long scarlet hair spilled down her back in a thick untamed cascade.

  Her lower canines protruded just enough to mark her heritage, visible when she smirked—nothing like the exaggerated jut of some orc clans, whose jaws seemed designed more for intimidation than speech. This woman looked refined in her own way.

  She wore layered leather and reinforced cloth in earth tones, fitted and flexible, cut for travel and stealth rather than protection. A nomad’s outfit, unmistakably made for a southern orc in its design. Two small battle axes hung at her hips, blades nicked and carefully maintained. Their ornate handles revealed far from poor origins of their owner.

  “As I said, for a moment I thought I’d have to intervene,” the orc said again, pushing off the tree she’d been leaning against. “And that would’ve been annoying.”

  “Were you planning to?” Elanil asked, voice steady despite the lingering tremor.

  The orc shrugged. “Depends. If you died fast, probably not. If you screamed a lot, maybe.”

  Elanil snorted. “That’s so sweet of you.”

  The orc’s eyes flicked briefly to the beetle’s corpse. “Bombardier. Nasty shell. You figured out the trick faster than most.”

  Elanil allowed herself to relax a little. That orc hadn’t attacked while she was exhausted. That alone earned her a sliver of trust. “You were watching the whole time?”

  “Long enough.” She tapped one axe hilt with her thumb. “Didn’t expect to see a wood elf out here, though. Especially one fighting like she knows what she’s doing. Name’s Nura, by the way.”

  “Elanil,” she said. “And I could say the same. Orcs don’t usually wander this far north.”

  “True,” Nura agreed. “Which makes this meeting special.”

  “Where are you from, Nura?”

  “Clan of the Red Dust. Ranger. Sometimes scout. Sometimes problem-solver.”

  Elanil frowned mentally. Red Dust. Southern, then. Far southern.

  They stood in silence for a moment, the forest slowly reclaiming its sounds. Birds ventured tentative calls. Insects resumed their buzzing. The clearing no longer felt like a battlefield, just another scar in a living world.

  “So,” Nura said, breaking the silence. “You going to explain why a wood elf is wandering around the Sylvan Reserve alone, or should I assume exile?”

  “Not exile,” Elanil replied quickly. “Just… lost.”

  “What happened?” Nura raised a brow.

  Elanil hesitated. How much could she say? How much should she say? She settled for a half-truth. “I didn’t start my journey where I was supposed to.”

  Nura considered that, then shrugged. “Fair enough. Starting points are overrated.” Nura’s grin lingered for a second, then her gaze drifted back to the beetle, and her expression shifted into something more practical.

  “Well?” the orc said, tilting her head toward the carcass. “Are you planning to just leave all that lying around?”

  Elanil followed her look. The bombardier beetle was half-exploded, legs curled inward, its armored shell cracked and scorched in several places. Even in death it looked formidable, a mass of chitin and muscle that had taken far too much effort to bring down.

  “I… am not,” Elanil admitted. “But I don’t know what’s actually worth taking.”

  Nura snorted softly. “Then you’re about to learn. Come on.” She crouched beside the beetle with practiced ease and drew a short, broad-bladed knife from her belt.

  “Bombardiers are common enough,” Nura said as she worked, sliding the blade into a seam between plates. “But that doesn’t mean they’re useless. Some blacksmiths love these.” She rapped her knuckles against one of the thick elytra. “Tough, flexible when treated right. Good for leather armor reinforcement. Shields too, if you’ve got enough.”

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  With careful twists, she began separating the plates, levering them free without shattering them. Elanil watched closely, then knelt as well, helping when Nura gestured for her to hold a section steady. As soon as the first intact elytron came loose, Elanil felt a familiar tug in her awareness.

  The inventory menu bloomed open at the edge of her vision.

  Item Acquired: Bombardier Elytra

  Quality: Common

  Description: Hardened chitin plates. Tolerated by blacksmiths and armorers.

  The elytron vanished from the ground, neatly slotted into an empty space in her inventory grid.

  “Oh,” Elanil breathed. “Right. That still feels strange.”

  “Magic pockets?” Nura glanced at her.

  “Something like that.”

  They continued. Beneath the armor, the beetle’s soft body was… less impressive. Pale, segmented flesh, already beginning to cool. Nura wrinkled her nose.

  “This part’s trickier. Some taverns will buy it—meat’s meat—but don’t count on it. Depends how finicky they are.”

  Still, it disappeared into Elanil’s inventory.

  Item Acquired: Bombardier Meat

  Quality: Common

  Description: Unsophisticated source of protein. Valued by some bartenders, despised by others.

  Then Nura slowed, her tone shifting. “Now this,” she said, carefully exposing a cluster of swollen sacs near the beetle’s thorax, “is what you really want.”

  The chemical catalyst. Translucent membranes filled with viscous fluid.

  “Alchemists pay well,” Nura continued. “Fire mixtures, solvents, all sorts of nasty things. Don’t puncture it.”

  Elanil held her breath as the item transferred into her inventory.

  Item Acquired: Bombardier Chemical Catalyst

  Quality: Common

  Note: High demand among alchemists.

  When they finally stood, Elanil felt a small, quiet satisfaction settle in her chest. The fight had been exhausting. At least it hadn’t been pointless.

  “Not bad for your first kill out here,” Nura said, wiping her blade clean. “You’ll eat better with that sold.”

  Elanil glanced once more at the empty clearing, then nodded. “Then let’s not waste it.”

  [System Notification]

  {New Skill acquired} Dressing: low

  Description: Not all skills are earned through hard work and sweat; some are easy to pick up simply by watching others do it. Next time, you might be able to dismember a defeated enemy by yourself.

  Elanil chuckled—it was a good thing she had met this orc at the very beginning of her journey, otherwise so much valuable loot would have rotted, abandoned out of ignorance.

  As they began to walk—carefully skirting the beetle’s remains—Elanil found her thoughts drifting, unbidden, into the familiar grooves of world-building. Old habits died hard.

  Wood elves, like herself—or like the body she now inhabited—weren’t meant to be there. Their society was anchored to the great forests of the northeast, sprawling tracts where colossal trees formed the backbone of civilization. Each city was grown rather than built, spiraling through branches and platforms, bridges woven from living wood and reinforced with careful magic.

  No kings, no thrones—each tree-city was a republic in miniature, its citizens governing themselves through councils elected from among active participants. Every elf was expected to contribute—judging disputes, maintaining defenses, overseeing harvests, patrolling borders. Authority rotated constantly, positions changing hands to prevent stagnation or tyranny. And yet, no one was bound to a single place. Wood elves traveled freely between cities, between forest-states, sometimes staying a season, sometimes a decade. Many lived half-nomadic lives, drifting where opportunity or curiosity led them. It was a strange balance—roots and wings in equal measure. But geography still mattered.

  Most wood elf settlements lay far to the northeast, or clustered near the foothills where mountain elves carved their own, more insular domains. This forest, beautiful as it was, sat too far south. Which made Elanil’s presence there unusual. And Nura’s, perhaps, even more so.

  Orcs did not build cities in trees or stone. Their strength lay in movement. Tribes migrated with the seasons, following their herds and omens read by shamans whose authority rivaled that of any chieftain. Power was shared—uneasily—between physical leadership and spiritual guidance. Southern orcs, in particular, ranged across arid plains and scrublands, their camps shifting like living organisms. They were not conquerors by nature, despite the reputation history had saddled them with. Survival demanded adaptability, not domination. Which meant Nura had crossed a significant distance to be here.

  “You’re thinking too loudly,” Nura said suddenly.

  “I—what?” Elanil startled.

  Nura smirked. “Your face. Gets all tight when you’re planning or worrying. Elves do that.”

  “Do orcs often study elven expressions?”

  “Only the interesting ones.”

  Elanil shook her head. “Why are you here, then?”

  Nura’s steps slowed. For a moment, the humor slipped, replaced by something more guarded. “Scouting,” she said finally. “Borders are shifting. Beasts moving where they shouldn’t. Clans want answers before they get surprises.”

  Elanil nodded. Whether Nura was telling the truth, lying, or holding something back, was impossible to know now, in the very beginning. “Well, not exactly beginning, I somehow skipped the prologue,” Elanil reminded herself once again. Nevertheless, she was bound to face a multitude of characters, a multitude of plot choices, which would lead some to become her closest allies, while others—her worst enemies.

  She vaguely recalled that there would be more than one orc companion: some temporary, some playing a more significant part. What role was Nura assigned?

  “Hold,” Nura stopped dead, raising her hand. Her other hand’s fingers slid to the axe’s haft.

  Only now Elanil noticed—it was surprisingly quiet around. Again. Not a dramatic hush, just the absence of the smaller sounds, the background chatter that made up the forest’s constant breath. Elanil froze, examining nearby ferns, low bushes, moss-covered stones. Nothing moved.

  Then something clicked. It was a cold, metallic sound, out of place in the organic hush of the forest. Another followed it—lighter, faster—like articulated joints snapping into alignment. Three shapes launched themselves into the open with startling speed. They landed almost soundlessly, legs unfolding mid-air and touching the ground in perfect balance.

  Elanil gasped. “Constructs? In Sylvain Reserve?”