Chapter 15: The Orc Lord's True Intent

The ruins hummed with quiet luxury. Goblins polished armor with reverent care. Silver platters clinked as roasted boar was laid beside pyramids of grapes. The air was warm, fragrant, indulgent—like decadence trying too hard to be divine.

Monica sat on a throne carved from obsidian and bone, draped in silks the color of twilight. A goblet encrusted with rubies dangled from her fingers, half-filled with something sweet and purple. Her pet goblin, Kuro-chan, tripped over a jewel box, sending emeralds skittering across the rug like spilled peas.

She giggled. “Ara ara, you truly are a naughty girl, aren’t you?”

It was a perfect moment. A parody of power. A scene ripped straight from the kind of anime she used to binge in her living room.

But the laughter faded quickly.

Her gaze drifted to the cavern entrance, where orcs stood guard—hulking, loyal, and utterly silent. Their presence was meant to reassure. Instead, it gnawed at her. She had everything an otaku could dream of in an isekai world: riches, servants, status. But none of it felt real.

She stroked Kuro-chan’s surprisingly soft head. “Three days in, and I’m already tired of being a dark empress. Do you think Allen’s still regretting his decision for drinking my peach beverage.”

Kuro-chan burped sulfur.

Monica sighed. “Figures.”

She toyed with the gold chain around her neck, fingers finding the familiar shape of Locket-chan. The star-shaped pendant shimmered faintly, pulsing with arcane energy. If she activated it, she could become a magical girl again. She could blast her way out, find her friends, maybe even take down half of Orga’s forces.

But the thought sat heavy in her chest.

If I do that… Orga might burn the settlement to ash. He’s already shown he’s not above creative destruction.

She stared at the locket, her reflection warped in its polished surface. “Honestly, Locket-chan, what’s a girl to do? I’m trapped between an Orc Lord and a burning village. You’d think being a villainess would be simpler.”

Then, the locket pulsed. A voice crackled through the static.

“Are you still sighing dramatically about your life choices, Monica?!”

She froze. The goblet slipped from her hand, grape juice splashing across the silk rug. Kuro-chan dove under the cushions.

The voice sharpened. “Seriously, you idiot—playing villainess like you’re in an Otome game! And now you’re monologuing to inanimate objects? I knew you’d lose it eventually!”

Monica clutched the locket, heart hammering. “Allen? Allen, is that you?!”

The silence that followed was brief—but it changed everything.

The goblet hit the floor with a sharp clang, grape juice bleeding across the silk rug like a wound. Monica froze, her breath caught in her throat. Kuro-chan squeaked and dove beneath a pile of cushions, eyes wide.

She stared at the locket, then around the cavern. The orcs remained at attention, unmoved. No goblins were playing tricks. No magic flared. Just her, the silence, and the voice.

Am I losing it? she thought. Is this what isolation does? Has the villainess lifestyle finally cracked my brain?

“No, you’re not going insane, you idiot!” the voice snapped again, clearer now, though still laced with static. “It’s me! Allen! Our lockets—Kon’s crazy—magic works! Can you hear me, Monica?!”

Her heart slammed against her ribs. She clutched Locket-chan like a lifeline. “Allen? Allen, is that really you?!”

Relief hit her so hard her knees buckled. She sank into the cushions, trembling. He’s alive. They’re alive.

“Thank the anime gods,” she whispered. “I thought I was losing my mind. Wait—you heard me talking about the villainess thing, didn’t you? Dammit.”

“Of course I heard you, you melodramatic fool! But that’s not important right now!” Allen’s voice, exasperated and familiar, cut through the haze like a blade. “Listen to me, Monica! The orcs—they’re getting ready to move out! They’re going to burn the village. Finish us off!”

Monica’s breath caught. “No. No, that’s not possible. Orga promised. He said he wouldn’t harm the humans. He gave me his word after I agreed to… to stay here.”

Her voice cracked. The silks, the jewels, the throne—it all felt suddenly grotesque.

“I’m telling you, Monica, it was a trick!” Allen’s voice was frantic now. “I’m watching their movements. They’re not retreating—they’re organizing. It’s not a withdrawal. It’s a final assault.”

“But… I demanded him to stop it,” she whispered. “The fires were still burning, but the orcs stopped their attacks. He said he would call them off…”

“You’re not wrong about what you saw,” Allen said, his voice sharpening. “You’re wrong about what it means. There’s a difference between a promise and a distraction.”

The words hit her like a slap. Her sacrifice, her role, her gilded cage—it had all been a lie. She hadn’t negotiated peace. She’d been used to buy time.

A heavy silence fell between them.

Monica stared at the locket, her reflection warped in its surface. Her voice came out small, broken.

“What do I do?”

Allen paused. When he spoke again, his voice was calm. Grounded.

“You’re a magical girl, Monica. Kon gave you that power for a reason. Don’t be reckless—but don’t just sit there while the world burns. We believe in you."

With the last words, Monica could feel Allen’s heart clenched. “Monica, listen to me. I believe in you.”

The locket grew warm in her hand, its pulse syncing with her heartbeat. She looked around the cavern—at the silks, the jewels, the obedient orcs. Her throne felt like a coffin.

She stood.

The locket pulsed in her hand, its warmth no longer comforting—urgent, insistent. Monica stared at it, her breath shallow. The ruins around her was still. The goblins had retreated. The orcs stood silent, waiting for orders they didn’t understand.

She looked down at her silks, the jewels scattered across the floor, the throne that had once felt like a crown. Now it felt like a cage.

Kuro-chan peeked out from beneath the cushions, eyes wide, uncertain. Monica met her gaze and gave a small, trembling smile.

“This isn’t my story,” she whispered. “Not like this.”

She stood, the silk robes falling from her shoulders in a whisper of fabric. Her bare feet touched the cold stone. She held the locket out, its light growing brighter, sharper, like it had been waiting for her to finally decide.

“I am Magical Girl Monica,” she said, voice rising, steadying. “And you will not touch my friends.”

The transformation came like a storm.

Light exploded around her, a whirlwind of color and sound. Her body lifted, spun, wrapped in ribbons of arcane energy. The cavern trembled. The orcs shielded their eyes.

When the light faded, Monica stood in a vibrant, frilly dress—star-tipped wand in hand, hair shimmering with streaks of cosmic pink. Her eyes burned with clarity.

Kuro-chan’s jaw dropped.

Monica smiled. “I’m more than sparkly. I’m done waiting.”

The orcs charged, confused and roaring. Monica didn’t hesitate. She launched into them with a flurry of rainbow-colored strikes, each blow landing with the force of a battering ram. Her wand spun, her boots skidded across stone, her magic danced like fire.

She was no longer just Monica, the otaku. She was a weapon. A reckoning.

She fought her way to the cavern’s heart, her breath ragged, her resolve unshaken. The orcs fell back, stunned by her speed, her fury, her light.

She reached the inner sanctum, where shadows clung to the walls like smoke. Her voice rang out, amplified by magic and rage.

“Orga! Why did you lie to me?! You promised!”

The silence that followed was heavy. Then, from the darkness, the Orc Lord emerged—hulking, calm, unreadable.

He was not surprised.

He was waiting.

Monica’s magical girl form shimmered like a beacon—neon light and righteous fury against the cavern’s oppressive gloom. Her breath came in sharp bursts as she had fought her way to the heart of the orc encampment, not as a prisoner, but as a force of reckoning.

From the shadows, the Orc Lord emerged.

He was colossal, his armor glinting with bone and iron, his tusks casting jagged shadows across the floor. But it was his eyes that stopped her cold—no longer wounded, no longer confused. They were calculating. Empty.

“Promised?” he rumbled, voice low and deliberate. “I listen. Not agree.”

The words hit harder than any blow. Monica staggered, her wand lowering. Her sacrifice, her silence, her gilded captivity—it had never been a bargain. It had been a performance. She was not a negotiator. She was a distraction.

“Then you’re a liar,” she whispered, voice trembling. Then louder: “Where is your humanity!”

She lunged, her fist glowing brightly. But Orga didn’t flinch. He raised one massive hand, and the magic in her hand fizzled against an invisible barrier, dissipating like mist.

He stepped forward. Not fast. Not angry. Just… inevitable.

With a single motion, he bent her arm in an unsightly manner. Her feet clattered to the stone floor. Then, a shove—casual, effortless—sent her crashing into the cavern wall. Pain lanced through her ribs. Her magical glow flickered.

She lay crumpled, breath shallow, vision blurred. The physical pain was sharp, but the emotional collapse was worse. She had believed in him. She had hoped.

Orga loomed over her, his grimace unchanged. “You much like her,” he muttered, eyes narrowing. “So much purity… yet easily broken.”

His hand rose, ready to strike. Not in rage—but in ritual. A final, crushing blow.

Then he paused.

Her eyes, defiant and unyielding, sparked something ancient in him. A memory. A wound.

