The battlefield fell silent as every pair of eyes, Orc, Ogre, and Death Knight alike, turned toward the center where their Warchief was locked in a titanic struggle against the Death Monarch.

Orcs and Ogres who had moments ago been crushed by the Death Knights’ relentless attacks now stood transfixed.

Their bodies felt locked, rooted in place, as if some invisible chain held them fast, denying them even the instinct to flee. But all their eyes—every single one—were drawn to Volk.

They had always known their Warchief was strong, fierce, even unmatched. But this…this was something else.

This was a side of Volk they had never witnessed, a creature beyond any nightmare they could have imagined.

Volk’s body was battered, his skin charred and sliced from the Death Monarch’s spells, yet he rose again and again, each time stronger, each time fiercer.

His muscles bulged, ripping and tearing under the pressure only to reform, denser and more resilient.

Energy poured from him, a dark and chaotic aura that was almost tangible, warping the air around him in waves of rippling heat.

Even the ground under his feet cracked and crumbled from the force of his presence, as if the earth itself couldn’t bear to hold his weight.

And then, Volk screamed.

It wasn’t a scream of pain or fear. It was a raw, animalistic roar—a sound of defiance, of pure rage that thundered across the battlefield.

It was a scream born from lifetimes of suffering and resentment, a roar that echoed with the fury of every indignity he had ever endured.

His voice was deep, primal, shaking the very ground beneath him, shattering the eerie silence that had fallen over the field.

“VAAAAAAAGHHHHH!!”

The force of his scream sent shockwaves rippling through the air, a physical pressure that battered those around him.

Even the Death Knights, so unfeeling and unbreakable, seemed to waver in their steps, their hollow eyes flickering with the slightest hint of hesitation.

Orcs and Ogres felt their knees buckle under the sheer weight of his voice. Some clutched their ears, trying to block out the brutal force of the sound, but it was inescapable—a howl of power that pulsed through bone and muscle, vibrating in their very cores.

The Death Monarch, who had been arrogantly smirking, watching Volk with something close to amusement, suddenly found himself taken aback.

This Ogre—this raw, untamed beast—was a force he hadn’t fully understood. The Death Monarch’s smile faded, replaced by a calculating, wary expression as Volk’s energy continued to surge, spiraling into an almost monstrous aura around him.

Volk’s eyes blazed with a dark fire, his fangs bared in a snarl so fierce it bordered on madness.

Every insult, every ounce of disrespect, every moment he’d been looked down upon was now fuel for his rage. He was not just an Ogre.

He was something beyond, something terrifying, a living storm of hatred and strength.

And then he roared again, louder this time, his voice carrying the fury of a thousand battles, the strength of a thousand lifetimes:

“NO ONE—CONTROLS—VOLK!”

With that scream, his aura exploded outward, a tempest of raw power that sent nearby Death Knights flying back, slamming them into the ground as if they weighed nothing.

The Orcs and Ogres could only watch in stunned silence, their Warchief transforming before their eyes into a creature of legend—a monster among monsters, a warrior who could shatter armies with his rage alone.

The Death Monarch’s cold, calculating gaze hardened, but beneath his detached veneer, he could feel something unfamiliar—an edge of unease creeping into his mind.

Something is happening.

…

With a guttural roar, Volk surged forward, launching himself like a living cannonball straight at the Death Monarch.

His powerful legs tore through the ground, muscles flexing, veins bulging.

Every ounce of his being channeled into a single, devastating punch aimed directly at his opponent.

The air crackled around his fist, an aura of primal power that seemed to scorch the very space it occupied.

But the Death Monarch was swift. With a sneering expression, he sidestepped the strike, raising his knee into Volk’s torso with the precision of a master.

THUD!

The impact was brutal, folding Volk over in mid-air, the force launching him backward as if he weighed no more than a ragdoll.

His body tumbled, rolling through the dirt, each impact sending tremors through the battlefield.

Yet, before the dust even had time to settle, Volk was on his feet again.

