The cavern was a vast, shadowy expanse, lit only by the faint glimmer of the runes that adorned the walls.

The atmosphere of the catacomb was suffocating now, every Orc present holding their breath as they waited for what was about to unfold.

The sound of heavy boots echoed through the cave as the chieftains of all the Orc clans stepped forward, their eyes locked on Volk.

Volk stood in the center, his broad chest rising and falling steadily, his eyes glinting with cold amusement.

He began to stretch, his muscles rippling beneath his skin as he extended his arms and rolled his shoulders.

Kichick! Kichick!

There was an eerie calm about him, as though the battle that was about to begin was nothing more than a casual exercise.

“Finally,” Volk said, his voice breaking the silence, “I can have a good workout.”

The words, spoken with such confidence, sent a ripple through the crowd.

The assembled Orcs of each clan—Bloodfang, Ironhide, Thunderstrike, Stonefist, Shadowclaw, Fireblood, and Frostbite—flinched.

If he had said that earlier, they would have laughed at him, mocked him for his arrogance. But now, after witnessing his effortless domination of the Bloodfang chieftain, they took him seriously.

So no one laughed this time.

The chieftains, however, weren’t so easily cowed.

They exchanged glances, each of them nodded in a seemingly silent agreement.

One by one, they began to strip off their armor, the heavy plates falling to the ground with resounding clangs that echoed through the cavern.

The Orc warriors of each clan watched in confusion as their leaders discarded their protection, but the chieftains had made their decision.

“We’ll fight hand-to-hand,” one of the chieftains growled, his voice thick with resolve. “You don’t need that fancy armor slowing us down.”

They had seen the speed with which Volk moved—unhindered, unburdened by heavy armor.

The Bloodfang chieftain had worn full plate, and it had only slowed him down, making him an easy target for Volk’s quick, precise movements.

The other chieftains wanted no such disadvantage.

They wanted to face Volk on equal footing, at least in that regard.

Volk chuckled softly, watching the armor hit the ground.

The sound of metal crashing against the stone floor was almost comical to him. He admired their spirit, but he couldn’t help but laugh at the absurdity of it all.

These chieftains, even without their armor, were still clinging to the idea that they could defeat him.

“You really think it’ll make a difference?” Volk asked, his voice carrying across the cavern as he flexed his hands into fists. “Very well. Let’s see what you’ve got.”

The chieftains, now stripped down to their bare muscle, spread out around Volk, circling him like predators.

Their massive green bodies, covered in scars from countless battles, were tense with anticipation.

They were out for blood, their eyes burning with the fierce determination of warriors who refused to back down.

Thud! Thud! Thud!

The ground shook slightly beneath their feet as they moved in unison, their boots pounding against the stone floor.

“Here we go!” one of the chieftains bellowed, his voice a thunderous roar that reverberated through the cavern.

The others echoed his cry, their voices blending together in a cacophony of war chants and battle cries.

Then, in one violent motion, they surged forward as one, their massive fists swinging toward Volk with brutal speed.

Volk’s eyes gleamed with anticipation as he crouched slightly, his body coiled like a spring. “Come,” he said, his voice calm, almost inviting.

The first blow came from his left—an Ironhide chieftain’s fist the size of a boulder, aimed directly at Volk’s head.

Whoosh!

Volk ducked, the massive fist passing over his head by mere inches. Without missing a beat, he sidestepped another chieftain’s charge, his footwork smooth and precise, as if he was dancing through their attacks.

Thwack!

Volk’s palm shot out, slamming into the chest of the Thunderstrike chieftain, sending him stumbling back with a grunt.

He spun around just in time to block a punch aimed at his ribs from the Fireblood chieftain, his forearm absorbing the blow with a resounding crack.

The force of the impact would have shattered the bones of any normal Orc, but Volk stood firm, barely flinching.

The chieftains roared in frustration, attacking him from all sides.

Their fists flew through the air, their bodies lunging toward him with reckless abandon. But Volk was always one step ahead.

He moved like a shadow, slipping between their strikes with ease, his body twisting and turning in ways that defied the brute force of their attacks.

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Smack!

Volk’s elbow connected with the jaw of the Frostbite chieftain, sending him crashing to the ground with a loud thud.

The Stonefist chieftain came in next, his fists swinging like hammers, but Volk deflected each blow with effortless grace, pushing the larger Orc back with a well-placed shove to the chest.

For every punch thrown, Volk had a counter.

For every charge, he had an escape.

He was untouchable, his movements destructive and precise, as though he could predict their attacks before they even happened.

It was as if he was toying with them, letting them exhaust themselves while he remained untouched.

Crack!

Volk’s knee slammed into the side of the Ironhide chieftain’s ribs, sending him sprawling to the floor.

Before the others could react, Volk spun on his heel, and his fist crashed into the Thunderstrike chieftain’s gut, knocking the wind out of him with a single blow.

“You’re slow,” Volk said, dodging another punch from the Fireblood chieftain. His voice was calm, almost bored. “Is this the best you’ve got?”

The other Orcs in the cavern watched in stunned silence.

At first, they had expected Volk to go down quickly.

After all, he was up against the chieftains of the most powerful Orc clans, each of them a veteran warrior with years of battle experience. But as time passed, their disbelief turned into something else—wonder, and then horror.

“Is this really happening?” whispered one of the Shadowclaw warriors, his eyes wide with shock.

“He’s… he’s not even breaking a sweat,” another Orc muttered, his voice trembling with disbelief.

“Look at him,” an older Dreadmaw warrior said, shaking his head in awe. “He’s toying with them like what he did to the Bloodfang Clan chieftain.”

The chieftains, for all their strength and fury, were growing desperate.

Their bodies were drenched in sweat, their muscles straining as they threw punch after punch, but Volk remained untouchable.

He moved like a ghost, his body a blur of motion as he evaded their strikes, his feet barely touching the ground.

Bam!

Volk’s fist connected with the jaw of the Shadowclaw chieftain, sending him crashing into the Stonefist chieftain, both of them collapsing in a heap on the floor.

“You’re all disappointing me,” Volk said, his voice dripping with disdain as he threw the Fireblood chieftain across the room with a casual flick of his wrist. “I expected more from the leaders of the great Orc clans.”

The chieftains, panting and exhausted, began to falter.

Their attacks grew sloppy, their movements slower.

They were tiring, while Volk seemed as fresh as ever, his energy untouched.

Suddenly, without warning, the chieftains stepped back, all of them retreating at once, their chests heaving as they gasped for air.

They looked at each other, their faces a mix of frustration and confusion. Why had they stepped back? What were they waiting for?

Volk straightened, watching them with narrowed eyes. “What’s the matter?” he asked, his voice mocking. “Tired already?”

But the chieftains didn’t answer.

They stood there, their fists clenched, their eyes darting toward one another as though waiting for something, or someone, to make the next move.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep