BOOM!

The ground quaked, sending tremors through the earth.

The sound of the explosion was deafening—a violent eruption that roared through the air like a beast unleashed.

A blast wave tore across the field, flattening the tall grass and sending a cloud of dust and debris high into the cave ceiling.

It was as if the very cave itself had ripped open for a few moments, vomiting forth fire, smoke, and destruction.

The energy of the blast crackled with arcs of lightning, sizzling through the air as flames and icy shards mixed, creating a chaotic storm that consumed everything in its path.

A shockwave pulsed outward, hammering against the chieftains and the watching clans.

The sheer force of the explosion knocked a few of the weaker Orcs off their feet, while others staggered back, shielding their eyes from the blinding light.

Crackling!

Whoosh!

The sound of magic dissolving into the atmosphere hissed ominously, leaving behind the scent of scorched earth and burning metal.

The ground where Volk had stood was now a crater, its edges jagged and blackened, as if clawed by some great beast.

The air shimmered with heat, and the area was obscured by thick plumes of smoke, rising in twisting spirals.

For a long moment, everything was still.

The chieftains stood frozen in place.

The Bloodfang leader, his breath ragged, watched the smoke with wide, unblinking eyes.

His massive chest heaved with each breath, his body drenched in sweat and mana exhaustion.

The others—Ironhide, Thunderstrike, Stonefist, and the rest—were similarly paralyzed.

Their eyes flickered between the smoldering crater and each other, as if unsure of what they had just done.

The gathered clans, too, had fallen into a stunned silence.

The warriors of the Dreadmaw Clan stood rigid, their mouths slightly open, shock etched into their expressions.

Their young representative—Volk, their rising star—had taken the brunt of the blast.

There was no sign of him, no movement from the crater.

Even the wind seemed to hold its breath, as though the earth itself waited to see if Volk had survived.

But nothing moved.

A heavy, oppressive stillness blanketed the battlefield.

It was a silence so thick it felt suffocating, wrapping itself around the throat of every Orc present.

The only sound was the distant crackling of dissipating magic and the occasional shifting of rocks falling from the edges of the crater.

The air itself seemed frozen in time, the atmosphere heavy with an eerie sense of finality.

A few of the younger Orcs shifted uncomfortably, their eyes wide with disbelief, but none dared to speak.

Then, from the stillness, a sound broke the quiet.

“Haha…”

It was a soft, breathy chuckle at first. The voice was weak, strained from exertion, but unmistakable.

The Bloodfang chieftain, still kneeling on the ground, wiped the sweat from his brow and exhaled shakily.

He took another deep breath, his chest trembling, then laughed again, but he was louder this time.

“Haha… Hahahaha…”

His laughter grew, building like a storm gathering strength.

Soon, the sound was no longer a mere chuckle but a full-bodied roar of amusement.

“HAHAHAHAHAHA!”

The other chieftains turned to look at him, confusion etched across their faces. But then, as if a spell had been cast over them, they, too, began to laugh.

“Haha… Hahahahaha!” the Ironhide chieftain joined in, clutching his sides as he doubled over. “Hahahaha! HAHAHAHA!”

One by one, the others followed suit.

Thunderstrike threw his head back, his laughter sharp and piercing, almost hysterical.

The Stonefist chieftain’s deep, guttural laugh echoed through the valley, shaking his massive frame with each heaving breath.

“Hahahaha! HAHAHAHA!”

The laughter spread like wildfire, uncontrollable and infectious.

The other Orcs of each clan, still caught between shock and disbelief, slowly began to grin, their grim faces cracking into sneers of amusement.

“Warchief?!”

The Bloodfang chieftain spat the word, his voice dripping with mockery. He pounded the ground with his fist, tears of laughter streaming down his face.

“This fool really thought he could challenge us all and call himself Warchief? HAHAHAHAHA!”

“He’s gone now!” the Ironhide chieftain bellowed, wiping his mouth as he shook with laughter.

“So much for the mighty Volk! He couldn’t even survive a single spell, and he called himself Warchief? What arrogance! What a joke!”

The Thunderstrike chieftain, barely able to stand from laughing, pointed toward the crater.

“Where’s your Warchief now, Dreadmaw? Huh? HAHAHAHA! He bit off more than he could chew and now… he’s nothing but ash!”

They jeered, their voices rising with gleeful malice.

“Look at them! Silent as corpses!” the Stonefist chieftain sneered, jabbing a finger toward the Dreadmaw Clan. “Your young warrior challenged us and now he’s dead! How shameful!”

“He may have been strong, but he was a fool!” The Frostbite chieftain’s cold voice rang out, his laughter quieter but no less cruel.

“Thinking he could take us all on like that? What madness possessed him? HAHA! Look at your Warchief now! He’s nothing!”

The older members of the Dreadmaw Clan hung their heads in shame, their faces flushed with embarrassment.

Their representative had indeed been powerful, but they hadn’t expected such recklessness.

The weight of the chieftains’ scorn pressed down on them, heavy and unbearable.

Each mocking word was like a hammer to their pride, shattering their confidence.

But amid the jeers and ridicule, one group remained eerily calm—the younger generation of the Dreadmaw Clan.

They stood in quiet, unwavering silence.

There was no shame in their eyes, no fear or uncertainty. Instead, they seemed to be watching the scene with an almost knowing expression, as if they were waiting for something.

Their confidence was unsettling in the face of such mockery.

The Thunderstrike chieftain noticed this and sneered, pointing at them with a mocking grin.

“And what about you, young Dreadmaw?” he shouted.

“Why are you so silent? Do you still believe in your Warchief, even after all this? Are you blind to reality? Your leader is gone!”

The young Dreadmaw Orcs exchanged glances, unperturbed by the taunts.

Their silence stretched on, they were unbroken and unaffected by the jeering of the Orc Clans.

But then, one of them stepped forward.

He was tall and lean, his eyes sharp with clarity and purpose. His face was calm, composed—almost serene.

The laughter of the chieftains faltered as they watched him approach.

The young Orc stopped a few paces away, his expression unwavering as he turned to face the chieftains.

He spoke quietly at first, his voice cutting through the lingering laughter like a blade through the air.

“Don’t celebrate too early.”

The chieftains blinked, confusion flashing across their faces.

The young Orc’s voice was steady, firm, as if he knew something they didn’t.

The laughter began to die down, curiosity and uncertainty replacing the previous mocking tones.

The young Orc gestured toward the crater, his voice steady but cold.

“Look behind you.”

The chieftains froze.

Their mocking sneers faded, replaced by wide-eyed confusion and, for the first time since the battle had begun, a flicker of doubt.

Slowly, as if gripped by some primal instinct, they turned to look over their shoulders.

The smoke was still thick, swirling and twisting in the air. But as it slowly cleared, a shadowy figure began to emerge from the darkness, standing tall amidst the rubble.

Soon, the dust settled, revealing a familiar silhouette—one that should not have been there.

Volk stood, bruised and battered but very much alive.

His lips curled into a faint smile.

The chieftains’ eyes widened in disbelief, their bodies stiffening as they realized their mistake.

Volk had survived.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep