Chapter 13: The Boy or The Monster

The jolt of rough hands on her arms snapped Monica out of the haze. The café—the cracked mug, the hum of conversation, the scent of roasted beans—was gone. In its place: damp air, thick with smoke and the iron tang of blood. Her head throbbed. Her body ached. She was being dragged, not gently, by hands that smelled of earth and something feral.

When they stopped, the ground met her cheek with a wet slap. Trampled grass. Fresh-turned soil. Around her, the guttural grunts and heavy breathing of orcs formed a wall of sound—hot, humid, suffocating.

She pushed herself up, muscles screaming, adrenaline bitter on her tongue. Bruises bloomed across her arms, but her mind was sharp. Focused.

No heroic last stand, no magical transformation.

Just… delivered.

The landscape was stark: jagged terrain rising above the flickering lights of the human settlement—her temporary home, now under siege. Fires painted the sky a sickly orange. The air pulsed with tension, like the world itself was holding its breath.

“Protag-kun, Mei, Miyu, Allen…” she whispered. “You’d better be okay.”

A shadow peeled itself from the mass of orcs. Towering. Heavy. The Orc Lord. Up close, he was a fortress of muscle and tusks, his armor a patchwork of scavenged metal and bone. The other orcs fell silent, lowering their hulking forms in reverence. But his gaze was fixed on Monica—unblinking, intense, like a predator studying its prey.

Fear curled in her stomach, but something else sparked beneath it. Defiance. Resolve.

I’m not a prize. I’m not a victim. I made a choice. I’ll own it.

She stood straighter, voice trembling but clear. “This is what you wanted, isn’t it? Me. So tell me—why? What do you want from me?”

The Orc Lord stepped closer, breath steaming in the cold. His eyes—slitted, yellow—held something strange. Not rage. Not hunger. Something wounded. Something… human.

He opened his mouth. The sound that came out was not a roar, but a strained, broken attempt at speech.

“You…” he grunted, the word torn and distorted. “Bea… ti… ful.”

Monica’s breath caught. Her suspicions crystallized into certainty. This wasn’t just a monster. This was a soul—human once—trapped in a body built for war. His eyes shimmered with longing, confusion, gentleness. He remembered. He knew.

“My… bri-de…” he managed, the word fractured but unmistakable. His hand reached out—not to strike, but to touch. She flinched. He paused, gaze dropping to her trembling fingers, as if he understood.

Revulsion surged through her. Bride? To this creature? No. Never.

But then—Allen’s bruised face. Mei’s scream. The city burning.

They needed her.

Her sacrifice had to mean something.

She swallowed the bile rising in her throat and steadied her voice. “I will… consider your proposal,” she said, steel behind the words. “But I have conditions. Very clear ones.”

Monica took a shaky breath, forcing herself to meet his gaze. Her voice wavered, but steel was forming behind it.

The Orc Lord tilted his head, listening with an almost childlike intensity. His massive form remained utterly still. A low, rumbling “Hn?” escaped his throat—not a threat, but an invitation.

Monica gestured toward the burning city, the smoke still clawing at the sky. “This has to stop. No more humans harmed. Call off your orcs. Now.”

She stepped forward, her eyes locked on his. “And I mean now.”

A growl rumbled in his chest. For a moment, she braced herself—ready for rage, for refusal. But then his gaze shifted, hardening with something else. Resolve.

He straightened, his monstrous features unreadable, then let out a guttural roar that shook the ground. It echoed across the broken plains like a command carved into stone.

To Monica’s astonishment, the orcs responded. Slowly, reluctantly, they began to turn. Their hulking forms melted into the shadows, their war cries fading into murmurs of retreat. The fires still burned, but the siege was ending.

The Orc Lord looked back at her. His eyes held a flicker of triumph—and something deeper. Pain.

Monica’s chest tightened. Relief surged through her, but so did something colder. Power. She had bent a monster to her will. But at what cost?

“Good,” she said, voice low. “Now you owe me an explanation. A real one.”

She stepped closer, needing to understand the soul behind the tusks. “Tell me. Why are you doing this? Who were you?”

The Orc Lord looked past her, toward the fading orange glow of the city. A shadow passed over his face—less rage, more sorrow. He opened his mouth, and this time, a single word emerged. Clear. Fragile.

“Orga…”

The name hung in the air like a ghost. Monica felt the weight of it, the echo of a life long buried.

His gaze returned to her, no longer predatory. Just… lost.

He took a heavy step back, then another, until the space between them felt like a chasm. The other orcs were gone. The clearing was silent. Only the wind remained.

He sank to one knee, the impact sending a tremor through the earth. It wasn’t submission. It was weariness. Like a great, ancient tree bowing under its own weight.

He looked at his colossal hands, flexing the thick, scarred fingers. The motion was slow, reverent—like he was remembering a time when they were smaller. Human.

“Orga…” he repeated, softer now. Wondering. Remembering.

He looked up at Monica, his yellow eyes wide. “Boy… human… I…”

He pounded a fist lightly against his chest, then pointed at her, urgency in his gaze. “You… un-der-stand.”

Monica felt a chill crawl up her spine. Not from the cold—but from the truth.

This wasn’t a monster.

This was a human.

Trapped.

Broken.

And reaching for something he couldn’t name.

The Orc Lord closed his eyes, a pained grimace twisting his features. His breath came in low, mournful grunts—like something inside him was clawing to be remembered.

Monica watched, unsure whether to speak. But then he reached down, fingers curling around a broken branch near his knee. He didn’t wield it. He traced its gnarled surface with surprising care, as if it held meaning only he could see.

“Life… hard,” he rasped, eyes still shut. “Small… weak.”

When he opened them, Monica saw it—a flicker of green, like leaves in sunlight. A memory.

“No… friend. Al-ways… lone.” His gaze drifted toward the distant city, then to the empty plains. “Bully… laugh. Hurt.” He gestured with the branch, mimicking a blow. “Always… less.”

Monica’s breath caught. This wasn’t a monster’s rant. It was a child’s pain, raw and unfiltered. She could almost hear the echoes of playground cruelty, the sting of isolation.

Then the memories began to unfold—not in words, but in fragments. Images. Sensations.

Orga’s childhood was a tapestry woven from the sun-drenched vibrancy of his home in India. The air always smelled of his mother’s cooking—a rich, fragrant blend of turmeric, cumin, and cardamom that promised warmth and comfort. He loved watching her work, the colorful saris she wore flowing gracefully as she moved.

“Mama, can I help?”

“Not today, my little one. This oil is too hot. Go play with your Papa.”

His father was his other world. Orga’s most cherished memory was of the evening ritual, when his father would lift him onto his shoulders, his laughter a deep, rumbling sound that made Orga giggle with pure joy. From that height, the world looked different, bigger, full of possibility.

“See, my son? The world is so beautiful. You must always remember that.”

Monica saw it all through his eyes. A boy named Orga, full of innocence and wonder.

Then—chaos.

A stumble. A pot. A scream.

“Hot… oil,” he whispered. “Mama scream. Papa cry. Then… white.”

His father was his other world. Orga’s most cherished memory was of the evening ritual, when his father would lift him onto his shoulders, his laughter a deep, rumbling sound that made Orga giggle with pure joy. From that height, the world looked different, bigger, full of possibility.

He woke up in a sterile, white room. The air smelled of antiseptic and decay, a stark contrast to the familiar spices of his home. His body was a prison of bandages, his face an unknown territory of pain. Days blurred into weeks, and weeks into months. The doctors and nurses were kind, their voices soft and reassuring, but their expressions were a constant reminder of his new reality.

“Freak,” they whispered. “Orc-face.”

He stopped going outside. The world moved on without him.

Monica felt her throat tighten. She had come expecting a beast. What she found was a boy who had been taught to hate himself.

The branch snapped in his hand. He didn’t react.

“Hero… no,” he muttered. “No story. No power. Just… pain.”

Her eyes were the color of summer sky. Her voice, soft as prayer.

“You have a kind heart, my child. Don’t let the darkness take hold.”

Monique.

She sat with him in silence. She smiled. She stayed.

“You are not your scars,” she said once. “But you wear them like armor.”

Monica saw the shift in his expression. Longing. Obsession. A need not for healing—but for possession.

“She… mine,” he said, voice low. “Only one… not afraid.”

Months of recovery blurred into a quiet exile. When Orga was finally released from the hospital, the world he returned to felt alien. The sun still rose, the village still bustled—but he no longer belonged to it.

His face, once soft and round, was now a tapestry of scar tissue—pink and red ridges that pulled his mouth into a permanent grimace. Children who once played beside him now ran in fear. He watched his reflection warp in the cracked mirror of his room until the distortion felt more honest than the truth.

