Strongest Radioactive System

Volk's breathing slowed as the battlefield fell silent, save for the faint rustle of the wind and the distant cries of crows circling overhead.

The system's chime pierced through the stillness, sharp and clear.

DING!

The notification glimmered in his vision.

| Mission: Destroy the entire cavalry of Baron Geisler without turning into Radioactive Form.

| Rewards: Directions to each member of the Horde, including their wives.

| Failure: Gauntlet Disappearance.

| Status: Completed. |

Volk blinked.

The words lingered in front of him, glowing faintly before vanishing like dissipating smoke.

He felt a faint magical pulse, followed by a rhythmic vibration against his thigh.

His hand instinctively moved to his armored animal-hide shorts.

He fished out the rough, folded map that the two barbarian girls had handed him earlier.

The parchment had felt inconsequential before—another relic from desperate humans clinging to survival—but now, it radiated with an otherworldly energy.

The surface glowed faintly as he unfolded it, revealing a far grander depiction of the world than he'd anticipated.

The map was divided into intricate sections.

It bore the names of Nine Human Kingdoms, sprawling across a single massive continent, each marked with intricate borders and tiny, illegible scribbles indicating towns, castles, and strongholds.

Volk's sharp eyes swept across the parchment until his attention was drawn to the colossal mass of land to the east.

"Unexplored Elven Continent," he muttered.

The words were etched in elegant, ancient script.

This landmass dwarfed the human kingdoms by a staggering magnitude.

Volk's tusks glinted as he leaned closer.

Seven times larger?

His brow furrowed.

It was a world unto itself, a mysterious frontier untouched by humanity—or so the map claimed.

His gaze shifted back to the continent of the Nine Kingdoms.

A faint dark green mark pulsed in the western edge, accompanied by a single word: Warchief.

"Me," Volk said softly.

The word reverberated in his mind.

He had been named Warchief by his people—a title that denote strength, leadership, and responsibility.

His eyes scanned further.

The dark green mark was dangerously close to the Grand Canyon and the Valley of Orcs, the ancestral lands of his kind.

He ran his fingers over the map, tracing the lines of the human territories. .

It became painfully clear: three Baron Territories stood between him and the safety of his homeland.

One of them bore a label that sent a chill down his spine: Baron Geisler's Territory.

Volk growled, his gaze flickering back to the ruined battlefield.

The thought of staying here, even for another moment, felt like madness.

Suddenly, the map began to shift again, as though alive.

Another color bled into the parchment, forming small, pulsating dots. Horde Members.

"My horde," Volk murmured. His voice was low, filled with a strange mix of hope and dread.

The dots marked the locations of his scattered tribe.

Some were near—close enough to consider saving. But others...

Volk's heart sank. A new color emerged alongside some of the dots, one that made his stomach twist. Red.

When he focused on the red dots, words emerged beside them: Perished Horde.

---

Volk's tusks bared instinctively, and his fist tightened around the map.

"Perished," he growled, his voice trembling with fury.

His people weren't just scattered—they were being hunted.

His gauntlet flared briefly, sensing the tension within him.

He studied the map further.

The red dots were clustered dangerously close to the Baron Territories.

The realization hit him like a warhammer to the chest.

If he lingered here, if his presence became known, the surrounding barons would undoubtedly converge upon him.

Volk muttered to himself, piecing together his options.

"Three Baron Territories between me and the Valley. Baron Geisler's lands are here. If his signal reached others..." He paused, his glowing yellow eyes narrowing.

"They'll come. I'll be surrounded. No escape. The only reason you all exist is because all the Orcs don't matter to us, they are just creatures used to strengthen our human race!"

His mind raced. Each second felt heavier than the last.

The Baron's dying words rang in his ears:

They'll hunt you.n/ô/vel/b//in dot c//om

They'll tear you apart.

Your kind will pay for your arrogance.

Volk snarled.

The human was dead, but his warning still held weight.

If the surrounding barons were already aware of him, then his window of opportunity was razor-thin.

He traced the map again, focusing on the green dots.

Some were dangerously close to red zones, others farther away but isolated.

A surge of determination coursed through him.

He couldn't let his horde fall apart.

"Move," Volk muttered to himself, folding the map with care. "I can't stay here. Not for long."

He rose to his full height, his massive frame casting an imposing shadow over the battlefield.

His eyes swept over the carnage—the shattered bodies of knights, the crushed remains of their cavalry.

He felt no remorse for them, but he couldn't ignore the consequences.

The map's glowing warmth faded as he slipped it back into his shorts.

His gauntlet hummed, a silent reminder of the system's reward.

He flexed his fingers, feeling the raw power coursing through the enchanted artifact.

Volk took a deep breath, the air thick with the stench of blood and ash.

He turned his gaze toward the horizon, where the distant silhouettes of mountains marked the edge of the Grand Canyon. His destination was clear.

But first, he had to move.

"Three barons," Volk growled to himself, his voice low but resolute. "Three obstacles. Then the Valley. Then the Horde."

He clenched his fists, the gauntlet glowing faintly. "What do I do first, again?"

And with that, Volk began to move, his massive strides carrying him toward the next chapter of his brutal journey.

Not long, with his strides toward the horizon were strong, he suddenly halted abruptly when he felt another vibration against his thigh.

The map—it was alive again.

He reached into his armored hide shorts, pulling out the glowing parchment.

Its surface shimmered like molten emeralds as new details began to unfurl across it.

At first, the dark green markings of his horde still pulsed faintly, scattered across the human kingdoms and the edge of the Grand Canyon. But as he stared at the elven continent, his eyes narrowed.

A new color emerged—yellow-green dots scattered across the sprawling, unexplored landmass.

Volk's jaw tightened, his tusks bared as realization struck.

"Elves?" he muttered, his voice rumbling like distant thunder. "My elven horde members... in the elven lands?"

His mind worked quickly.

The map's markings didn't need explanation; the truth was self-evident.

Those yellow-green dots represented elves who were part of his horde.

Their wives from the upper realm ruled by the Warlocks and Dark Elves.

Before he could dwell further, the map pulsed again, and golden letters appeared in the air before his eyes.

DING!

| The Warchief won't be a Warchief without a horde.

| Mission: Collect a new member of the horde and form a new horde in the Orzaroth Realm. Adopt all the scattered Wild Orcs and join them to the new starting horde.

| Rewards: Exact location and status of the original horde members and a random radioactive horde power up!

| Failure: Horde marks disappearance.

| Status: Ongoing. |

Volk's grip on the map tightened.

The system had spoken. Its instructions were clear.

He couldn't waste time.

Without his horde, he was nothing but a lone survivor—a fragment of what he was meant to be.

His people needed him, and now he had a new mission: not just to survive, but to rebuild.

But there was no room for hesitation.

The map's message lingered in his thoughts as he refocused on the path ahead.

"The Orzaroth Realm," he growled under his breath, rolling the map carefully and slipping it back into his shorts. "If I'm to be Warchief, then I'll start by gathering what remains."