Orc Hero Story: Discovery Chronicles

Orc Hero Story

Translator note: Three quarters of the chapter were translated using Bad Machine’s translation as a base. Many thanks to him.

Making it to the third round of the Armament Festival was a great achievement for any warriors-smith pair, serving as irrefutable proof of the former’s strength and the latter’s skill. Especially in Do Banga’s Pit, even if they were not the final victors, the semi-finalists would earn fame and bragging rights for at least a couple of years.

“…”

If any other blacksmith had been in Primera’s position, they would have been very happy. However, it was difficult, even for the young woman herself, to determine whether she was happy or sad. Certainly, she had achieved her goal: a warrior using the equipment she had painstakingly forged had defeated the warrior using her sister’s equipment.

“How about it, huh, I’m better than you! I’ll never let you speak ill of my mother or me again!”

She thought that with this victory she would feel vindicated. Redeemed.  And yet… why did she feel so empty?

…

Once the day’s fighting was over, Primera had returned to her workshop, taking with her the armor and sword that Bash had used. Her gaze darkened as she surveyed the equipment lying on the table in her workshop. Picking up the sword, the girl brought it up to her eyes for a closer look. It was a weapon that Bash had used in three different fights, and yet… Yet it looked the same as the day she had given it to the Hero: straight and sharp, with a dull gleam on the edge. It hadn’t warped like his previous attempts during the preliminaries. In fact, there was barely a blemish on the steel, let alone a curve. Had her skill improved in that short period of time? Had her perseverance and efforts finally paid off?

They hadn’t.

Primera lowered the sword and looked again at one of the gauntlets she had placed on her workbench. It was crumpled like a piece of paper. A gauntlet, naturally, was designed to protect the wearer’s hands and wrists. The young blacksmith had forged them especially thick so that they would be equal to the stress Bash would put them under. During the preliminaries, the metal fittings came loose, but there was no real damage to the material. But now, the iron plates that formed the gauntlets were cracked and torn, as if they had been run over by a horde of dwarves rushing to a bar during happy hour.

He struck at his opponents with the gauntlet….

Bash had not used the sword. Primera remembered that after the first round, she had to fix not his weapon, but his gauntlets. The Hero had earned victory during his fight with Gorgol by smashing the Ogre’s giant sword with his fist.

I told you to be creative, but…

Hitting an opponent using the armor… As far as rules go, it was about as gray as it gets. In the Armament Festival tournament, the only weapons allowed were swords. The purpose of this was to maintain a semblance of a level playing field among the participants and to keep the focus of the celebrations on the skill of the warrior and the smith. After all, if the rules were relaxed, how long would it be before a crafty dwarf brought a cannon, calling it a version of the bow and arrow? As such, using armor as a weapon was technically a foul.

However, there were many cases where it was impossible for a fighter to exclusively use their sword in battle. Elbow strikes, kicks, punches and headbutts were commonplace in the arena. Dwarven officials were not so stingy as to call foul. In other words, performing bare-handed techniques using a limb that happened to be covered by armor was, in practice, permitted. Of course, if the armor in question was obviously designed to be used as a weapon, as in the case of spiked shoulder pads or steel-clawed gauntlets, it was grounds for disqualification. The design of Primera’s gauntlet was nothing out of the ordinary, so there was nothing to worry about in that regard.

However, it was still armor, a piece of equipment made to protect, that was used to attack. These gauntlets were not intended to be used in this way. They could be repaired, but never fully restored. The materials would eventually reach their limits and break down.

An unused sword. A reused gauntlet.

As a blacksmith, nothing was more humiliating. Bash’s actions were essentially telling her that the sword she had painstakingly crafted was so weak that he had to resort to using armor as a weapon. Primera was not foolish enough to take pride in this victory.

“…?”

At that moment, someone knocked on the workshop door.  Three knocks echoed in the silent room. Was it Bash and Zell? No, they had gone out to the taverns to celebrate their victory. It was still too early. Orcs were known to love liquor almost as much as dwarves and would drown themselves in alcohol until dawn if given the chance.

Primera’s body stiffened. Among the eight participants in the next day’s battles was Barabara Do Banga, eldest son of the Do Banga clan. Was it possible that the clan had sent some thugs to intimidate her and make sure she didn’t win…? But the young woman quickly dismissed that idea.

No, if that were true, why would they be knocking on the door?

The Do Banga clan and its affiliates were not known for their subtlety. If they had wanted to scare Primera, they would have done it overtly, such as breaking down her door, smashing her equipment, and dancing off in triumph. That’s what they would have done.

With that in mind, Primera slowly opened the door, just enough to peek out.

“…!”

An unexpected visitor. No… to call this individual’s presence here unexpected would be a lie. Primera had been dreaming of this moment for years. She had imagined defeating this individual at the Armament Festival. She had imagined defeating her publicly, humiliating her, and seeing her cry, kneel, and apologize.

“Sister…”

“Hi there…” There was Primera’s sister, Carmela Do Banga. But far from kneeling, or even crying, she simply stood there, arms crossed, wearing an uncomfortable expression.

“What are you doing here?”

“I… wanted to tell you something, now that the results are in.”

Bash’s opponent in today’s third round, Koro, the Beastman warrior, had been defeated in a single blow. Carmela hadn’t made it past the second day. Primera had. The younger dwarf had proved her older sister wrong.

“I’m sorry for everything I said. I underestimated you.” With those words, Carmela unhooked a bottle of liquor from her waist, presenting it to Primera. Both congratulations and apologies were best accompanied by alcohol, according to dwarven custom. Accepting the gift meant she had forgiven her sister.

…

But Primera couldn’t bring herself to take the alcohol.

“You’re not going to forgive me, are you?” Carmela gave her sister a bitter smile, taking the drink away. Primera’s fingers twitched as she held back her mixed feelings.

She had wanted this for a long time. She had imagined herself standing triumphantly over her older sister, clutching that bottle of liquor and, telling her, “Don’t you ever speak ill of my mother again!” And yet she dared not take it.

“Anyway, congratulations on making it to the top eight.”

“Mhm…”

“I thought you would be happier about this, but you look terrible.”

It was a fact that Bash had defeated Koro, Carmela’s warrior.  Still, was this Primera’s real victory?  Her sword had bent. Her armor had dented.

She could tell by how Bash was rapidly mowing down his foes.  He was holding back. To win the championship, the orc was doing everything he could to keep his strength in check; a delicate balance between defeating the enemy and avoiding damage to the equipment.  Armor was meant to protect the wearer, not the other way around.

Primera was ashamed of herself, where in the world would a warrior find themselves trying to protect their armor first?

“Go away…”

“…Haaaah… are you in a bad mood again? That’s why I keep telling you that you’re immature. Making armor for a first class warrior is not an easy task. I don’t know how famous that Bash guy is, but I can certainly tell from the way he fights that he is very strong. Just like my father was never satisfied with the work of other blacksmiths, you can’t give the best fighters ordinary armor…”

“Just go away already!”

“That’s why you’re…!” Carmela held back her words, swallowed her anger and took a deep breath. Tears welled at the corners of Primera’s eyes. Her younger sister was never one to cry often, Carmela thought. Even as a child, no matter what was said to her, she would just grit her teeth and bear it, or get angry and defensive, but she never cried. “…Okay, I’m going.” Said Carmela, as she made a face of circumstance and began to walk away. She took a few steps before turning around. “But Primera, you’ll only hurt yourself if you don’t admit it soon…”

And with those parting words, she left.

Not bothering to watch her sister leave, Primera returned to her workshop and stared at the equipment she had made for the Orc Hero. There was a shattered right gauntlet and a left gauntlet with repair marks on it, along with a broadsword that would probably bend if Bash swing it.

“What am I supposed to do…?” Primera muttered to herself, sniffling.

◇

While all this was going on, Bash and Zell were in a nearby tavern. The pair were celebrating that the Hero had made it through the first day of the main event. As a warrior, celebrating victories was almost as important as the victories themselves, and took precedence over any other responsibilities. For orcs, this usually included r̲a̲ping captured women ad nauseam… But that could be saved for when he won the whole tournament. After all, if he won tomorrow, Bash would legally get a wife and a complementary all-you-can-eat sex buffet.

“…That’s when mister came running in! There he stood, using his sharp, piercing eyes to assess the situation. To his left, a fallen comrade. To his right, countless cunning enemy soldiers. In the face of injustice, mister could not stand still. He shouted! Graaah! And charged! Hooah! Front and back! Left and right! Enemies being sent flying everywhere! The Hero’s passion is unquenchable!”