He saw another face.

Not Monica.

Monique.

As Orga’s obsession with Monique grew, it became more than twisting from a desperate need into a poisonous conviction. He wasn't just trying to win her affection; he was waging a silent, internal war against her faith. He saw her devotion as a shield, a barrier he could not break, and it infuriated him.

One evening, he confronted her in the quiet solace of her garden. The setting sun cast long shadows, but in Orga's mind, a storm was brewing.

"Why do you stay with me?" he demanded, his voice a low, raw thing he barely recognized. "Everyone else runs away. Don't you see me for what I am? A monster."

Monique’s eyes held a deep, unwavering sadness.

"I see a boy in pain," she said softly, reaching out a hand toward his face. He flinched, but she continued, her voice full of an almost unbearable compassion. "You have suffered so much. God loves you, no matter what you have become."

Her words were the final breaking point. God. Faith. Love. To Orga, these were empty promises, words that had failed to save him. He saw her kindness not as a gift, but as a cruel, divine joke. He had endured so much, and yet, she still belonged to something else. He wanted her to scream, to hate him, to curse her God for the thing he had become. But she didn't. She only offered more love.

"Stop!" he screamed, his voice cracking with a lifetime of unreleased agony.

He lunged at her, not to harm her, but to force her to see him. In his desperation, he grabbed her by the arm, and the force of his sudden movement caused her to stumble. Her head hit a stone bench with a sickening crack.

The world went silent.

He stood over her, his hands trembling, watching as the light in her eyes faded. The last beacon of light in his life was gone, extinguished by his own hands. But there was no remorse, no sorrow.

Only an immense, cold emptiness.

He had destroyed the one thing that had shown him kindness, and in doing so, he had destroyed the last piece of his humanity. He had wanted to break her, but in the end, he had only broken himself.

The air around Orga became heavy, thick with a cold energy that had no place in the living world. The shadows in Monique's garden deepened and writhed, and from their depths, a figure emerged.

It was a boy, no older than ten, with a disarmingly innocent smile and a mop of bright, silver hair. But in the space where his eyes should have been were two burning pools of crimson, ancient and full of a profound, cosmic malice.

Orga didn't flinch. He looked at the boy and saw not a child, but a god. Not the one preached from the bible. A real god—a being who could snuff out his life with a thought. And for the first time in a long time, Orga didn't feel fear. He felt a kinship with this entity, this thing that was as hollow inside as he now was.

The god approached him, his bare feet making no sound on the dirt path. He extended a hand toward Orga, a gesture of mock kindness.

"Poor, broken soul," the god's voice echoed in Orga's mind, a sound like a thousand whispers. "You've lost everything. Your beauty, your home, your kindness... and now, her. The world has hurt you, hasn't it? It has cast you out."

Orga’s stare was cold and empty. He had no words, only a silent, simmering rage.

"I can give it all back," the god continued, the crimson light in his eyes flaring. "A beautiful new face. A life of fame and love. I can make them adore you. Everything you were promised and were denied, it can be yours. Just take my hand, and I will make you whole."

The offer was a cruel joke, a direct mockery of every pain Orga had ever felt. He stared at the god, at the perfect, unblemished face, and the immense power that lay just beneath the surface. He finally understood. The world wasn't a place for heroes. It was a place for monsters.

"No," Orga rasped, the word a dry, guttural sound. "I don't want it."

The god’s smile widened, a thin, knowing slash across his face. "Then what do you want?"

Orga looked down at Monique's body, then back at the god's cruel red eyes. The answer was clear. He didn’t want a life of peace or acceptance. He wanted the power to destroy the world that had cast him out.

"I want power," he whispered, the word filled with a lifetime of resentment. "Power to crush anyone who gets in my way. Power to take whatever I want. Power to become the monster they already think I am."

The god’s laughter, a silent, chilling tremor, echoed in Orga’s heart as he clasped the cold hand of the god.

In that instant, Orga’s body was engulfed not in light, but in a storm of dark, corrupted energy. The world of sunshine and spice vanished. The boy Orga was no more. The next time his eyes opened, they were those of a beast, and he was reborn not as a hero, but as the fearsome Orc Lord.

Back in the present, Orga’s grimace twisted into something close to joy. He raised his hand again, ready to repeat history.

But before the blow could fall—

A voice rang out from the cavern entrance. Sharp. Desperate. Defiant.

“Leave her alone, you monster!”

Orga turned.

Standing in the entrance was another figure. Not a warrior. Not a knight.

But 100% Otaku.