Strongest Radioactive System

As Song Woo-Ji and Bong Me-Eon were cautiously pulled away by the little skeleton, Volk felt an odd, creeping sensation within him—a pull, faint at first, then growing, filling his entire body.

It was foreign, disorienting.

He shook his head, trying to dispel it, but the pull grew stronger, spreading from his chest to his limbs, his fists loosening from their rock-like grip.

His breaths quickened, the cold weight of dread settling in his gut.

The Horde behind him began to shift uncomfortably.

Several Orcs looked down at their hands, alarm spreading as they realized they were growing smaller, their muscles shrinking.

The ones who had been transformed into towering, battle-hardened Ogres were now feeling that power drain from their bodies, like sand slipping through their fingers.

One Orc warrior, his voice shaky with fear, cried out, "What… what's happening to us?"

His voice wavered, frantic as he looked around, seeing the others go through the same horrifying change. "I… I'm shrinking! What sorcery is this?"

Another, previously a massive Ogre with tusks the size of daggers, raised his hands in terror as they rapidly shriveled, returning to the rough but slender build of a regular Orc.

"My power… It's gone! My strength is… fading!"

All around, the Horde erupted into a storm of panicked voices, their shouts echoing across the battlefield as they scrambled to comprehend what was happening to them.

Some clawed at their skin as if they could hold onto their former selves, while others staggered, trying to keep balance as their hulking bodies shrank back into the lean, wiry frames of their original Orc forms.

"Is this a curse?" one of them shouted, voice thick with fear. "Are we being punished? Did we anger the gods?"

Another roared in frustration, pounding his fist into the ground only to find the force behind his punch diminished, the impact pitiful compared to what it had been moments before.

"I was strong—stronger than ever before! What dark magic has stolen it from me?"

Closer to Volk, a particularly burly Orc who had enjoyed his transformation into an Ogre looked up, his voice was a desperate plea.

"Warchief! What… what's going on? Why are we losing our power?"

The other Orcs and those who had previously stood as proud Ogres turned to Volk, their voices a chorus of questions, confusion, and rising desperation.

They looked to him for answers, clinging to the hope that their Warchief, their indomitable leader, would explain it all and somehow fix whatever cursed thing was happening to them.

But Volk remained silent.

His jaw was clenched, muscles tightening as he forced himself to ignore the chaos around him.

He could feel it too—his own transformation beginning.

His biceps, which had swelled with incredible strength, were deflating, the dense layers of power he had wielded with such ease slipping away, shrinking him back to his old form.

The towering, monstrous stature that had once made him the terror of all who faced him was draining out of him, bit by bit, like a nightmare retreating with the dawn.

Deep down, Volk knew what this was.

The system—the very thing that had granted him these powers, had given him the strength to become the Horde's unshakable leader—was somehow behind this.

It was the same presence that had frozen him moments ago, the same force that had bound him and the Horde in place.

He could feel it, lurking in the corners of his mind like an overseer pulling the strings. And now, it was retracting its gift, pulling back the strength it had given him and his Horde.

An Orc stumbled forward, gripping Volk's arm in a desperate plea, his eyes wide with fear.

"Warchief, say something! Do you know what's happening to us?"

But Volk held his silence, ignoring the question.

He tightened his fists, teeth gritted, as he tried to resist the steady transformation.

His vision blurred as his towering form shrank further, until he was no longer the monstrous Ogre but a strong, albeit normal, Orc once more.

The Horde's panic was already a storm, but when they felt an unseen force dragging them down, their panic transformed into sheer terror.

Each Orc felt as though invisible chains wrapped around their ankles, jerking them toward the ground.

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The sensation wasn't painful, but it was unnervingly powerful, as if some invisible hand had reached from the earth to claim them.

They tried to fight it, planting their feet, clawing at the dirt, but there was no resisting the pull.

It was inevitable, unyielding, like gravity itself had doubled.

"Wh-What's happening now?" one Orc cried out, his voice trembling. He clawed at the ground, fingers tearing through the soil, trying to anchor himself, but the pull continued, relentless.

Another Orc let out a scream, his voice breaking as he yelled, "Are we being dragged to the underworld?! Is this how we're going to end?!"

Closer to Volk, a former Ogre shrieked in pure dread, digging his nails into the ground, his voice choked with fear.

"Warchief! Save us! Do something!" He scrabbled at the ground, muscles straining as he fought against the invisible grip pulling him down.

Orcs and former Ogres alike continued to shout in horror, their voices rising into an almost discordant symphony of panic.

They clawed at each other, scrambling, trying to hold onto anything solid to resist the force.

Some grabbed onto rocks or trees, only to be yanked backward, their nails breaking as they desperately tried to find something to hold onto.

One after another, they lost their grip, sliding across the ground like leaves caught in a violent wind.

"NO! I WON'T BE TAKEN! I WON'T GO!" one of them roared, his fists pounding the ground in sheer denial, trying to fight back against whatever fate awaited him.

Another Orc thrashed, his voice filled with raw panic. "Is this our punishment for challenging the gods? For facing… that… creature?" His voice was a mix of sobs and anger, each word dripping with despair.

They all turned toward Volk, their eyes pleading for answers, hoping their Warchief would somehow break free of whatever was binding them. But Volk, in the midst of the uproar, stood silently.

He was calm—almost unnaturally so.

He felt the pull as well, but he did not resist it.

His muscles were relaxed, his face resolute as he allowed the force to claim him.

He watched as his warriors struggled, thrashing and crying out, but his stance remained solid, his expression unreadable.

One by one, as the pull became stronger, his warriors began to disappear into the earth, dissolving into shadows, each one vanishing with cries of disbelief and despair.

"Warchief! Don't leave us! Warchief!"

And then, in one great sweep, darkness overtook Volk's vision.

The dragging sensation intensified, pulling him downward, swallowing him whole. He could feel himself falling, sinking deeper, into a strange, weightless void.

He couldn't see or hear anything; it was as if he had been pulled out of reality itself.

And suddenly, he felt solid ground beneath his feet.

The darkness faded, and he looked around.

The familiar stone walls, the cold, echoing chambers, the endless rows of forgotten bones and relics—he was back.

He was standing in the catacomb.

The place he had been before all this, before the world of the tablet had swallowed him whole.

One by one, his warriors reappeared beside him, each Orc and Ogre stumbling onto the stone floor, bewildered.

They looked around in shock, eyes wide, breathing heavy as they tried to make sense of it.

"Back… here?" one Orc whispered, looking around, barely believing it.