The tension in the cavern was incredibly sharp and one move, all of them felt they would be pushed and crushed.

The flickering light of the glowing crystals reflected off the stone walls, casting long shadows over the assembled Orcs.

Volk stood at the forefront, his broad shoulders squared, eyes glinting with determination as he faced the other clans.

The silence after his declaration lingered in the air like a storm waiting to break.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then, like a dam breaking, the other Orc Clans erupted into anger and disbelief.

“Work under the Dreadmaw Clan?” A gruff voice from the Bloodfang Clan snarled.

“The weakest clan among us?”

The Orc who spoke stepped forward, his broad chest heaving, fists clenched in fury. His tusks gleamed as he bared his teeth, clearly enraged at the notion.

The Fireblood Clan leader, a hulking brute covered in scars, spat on the ground, his red eyes narrowing. “This runt from Dreadmaw thinks he can talk to us about being saved? Who does he think he is?”

“The Dreadmaw Clan!” another voice echoed from the Thunderstrike Clan, derision dripping from every word. “You lot barely survived back there! And now you want to rule us?”

The cavern seemed to vibrate with the sound of their angry growls, their voices blending into a cacophony of fury.

Orcs of every clan—the Bloodfang, Ironhide, Thunderstrike, Stonefist, Shadowclaw, Fireblood, and Frostbite—stood up, their faces twisted in disbelief and rage.

They were warriors, chieftains, and veterans of countless battles.

To them, this was an insult of the highest order.

Volk stood firm, unfazed by their outbursts, though he could feel the heat of their anger radiating towards him.

Suddenly, the elder Orc from his own clan, Dreadmaw, stepped forward and grabbed his arm, his face filled with incredulity.

“Young Orc!” the elder hissed, his grip tight. “What are you doing, boy? Do you understand what you’re saying? This isn’t a game. You’ll get us all killed!”

Volk shook the elder off with a sharp jerk of his arm, his eyes blazing with determination.

He wasn’t going to back down, not now.

He walked forward, towards the circle of enraged chieftains from the other clans, his steps slow and deliberate.

“Yes!” Volk’s voice echoed through the cavern, silencing the muttering and grumbling.

“I’m challenging all of you. You should be grateful that it was me who saved you back there. If it weren’t for me, the Dark Elven Witch would have killed every last one of us. But I’m not here to brag. I’m here to claim what’s rightfully mine! I’ll become your Warchief!!”

The laughter that followed was harsh and grating.

Grahahahahha!

Orcs from the other clans laughed, their voices bouncing off the cavern walls.

Bwagrahahhahaha!

The Bloodfang Orcs howled with amusement, some clutching their sides, their deep, guttural laughter filling the space.

The Ironhide Clan leaned on their weapons, shaking their heads in disbelief.

“Absolute Authority?” one of the Ironhide Orcs spat, his voice laced with sarcasm. “As Warchief of all the clans? You’re delusional, boy.”

“A Warchief?” a Frostbite Orc echoed with a sneer. “The Dreadmaw Clan has always been weak. You barely survived this catacomb, and now you want to rule over all of us? You’re out of your mind!”

Even the Thunderstrike Clan, known for their stoicism, couldn’t hold back their amusement.

One of their warriors, his face lined with the scars of many battles, chuckled darkly.

“This is ridiculous. Is this the best the Dreadmaw Clan has to offer? Some fool who thinks a single victory makes him Warchief?”

Their voices blended together, a symphony of mockery and disdain.

The Orcs of the Fireblood Clan were the loudest, their leader wiping tears of laughter from his eyes.

“Where’s the Dreadmaw Chieftain?” one of them shouted. “Who gave this young Orc the audacity to speak like this? Is he courting death?”

Volk frowned, his mind flashing back to the events of the past where he was challenged by the chieftain of his own Dreadmaw Clan for accepting Grounad as his follower.

The Dreadmaw Chieftain that had been leading the whole Dreadmaw Clan, but now… he was nowhere to be found.

Where was the Chieftain?

Suddenly, one of the younger Orcs from the Dreadmaw Clan stepped forward, his face grim. “The Chieftain…” he began hesitantly, “he perished. He died protecting us all against the Dark Elven Witch earlier.”

A hush fell over the cavern as the news settled in.

Volk felt a surge of realization, and then he laughed—a deep, guttural laugh that made the other Orcs pause. “That’s right,” Volk said, his voice carrying across the cavern. “I am the Chieftain now.”

The room erupted again, but this time with even more disbelief.

One of the Bloodfang Orcs stepped forward, his thick arms crossed over his chest.

His eyes flicked over Volk dismissively before landing on the massive figure of Grounad, who had remained silent at the back, observing.

“Grounad!” the Bloodfang Orc barked, his voice sharp with contempt. “Is this the leader you’ve chosen? The one you left us for? The Dreadmaw Clan? This is what you traded for the Bloodfang Clan?”

The Orc’s words hung in the air, filled with venom. He stepped closer, his face twisted with fury. “You were the most promising young warrior of the Bloodfang Clan! You had everything ahead of you! Power, strength, respect! And you threw it all away…

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He sneered at Volk as if the very sight of him disgusted him. “You could have led us into glory, Grounad. But instead, you follow this fool. This… runt, who thinks he can stand among us.”

The Bloodfang Orcs behind him jeered, echoing his sentiments. “You made a mistake, Grounad! You could’ve been great!” one shouted.

Another growled, “You were born to lead us, not to follow some whelp from the weakest clan!”

Grounad, who had remained silent throughout the confrontation, finally stepped forward. His expression was calm, but there was an unmistakable fire in his eyes.

“Maybe you’re the ones who are scared,” he said, his voice steady. “You mock us now, but deep down, you know the truth. You know that Volk is the reason you’re all still standing here. Maybe that’s why you’re so loud. Maybe you’re just hiding your fear.”

His words were like a slap to their faces, and for a moment, there was a stunned silence.

The Orcs of the Bloodfang Clan scowled, but they didn’t respond immediately.

Meanwhile, Volk’s patience had run out. His hands tightened around the haft of his axe, his teeth bared in a furious snarl.

He had had enough of the mockery, enough of the disbelief.

Rage boiled in his chest, rising up like a tidal wave.

Without warning, he let out a deafening roar, his voice shaking the very ground beneath them.

“KORNUUM DRHAKAAAAAAARR!!!”

The cavern shook with the force of his shout.

Dust and small stones tumbled from the ceiling as the Orcs around him flinched in surprise.

The echo of his war cry seemed to reverberate through the very bones of the mountain, a sound so primal and filled with raw power that it silenced even the most defiant Orcs.

For a moment, there was nothing but stunned silence.

Volk’s chest heaved as he glared at the assembled clans, his eyes burning with intensity.

“You think this is a joke? You think I’m weak?” he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

“I don’t care what you think. I’m the Chieftain of the Dreadmaw Clan now. And whether you like it or not, you will bow to me as your new Warchief!”

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep