Strongest Radioactive System

The air grew thick with an eerie tension as the barrage of attacks slowed to a halt. The slicing winds became softer, the storm of projectiles ceased, and for the first time since the chaos began, the forest held its breath.

The sudden silence was deafening, broken only by the faint rustle of disturbed leaves and the pained groans of Ogres and Orcs alike as they steadied themselves.

Volk's radioactive glow dimmed slightly as his sharp gaze shot upward.

Through the clearing smoke and debris, a shadow emerged against the gray sky—graceful and yet mocking.

Wings, broad and feathered, flapped with a smooth rhythm, keeping the figure aloft as it began its descent.

Slowly, deliberately, the creature came into view: a male harpy, his long, sharp talons curled beneath him, his lithe body draped in dark feathers that shimmered faintly under the dim light.

His face, human-like but unnervingly angular, wore an expression of open disdain—a smug sneer stretched across his lips as his glowing, yellow eyes locked onto Volk.

Volk straightened to his full height, standing like an unshakable colossus at the center of his horde.

His fists unclenched, though his aura still flickered with dangerous energy.

He tilted his head, his voice low and commanding as it echoed through the tense clearing.

"Why are you attacking us?"

The harpy didn't answer right away.

He landed softly on the ground, talons sinking into the earth as his wings folded behind him.

He straightened his back, his smirk deepening as he looked Volk up and down, clearly unimpressed despite the immense radioactive power that crackled off the Orc leader.

Finally, the harpy spoke, his voice high and sharp, like wind whistling through blades.

"Because you and your horde are disgusting."

The words hung in the air, poisonous and deliberate.

Volk's expression darkened, his glowing eyes narrowing into furious slits. Around him, the Orcs growled low in their throats, fists tightening around their weapons, teeth bared in a mix of pain and anger.

Even the injured Ogres, still steadying themselves, glared toward the feathered figure, their breaths heavy and seething.

Volk let the harpy's insult hang for a moment, as if tasting its weight. His radioactive aura began to hum again, low and ominous, like the beginnings of an earthquake.

"Disgusting?" Volk repeated, his voice gravelly and cold. "Do you think us weak? Do you think us beneath you?"

The harpy tilted his head mockingly, his yellow eyes glowing faintly in amusement.

"I think you're a stain on this land. Like filth that needs to be washed away."

Volk's lips peeled back into a feral grin, revealing rows of jagged teeth. His voice dropped even lower, carrying with it the weight of a threat as old as war itself.

"Keep testing me, bird." Volk's tone was soft, dangerous. "If you and your kind keep toying with us, I will make you regret it. We will hunt you—all of you—from the skies. We'll drag you from your perches and rip your wings off your backs. One by one. Until not a single feathered corpse remains."

The harpy blinked once—slowly—and then smiled.

It wasn't a kind smile, nor one of fear.

It was cold, cruel, a predator's grin that matched Volk's own.

He took a step forward, talons digging deeper into the dirt, his wings flexing behind him as though preparing for flight.

"Do what you see fit, monster," the harpy hissed, his voice laced with venom. "Because we will do the same to you and every last one of your kind."

Volk's glow pulsed once, a dangerous surge of energy, but the harpy didn't flinch. Instead, he spread his wings wide, feathers snapping out like blades.

The air whipped around him again, carrying a faint hum of magic as if the wind itself bent to his will.

Then he laughed—high, sharp, and mocking—before launching himself back into the sky.

The sudden rush of air sent dust spiraling, and in seconds, the harpy was gone, vanishing into the canopy above.

Volk watched him disappear, his grin fading into a deep scowl.

His fists clenched, and the air around him shimmered with radioactive tension as his army began to regroup behind him.

The injured Ogres groaned.

The Orcs muttered curses under their breaths.

Volk's gaze lingered on the sky, glowing eyes searching the horizon. The harpy's words echoed in his mind, stoking the embers of a deeper fury.

"We'll see who gets hunted," Volk muttered to himself, his voice a low growl.

And somewhere above, unseen in the swirling clouds, the harpies waited—watching, mocking, and ready.

The sky darkened—not from clouds or the passage of the sun, but from a constant swarm of attackers that swooped and whirled above Volk and his battered horde.

The harpies had returned.

Dozens, maybe hundreds, their silhouettes like jagged shadows cutting through the gray.

Wings flapped in unison, their sharp cries echoing across the battlefield as if the air itself was screaming.

From the heavens, they rained down chaos.

Sharp gusts of slicing wind whirled like invisible blades, shredding armor, gouging flesh, and slicing at exposed skin.

Volk stood at the center of it all, his towering figure still unyielding, but even he could feel the shift in the air—like a storm that refused to relent.

"DEFEND YOURSELVES!" Volk's voice thundered, booming louder than the howling winds that tore through his ranks.

The Orcs roared in response, their war cries defiant, but their movements desperate.

Shields were raised in shaky formations, their iron surfaces scraping and screeching against each other as the winds battered them relentlessly.

Even the Ogres, their massive bodies hunched and scarred, curled into makeshift barriers of flesh and stone, planting their weapons into the earth to anchor themselves.

Yet the storm did not stop.

The harpies circled above like vultures with a cruel intelligence, their attacks synchronized, their strikes deliberate.

From the skies, they hurled jagged stones, imbued with swirling currents of wind magic that made them fall with terrifying speed—each projectile crashing into the horde with earth-shaking impact.

BOOM!

An Ogre groaned as a stone struck his shoulder, splintering his bone with a sickening crack. The massive beast collapsed to his knees, trembling as he tried to lift his club again.

CRASH!

An Orc screamed as he was hurled backward, a wind blade severing the shield he clutched in two before tearing through his side. He fell, twitching, blood pooling into the trampled dirt.

Volk's brow furrowed, his glowing radioactive aura intensifying as he ground his teeth together in fury. "HOLD THE LINE!" he bellowed, his voice breaking through the chaos.

But there was no line to hold.

The harpies' tactics were relentless and maddening.

They swooped low, talons outstretched, dragging Orcs from the ranks and hurling them into the air like broken dolls.

Bodies twisted and flailed, falling back to the ground in sickening thuds that made Volk's fists tighten.

Worse yet, whenever the horde tried to counterattack—hurling spears, shooting arrows, or bellowing war cries—the harpies simply ascended higher, their mocking laughter echoing like ghostly whispers across the battlefield.

And still, the wind did not relent.