Commander Guden was an evolved type of ogre.
And so it would have been more accurate to call him a High Ogre.
Of course, we were a gathering of meatheads. Proper names meant nothing to us.
High Ogres were larger than ordinary ogres and had various enhanced abilities.
“Alright, come at me however you want. Gahahaha!”
Guden spread out his arms wide, leaving his thick chest open.
You were allowed to use weapons and magic during these fights. As long as you fought with your own power, anything was fine. Such were the rules.
However, we currently faced each other with our bare fists.
I wouldn’t have a chance of winning if we fought normally.
There was an unsurmountable difference between us–that of our type.
“Here I come.”
I balled my hands into fists and pulled my elbows back. And with light steps, I closed the gap between us.
His hands shot forward to grab me, but I ducked under them and hooked him in the ribs.
He was hard. His body was harder than a rock.
I wanted to grimace, but held back the urge and targeted his nasal bone next. Then I unleashed multiple jabs.
And while Guden’s head fell back from the impact, he barely seemed to feel it.
Now it was his turn to attack.
A large swing and a punch. I dodge them with footwork and a sway.
Once he was open again, I visited a storm of jabs before he could react.
Of course, they were ineffective.
(Dear mother, this looks like it’s going to be a long fight.)
Excuse the abruptness, but I’d like to talk about the memories I have of my past life.
I died when I was just over 30.
As I was single, there was only one family member who mourned my death. My mother.
She raised me all by herself.
My mother was usually very kind, but could be terrifying when she was angry. It was a pretty normal household, overall.
For some reason, one of my first memories is of me watching children train in a dojo.
I later found out that my mother left me there as a child when she needed to head off to work.
As a small child, I spent a lot time there, learning kendo, judo, karate, and aikido. They taught something different every day.
The dojo was my nursery.
It wasn’t until much later that I learned that the master of the dojo was a friend of my mother.
It was a strange place. Aside from kendo and judo, they taught self-defense classes for women, boxercise, yoga, aerobics, and mixed martial arts for salarymen on their way home.
I participated in all kinds of classes every day. And I am sure it was because of the dojo master that I actually learned them all, instead of just acquiring middling degrees of skills.
Time went by, and I went from student to teacher. The master started to seriously suggest that I take over for him. However, the dojo at the time was trying too hard to keep up with popular trends, and I found it too chaotic. And so I would just chuckle vaguely, without making any commitment.
“Uhh, today…there will be two hours of patchwork classes from 10, and then we have ballroom dancing at 1. We’ll have to clear away the desks by then. There is the children’s kendo at 5…ah, that’s right. We started teaching business English at 7. Damn it, I better prepare for that.”
The dojo master often grumbled about not having a successor. But I wasn’t sure there was anyone in the world who was able to keep up with this chaotic curriculum.
I was only managing it because I was there every day. Most people would have probably quit in just three days.
I remember checking my schedule and leaving the house as my mother waved at me.
There was a child who was trying to cross the road during a red light. ‘That’s dangerous.’ I remember calling out.
However, I had been a little too late.
The child froze as the car came racing down the street.
I shouted. And then…and then… For some reason, I was an ogre in the Demon World.