The sky above the Ogre Village turned a sickly red as smoke billowed from the treetops. The Jura Forest, once calm and teeming with nature's harmony, was now trembling with the footsteps of war.
Thunderous stomps echoed through the earth as the Orc Horde marched like a flood of death, hundreds upon hundreds of grotesque, ravenous monsters driven by one primal instinct — consume.
But standing firm at the edge of the village was a wall of defiance — a band of proud warriors, tall, imposing, clad in battle-worn armor adorned with symbols of strength and honor. They were the Ogres, and leading them was none other than their chieftain, a towering figure with crimson eyes that glowed with sheer will — Goramu.
His body was carved from years of brutal training, his stance immovable, his muscles taut like coiled steel. He looked to his warriors, each one gripping their weapons tightly — spears, blades, fists — and raised his hand.
"They may have numbers…" Goramu spoke, his voice like rolling thunder, "**but they don't have hearts forged in the fires of pain. We are students of Yujiro. We do not break. We do not fall. We endure."
The ogres roared in response, a thunderclap of pride and fury shaking the trees. And then, like an avalanche, the Orcs came.
Not far from the battlefield, hidden atop a thick tree branch, Footman and Tear crouched silently, peering down at the chaos below. Their Harlequin masks glinted faintly in the shadows.
"Wowwww~," Footman muttered, his big round belly wobbling as he adjusted his position. "This is more intense than I thought."
Tear, her cold eyes watching every movement, didn't even blink. "The ogres aren't dying… they're winning… at least for now."
Footman nodded slowly. "But they're outnumbered at least ten to one. This should be an easy feast for the orcs."
Tear narrowed her eyes. "Look closer. Watch how they move."
The battlefield exploded into violence as orcs charged in droves, but the ogres didn't flinch.
CRACK!
A hulking orc swung a massive club toward a red-skinned ogre, only for the ogre to sidestep with inhuman precision and counter with a brutal spinning elbow strike, caving in the orc's face. Blood sprayed like a geyser as the body was flung aside.
Another ogre, twin swords in hand, danced like a whirlwind, using footwork that seemed impossible — dodging, weaving, and slicing through orcs like a crimson tempest.
Goramu himself moved like a beast possessed. Each of his punches struck with the force of a cannonball, shattering bone and rupturing flesh.
But it wasn't just raw power — there was technique, discipline, form. Their movements were sharp, controlled, refined martial arts that clearly weren't native to this world.
Tear's lips parted slightly. "…That stance… that's not just ogre instinct. That's Yujiro's influence."
Footman squinted. "You mean the Yujiro? That guy everyone says punched out Veldora and humiliated Guy Crimson in a spar?"
Tear nodded. "There are dojos now. Yujiro Dojos, scattered across the Cardinal World. But this… this is different. This is direct training."
Despite their dominance in skill, the wave of orcs never stopped. The ground was blackened with corpses, but more kept coming, clambering over their dead with mindless hunger.
One ogre fell. Then another. Then two more were dragged back, wounded. Goramu blocked a strike meant for his brother, taking a gash to his shoulder but retaliating by lifting the orc with one arm and snapping its spine over his knee.
But his breathing was heavier now.
The ogres began to tighten their formation, backs to one another, defending in a ring.
"We're being drowned in filth," one warrior growled.
"They'll keep coming until we're exhausted,"
another gasped.
Goramu stood in the center, blood running down his chest, and yelled, "Enough! This is not a place to die! We retreat — regroup in the Eastern Canyon. We'll end them when the time is right!"
There was no shame in his voice. Only calculation. A warrior's wisdom.
The ogres began a disciplined withdrawal, covering one another. Spears held back the front while archers rained flaming arrows to block the orc's advance.
Goramu was last to leave, his blood-soaked fists raised as he bellowed one final roar to the orcs.
"Tell your masters we are not prey. We are the fire that forged Yujiro's legend!"
Then he vanished into the woods.
Tear was silent.
Footman leaned back against the branch, wiping a bead of sweat off his brow.
"…So uh. That's gonna be a problem."
Tear slowly nodded. "The plan was for the orcs to eat the ogres… gain power… push Clayman's evolution."
Footman chuckled nervously. "Yikes. Not only did they not get eaten, they made the orcs look like toddlers with kitchen knives."
Tear's voice dropped to a whisper. "And their form. That was Yujiro's martial art. We need to report this to Clayman… and the higher-ups. If the ogres return with reinforcements, it's over."
Footman scratched his head. "Also, uh… if Yujiro finds out we were here…"
Tear stood. "Then we vanish."
No one said another word.
With one last look at the smoking battlefield — littered with orc corpses and bathed in eerie twilight — the two Harlequins disappeared into the shadows, carrying with them a truth more terrifying than they had expected:
The ogres weren't just strong. They were trained by the most dangerous being in existence.
The air was thick with tension as a group of ogres trudged quietly through the dense underbrush of the Jura Forest, their red skin smeared with dirt and battle scars, their weapons dull from overuse. They were tired—physically and mentally. Their once-proud homeland had been overrun by orcs, an army vast in number and merciless in its destruction.
At the front of the group walked Goramu, the ogre chief. His face, marked by experience and wisdom, remained calm, but his eyes carried the pain of loss. Beside him strode his son, a young warrior with fiery red hair and a serious expression, always alert, always ready. His name had yet to be earned. Behind them were several others: his daughter, a graceful and intelligent young ogress; an elder warrior with the poise of a seasoned samurai; a quiet shadowy figure who rarely spoke; and a strong, beautiful ogress with a sharp tongue and fierce loyalty.
They were heading nowhere in particular—just away from the pain. But fate had other plans.
As the ogres pushed through the trees into a clearing, their eyes widened. Before them stood a village—but not just any village. The homes were well-built, the walls sturdy, and everything seemed... organized. Guarding the gate were tall figures with greenish-tan skin, bulky muscles, and intelligent eyes.
"…Hobgoblins?" muttered Goramu, his brow furrowed.
"They evolved?" whispered the elder beside him. "This isn't normal…"
The hobgoblin guards looked at the ogres with surprise, then smiles formed across their faces.
"Ogres!" one of them exclaimed. "it has been a long time!"
"You remember us?" Goramu asked, surprised.
"Of course! We used to do trade with your kind. Come in, please—Lord Rimuru would want to see you!"
Goramu glanced at the others. Suspicion lingered, but curiosity outweighed it. They followed the guards into the village.
Inside, they saw hobgoblins working together, harvesting crops, building homes, tending to livestock. And then came another surprise.
"...Direwolves," the younger ogre whispered, eyes wide. "Fully tamed?"
Indeed. Several massive, majestic direwolves lounged near the center of the village, their fur clean and eyes calm. This wasn't some goblin camp. This was a kingdom in the making.
Soon, a tall, muscular hobgoblin approached them. His armor glistened in the sun, and he carried himself with pride.
"Goramu!" he said warmly. "It's me, Rigur. It's been a while."
"You've… grown," Goramu said, stunned. "What happened to you?"
"It's a long story," Rigur chuckled. "Come, I'll get our leader."
Moments later, the atmosphere shifted.
A strong aura blanketed the area. The ogres stood at attention as a young-looking man with blue hair and golden eyes stepped forward, wearing a calm expression and a long white cloak that flowed behind him.
"Welcome to my village," he said. "I'm Rimuru Tempest, the one in charge here."
The ogres instinctively stepped back. Something about this man was… wrong. Or perhaps too right.
"You?" Goramu asked, trying not to show his unease. "You lead all this?"
Rimuru smiled kindly. "Yes. And believe it or not, I'm a slime."
"A what?"
The ogres blinked, thinking they misheard. Then, in front of their eyes, Rimuru's form shimmered—and collapsed into a small, round, blue slime. The pressure they felt from him did not change. In fact, it somehow increased.
"What... in the world…" the elder said, nearly falling to one knee.
Rimuru popped back into his human form. "Crazy, huh? I get that a lot."
That night, under the stars, the village held a feast in honor of the ogres. Music played, food was shared, and for the first time in days, the ogres smiled.
Rimuru sat beside Goramu, his son, and the elder. After a sip of juice, he leaned in.
"I know you're only here for shelter, but let me offer something more," he said gently. "The orcs… they're a problem not just for you. If they attacked your land, they'll come for the rest of the forest. Why don't we fight together?"
Goramu raised an eyebrow.
"I'm not asking for loyalty," Rimuru added. "Just unity. And if you wish, I can even give you names. That power has helped the goblins and direwolves grow stronger and evolve."
The ogres stiffened. This wasn't a light offer.
"You can name us?" the elder asked slowly. "But… that kind of magic—it takes life energy."
Rimuru nodded. "I've grown strong enough to do it safely. Trust me, I wouldn't offer if I couldn't handle it."
Goramu looked at the fire for a long while. "…We'll think about it."
Later that night, Goramu gathered with his trusted ogres.
"What do you all think?" he asked.
The elder, sitting cross-legged, nodded slowly. "He's powerful. Wise. And look around—he took goblins and direwolves and built something real."
"I felt no lies from him," the younger ogre said. "Only strength… and kindness."
Goramu's daughter looked thoughtful. "And the food was amazing."
Everyone chuckled softly.
"I say we stay," the elder added. "Even if only until we defeat the orcs."
Goramu closed his eyes for a moment, then opened them.
"So be it."
The next morning, Goramu approached Rimuru near the village gate.
"We've decided," he said firmly. "We'll stay. But only until we defeat the orcs."
Rimuru smiled wide. "That's more than enough. Thank you."
The slime walked up to the group and began naming each of them.
"Your son… I'll call him Benimaru," he said.
A gentle red light surrounded the young ogre as he dropped to one knee.
"Your daughter… shall be Shuna."
She gasped as magic surged through her.
"You," Rimuru turned to the wise elder, "feel like a samurai. I'll name you Hakuro."
"And you," he said to the shadowy figure, "will be Souei."
Then his gaze turned to the curvy, strong ogress who had been watching him with suspicion.
"You'll be Shion."
One by one, the ogres collapsed, overwhelmed by the energy surging through them. Rimuru held steady, his face calm despite the drain.
A few hours later, they began to stir—and when they stood…
The once-battle-worn ogres had changed completely.
Benimaru's body now radiated power, his fiery red hair glowing like embers. His crimson eyes sparkled with determination.
Shuna's beauty had bloomed, her soft pink hair longer, her figure graceful and elegant in a flowing kimono.
Hakuro's muscles had tightened, his back straight and eyes sharper than ever—he looked like a seasoned swordmaster reborn.
Souei was like a phantom, his speed and stealth enhanced, his very presence barely noticeable unless he wished it.
And Shion… had grown even more stunning and fierce, her strength palpable as she stretched her new limbs, a smirk on her face.
"You've all… become Kijin," Rimuru said proudly. "A rare and noble evolution."
Benimaru stepped forward, awe in his voice. "You've given us new life, Rimuru-sama."
"I only gave you names," Rimuru said with a soft smile. "The strength was always yours."
Goramu stood back, pride swelling in his chest.
This was not just survival.
This was a new beginning.