As he turned to face the old orc, the crackling of the fire behind him seemed to grow louder, the warmth of the flames reaching out as if urging him to stay.

“Why do you need to know?” Volk asked, his voice carrying a hint of curiosity. He wasn’t sure why Grak’thor was so interested in his Grum-gar form. It seemed a strange question, especially after everything they had just discussed.

Grak’thor’s expression grew serious, the light-hearted warmth from their earlier conversation fading away like the dying embers in the hearth. He motioned for Volk to sit down, and after a moment’s hesitation, Volk complied, sitting cross-legged by the fire.

“There’s a story you need to hear, Volk,” Grak’thor began, his voice deep and somber. “The story of the Grum-gar form.”

The crackle of the fire filled the silence that followed, each pop and sizzle a reminder of the tension in the room.

Grak’thor’s eyes were distant, as if he were looking back through the ages, seeing the events he was about to describe.

“Hornless Orcs like us, we were once gentle creatures, nothing like the brutish Ogres who roam the lands. We lived in harmony with nature, our strength used not for war, but for building and crafting. We were builders, healers, and caretakers of the land.”

The fire popped loudly, *CRACK!* echoing Grak’thor’s words, the flames dance as if telling their own story.

“But that all changed when the hunts began,” Grak’thor continued, his voice darkening. “We were hunted, one by one, by the Dark Witches and Red Warlocks. They saw our gentleness as weakness, our peaceful nature as an invitation to conquer. We were easy prey, and many of our kin were slaughtered.”

Volk listened intently, the weight of the story sinking into him. He could almost see the past unfolding before him—the peaceful Orcs living in harmony, only to be torn apart by merciless hunters. The thought of his people being so vulnerable, so easily preyed upon, stirred something deep within him.

“And then,” Grak’thor’s voice dropped to a whisper, barely audible over the *HISS* of the fire, “some of us ate the flesh of an Ogre.”

Volk’s eyes widened in shock, the idea of consuming such a creature repugnant to him. But Grak’thor continued before he could voice his disgust.

“It was in desperation, you see. Those who ate the flesh of an Ogre didn’t do it for power or glory—they did it to survive. And what they gained from that act was something beyond their control: the Grum-gar form.”

The fire blazed brighter for a moment, sending a shower of sparks into the air with a *WHOOSH*, as if reacting to the weight of Grak’thor’s words.

“The Grum-gar form is an extremely powerful magic, one that turns a normal Orc into something more, something monstrous. In that form, no one can defeat them. They become unstoppable, their strength and rage unmatched by any other creature.”

Volk felt a chill run down his spine at the thought. He had seen the raw power of his own transformation, but this… this sounded like something far more dangerous.

“But there is a terrible price,” Grak’thor continued, his voice filled with sorrow. “The Grum-gar form is wild, uncontrollable. It consumes the Orc, mind and body. And it makes us vulnerable—vulnerable to manipulation, to madness, to losing ourselves entirely.”

Volk’s breath caught in his throat, his mind racing as he tried to comprehend the full implications of what Grak’thor was saying. The power of the Grum-gar form sounded like both a gift and a curse, one that could save his people or destroy them.

“Let me give you some examples,” Grak’thor said, leaning forward, his voice growing more intense. “There are different personalities of the Grum-gar form, each with its own conditions and dangers.”

He held up one finger, “The first is the Berserker. When an Orc enters this form, they become consumed by rage. Their strength multiplies tenfold, but they lose all sense of friend and foe. They attack everything in sight, unable to distinguish between enemy and ally. The Berserker is unstoppable, but they are also uncontrollable.

If they stay in this form too long, they may never return to their original self.”

Grak’thor held up a second finger, “The second is the Shadow. This form grants an Orc incredible stealth and agility. They can move through the darkness like a ghost, unseen and unheard. But the Shadow form brings with it a creeping paranoia, a fear of the light, a fear of being seen.

Those who take this form often become so consumed by their own fears that they turn on their own kin, seeing enemies where there are none.”

A third finger joined the others, “The third is the Beast. In this form, an Orc’s physical body transforms into something more akin to an animal. Their senses are heightened, their strength and speed far beyond that of any normal Orc. But with this power comes a loss of humanity. The Beast form strips away the mind, leaving only the instincts of a wild animal.

Many who take this form never return to being Orcs—they live out the rest of their days as feral creatures.”

Finally, Grak’thor held up a fourth finger, his voice dropping to a near whisper, “And then there is the Wraith. The Wraith form grants incredible magical abilities, allowing an Orc to manipulate the very essence of the world around them. But the power of the Wraith comes at a terrible cost—their connection to the physical world begins to fade.

They become like ghosts, able to pass through solid objects, but unable to touch or interact with the world. In time, they lose all sense of reality, drifting into a state of eternal solitude, unable to return to their physical form.”

The room was silent save for the *CRACKLE* and *POP* of the fire. Volk felt a knot of fear tightening in his chest. The Grum-gar form wasn’t just a source of power—it was a curse, one that could destroy him if he wasn’t careful.

“And there’s more,” Grak’thor said, his voice heavy with dread. “As an Orc ages, the Grum-gar form becomes harder to control. The older we get, the more we are drawn into that form, until eventually, we can’t change back. We lose ourselves entirely, becoming monsters in both mind and body.”

Volk’s heart pounded in his chest. He had never considered the long-term consequences of his powers. The idea that he could one day lose control, become a monster, was terrifying. But then Grak’thor’s words took an even darker turn.

“The only way to combat this decline,” Grak’thor continued, “is to improve your rank as a Mag’Durotan. This won’t stop the decline, but it will slow it down. It gives us more time—time to prepare, to find a way to live with the curse.”

Volk’s mind reeled. The realization that no matter what he did, the Grum-gar form would eventually consume him, was like a blow to the gut. He had always thought of his powers as a gift, a way to protect those he cared about. But now… now he saw them for what they really were—a ticking time bomb.

“But wait…” Volk began, his voice trembling slightly. “My Grum-gar form… it’s different.”

Grak’thor’s eyes narrowed in curiosity. “Different? How?”

Volk took a deep breath, trying to steady himself. “The higher my power level rises, the longer I can stay in my Grum-gar form. It’s as if my form is tied to my power, not to time.”

Grak’thor’s eyes widened in surprise. “That’s… that’s unheard of,” he said, his voice filled with awe. “Most Orcs can only delay the inevitable, not extend it.”

Volk’s mind raced as he tried to piece together the puzzle. “Maybe it’s because my form isn’t really a Grum-gar form,” he muttered to himself. “Maybe it’s something else… something created by the system.”

A long sigh of relief escaped Volk’s lips as the weight of the revelation began to lift. Whatever his form was, it seemed to be different from the cursed Grum-gar forms that plagued his kin.

Maybe… just maybe, he was safe from the fate that awaited the others.

But before he could dwell on this further, a sudden phenomenon interrupted his thoughts. A brilliant transparent laser shot up from the ground, piercing the sky with a ZAP! and lighting up the night like a beacon.

“What is that?” Volk exclaimed, his eyes widening as he stared at the strange sight.

Grak’thor’s expression turned grim. “That’s a catacomb,” he said, his voice tense. “A catacomb has just surfaced nearby.”

“A catacomb?” Volk asked, still staring at the green light. “What does that mean?”

“It means there are crystals to be found,” Grak’thor replied, already on his feet. “And it means we need to hurry. Let’s go!”

Without another word, Volk and Grak’thor sprinted towards the source of the light.

The ground shook beneath their feet with a THUD-THUD-THUD, the air filled with the electric hum of magic.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep