“What are they?” Maku asked, voice low, eyes fixed on the silhouettes emerging from the treeline.

  Mana orbs spiraled into existence around him. Cool blue spheres, humming with restrained force, orbited his body like a miniature solar system.

  Barrett didn’t answer immediately.

  A cold ripple rolled up his spine.

  “Orcs,” he said at last, jaw tightening.

  He felt his pulse thrum beneath his skin.

  And—unbidden—a memory pulled him under.

  —6 Months Ago—

  The warehouse gym stank of sweat, leather, and old mildew. Humid air clung to Barrett’s skin as he hammered blows into the heavy bag. Each strike sent a dull whump echoing through the empty space.

  “Attack!” the old man barked. Sensei Baha circled him like a shark in flip-flops and an Aloha shirt, smacking Barrett’s shoulders and ribs with his bamboo stick whenever he slowed.

  Barrett gasped, blinking sweat out of his eyes. “I’m dying, Tony.”

  Whack.

  “That’s Sensei Baha to you!”

  Barrett’s hands flexed. Rage simmered, but he swallowed it, channeling all of it into the bag—jabs, hooks, elbows, slams. Anything to drown out the ache.

  “More weapons!” the old man snapped.

  Barrett complied, shifting into knees and quick kicks, chaining combos until his lungs felt sandpapered.

  “Too predictable,” Baha said with a faux sigh. “I’d pick you apart in seconds.”

  “I am mixing it up!” Barrett barked.

  Baha folded his arms. “Right hook, switch kick, spinning elbow, knee, right hook, switch kick, spinning elbow—repeat forever like a broken cassette.”

  Barrett growled. “Lucky guess.”

  “Get the emotions out of your mind!” Baha shouted, striking the floor with his stick. “Make room for strategy! Now—who’s time is it?”

  Barrett closed his eyes, inhaled slowly, and let the rage drain out like spent fuel.

  His eyes opened sharp.

  “This is my time.”

  He attacked the bag again—footwork shifting unpredictably, combos changing length and rhythm, kicks threading between punches. For a moment, he felt untouchable. Focused. Hungry.

  By the time he finished, his shirt was soaked enough to wring out like a mop. Sweat splattered the concrete.

  “Damn,” Barrett panted. “I wanna be mad at you, old man, but… I got no gas left. I’m empty.”

  Baha chuckled. “A good training session will do that.”

  Barrett slumped onto a nearby trash can to squeeze his shirt dry. “You’ve been pushing harder these last few weeks. What’s up?”

  The old man hesitated—rare for him.

  “You want the truth?” he said softly.

  Barrett nodded.

  Baha tapped his stick once, twice, then spoke. “Got troubling news from Gateway. Old conventions that kept the peace? Might not hold.”

  Barrett frowned. “What’s that mean?”

  The old man’s expression hardened. “It means you may find yourself on the wrong end of an Orc.”

  Barrett blinked. “They strong?”

  “At early levels?” Baha let out a low whistle. “They’d tear you apart.”

  “Damn,” Barrett muttered.

  “Probably break your leg off and beat you to death with it.”

  “Okay, okay—”

  “Punch a hole through your chest.”

  “ENOUGH!”

  Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

  “Rip your head off and use it as a bowling ball—”

  “TONY, STOP!”

  Baha jumped, blinked, then burst into laughter.

  “But enough doom and gloom. Come on, let’s get some juice.” He clapped Barrett’s sore shoulder.

  Barrett groaned. “You’re buying. My credit card’s almost maxed.”

  “I’m on my fifth card!” the man laughed. “Where we’re going, we don’t need credit scores.”

  —

  They stood beneath the soft neon glow of a trendy juice bar—smooth concrete floors, plants in impossible geometric pots, the faint hum of blenders grinding frozen fruit into overpriced health potions.

  Two men who absolutely did not belong here.

  One was old, wearing a Panama hat, floral Aloha shirt, khaki shorts, and sandals.

  The other: tall, broad-shouldered, sweaty black beater clinging to him like a second skin, camo pants, and a Stars-and-Stripes bandana wrapped proudly across his forehead.

  “Damn,” Barrett muttered, squinting at the glowing menu. “These drinks cost more than my gym membership. And what the hell is a pitaya? Sounds like a Pokémon.”

  “Ever heard of dragon fruit?” Sensei Baha asked.

  Barrett blinked. “You’re kidding. A fruit named dragon? Okay—now I’m interested.”

  A sudden blast of cold air washed over them as the door opened. Three women swept inside. They looked like they were fresh out of pilates with their hair up and matching spandex sets in pastel colors. Sculpted legs, toned arms, the works. If they weren’t already fitness influencers, they certainly could be, he thought.

  Barrett’s eyes followed them for a beat longer than was polite.

  Then he looked down—the old man was smirking knowingly.

  “On second thought,” Barrett said, straightening, “this place is fine.”

  Sensei nudged him. “Why don’t you go talk to them?”

  Barrett raised a brow. “We don’t have time for this. Training? Remember, training? Orcs?”

  “Oh, come on. Just say hello,” the old man teased.

  “We don’t have time,” Barrett insisted.

  Baha folded his arms, feigning wisdom. “Fighting is important, Barrett…but never forget why we train.”

  Barrett blinked. “…The babes?”

  “The babes,” Sensei Baha said solemnly, nodding as if quoting an ancient scripture.

  “We’re literally leaving in six months. What if one of them gets too attached?” Barrett said seriously.

  Baha stared at him. Then snorted. “You’re full of it.”

  The three women drifted toward the counter. One glanced back.

  “Um—are you guys in line?” she asked.

  “Huh? Oh!” Baha chuckled. “We were frozen in a moment of indecision.”

  She smiled politely.

  “What’s good here?” Baha asked.

  Barrett didn’t move. He stood like a statue—arms crossed, chin lowered, sunglasses giving him all the warmth of a bouncer deciding who won’t get into the club.

  “Well…” she said, glancing nervously at him, “I like the Pomegranate Paradise.”

  Behind her, her friends whispered:

  Bodyguard? Caretaker?

  More like the old man is HIS caretaker. Look at him—

  Shh!

  She shot them a sharp look.

  “Pomegranate Paradise,” Baha repeated brightly. “That sounds perfect. Oh—I’m Tony. And this is my friend, Barrett.”

  “Hi Tony!” she said warmly. Then, awkwardly: “Hello…Barrett was it? I’m Rachel.”

  “What a lovely name,” Tony said. “Right, Barrett?”

  Barrett nodded once. Grunted.

  Rachel smiled thinly.

  Weirdo.

  Quiet! He looks like the stalker type.

  Oh my god––Rachel, hurry.

  “We, um…have to run,” Rachel said. “But it was nice meeting you both!”

  They turned to leave.

  And something snapped in Barrett. Heart thundering. Palms sweating. This was it—a real world quick time event. If he didn’t act now, the moment was dead forever.

  This is my time.

  He cleared his throat. Then—

  “You ahh…” His voice cracked. “You have really nice…deltoids. Even in this lighting…I can see the separation where the tricep meets.”

  Rachel blinked.

  “Oh—uh. Thank you.”

  Rachel, let’s go.

  They hurried out, practically sprinting. The bell above the door jingled their retreat.

  Barrett stared at the empty doorway like it had betrayed him.

  Sensei Baha patted his back. “It was a good attempt.”

  “Damn,” Barrett muttered.

  “It’s a numbers game,” Baha said kindly. “Can’t win them all.”

  Barrett shook his head. “I can’t believe I forgot to get her number.”

  Baha paused. “Huh?”

  “She was giving me such intense looks,” Barrett said with absolute conviction. “Had her hooked. Just didn’t reel her in.”

  He exhaled like a man mourning a fallen comrade. “Damn. I blew it.”

  The old man blinked at him. “Right.”

  —Present—

  The memory dissolved like steam, giving way to the chill of the forest.

  Barrett blinked, breath misting in the dusk air. He hadn’t meant to drift off into the past, but sometimes the mind yanks you places you don’t choose.

  He flexed his hands. They were steadier now.

  Across the clearing, Maku stood with mana orbs orbiting him like tiny blue satellites. He watched Barrett with a puzzled look.

  “You good?” Maku asked, voice low.

  Barrett exhaled once, deeply. “Yeah.”

  But Maku’s eyes sharpened. He knew better. “You zoning out on me before a fight?”

  Barrett didn’t answer right away. His gaze drifted past Maku, into the dark tree line where Grimm perched. The little raven’s feathers bristled as though sensing something shifting in the air.

  Then Grimm chirped sharply and urgently.

  Barrett’s jaw tightened.

  A ripple moved through the group. People stopped talking. Stopped moving.

  The line of strangers began marching out of the forest with terrifying precision—massive figures carrying cleaver-like axes, hooked blades, and long, brutal greatswords. Thirty at least, their silhouettes swelling larger with every step.

  A low growl of dread swept through the humans.

  Fred shoved forward, voice cracking. “What do you know about them, Donovan?!”

  Barrett’s face drained of warmth.

  “We need to run,” he said. “NOW.”

  Before anyone could react, a thunderous voice rolled across the clearing.

  “HU-MANS!” one of the orcs bellowed, tusks flashing in the dying light. “WE TALK!”

  Barrett turned and looked toward his team. He shook his head. “Let’s move.”

  But a chill crawled down his spine. Grimm cried out again with a strangled alarm that needed no translation. He didn’t have to activate [Predator’s Mark] to understand.

  They were surrounded.

  Orcs poured out of the treeline on all sides, stepping into the open with heavy footfalls, weapons raised, cutting off every escape route.

  Fred swore under his breath. Someone screamed. Someone else dropped their weapon. The forest seemed to lean inward, closing like a fist.

  Barrett swallowed once.

  Damn, I should have gotten her number.