“Ohh~!”

Zell had turned the pair’s table into her own stage. The Fairy, brandishing a knife in each hand, lunged to the right, slicing off a piece of veal thigh, then to the left, stabbing a smoked pork belly. The surrounding men burst into applause, delighted with the spectacle. But their attention was not on Zell herself, but on her story. Their eyes, filled with awe, lingered on her figure for a moment before straying to the Hero.

Over the millennia of war, many important figures had lived and died, but Bash was special even among them. He was not only a legend, but a legend that still lived and breathed. To be able to share a drink with such an individual was an unprecedented privilege. The fanaticism towards the Hero went beyond cultural and geographical differences, and people of all races had become enraptured by Zell’s storytelling. This included both Gorgol the Ogre and Koro the Beastman, whom Bash had defeated not so long ago. The “enemy” of Bash’s saga might have been the kin or friends of the people in this very tavern, but neither of them seemed to care. It was war, and the war was over; there was no point in dwelling on it. And in any case, if anyone held a grudge, chances were they weren’t here anyway.

“…” Bash himself was silent, apparently content to let his companion speak for him. However, his face was tense and his expression betrayed his emotions. Deep down, he was breaking out in a cold sweat. For what reason? The Hero was deathly worried about the inevitable moment when he would be asked about his experience with women. If this were an orc celebration, that same question would have been asked ten times by now.

In fact, there were very few members of non-orc races who cared about a warrior’s sexual experience. Of course, there were weirdos everywhere, but by and large, not even succubi cared about something as trivial as sex when presented with the opportunity to spend time with the Orc Hero.

To the public, Bash’s current attitude was that of a real man: humble, stoic and silent. As far as the “celebrities” of the war were concerned, most of the prominent ones constantly bragged about their accomplishments. Of course, many actually performed admirably during the conflict, but their exploits were a dime a dozen in the grand scheme of things.

‘If anything, I deserve the same glory. They were just in the right place at the right time to be seen’, is what many thought as they listened to the stories of these veterans. Today, however, there sat before them an individual who was completely and utterly head and shoulders above any and all, and it was clear as day to all who had witnessed his battles that his skill was no mere boast. However, he was quiet and reserved. From time to time, he would answer Zell’s questions and even step in to correct her exaggerations. ‘There were over 500 men, ready to jump on mister!’ she would claim, and Bash would correct her, ‘No, there were about 50’. Occasionally, someone familiar with an event from Bash’s saga would comment, ‘Oh, I was there’, or ‘Hey, I’ve heard that story’, adding to Zell’s credibility. The small audience was convinced they were sharing a drink with an amazing being.

“Oh, look at the time! It’s getting late, mister; we’d better go home. I know you can stay awake for a whole year, but tomorrow there’s another match. You have to be in perfect physical condition.”

“Indeed.” Bash responded to Zell’s words by standing up. Of course he didn’t hate being fawned over, but the Hero couldn’t afford to forget his purpose. It would have been a different story if there had been a couple of beautiful women in the tavern… unfortunately, there were only men, and winning tomorrow’s battles was far more important than entertaining this crowd. Would he win? Or would he lose? The difference between the two was heaven and earth. This challenge was a zero-sum game: either he got a wife, or he got nothing. The orc had never lost due to lack of sleep, but still, he wanted to make sure all factors were in his favor.

“Hey! Sir Bash is leaving!”

“I’ll take care of his account!”

“Of course not, you idiot! I’ll be the one to pay for Sir Bash!”

“No! I will…!”

As the men fought over the honor of paying the Hero’s bill, Bash left the tavern without a word.

It was late at night. Although it was dark, the streets were still bustling with activity, with street vendors promoting their wares and tourists coming and going, after all, there was still a festival going on. Bash began to make his way to Primera’s workshop, deftly weaving his way through the crowd. He was in a good mood. The sweet liquor of victory had put him in a good mood and cheered him up. But the real victory had not yet been achieved, that was for tomorrow. Tomorrow… If he won tomorrow, the Hero would finally have a wife. His mind was fully occupied with the myriad of things he would do to his future wife. A little more and he would be jumping for joy down the road.

However, Bash, ever the disciplined one, quickly regained control of his senses. He pulled himself together and began to run again…

…When suddenly, something grabbed him by the arm…

“…!?”

…And dragged him into a nearby, dark and damp alley.

However, Bash was Bash. Despite being taken by surprise, the Hero quickly assessed the situation, letting himself go with the flow so as not to lose his balance, before standing up and facing his unknown assailant.

“Who are you?”

A man with a hood pulled tightly over his eyes was clinging to Bash’s arm. From the way he carried himself, the Hero knew in a second that he was dealing with a veteran warrior. His arms were as thick, or perhaps even thicker than Bash’s. He stood short and balanced, but light on his feet. But that wasn’t the only thing that caught the Hero’s attention. An iron ball the size of a human head was attached by a chain to the mysterious man’s leg.

It was a slave.

“I thought I saw you at the opening ceremony! I didn’t believe my eyes, but it’s really you, Bash!” The hooded man exclaimed as he slowly revealed his face.  His appearance… …It was very similar to Bash’s: green skin and protruding fangs.

An orc.

He was a common green orc. His skin tone was slightly darker than the Hero’s, highlighted by the severe burn marks that furrowed his face. His left hand, which held Bash, was missing its ring and pinky fingers. That face… That hand… But even beyond that, Bash was familiar with the man’s voice… There was no doubt about it.

◇

“It can’t be… Donzoi, is it really you?”

“Yes, it’s me! The great Donzoi!”

“I thought you were dead!”

“Sorry to disappoint you, but I’m still alive and kicking!”

As far as any orc knew, Donzoi had died during the battle of Do Banga’s Pit. However, his body was never found. At that point in the war, the Federation had just suffered a series of defeats. Bash and the rest of the army were constantly retreating, losing one comrade after another. It was then that Donzoi suddenly disappeared, never returning from one of the troop’s excursions. Even after the conflict ended, there was no news of him.

For orcs, going missing in action was synonymous with death. After all, it was inconceivable that a brave orc warrior would desert. They might flee, they might hide, they might run, but never would a true orc desert the orc cause.

“Oh! Mister Donzoi! It is you. I haven’t seen you for a long time.”

“Haha, Zell! You’re here too!”

For all their brutality, the orcs had the quickness of mind to adapt in all matters of war. If a stray orc was found by a clan that was not his own, he would be seamlessly adopted into the troops of that new clan. Later, when they met up with their original comrades, both parties would rejoice, joking as if it was no big deal that someone had gone missing, “Oh, you’re still alive?”, “How have you been? You don’t look bad”. Given these facts, Donzoi was either dead or captured, and since he hadn’t returned after the POW release, he must be dead.

“Ahh, you both look good and healthy. Bash, oh wait, no, Bash, the Hero, is what they call you now, right?  It suits you.”

“Oh, no, um…” Bash then remembered the chains on Donzoi’s legs. Not to mention the thick iron collar around his neck. He was unmistakably a slave.

There was no shortage of orcs who left their homeland, committed crimes in foreign lands and were enslaved after being captured. The Hero remembered the Orcs he saw fighting in the arena the other day… no, now that he thought about it again, that was Donzoi, wasn’t it?  And at that moment, Bash had concluded that that was a fitting end for the stray orcs. His feelings hadn’t changed. But Donzoi was not that kind of man. He was always well-prepared and resourceful, sometimes bordering on paranoia, but he was still, without question, a brave warrior proud to throw himself into battle, not the kind of fool who would dare defy the Orc King’s orders.

“Why are you in this state? What has happened?”

“Oh, this… I’m pathetic… this is due to our… no, my lack of power.”

While answering Bash’s question, Donzoi’s expression was apologetic and full of regret. However, he soon pulled himself together.

“But this year… this year I will fix everything. Rest assured that I will never again stain the pride of the orcs. I swear it in the name of the Orc King.”

“…”

Bash didn’t quite understand what his former comrade meant by those words. But Donzoi had mentioned the Orc King. The Hero was sure that whatever the now slave had done to bring him to this situation, he deeply regretted it and had reflected on it. If so, then he intended to forgive him. After all, they were comrades who had been through thick and thin together, and had saved each other’s lives on countless occasions. If necessary, Bash intended to return home and intercede with the Orc King on his behalf.

“But why are you two here?  Ah, wait, forget about me asking, that’s none of my business. I’m sorry.”

“No, it doesn’t bother me…”

“Ah! I knew you’d say that! You’re really the pride of our Boulder Company! As expected of a generous Hero!” Donzoi praised Bash’s attitude, but then looked regretful again. “Bash, I’m sorry to ask this of you after coming this far, but… tomorrow… tomorrow, if things go on like this, we’ll end up fighting each other in the finals.”

“Right. What about that?”

“This… it’s hard to say…” Donzoi seemed unsure if he should keep talking. But he raised his eyes to Bash, clenching his fists and making up his mind. “Could you miss tomorrow’s match?”

“What?”

“No, forget that. No way could I let you, the pride of the orcs, lose to me. Please don’t show up and forfeit the match.”

“Why? Why would I do that?”

“Why? Hey, do you really want me to say this personally?  Please, man, give me a break… I’m not as strong as you, but I have my own pride too, you know? I’m embarrassed enough as it is…” Donzoi replied with a wry smile without giving a real answer.

Losing on purpose… Not showing up for the match… Bash wasn’t quite willing to do either. However, the Hero was worried about his reputation, he didn’t want anyone to think he was a coward. But since this was the sincere request of a former comrade, Bash had enough heart to tolerate a little embarrassment.

“I have my own purpose for being here.”

“Oh, of course you do. I know you do. But please… we will never tell anyone that you ran away because you were afraid. All of us will protect your pride, and we’ll even make sure you’re praised afterwards… right! I can even give you a woman. How about that?”

“…Wait a second, you’re a slave and you have a woman to give me?”

“Oh, yes. She’s a slave too. Her name is Elindy. She’s a good woman. Very healthy, and she’s already given birth to three children… I was going to make her my wife if I got out of here in one piece, but I’ll give her to you if I have to.”

Bash’s face went blank. Although he was a hero, he was also an orc and a man. Like all orcs, he lusted after women, and as a man, he was not immune to jealousy. Though he tried to contain his thoughts, he couldn’t help but feel annoyed that a stray orc, now a slave who had disobeyed the Orc King had a wife, and he was still a virgin.

“…Hmm.”

However, it was still an attractive proposition.

A true orc does not lie. If Donzoi claimed that she was a good woman, then it was a fact that she was a good woman. Bash would be able to obtain a good woman without having to go through the effort of winning the Armament Festival. This was objectively positive. Donzoi would get whatever he wanted, and Bash would get a woman, it was a win-win situation.

The Hero was still unaware of what his former comrade was planning, but from what he could see, he had nothing to lose. Not to mention that Primera herself seemed to be fully satisfied after Koro’s defeat. But…

“I know it’s insolent of me to come and ask this of you, but please… I want to finish this with my own hands…” With those parting words, Donzoi turned and slowly walked away into the depths of Do Banga’s alleys. Soon, all that remained was the sound of the iron ball scr̲a̲ping on the stone path.

“What are you going to do, mister?”

“…” Bash did not answer his companion’s question, staring silently into the darkness in which Donzoi had disappeared.

◇

Midnight.

Primera was still in the workshop after Bash went to sleep. Dwarves were the race that needed the least sleep of any out there. Especially when they worked as blacksmiths, they were empowered by the spirits of fire and earth, allowing them to endure up to seven days and seven nights of work without sleep. Primera had no trouble staying up all night either, despite being half human.

In front of her were the repaired gauntlets and a sword. She had been refurbishing the sword already for quite a while, as she knew it would be useless as it was now.

“Damn… it’s useless. This sword…”

Again. Primera threw the sword, which looked like a lump of iron. It rolled into a corner of the workshop with a clatter. If it had been her old self, she would have been satisfied with that sword. There was nothing wrong with it. It was sharp enough and durable enough. At least that was what Primera thought.

But for Bash to use it, for it to survive in the final tournament, that sword wasn’t good enough. It would dent or break in the middle of some combat, as it had in the past. It would be easy to blame Bash for this, and make him be more careful, but that didn’t mean they would be assured of victory. The final tournament would be contested by warriors of an even higher caliber than before. The fighters were also regulars at the Armament Festival. All of them should know how to fight.

If this was the case, for example, it was quite possible that they would notice that Bash was not using his equipment properly and decide to target it, or subject him to prolonged combat, which would result in the destruction of his equipment and his defeat. Defeat due to equipment destruction. It would not be Bash’s defeat. It would be Primera’s defeat.

“…Haa…” Primera exhaled a sigh of frustration. She didn’t know how to make a sword that wouldn’t get nicked with Bash using it. She, being a dwarf, had been a blacksmith since she was a small child. All the basic skills had been instilled in her, and she had even been praised for her talent. She had even developed a number of her own unique methods. She had even crafted weapons from novel materials that other dwarves wouldn’t even consider. When it came to blacksmithing skill, no one could beat her.

But she still didn’t understand. How could she make a sword that could withstand Bash…?

Primera rested her hands and stared into the flames. The crackling of the flames and Bash’s snoring from the storeroom dominated the scene.

I wonder what I used to do at times like this… Primera thought suddenly, then remembered. Yes, it was true. She thought about how she used to look at role models and follow them. In the house where she was born, there were a few studios around, left by Doradora Dobanga.

“Ah!” Then Primera realized something. Why didn’t she notice something so simple? Yes, it was there. Right there. Almost in front of her.

…The reference model.

She got up and walked to a certain place as if she was possessed by something. It was the storage room. Bash and Zell were sleeping there. Opening the door quietly with a candle in her hand, she found the orc lying in the small storeroom. He was not snoring anymore. He was quiet.

Primera saw that the object she was looking for was beside Bash and, stealthily, she surreptitiously lifted it without his noticing. It was heavy.

Primera sneak away from Bash again and returned to the workshop. In the light of the furnace, she took a close look at the object she had brought.

It was a sword.

It was a plain, unadorned sword of iron-colored metal, the kind that could be found anywhere. It was probably intended for use by orcs or other rather large species, but it was too large for Primera’s hand. It weighed far more than the sword Primera was reconditioning. However, it was strangely easy to lift and hold. The center of gravity was incredibly well adjusted. In addition, Primera illuminated the sword and looked at it intently.

She gulped.

“It’s beautiful…”

What a beautiful blade, Primera thought. There was no special pattern on the blade. It was not shiny or gleaming. If one didn’t look closely, it might appear to be no different than a cast sword. But it was not. It was a sword that had been carefully forged over and over again. It was a sword blade that had been forged with overwhelming precision and workmanship, faithfully and honestly following the fundamentals.

However, the sharpness of the blade was probably not as impressive. But the steel looked proud. It even seemed to convince you that it would never break.

It seemed to be enhanced with an enchantment that made it unbreakable, but that was just a bonus. This sword would not dent. Or maybe it would eventually be destroyed as it fought on hundreds of battlefields, but at least it wouldn’t bend in one or two battles! It didn’t matter what kind of b̲a̲s̲t̲a̲r̲d̲ or what kind of person with muscles for brains would use it…

“…”

Primera put the sword back in its sheath. Then she picked up the sword she had just thrown, the one she had made. She compared it to Bash’s sword. It was obvious which one was better than the other. There was no need to compare them.

Primera also picked up the sword that Bash had bent a few days earlier. Once again, she carefully checked the way it was bent. The blade was warped like a curved sword. It started at the base and grew as it progressed toward the tip of it. The curvature reached all the way to the hilt, and the whole sword was bent like a crescent moon. It was a beautiful curvature.

If such a curvature existed…

Primera raised her eyebrows. Her face naturally tensed. The corners of her eyes burned.

She had long suspected this to be so.

She believed that, if when the sword when struck bent, it had to be because its wielder was inexperienced.

But… no. It was different.

This bending put no strain on the sword. The force was evenly distributed through it without waste. The counter-edge was also straight. The force was transmitted vertically, not horizontally. Therefore, the sword did not bend horizontally at all.

If he weren’t a great swordsman, he would not use the sword this way. In fact, it might even lose its edge. In other words, the user of this sword had taken care of it. He made sure that the sword did not break or bend, but had the physical strength to kill his opponent. He cut his enemy carefully.

‘I’m trying to do that.’

The voice of the man who bent it echoed in her mind. He used the sword without wasting energy, and placed the line of the blade firmly, but despite that, it was bent. In other words…

“…”

She knew it. In fact, from the beginning, she knew it. Her brother and sister would tell her that it was too early for her, that she was immature, and she denied it, but she knew. She kept telling herself so. She had only been fooling herself.

But now she had to admit it. She picked up the great sword and compared it to her own useless sword… She faced reality.

“I have yet to mature.” Tears fell from Primera’s cheeks.

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