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The pair were celebrating the Hero making it through the first day of the main event.

As a warrior, celebrating victories was nearly as important as the victories themselves, and took precedence over all other responsibility.

For Orcs, this would usually include violating the captured women to their hearts content…

But that could be saved for when he won the entire tournament.

After all, if he won tomorrow, Bash would legally obtain a bride and a complementary all-you-can-eat sex buffet.

“…was then that mister came rushing in! There he was, using his sharp, piercing eyes to assess the situation. To his left, a fallen comrade. To his right, countless, cunning enemy soldiers! In front of injustice, mister just couldn’t stay still. He shouted! Graaah! And charged! Hooah! Front and back! Left and right! Enemies being sent flying everywhere! The Hero’s passion is inextinguishable!”

“Ohh~!”

Zell had turned the pair’s table into her own little stage.

The Faerie, wielding a knife in each hand, lunged to the right, slashing off a chunk of beef thigh, and then to the left, stabbing a smoked pork belly.

The surrounding men erupted in applause, delighted by the show.

But their focus was not on Zell herself, but rather her story. Their eyes, full of awe, lingered on her figure for a moment before drifting towards the Hero.

Throughout the millennia long war, many significant personages had lived and died, but Bash was special even amongst them. He was not only a legend, but a still living, breathing, legend.

To be able to share a drink with such an individual was an unprecedented privilege.

The Hero’s fandom went above cultural and geographic differences, and people from all races had been enraptured by Zell’s storytelling.

This included both Gorgol the Ogre and Koro the Beastkin, both of whom Bash had defeated not long ago.

The “enemy” within Bash’s saga could have been the relatives or friends of the people in this very tavern, but none of them seemed to care.

It was war, and the war was over – no point in dwelling on it. And either way, if anyone were holding grudges, they most likely wouldn’t be here anyways.

“…”

Bash himself kept quiet, seemingly content to let his partner speak for him.

And yet his face was strained, his expression betraying his emotions.

Deep inside, he was breaking out in cold sweat.

The reason?

The Hero was deathly worried about the inevitable moment he would be asked about his experience with women.

Were this an Orcish party, that same question would have been asked ten times over already.

Incidentally, there were little to no members of non-Orc races that cared about a warrior’s sexual experience.

Of course, there were weirdoes everywhere, but generally, not even Succubae would care about something as trivial as sex when presented with the opportunity to spend time with the Orc Hero.

To the audience, Bash’s current attitude was that of a true man – humble, stoic, silent.

When it comes to war “celebrities”, most of the prominent ones would constantly brag about their accomplishments.

Of course, many truly did perform admirably during the conflict, but their exploits were a dime a dozen in the grand scheme of things.

“If anything, I deserve just as much glory. They were just in the right place at the right time to be seen,” is what many thought when listening to these veterans’ stories.

Today, however, sitting in front of them was an individual that was completely and utterly head and shoulders above anyone and everyone – and it was clear as day to everyone that had witnessed his battles that his skill was no mere boast.

And yet, he was calm and reserved.

Occasionally, he would answer Zell’s questions and even interject to correct her exaggerations.

“There were more than 500 men, ready to jump on mister!” she would claim, and Bash would correct her, “No, they were around 50.”

Every now and then, a someone that was aware of an event in Bash’s saga would comment, “oh, I was there,” or, “hey, I’ve heard that story before,” contributing to Zell’s credibility.

The small audience was convinced that they were sharing a drink with an incredible being.

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

“Right.”

Bash answered Zell’s words by standing up.

Sure, he didn’t hate being fawned upon, but the Hero couldn’t afford to forget his purpose.

It would have been a different story had there been a couple of beautiful women in the tavern – unfortunately, there were only men, and winning tomorrow’s battles was much 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 at all.

The Orc had never lost due to lack of sleep before, but still, he wanted to make sure all factors were in his favor.

“Hey! Mr. Bash is leaving!”

“I’ll take care of his bill!”

“Hell no, idiot! I’ll be the one to pay for Mr. Bash!”

“No! I wil-…!”

While the men fought over the honor of footing the Hero’s bill, Bash wordlessly left the tavern.

It was late into the night.

Though it was dark, the streets were still full of activity, with hawkers promoting their wares and tourists going back and forth – there was still a festival going after all.

Bash began making his way back to Primera’s workshop, deftly weaving his way through the crowd.

He was in a good mood.

The sweet victory liquor had lifted his spirits and put a pep in his steps.

But true victory had not yet been achieved – that was for tomorrow.

Tomorrow…

If he wins tomorrow, the Hero will finally have a wife.

His mind was entirely occupied with the myriad of things he would do to his would-be woman. A little more and he would be skipping in joy down the road.

Nevertheless, Bash, ever disciplined, quickly regained control of his senses.

Gathering himself, he began hurrying back…

…when suddenly, something grabbed him by the arm…

“?!”

…and yanked him into a nearby dark, damp alley.

However, Bash is Bash.

Despite being taken by surprise, the Hero quickly assessed the situation, going with the flow as to not lose his balance, before planting himself and confronting his unknown assailant.

“Who are you!”

A man with a hood pulled tightly over his eyes was holding on to Bash’s arm.

By 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 kept himself low and balanced, yet light on his feet.

But that wasn’t the only thing that caught the Hero’s eye.

A Human-head-sized iron ball was attached by a chain to the mysterious man’s leg.

He was a slave.

“I thought I saw you at the opening ceremony! I didn’t believe my eyes, but it really is you, Bash!”

The hooded man exclaimed while slowly revealing his face.

His appearance…

…was very similar to Bash’s – green skin and upturned fangs.

An Orc.

He was a common green Orc.

The tone of his skin was slightly darker than the Hero’s, highlighted by the severe burn marks that scoured his face.

His left hand, which was holding on to Bash, was missing its ring and pinky finger.

That face…

That hand…

But even beyond that, Bash was familiar with the man’s voice…

There was no doubt about it.