Strongest Radioactive System

The question hung in the air, the female Orc's wide-eyed wonder drilling into Volk like a spear.

"Warchief," she repeated, her voice trembling with awe, "did you do this?"

Volk paused for a moment, his glowing gauntlet slowly unclenching.

His sharp eyes shifted to her, then scanned the faces of his newly transformed horde.

They were looking at him with something unfamiliar—reverence.

Their wild, untamed natures were tempered by their curiosity and newfound loyalty.

He glanced downward, feigning contemplation, but in truth, he was focusing on the system screen hovering faintly in his peripheral vision.

Suspended in the air before him, the text glowed ominously:

Mission Completed!

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 horde.

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

Failure: Horde marks disappearance.

Status: Completed.

Volk squinted at the display, his lips pressing into a firm line.

The completion of the mission explained the strange vibrations and the incredible transformations his horde had undergone.

But it didn't explain how.

Why was the system granting them power in this way? And why not him? Or is he getting jealous? Seems like it.

He dismissed the thought for the moment and turned his attention back to the female Orc.

He let out a low, rumbling chuckle, shaking his head slightly before responding.

"Yes," Volk said, his voice like rolling thunder, "it came to me. It came to us—a gift for the Horde. A gift earned through blood, sweat, and perseverance.

"It is proof that we are no longer scattered and weak. We are warriors now. A proud horde, forged in the fires of hardship and united under one banner!"

Just as he finished speaking, the familiar ding! of the system interrupted his thoughts.

New Mission!

The host, or the Warchief, was an Orc and an Ogre. The horde would be incomplete without an Ogre!

Mission A: Defeat all the Ogres around.

Mission B: Enslave all the Ogres.

Mission C: Kill all the Ogres.

Failure: Loss of the Horde authority and power-up.

For the first time in a long while, Volk felt his pulse quicken.

His confident expression faltered, just for a fraction of a second, but long enough that he immediately turned his back to the horde to hide it.

"What is this?" he muttered under his breath. His eyes narrowed as he read the mission again.

Unlike previous tasks, this one offered no rewards—just choices.

Dangerous choices.

Volk's mind whirled as he paced in the shadow of a nearby tree, muttering aloud to himself.

His voice was low and rumbling, but the horde could hear snippets of his words.

"Defeat all the Ogres…" He let the words hang in the air, tasting their weight.

"It's not impossible. I'm strong enough. My horde has proven itself capable. But to fight Ogres…" He clenched his fist, the gauntlet tightening with a faint creak.

"They're not like Orcs. They're bigger, meaner, and more stubborn than a mountain. Fighting them would mean losses. Heavy losses."

Volk rubbed his chin, his sharp tusks gleaming. "But defeating them would send a message. The Orcs would grow bolder, more confident. A victory over the Ogres would solidify my leadership…"

He paused, shaking his head. "But at what cost?"

He shifted his focus to the second option. "Enslave all the Ogres," he murmured. His lip curled slightly in distaste.

"To enslave… that's not the way of the Horde. Orcs may dominate, but we don't stoop to chains and collars. Enslaving them would create dissent.

"Resentment. They'd bide their time and strike back when we're weakest. No. Enslaving them is no solution—it's a slow poison."

His tone grew more resolute as he dismissed the idea, but the third option loomed before him like a dark shadow.

"Kill all the Ogres," he said quietly, the words heavy on his tongue. His gauntlet flexed reflexively. "Wipe them out completely. Remove their threat forever. It would be the simplest solution. A final one."

He exhaled sharply, shaking his head again.

"No. That's not the way of a Warchief. Orcs and Ogres may have their differences, but they're not so different.

"Killing them all would be more than just a waste—it would be a betrayal of what it means to be part of the Horde. A Horde unites, not destroys. So what should I do? There's no telling how rare they are, and maybe we could use them in the future too…"

Volk stopped pacing, crossing his arms as he gazed out at his horde.

They were watching him silently, waiting for his decision.

He could see the potential in them, their newfound strength and unity. He had a responsibility now—a duty to lead them wisely.

"This system," Volk growled under his breath. "It's evolved somehow. The missions are more complex. No rewards this time. Just risks. And consequences."

He clenched his gauntlet one last time, exhaling deeply. "There's only one choice that preserves the integrity of the Horde."

Volk turned back to his horde, his expression calm but resolute. His deep voice boomed across the clearing as he addressed them.

"We march forward," he declared. "This time, we must test the armor that I have given to all of you! So on this day, we confront the Ogres. We face them in battle, prove our strength, and defeat them. But we do not enslave. We do not slaughter needlessly. We are warriors, not butchers!"

The horde let out a collective roar of approval, their faith in their Warchief unshaken.

Deep down, however, Volk knew the road ahead would be fraught with challenges.

The Ogres were not to be underestimated, and the system's lack of clarity was unsettling. But he pushed the doubt aside.

"For the Horde," Volk muttered to himself, his gauntlet glowing faintly as he clenched it tighter. "Let's see what fate has in store."

The horde marched forward, their freshly transformed armors gleaming in the dappled sunlight breaking through the forest canopy.

The metallic clinking of their steps resounded like a growing thunderstorm.

Despite their enthusiasm, questions began bubbling among the Orcs, some muttering to one another until one finally asked.

"Warchief," a particularly bold Orc called out, his voice rough and sharp, "why do we need to beat Ogres? We've already proven our strength. What's the point?"

Volk turned, his towering frame casting a long shadow over the curious warrior. He straightened his stance, his gauntlet glowing faintly with latent energy as he addressed them.

"It's simple," Volk began, his deep voice cutting through the murmurs.n/o/vel/b//in dot c//om

"This battle isn't just about strength. It's about testing our new power. Testing the armors we've been gifted. These are no ordinary pieces of steel—they're symbols of our new beginning. A beginning that demands we push ourselves against the toughest foes."

The Orc scratched his head, his expression puzzled. "Then… why not use them on Goblins? They're everywhere, and they'd be easy to kill."

A few other Orcs nodded in agreement, murmuring their assent. Volk let out a guttural laugh, his tusks gleaming as he grinned.

"Goblins?" Volk repeated, his voice tinged with disdain. "Goblins are weaklings! Their bones snap like twigs, their blades dull like rust. Fighting Goblins would dishonor the armors, dishonor the Horde, and dishonor me as your Warchief. We need a challenge worthy of our strength!"

Another Orc, his helmet slightly tilted, raised a clawed hand. "What about humans then? They're strong enough. We've all seen their shiny armors and big armies."

Volk's expression darkened, his grin fading into a grim determination.

"The humans will come," he said, his voice low and ominous.

"They are not forgotten. They will be the final feast of blood upon the declaration of the Horde's new beginning. But first…"

He gestured ahead, his gauntlet glowing brighter. "…we conquer the Ogres. The humans will tremble when they see what we've become."

The Orcs, though still not entirely understanding the finer details, erupted into a raucous cheer.

To them, it didn't matter why or how—what mattered was that they were marching toward bloodshed.