His face twisted in raw fury, blood trickling from his mouth, eyes blazing with undeterred defiance.

He charged once more, roaring, his massive frame hurtling forward like an unstoppable juggernaut.

The Death Monarch’s eyes narrowed, a flicker of irritation crossing his features as he twisted, lifting his leg in a powerful roundhouse kick that crashed into Volk’s face.

CRACK!

The sickening sound of bone meeting bone echoed out as Volk’s jaw snapped sideways, his body hurtling through the air once again.

He crashed into the earth with an impact that splintered the ground, KABAM creating a crater around him, dirt and debris flying outward.

But there he was, rising to his feet almost immediately, fists clenched, eyes wild with fury. He snarled, low and guttural, like a beast cornered yet unbreakable.

He spat blood onto the ground, the metallic taste fueling his anger even further.

Without a second’s hesitation, Volk sprinted back, charging once again at the Death Monarch.

The Death Monarch sneered, his amusement flickering into something else—a hint of disdain, perhaps, but mixed with curiosity.

He waited, watching as Volk came closer, and with a nonchalant twist of his torso, he slammed his elbow down onto Volk’s head.

WHAM!

The force of the strike buried Volk’s face into the ground, a shockwave erupting outward as his skull made contact with the earth.

Volk lay motionless for a beat, buried in the ground.

Dust rose in a thick cloud around him, the faint sounds of rock and rubble settling. The Orcs and Ogres held their breath, eyes wide with disbelief.

Their Warchief, buried face-first in the dirt, struck down as if he were no more than an insect.

But then, with a growl, the ground shifted.

Slowly, Volk’s hand clawed upward, fingers grasping at the dirt as he lifted himself once more.

His face was bloodied, his eyes gleaming with a furious light, unyielding and unbroken. And then, like a spring released, he shot forward, his body blurring in speed, his fist aimed right for the Death Monarch’s smug face. Explore more adventures at empire

The Death Monarch’s eyes flickered with something akin to annoyance as he caught Volk’s fist mid-air, twisting and flipping him, sending him crashing down on his back with a brutal SLAM!

The impact sent tremors across the battlefield, Volk’s body bouncing slightly from the force. But even as his vision blurred from the blow, he was already forcing himself back up, every ounce of pain seeming only to fuel the rage that coursed through his veins.

Again and again, this brutal cycle continued.

The Death Monarch would land a blow—sometimes a punch, sometimes a savage kick or an almost mocking headbutt—and each time, Volk would be sent sprawling, crashing into the earth, his bones rattling from the impact.

Yet, every single time, he would rise again. The stronger the blow, the more furious he seemed.

Each hit added fuel to the fire, a relentless force that defied even logic.

BANG! Another punch.

THUD! A merciless kick.

CRACK!

A headbutt that left Volk momentarily dazed, blood pouring from his forehead.

But each time he was hurled back, he didn’t simply stand.

No—he launched himself forward with even greater intensity, his body bouncing back as if the very act of being thrown away was empowering him.

Each impact with the ground seemed to charge him, somehow feeding his strength back to him tenfold.

Every time he was slammed down, it was as if some internal reservoir of rage and energy filled to the brim, surging through his veins like fire.

The Death Monarch’s amusement slowly gave way to confusion.

He could feel it now, that faint but unmistakable sensation—the Ogre’s power wasn’t just growing.

It was sharpening, solidifying, each bounce, each impact giving him something new. He was absorbing the very momentum of his falls, drawing strength from every blow he sustained.

Each time he crashed, he was reborn stronger, faster, more resilient. It was like nothing the Death Monarch had seen before, a raw, primal power evolving right before his eyes.

The Death Monarch’s curiosity deepened, his cold eyes narrowing as he studied Volk’s every movement, every grimace of pain that twisted into a snarl of fury.

This was no ordinary Ogre—no mere brute relying on muscle alone.

This creature, this Volk, was defying the natural order.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep