Strongest Radioactive System

Kragath's battered frame trembled as he fixed his eyes on Volk, his smirk fading into something far colder.

Blood dripped from the corner of his mouth as he let out a slow, gravelly sigh.

"You," he began, his voice barely above a whisper, but each word carried like a thunderclap in the silence.

"You think you're strong. You've reached the twenty-fifth stage of a Mana Orc. That's impressive for someone like you, I'll give you that. But do you even know what that means in the grand scheme of things?"

Volk's brows furrowed, his fist still clenched at his side. "What are you talking about now, Kragath?"

"What am I talking about?" Kragath spat, forcing himself to sit upright despite the immense pain wracking his body. His eyes glinted with a dangerous light.n/ô/vel/b//jn dot c//om

"I'm talking about the monsters you're about to face. You think you've accomplished something, climbing to twenty-five?

"Reaching that stage is nothing compared to the nightmares that dwell in the service of the humans. Especially under her—the Viscountess."

He leaned forward, his bloodied fingers clawing at the dirt.

"You're strong, Volk. I'll admit that. But compared to the true champions I've seen in the arenas…compared to the ones who fight under her banner? You're a pebble against a mountain."

Kragath's voice gained strength, fueled by rage and bitter memories.

"Let me tell you about them—the champions of the human arenas. The ones who stand at the pinnacle, with levels beyond your comprehension. Seven names, Volk. Seven nightmares who've carved their names into the flesh of thousands."

He raised a trembling hand, pointing at Volk as if daring him to listen.

One finger.

Xerath, the Bladewind of Avarice.

"A peak Fortieth-stage Berserker, the very air trembles when he swings his dual greatswords. He moves like a storm, faster than the eye can follow, slicing through legions in seconds. His blades?

"Forged from dragon bone and infused with mana so potent it burns the air around him. He doesn't fight. He annihilates. Every swing of his sword is a death sentence. You wouldn't last a heartbeat against him."

Two fingers.

Saphira, the Crimson Viper.

"A Thirty-Ninth-stage Sorceress-Assassin. She doesn't kill with brute force—she doesn't need to. Her poisons seep into the mind, twisting her prey into puppets before she slaughters them.

"She can vanish into the shadows, reappearing with her daggers buried in your throat. I've seen her bring entire armies to their knees without spilling a drop of her own blood."

Three fingers.

Gorath, the Beast of Black Iron.

"A Thirty-Eighth-stage Gladiator. This one? A walking fortress. His skin is tougher than steel, his strength unmatched.

"Even arena champions have shattered their weapons against his hide. He fights barehanded, crushing skulls like ripe fruit. They say he once tore an ogre limb from limb for daring to insult him."

Four fingers.

Ilena, the Soul Reaver.

"A Thirty-Seventh-stage Necromancer. She doesn't just kill—she claims. Every warrior who falls to her joins her undead army, bound to her will for eternity.

"Her magic corrodes flesh, shatters bone, and breaks spirits. Even the bravest Orcs I've known wept at the thought of facing her. She doesn't stop until everything around her is a graveyard."

Five fingers.

Kael, the Stormborn Spear.

"A Thirty-Sixth-stage Elemental Warrior. His spear dances like lightning, striking with the fury of a tempest.

"He commands the skies themselves, calling storms to tear his enemies apart. One strike from him isn't just an attack—it's an act of nature. He's turned entire battlefields to ash with a single thrust."

Six.

Varya, the Scarlet Tempest

"A Thirty-Fifth-stage Duelist. Her grace is as deadly as her speed. She wields twin rapiers, slicing through flesh before her opponents even realize they've been cut.

"Her movements are a blur, her attacks relentless. She doesn't just defeat her enemies—she humiliates them, dancing around their attacks as if they're children."

Seven fingers.

Drakos, the Iron Warden.

"A Fortieth-peak Juggernaut. The strongest. The most unyielding. He's a mountain that moves, a titan that crushes everything in his path.

"His hammer can split the ground, his shield can withstand dragonfire, and his sheer presence can make armies falter. He is the champion of champions, the living embodiment of the arena's brutality."

Kragath's voice dropped, his earlier fury giving way to something colder.

"These aren't just warriors, sir, the new Orc horde leader. They're legends among us Gladiators. Monsters shaped by the arenas, tempered in blood and pain. And you? You're just an Orc who got lucky."

Volk's jaw tightened, his muscles tensing as he listened.

Kragath sneered.

"You think defeating me means anything? I was just a tool. A puppet to keep the humans entertained. The champions I've named—they'd kill you before you could even lift your weapon.

"And without me? Without my protection? You'll all be thrown into the pits eventually. You'll be chained, beaten, and forced to fight until you're nothing but a broken husk.

He gestured weakly to the gathered Orcs, his voice heavy with exhaustion.

"These fools think you're their savior. Their Warchief. But they don't see what I see. You're just another pawn.

"Another body to be thrown into the grinder. And when the humans come for you—and they will come for you—you'll wish you'd listened to me."

Kragath's lips twisted into a weak, mocking smile as he leaned back against the dirt.

"Enjoy your little horde while it lasts, Volk. Because soon enough, you'll be just like me. A slave. A dog.

"Fighting for scraps in their arenas. And when that day comes? Remember this moment. Remember how you thought you were strong."

The Orcs around him shifted uneasily, their earlier defiance replaced with uncertainty.

Volk stood silent, the weight of Kragath's words hanging heavily in the air.

Soon, his eyes darkened, his towering frame casting a shadow over the battered Kragath.

He stared down at the once-proud Orc, his expression blank but his presence suffocating.

The silence was palpable, heavy enough to choke the air out of the surrounding Orcs. Then, finally, Volk spoke, his voice low, calm, and chilling.

"And?"

Kragath froze, his lips parting slightly in confusion. "W-what?"

Volk stepped closer, his boots crunching against the dirt with a deliberate, unhurried rhythm.

Each step sounded like the tolling of a death knell. He stopped just short of Kragath, his gaze piercing, unrelenting.

"Is that all?" Volk asked again, his tone laced with a quiet venom that sent shivers down every spine in the vicinity.

Kragath's mouth opened to speak, but no words came out at first. He swallowed hard, his bravado wavering. "I… I told you… the champions… the arena…"

Volk tilted his head slightly, his movements slow and deliberate, like a predator playing with its prey.

"Really?"

He leaned down, his voice dropping to a deadly whisper, "are there more?" he asked.

Kragath's breath hitched. "I'm warning you! You don't understand what's out there! The champions—"

"Yeah?" Volk interrupted, his voice rising slightly, but still measured and cold.

Kragath blinked, his confidence visibly eroding under Volk's steady gaze. "You don't care?!" he barked, attempting to summon his earlier fury, but his voice cracked.

"You think so?" Volk said simply, standing tall again. His presence was towering, oppressive. "I don't care?"

Kragath's hands trembled as he pushed himself slightly upright, his voice rising in desperation.

"You arrogant fool! You don't understand! They'll hunt you down! They'll carve through you and your horde like paper! The Viscountess will—"

Volk raised a hand, silencing him instantly. The sheer weight of his presence was enough to make even the surrounding Orcs unconsciously take a step back.

"Viscountess?" Volk said, his tone dripping with mockery. "You think I fear her? You think I fear her champions? You think I fear anything that stands in my path?"

He laughed, a deep, rumbling sound that resonated in the chests of everyone present.

Kragath's face twisted in anger and panic. "You don't get it! You're just another Orc! You're—"

"I am Volk," he interrupted again, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. He took another step forward, his towering form now casting Kragath entirely in shadow.

"I am not just another Orc. I am the one who defeated you. The one who crushed your pride. The one who spared your miserable life."

Kragath flinched, his earlier confidence now completely gone. "Y-you… You don't understand…"

Volk crouched down, his eyes level with Kragath's. The intensity of his gaze was suffocating. "Can you elaborate what I don't understand?" He asked again.

Kragath's breaths came in shallow gasps, his composure completely shattered. "They'll come for you!" he stammered, his voice trembling. "They'll… they'll come for you… and when they do… you'll wish you'd listened to me!"

Volk's smirk widened. "Let them come." His voice was calm, unwavering.

Kragath's hands clawed at the dirt, his body trembling as he tried to summon some vestige of defiance.

"You… you don't…" He paused, his voice breaking. "You don't know what you're doing. You're condemning us all!"

Volk leaned in closer, his face mere inches from Kragath's. "So?"

Kragath let out a choked laugh, but it was hollow, filled with fear. "You're… insane…" he whispered, his voice barely audible.

"No," Volk said softly, his voice like a knife sliding between ribs. "How so?"

Kragath's laughter faltered entirely, replaced by a shuddering silence.

The Orcs surrounding them watched, wide-eyed, as their once-feared leader crumbled into a shadow of his former self.

"I-I…" Kragath stuttered, his voice trembling uncontrollably. "Y-you have no idea… what you're dealing with…"

Volk rose to his full height, his gaze never leaving Kragath. "And you," he said, his voice cold and final, "Do you have any idea what I am capable of?"

Kragath fell silent, his body trembling as he stared up at Volk, the weight of his presence crushing what little resolve remained.

The gathered Orcs looked on, their faces pale with awe and terror, as their new Warchief stood victorious, unshaken, and utterly commanding.