The air was still thick with violent tension as Volk stood amidst the clearing smoke, his bruised and battered body a testament to the battle.

Yet, there was an undeniable confidence in his posture, his calm expression almost mocking the chieftains who had believed him defeated just moments ago.

He slowly lifted his hand, clenching and unclenching his fist as if testing his strength.

Clack! Clack! Clack!

The silence of disbelief was broken by the first murmur among the chieftains.

“H-How…?” The Bloodfang chieftain’s voice trembled, the disbelief clear in his bloodshot eyes. “How did he—?”

Another chieftain, from the Stonefist Clan, growled in frustration. His massive fists clenched at his sides, veins bulging in his neck.

“Impossible! He should have been crushed!”

The Frostbite chieftain, his face pale and ashen, glared at Volk. “No one survives the Orc Formation. No one!” His voice was rising, a mix of fear and confusion.

“How did he escape?”

They all stared at Volk, their minds racing, trying to comprehend what had just happened.

This was supposed to be the end.

The Orc Formation was the ultimate spell, an ancient technique designed to overpower even the strongest of foes.

It had toppled warlocks and witches, shattered the defenses of armies, and yet… here stood Volk, seemingly untouched.

The Thunderstrike chieftain spat on the ground in frustration. “What sorcery is this? What trick did you use to survive?”

Volk, his eyes gleaming with calm amusement, slowly raised his head to meet their stares.

He cracked his neck, the bones popping audibly, before speaking in a low, measured tone.

“Did you all forget the battle I had with Grounad before we entered the catacombs?”

The chieftains exchanged confused glances. The Bloodfang chieftain frowned, scratching his head. “What are you talking about? That fight was nothing compared to—”

But Volk interrupted, his voice smooth but sharp.

“Do you remember what happened when Tomorrowhawk Bull charged at me? I vanished. Right in front of him. The bull you sent to trample me was redirected because I wasn’t where I appeared to be.”

The Bloodfang chieftain blinked, his face slackening with realization. “The… the bull…”

From the Ironhide chieftain’s side, a deep, guttural gasp escaped. His eyes widened, and his mouth quivered. “Y-You… you…?”

Volk’s lips curled into a knowing smile. He nodded, his eyes locking onto the Ironhide chieftain’s, making the older warrior visibly flinch.

“That’s right. I sidestepped. I’ve been able to disappear from one place and reappear instantly somewhere else for quite some time now. I only let you believe your attacks hit me.”

The Ironhide chieftain stumbled back a step, his face drained of color. “You… tricked us…”

The realization was dawning on the rest of the chieftains like a slow-moving storm.

They had all believed their Orc Formation had hit its mark, that Volk had taken the full brunt of the attack. But it had all been an elaborate ruse.

“He let us think we won,” the Fireblood chieftain muttered under his breath, his fiery eyes narrowing with frustration. “He lured us into using the Formation…”

“And we walked right into it,” growled the Thunderstrike chieftain. His lips curled into a snarl, but the rage in his eyes couldn’t hide the fear that was creeping in.

Volk took a slow, deliberate step forward. His presence was overwhelming, commanding. “I wanted you to use it,” he said, his voice cold but calm.

“I wanted to see if the great Orc chieftains could actually challenge me. But you’re all fools.” He turned his gaze to the Ironhide chieftain, his smile widening. “Especially you.”

The Ironhide chieftain’s knees buckled, and he slumped to the ground, his body trembling.

His iron skin, once a symbol of his clan’s invincibility, now seemed like a brittle shell. He lowered his head in defeat, the words barely escaping his throat.

“I… I was wrong.” His voice cracked, filled with regret and shame. “I, Grulg Ironclad, chieftain of the Ironhide Clan, acknowledge you, Volk, as our true Warchief.”

There was a stunned silence as the other chieftains looked at the Ironhide leader.

The man who had been a symbol of strength was now bowing to Volk.

One by one, the realization that they had no other choice washed over them.

The Bloodfang chieftain clenched his teeth, but after a long pause, he too lowered his head. “I am Kaarg Bloodfang, chieftain of the Bloodfang Clan. From this day, Volk is my Warchief.”

The Fireblood chieftain sighed, his voice bitter. “I am Raal Fireblood. Volk… is my Warchief.”

The chieftains, one by one, admitted their defeat, their voices heavy with resignation.

The Frostbite, Thunderstrike, Stonefist—each chieftain announced their loyalty to Volk, some with bitterness, others with reluctant admiration.

As the final words of submission echoed in the catacombs, Volk remained unmoved.

His eyes scanned the defeated chieftains, each one broken, bruised, and mentally shattered. Yet, despite their acknowledgments, his expression remained cold. He didn’t care for their words.

They were just that—words. And words weren’t enough to satisfy him.

Volk’s hands clenched into fists once more, the sound of his knuckles cracking like a whip in the silence.

Clack! Clack! Clack!

The chieftains flinched at the noise, their bodies tense with uncertainty.

“We… we’ve acknowledged you!” the Thunderstrike chieftain stammered, his voice laced with panic. “What more do you want?”

Volk took another step forward, his eyes gleaming with cold amusement. “What more do I want? Oh, you misunderstand. You see… I’m not done yet.”

The chieftains exchanged fearful glances. The Ironhide chieftain, still kneeling on the ground, looked up at Volk with pleading eyes.

“But… but we’ve given you our loyalty! You are our Warchief now! What are you planning?”

Volk’s gaze hardened. “I’m not satisfied,” he said flatly, his voice low and dangerous. “I received a lot of injuries because of you.”

A chill ran down the spines of the chieftains.

The blood drained from their faces as the realization of what Volk intended settled in.

Their confidence crumbled, replaced by sheer, unadulterated terror.

“You… you can’t be serious…” the Stonefist chieftain whispered, his voice barely audible.

“Oh, I’m serious,” Volk replied, his voice dripping with cold malice. “Very serious.”

The Fireblood chieftain took a step back, his hands trembling as the fear became visible in his eyes. “We… we’ve already surrendered! You don’t need to do this!”

Volk’s smile returned, but it was anything but friendly. “But I…” he paused at first, then continued, “WANT to.”

And with that, the cave was immediately filled with the sickening sound of bones cracking and the helpless screams of the chieftains.

The once-proud leaders of the Orc clans, who had mocked and jeered at Volk, now writhed in agony as he delivered his judgment. .net

Their screams echoed through the catacomb, their voices blending together into a haunting chorus of pain and fear.

The stone walls reverberated with their cries, the sound carrying far and wide.

Outside, the Orcs from every clan stood frozen in horror, their faces pale as the realization of what was happening inside the chamber sank in.

For a moment, it felt as if the catacombs themselves had come alive, feeding off the agony and despair that filled the air.

The younger generation of the Dreadmaw Clan, who had stood in silent confidence throughout, did not flinch.

They watched, their eyes cold and calculating, knowing that this was the moment Volk had truly solidified his place as Warchief.

The screams continued, long and unrelenting, until finally, they were silenced.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep