Strongest Radioactive System

At the back of the Dreadmaw Clan, a raucous laughter erupted from a small group of Orcs, led by Grashk and Grok'Thar, Volk's catacomb last time companions.

They stood tall, arms crossed, with wide grins plastered across their scarred faces as they eyed the massive Ground Bull stomping its hooves in the dirt.

"Look at that poor bull," Grashk chortled, his deep voice carrying over the murmurs of the gathered Orcs. "Doesn't stand a chance against Volk! It's like sending a rabbit to fight a mountain!"

"Aye!" Grok'Thar boomed in agreement, slapping his thick thigh with a resounding smack. "Volk's the strongest there is! This is a waste of time. Grounad's just delaying the inevitable!"

The other Orcs of the Dreadmaw Clan burst into hearty laughter, their confidence in Volk unshakable.

They knew something the other Orcs didn't—a secret advantage that had saved their lives countless times before.

Beasts, whether inside the cursed catacombs or roaming the wilds, instinctively avoided Volk.

The beasts in the catacombs fear him because they think of him as a more terrifying creature due to his ability to carry hazardous magic particles within his body.

Yes!

His dense, hazardous aura as a Labor Orc makes him something unnatural—something that even the most ferocious creatures fear to touch.

Whether they see him as dirty or stronger, the result is the same: both are scared of him.

Grashk leaned forward, smirking, as he called out, "Hey Grounad! You better start praying to whatever gods you believe in! Volk's gonna send that bull running with its tail between its legs, and you're gonna be left in the dust!"

"You're wasting your time, Grounad!" Grok'Thar chimed in, his voice dripping with mockery.

"Volk's been in the catacombs! He's fought things in there that would tear that bull apart without breaking a sweat! He ain't scared of some oversized cow!"

The cheers and taunts echoed louder, carried by the wind to the other Orc clans.

The warriors of the Bloodfang, Fireblood, and Thunderstrike Clans turned their heads, watching the Dreadmaw Orcs with skeptical frowns.

They couldn't help but wonder where this surge of confidence came from.

One of the warriors from the Thunderstrike Clan, known for their sharp tongues, muttered to his companion, "Are they serious? That Labor Orc? I thought he was just lucky to survive. Now they're saying he's some kind of beast whisperer?"

"Luck or not," his companion growled, his eyes narrowing, "no one messes with the Ground Bull. Grounad has this in the bag. I don't care how confident those Dreadmaw Orcs sound. That Labor Orc Volk doesn't stand a chance against Grounad or that beast."

Back among the Dreadmaw Clan, Grashk grinned widely, his voice dripping with arrogance.

"They have no idea, Grok'Thar. They don't know what we've seen. That Warthog back then? Stopped dead in its tracks because of Volk's aura. These outsiders can mock all they want. We know the truth."

"Aye," Grok'Thar nodded, crossing his thick arms over his chest.

"Volk ain't just strong. He's got that strange… air about him. Animals know he's dangerous, but they don't see him as a threat they can fight. That's why they back off. Even this bull's gonna know better than to mess with him. But let them keep doubting.

They'll see soon enough."

The other Orcs of the Dreadmaw Clan joined in, shouting more taunts and encouragement to Volk, their boisterous voices carrying far and wide across the field.

Amid the clamor, the Chieftain of the Ironhide Clan raised his hand, calling for silence.

His deep, rumbling voice cut through the noise, commanding attention as he began to speak.

"You may wonder why I called for this test," he began, pacing slowly before the gathered clans, his thick arms clasped behind his back.

"The Catacomb is no simple place to lead Orcs into. It is a realm of death, where only the strongest beasts survive. When a catacomb is conquered, the creatures within do not simply vanish.

"They remain, and new creatures will emerge, battling each other until one becomes dominant—until one species claims the title of apex predator. And what happens then? They are sent to another dimension.

"So when we enter, we will face those threats. That's why we need the strongest to lead us through it."

He paused, letting his words sink in as the Orcs nodded in agreement.

They had all heard stories of the Catacombs, some even having ventured in themselves.

They knew the dangers all too well.

The chieftain continued, his voice low and steady. "The rules are simple: neither Volk nor Grounad must be attacked by the Ground Bull. They can do whatever they wish to avoid the bull's wrath—scare it, demen on it, or outwit it. But the one who is attacked first is the one who loses.

"This test will decide who among them is truly the strongest and who is fit to lead us."

The Ground Bull, snorting impatiently, pawed at the ground with its massive hooves.

Its nostrils flared as it lowered its head, horns gleaming in the light.

The tension in the air thickened as the beast prepared to charge, its muscles coiling like a spring ready to release.

At the back of the crowd, Grashk and Grok'Thar exchanged knowing smirks. "That bull doesn't know what it's up against," Grashk muttered under his breath. "Volk's gonna make this look easy."

But the other clans remained skeptical, eyeing the Ground Bull's intimidating size and strength with apprehension.

One of the warriors from the Fireblood Clan spoke up, his voice filled with doubt, "Are they really so confident in that Labor Orc? The bull looks like it could crush him without even trying."

Another Orc from the Shadowclaw Clan added, "I don't know what they're thinking. This test is insane. But it was a fight, Grounad's gonna tear Volk apart if the bull doesn't get him first."

Despite their doubts, the air buzzed with anticipation.

All eyes turned back to the two Orcs standing in the arena.

Volk and Grounad both stood ready, their muscles tense, eyes locked on the Ground Bull that now scraped its hooves against the dirt, preparing for its charge.

The Chieftain of the Ironhide Clan stepped forward, his gaze shifting between the two warriors. His voice rang out, clear and authoritative. "Volk! Grounad! Are you both ready?"

Both Orcs nodded, their jaws set in determination.

The tension crackled between them like lightning before a storm.

The chieftain raised his arm high, the signal ready to be given. "Then on my mark…" His voice dropped to a low growl as the Ground Bull snorted, its eyes fixed on the two Orcs.

"Go!" he roared, swinging his arm down.

The Ground Bull let out a thunderous bellow, and with a sudden burst of speed, it charged forward, the earth trembling beneath its massive hooves.

The beast's eyes were wild, searching, ready to choose its first target.

At that moment, the crowd held its breath, waiting for the Ground Bull's decision—waiting to see who would emerge victorious and who would face the beast's wrath.

Would it be Volk, with his strange aura that had saved them before? Or would it be Grounad, the fierce warrior who stood unflinching in the face of danger?

The answer lay in the charge of the beast, and in the silence that followed its thunderous rumbling steps.