Dungeon Overlord: Monster Girl Harem!

The western forest billowed with a dirty heat.

A black smoke filled the skies from the charcoal pits blazing around the orc encampment. A camp defended by sharp stakes, roughly crafted, forming a protective ring. Skewered boars sizzled with a meaty aroma over the shallow fire pits.

Orcs grunted and salivated for their meal, guttural chants echoing through the destroyed forest land. Their weapons shimmered with a dull iron gleam, chipped and of poor quality but marred with blood and wear.

But none dared speak too loudly.

Not when Krogar Skullbrand sat among them.

The war-chief towered even among orcs, his green skin dark and thick with calloused scars. Black tattoos ran from his throat down his shoulders, twisting symbols of conquest, devotion, and rage. His left tusk was cracked at the root, split years ago in a duel against his sire. He'd won. And now he ruled this scattered clan of outcasts.

Skullbrand sat on a crude throne of stone and hide, watching the southern winds blow across the forest like ghosts.

Beside him, a younger orc held a trembling piece of parchment. Human ink. Human script.

"…Three villages have armed themselves," the messenger said. "They've raised militias. Bounties on our heads."

Krogar didn't move.

"They fear we'll take their women," the youth continued, "and the nobles—"

"I know what they fear." Krogar's voice was like gravel dragged over steel. "Because I taught them."

He stood slowly.

All eyes turned.

"The lowlands rot. The humans breed like insects and guard what they do not need. We ask for stone. For wood. For salt. They offer poison. Arrows. Fire."

The Orcs pounded their chests in response, snarling and howling.

Krogar raised a fist. They fell silent.

"The dark-skinned elves defend the mountain. They cut down scouts. They kill silently."

"Filthy bitches!"

"Whores!"

The Orcs never forgave enemies, no matter their race or sex.

"Good."

A toothy grin split his face.

"Let the strong face the strong. Let the weak burn."

He lifted his axe with a show of pride, the shaft wrapped in monster leather and scorched hide. A rusted, jagged blade that had never betrayed him. Blood from every kill darkened the grooves.

"This night," Krogar roared, "we take their bones."

The orc camp screamed in answer, fires flaring as if in celebration.

But deep in Krogar's skull, the pressure remained.

He wasn't a fool.

The humans had pushed too hard, cutting trade routes, killing traders on the road, blaming orcs for every theft and vanished girl. They wanted a war they could justify.

So he would give them one.

On his terms.

"Scout lines ready!" a shaman barked. "We strike before nightfall!"

The orc horde gathered.

But Krogar… he turned once more to the trees, to the northern ridge where black arrows had pierced his cousin's neck just two nights ago.

"Elves…" he growled.

He didn't fear death.

But he wanted it to be his death.

Orcs believed in heroic deaths—to earn such a death, one must provide for the clan for the king and never submit.

Though their clan had no king, there was still honour.

Not picked off like a dog in the woods.

"War paint," he said to the shaman.

They painted him in blood and ash.

When he walked toward the forest edge, the chants returned. Thundering. Ugly. Proud.

Tonight… the green tide would clash with the silent blades of the mountain.

And Krogar Skullbrand would teach them what it meant to bleed for something nobody could take from them.

——

The Orcs knew this battle would be difficult, as most of Krogar's warriors were not used to fighting in the darkness like the Elves.

But he didn't want them to become soft.

Those who survive would become true warriors.

An issue for Krogar was the speed the damned elves build defences—a new wall of thick... powerful black wood appeared the morning after their first attack.

Now they could only fight in the open and hope the elves would come to meet them.

The clash began just before dusk.

The dark elf perimeter traps didn't slow the orcs.

Three of Krogar's front-liners tore through a barbed snare meant to rip open their calves. They roared as the thorns ripped into them—pain was fuel. Another triggered a mana spike trap; his body detonated, but his blood masked the scent of the others.

Dark elf scouts let arrows fly from the trees, their emerald eyes narrowing as black-fletched shafts thudded into green flesh. But there were too many. Orcs poured through the forest in waves, trampling shallow trenches, snapping vines, and smashing wooden pikes underfoot.

Krogar Skullbrand was the first to break through.

"ELVES! COME DOWN AND FIGHT!"

His voice shook the underbrush.

A whistle.

Then, movement—Nyxara dropped from the trees, dual daggers gleaming violet with enchanted venom. Her long legs bent smoothly as she landed, and her blade went up without a word.

"Nyxara, servant of the great one!"

Krogar charged.

"Krogar! Warrior!"

Their weapons collided with a meaty clang. The Elf's short blade scraped against the jagged axe, sparks flying. His strength outmatched hers, but Nyxara was fast, too fast to pin, too sharp to toy with. She ducked under a wide swing and carved a deep line across his hip.

He laughed.

"I like your spirit, whore!"

She didn't answer—just lunged again, cutting a shallow X across his chest.

Then his head slammed into hers.

The force rattled her skull.

Nyxara staggered back, a line of blood trailing from her nose. The orc's grin widened, broken tusk gleaming.

"You bleed! Good! That means you're not immortal!"

He came again—his swings wider now, brutal, full of weight. Krogar's moral and momentum continued growing with each successful attack. She blocked one, two, then misjudged the third.

Steel slashed her arm.

She hissed, backing off.

Nyxara's right biceps throbbed, wet with a red heat dripping down her legs.

The other dark elves tried to rally, but the sheer force of the orcs overwhelmed the scattered perimeter. A few managed ambushes from the trees, landing kill shots before retreating, but their bulk had breached the skirmish line.

Nyxara parried Krogar's next swing and tried to bait him forward—

—But he was already moving.

A second strike forced her to dodge. A third landed against her thigh, tearing cloth and flesh.

She dropped to one knee.

Despite that, she glared up at him.

Her lips parted to spit something—

—but a blur of red interrupted.

"Asuka!!"

The dragonoid warrior slid in, two-handed katana gleaming in the fading light. Her first swing knocked Krogar back three paces. The second forced him to raise his axe to block, grimacing as the force jarred his arm.

"I've got her!" Asuka yelled. "Back off!"

Krogar grunted. "Another one. Good."

Then came the cold.

A pale mist swept through the edge of the clearing, and Sylvie emerged, frost clinging to her hair and shoulders, eyes glowing like ice beneath the twilight. She raised a hand and launched a spear of frost at Krogar's torso.

It hit. Shards exploded. The ice cracked—but didn't pierce deep.

He growled.

Then leapt.

He vaulted over the spire of frost—

—and headbutted Sylvie square in the face.

Blood burst from her nose as she stumbled, vision reeling.

"SYLVIE!" Erina screamed, rushing forward, magic forming around her hands. "You bastard—!"

Krogar roared back, fists raised.

But he paused—

Because from deeper in the forest, a sound echoed.

A horn.

Low, sharp. Distant.

Then—

A flicker of orange on the horizon.

Fire.

The treetops behind them glowed with spreading flame.

Krogar turned toward the light.

"…Our camp," he muttered.

The elves stopped moving.

So did the Orcs.

Then Krogar screamed, a wild, barking command—"BACK! BACK TO CAMP!"

He turned and ran, his warriors howling in disarray.

Nyxara, panting, slumped against a tree.

Asuka lowered her blade. "What just happened…?"

Sylvie wiped her bloodied nose, staring toward the west.

And Erina—eyes wide, breath ragged—turned toward the rising plume of smoke.

Someone had struck first.

But who?

Even as Krogar ran, the scent of burning pine and scorched hide twisted in his nostrils.

They'd come prepared.

Arrows.

Dozens—no, hundreds—rained from the trees like stinging insects. Not dark elf fletching, but heavier, crueller. Iron-headed, short-shafted—goblin-made.

The first volley took down four of his kin.

The second caught a younger orc in the throat. The small orc choked, gurgling blood, then dropped with a dull thud into the mud.

"No formation! Run! Run!" Krogar barked, gripping his axe tighter. "Back Home! We rally there!"

More screams answered him.

Flames were spreading faster than they should. Oil? Magic?

The trees disintegrated, flames devouring their life itself, leaving only a dark, charred wasteland. It turned the once-safe path into a corridor of heat and smoke.

He saw a dark figure standing alone... idle and calm in the distance. Not an elf... or human, it was too tall, too strong, and the aura made his body tremble with fear.

Someone else.

Krogar's teeth ground together. His left leg burned—an arrow buried deep in his calf. He ripped it out with a snarl and kept going.

Behind him, the retreat collapsed into chaos.

"Hold the flank!" he roared—but none answered.

They were scattered. Hunted. Pinned down by an enemy they couldn't see, only hear. Laughter echoed in the smoke, cold, low, and unhurried.

Like a predator savouring the fear.

Krogar bared his teeth.

If they thought this would stop him, they were wrong.

He would return. He would find their leader. That elf bitch. That priestess. The fire-user.

And next time—

He would crush them all.