Strongest Radioactive System

The wind roared like a living beast, its claws tearing through the air as the harpies continued their relentless assault.

High above, dark, winged shapes twisted and dove, their talons gleaming like polished daggers, their wind spells slicing into flesh and armor alike.

Volk's forces were faltering. Ogres groaned under the pressure, Orcs bled through their teeth, shields trembling as the wind blasts beat against them like invisible war hammers.

The cries of anguish mixed with guttural growls of defiance as Volk's horde tried to hold their ground, but the air was a merciless enemy.

Volk stood at the center of the chaos, unyielding, radiating raw power, his radioactive glow flickering erratically as his eyes narrowed.

He watched his warriors suffer. He watched them bleed.

And he would not allow this to continue.

His fist shot into the air—an immediate and commanding signal.

The Orcs froze. The Ogres paused mid-groan.

Even amidst the onslaught, Volk's presence demanded obedience. His voice erupted like a thunderclap, louder than the windstorm itself, his orders booming across the battlefield.

"TO THE TREES!"

The command echoed, rolling over the horde like a wave of fire.

At first, there was hesitation—confusion writ large across the battered faces of his soldiers.

The Orcs blinked, panting, their shields shaking. The Ogres, already hunched from pain, glanced up at the twisted branches of the towering, ancient trees that ringed the field.

"MOVE, YOU WORTHLESS MAGGOTS!" Volk roared, the force of his shout sending ripples through the ground itself.

"The skies are death! HIDE in the heights! Go—before I make you regret every breath you take!"

The words were enough.

Orcs, battered and bloody, scrambled into motion.

Their shields clattered as they abandoned their positions, sprinting toward the line of colossal trees that bordered the battlefield.

Towering giants of bark and branch, their limbs stretched toward the heavens like grasping claws—old and gnarled, ancient sentinels of nature untouched by war.

Ogres followed with heavy, limping steps, their massive frames dragging behind, shoulders hunched to shield themselves from the harpies' deadly swoops.

The air screamed with the sound of talons scraping steel, of wind magic crashing like invisible axes, but Volk's forces moved with desperation.

Volk stalked forward, his radioactive glow spreading like an ominous haze around him.

"FASTER!" he barked, his voice cracking like a whip. "Or do you WANT to be picked apart like cattle?"

The Orcs didn't need telling twice.

They reached the trees, weapons strapped to their backs, fingers clawing into rough bark as they began their frantic climb.

The old trunks groaned under their weight as dozens—hundreds—of green-skinned warriors scrambled upward, disappearing into the shadows of the canopy.

Branches creaked and snapped under the Ogres' heavy hands as they dragged themselves into cover, growling with effort.

Above, the harpies screeched.

Their victory cry turned into something angrier, more frustrated, as their prey scattered beneath the protection of the forest.

The dense foliage, like a fortress of nature, obstructed their view and disrupted their attacks.

Wind blades sliced into branches, but they didn't reach flesh. Your next read awaits at empire

Volk's lips curled into a grim smirk as he stalked to the forest's edge, his radioactive glow flickering ominously as he watched his horde vanish into the shadows.

Within the twisting labyrinth of branches, the Orcs found confidence again.

They hid within the dense canopy, crouching on thick limbs, their breaths ragged but steady.

The harpies' slicing winds still echoed above, but they could not reach them.

The Orcs grinned as they peered upward, their predator instincts slowly returning.

For once, they were hidden—unseen—and in the shadows, they were dangerous.

Some began to draw their bows.

Others quietly fingered their axes, waiting.

The Ogres clung to the lower branches, their heavy breaths shaking the leaves around them as they stared upward with narrowed eyes.

Volk prowled through the dark undergrowth below, his footsteps thunderous despite his attempts to move quietly.

His presence was unshakable.

He moved from tree to tree, his sharp voice carrying up through the canopy as he addressed his warriors.

"LISTEN CLOSELY," he growled, his tone low and full of dark promise.

"We wait here. We think here. The skies are their strength—but they are also their weakness. Let them swoop. Let them taunt. We will not be cattle beneath their claws."

The Orcs listened, their sharp eyes glinting from above. Volk could feel their morale rising, their confidence being rekindled.

He paused at the base of one of the trees, his massive form still glowing faintly. He tilted his head upward, his crimson gaze burning through the shadows.

"Be ready," Volk continued, his voice quieter now but no less commanding. "We are patient hunters. This is our ground now. The fools above cannot take what they cannot see. And when I give the signal—"

Volk's grin widened, his teeth flashing.

"—we drag them down, screaming."

---

Volk leaned back against the gnarled trunk of a tree, the radioactive haze around him pulsing faintly in time with his breath.

His muscles remained tense, his mind a storm of thoughts.

He needed a strategy.

As strong as his forces were, the skies were untouchable, and brute strength alone would not win this battle.

He closed his eyes for the briefest moment, his massive frame still as stone.

The gnawing weight of his earlier decision—rejecting the system missions—clawed at the back of his mind.

He'd gambled on hiding, on biding his time, but he could not deny the danger his forces were in.

"Is this enough?" he muttered to himself.

Above, the harpies screamed in frustration, unable to find their quarry.

Talons slashed fruitlessly at branches, wind magic shattered against bark, but it was all wasted effort.

The horde remained hidden, silent hunters waiting in the dark.

For now.

---

Volk's glowing eyes narrowed as he peered through the branches.

This temporary respite would not last long, and he knew it.

The harpies were intelligent. Persistent. They would find a way to flush them out—so Volk needed to act first. He needed to think.

The ground trembled faintly beneath his boots as he stepped forward, his gaze still upward, his mind spinning through possibilities. How could he reach them? How could he strike back?

"Hiding won't save us forever," Volk growled quietly to himself, more for his own ears than anyone else's. "We'll need to bleed them. But first—"

He exhaled deeply, the radioactive light around him pulsing brighter as his resolve hardened.

"We think. We plan. And then we take their wings."

High above, the harpies continued their search, screeching angrily into the dark canopy. But the horde waited, silent and deadly, like coiled vipers ready to strike.

The forest had become their refuge. For now.