Strongest Radioactive System

Soon, Volk was thinking of a grand feast!

The braided female frowned. "You mean... food?"

Your next chapter is on empire

"Yes, food!" Volk barked, his voice brimming with conviction. He gestured toward the forest, as if envisioning a grand future.

"We are building something here. A new horde. A mighty horde! And what better way to celebrate this union than with a feast? Not just any feast—a feast of humans!"

The group's eyes widened at the thought.

Volk's tone grew more intense, his words like a hammer striking an anvil.

"Think about it. Their flesh roasted over the fire, their bones turned into weapons, their blood spilled in honor of our new alliance. A true celebration of strength and unity!"

Well, that was his intention anyway.

The scarred male nodded slowly, a grin spreading across his scarred face. "A feast... a celebration... I like this idea, Warchief."

Volk held up a hand.

"But we cannot celebrate with just the six of you. That would be selfish. Greedy. I am no weakling who hoards glory for himself! If we strike now, we risk losing too many, or worse—alerting the humans to our plans."

The braided female frowned. "So what do we do?"

Volk crossed his arms, his tone decisive.

"We wait. We bide our time. We use this moment to grow stronger. To gather more warriors. Every Orc out there is a potential ally.

"Every one of them adds to our strength. When the time is right, when our numbers swell like a rising tide, we will strike. And the humans will fall beneath our blades!"

The reactions of the Orcs was surreal.

The braided female's eyes gleamed with excitement, her earlier anger replaced by a feral grin. "A grand feast... and a bigger horde to share it with. I like this plan."

The mace-wielder laughed heartily, slamming his weapon against the ground with a loud CLANG.

"The humans won't see it coming! They'll be too busy trembling in their little metal suits while we roast their friends!"n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

The spear-wielder, ever cautious, nodded thoughtfully. "It makes sense. A horde isn't a horde if it's small. We need to be unstoppable when we move."

The young dagger-wielder smirked, his sharp teeth glinting. "And when we do move, their flesh will be ours. I'll carve it myself!"

Even the dual knife fighter, usually silent, grunted in approval, his blades flashing as he sharpened them in preparation for the promised hunt.

His confidence surged like a thick warrior blood.

Inside, Volk was grinning for a completely different reason.

They believed him.

Every single one of them.

He had spun the lie with such conviction that their fiery pride had been channeled into something useful.

He clenched his gauntleted fist, feeling the weight of his deception. "Let's go!" he commanded, his voice booming through the forest. "We have allies to find and humans to prepare for our feast!"

"Lok'Tar Ogar!" they roared in unison, their voices echoing through the trees, filled with bloodlust and anticipation.

As they began to move, Volk muttered under his breath, a sly grin on his face. "Let's go, indeed. Lok'Tar Ogar."

He wasn't just gathering a horde. He was buying time, maneuvering them away from the humans, and preparing for the next stage of his conquest.

Volk knew he would need their loyalty and their strength. Even if it meant spinning more lies along the way.

The forest buzzed with the murmur of Volk's growing horde.

Wild Orcs of all shapes and sizes, scarred and feral, now marched under his banner.

He had recruited forty members, and every one of them bore bruises, gashes, or broken weapons from the battles it took to make them submit.

It wasn't hard, not for him.

The process was simple: beat them into the ground, show them his dominance, and they would swear loyalty.

But it was no easy task. Groups of four, five, sometimes six wild Orcs at once had come at him. And the stakes had been high.

"If I lose," Volk had declared during those challenges, "the horde leaves me. You can have it all."

It never came to that.

With his unwavering strength, shit is easy.

With every battle, Volk's reputation grew. His gauntlet shone brightly as he pounded the ground, sending shockwaves through the earth that disoriented his foes.

His strikes were precise, powerful, and overwhelming.

The fights were short, brutal, and decisive.

By the time Volk stood over yet another bruised and groaning Orc gang, they were already swearing their allegiance through bloodied lips.

"Warchief!" they would cry, slamming their fists to their chests.

Volk would nod, his face grim but victorious. "Welcome to the horde."

Soon, they were now an army.

As the numbers swelled, the newest recruits brought tales of another group of Orcs further ahead.

This time, the story wasn't about a ragtag gang of wildlings. No, this was different.

Volk was walking at the head of his horde when one of the newer recruits—a lean, wiry Orc with sharpened teeth—jogged to catch up with him.

"Warchief," the recruit began, his tone low and cautious.

"What is it?" Volk asked, keeping his eyes forward.

"There's... there's another gang ahead," the Orc said hesitantly.

Volk stopped in his tracks, and the entire horde followed suit.

The rustle of leaves and the occasional grunt of an Orc were the only sounds in the still forest.

Volk turned to the recruit, his sharp gaze pinning him in place.

"How many?" Volk asked, his voice calm but firm.

The recruit swallowed hard, glancing at the others as if unsure whether he should continue. "At least thirty," he said finally. "Maybe more."

Volk crossed his arms, his gauntleted hand glinting in the dappled sunlight. "Thirty, almost the same as us, we are just a little bigger," he repeated thoughtfully. "A big group. How does one Orc command so many?"

The recruit hesitated again, but another member—a burly female Orc with a broken tusk—stepped forward to answer.

"The leader," she said, her voice tinged with both awe and bitterness. "He's... not like the others."

Volk raised an eyebrow. "Not like the others? Explain."

"He's a gladiator," she said, her hands clenching into fists. "An escaped one. From the human arenas."

The murmurs in the horde grew louder at this revelation.

Volk's eyes narrowed. "A gladiator? You mean he fought in the human pits?"

The female Orc nodded. "Yes. They say he fought beasts, humans, Ogres, even other Orcs. And he won. Over and over. That's why so many follow him. He's that strong."

Soon, a strange feeling was poured to them.

The mention of the gladiator sparked unease among the ranks.

Volk could hear their muttered concerns.

"He survived the human arenas?"

"Those places break the strongest warriors."

"If he escaped, he must be even stronger than the Warchief."

Volk remained silent, letting them voice their doubts.

His gaze was distant, as if weighing the information carefully.

Finally, he raised a hand, silencing the group.

"So," he said slowly, "this gladiator escaped the arenas, built a gang of thirty Orcs, and now he's ahead of us." He let out a low chuckle, shaking his head. "That's a dangerous plot twist."

The horde fell silent, watching him closely, waiting for his next move.