“Look, it’s a monster!” a boy had cried once, hiding behind his mother’s sari.

The words stuck. Monster. Freak. Orc-face. They echoed in every corner of his home, in every glance that lingered too long. He stopped going outside. The world moved on without him, vibrant and cruel.

Bitterness took root. The heroes in his anime shows had suffered, yes—but they had been rewarded. They had gained power, love, purpose. Orga had only gained silence. Rejection. A protagonist without a story.

Then came Monique.

His solitude was broken by the arrival of a French nun. She had come to the village as part of a charitable mission. Unlike the others, she did not flinch when she saw him. Her eyes, the color of a clear summer sky, held only a profound, heartbreaking kindness. She would visit him every day, sitting with him in the silence, her presence a peaceful island in his sea of rage.

“You have a kind heart, my child,” she said once, brushing her fingers against his bandaged hand. “Don’t let the darkness take hold.”

Her presence was a balm. She sat with him in silence, read to him, prayed beside him. Her kindness was unwavering—but her eyes lingered too long on the scars.

He scoffed. “They’re afraid of me.”

“Then show them you are not what they fear,” she replied. “Forgive them, and you will free yourself.”

But Orga didn’t want freedom. He wanted possession. He wanted the one person who didn’t recoil. He wanted her to belong to him, the way the world had refused to.

He began to test her. Push her. Try to break her vows. He wanted her to fall—not to save him, but to prove that his pain was stronger than her faith. That even purity could be corrupted.

The memory faded.

The clearing was quiet now. The orcs had retreated, but the silence pressed down like a storm waiting to break.

Orga looked at Monica—really looked. His yellow eyes shimmered, not with rage, but with something deeper. A question. A plea.

Monica didn’t speak. Not yet.

She had seen the boy. She had seen the monster.

And now, she had to decide which one she was speaking to.

***

The town square was no longer a place of commerce—it was a battlefield disguised as a memory. Smoke curled from shattered rooftops, the air thick with ash and the sour sting of burning fruit. Crates lay overturned, their contents crushed underfoot. Somewhere, a bell rang once, then stopped. No one was coming.

Protag-kun crouched behind a toppled fruit cart, his fingers trembling around the dire wolf blade. It wasn’t a legendary weapon. It was chipped, awkward, and smelled faintly of onions. But it was all he had.

He peeked over the cart’s edge. A dozen orcs prowled the square—some hulking brutes with jagged axes, others lean and twitchy, sniffing through the wreckage like bloodhounds. Their movements were erratic, but their intent was clear: find anything that moved. Crush it.

“I thought this would be cool,” Protag-kun muttered, voice barely audible over the distant clash of steel. “I thought I’d get a sword, a harem, maybe a dragon. Not… this.”

His gaze drifted to the center of the square, where a villager was dragged down by an orc’s jagged blade. The man didn’t scream—he just looked up at the sky, as if searching for something beyond the smoke.

Mei didn’t speak. She simply placed a hand on his shoulder, grounding him.

“They were kind to us,” she said softly. “They gave us food. Shelter.”

Protag-kun nodded, swallowing hard. “I know. That’s why we have to do this.”

He passed the bottle to Mei, then to the child, who held it with both hands like a sacred relic. It shimmered faintly—if used correctly, it would finish every remaining orc into one place.

Their last ace.

“The plan’s simple,” Protag-kun said, forcing steadiness into his voice. “I'm going to bait them. We lead them to the city hall. Once they’re all inside…”

He didn’t finish the sentence. Mei nodded grimly.

"Believe in us," she said.

Cinnamon squeaked, as if protesting.

Protag-kun looked down at the hamster and managed a weak smile. “Don’t worry, buddy. You’re the fastest one here. You’ll be our hidden trump card.”

He turned to Mei’s daughter, kneeling so they were eye level. “You’re brave. Braver than me. But I need you to stay close to your mom. No matter what.”

The girl nodded solemnly, clutching the bottle tighter.

Then, a horn blared in the distance—low, guttural, and close. The next wave was arriving.

Protag-kun stood, legs shaking but locked in place. He had spent his life hiding behind screens, dreaming of heroism. Now, reality had stripped away the fantasy. There were no respawns. No cheat codes.

Just choices.

And this one mattered.

“Let’s go,” he said, voice cracking. “Let’s finish this.”

They stepped into the square, the bottle glowing faintly in the child’s hands, the wind carrying its scent into the oncoming horde.

The final showdown had begun.