The Traps Begin

Volk’s massive hands moved swiftly, his mind working faster than ever. His years of survival on the battlefield made him an expert at guerrilla warfare.

Now, it was time to put that experience to work.

He started by digging shallow trenches along the cave’s entrance, using sharp rocks to carve through the dirt.

His thick fingers gouged through the earth with brutal efficiency.

The first layer of traps had to be invisible.

The harpies were smart enough to look for obvious dangers, but Volk knew how to trick them.

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With precision, Volk buried sharpened stakes—broken spearheads and splintered bones he scavenged from the cave.

He coated them with the sludge of cave fungi, their poisonous spores potent enough to cause paralysis if inhaled.

Volk smirked. If the harpies landed, they’d have no idea what awaited them until it was far too late.

Sssshhhk—shhhtk!

The sound of dirt being overturned echoed faintly. Volk’s movements were methodical but feral, like an animal digging a den.

Once the trenches were camouflaged with loose gravel and dead leaves scattered outside the cave, he moved on to the next layer of traps.

Volk scanned the perimeter for natural chokepoints, finding several narrow ledges where the harpies might land to investigate.

He set up tripwires—thin, almost invisible lines made of sinew and braided threads stripped from abandoned armor straps.

Each tripwire was connected to a series of weighted stones. If a harpy stepped on one, the stones would come crashing down with enough force to shatter bones.

Krrrsshhh! Thunk!

Volk tested one of the traps, ensuring it worked perfectly.

A sharp grin spread across his face as the stones plummeted, creating a dull, echoing boom in the surrounding cliffs.

But that wasn’t enough. Not for Volk.

The harpies’ greatest advantage was their ability to fly.

Volk knew that well.

He tilted his head back, crimson eyes narrowing as he studied the sharp rocks that jutted out from the cave’s ceiling like jagged teeth.

With a grunt, he hefted several heavy chains he had scavenged earlier—relics of some forgotten dungeon further inside the cave.

They rattled ominously as he pulled them up the cliff face. Volk anchored them to cracks in the rock, fashioning crude but deadly harpoon traps.

Once triggered, these makeshift chains would swing outward like whips, lashing at anything caught in the airspace near the cave.

Volk grinned darkly.

Harpies may be fast, but their pride made them careless. If they tried to hover or descend all at once, they would be sliced apart.

With the traps above and below complete, Volk turned his attention to sealing off potential escape routes.

He piled debris—fallen boulders, broken tree limbs, even remnants of the Ogres’ crude shields—against several gaps near the entrance.

Each pile was rigged with deadfalls. If the harpies tried to push through, everything would come crashing down, leaving them no way out.

Dust covered Volk’s massive form as he worked.

His breathing remained steady, though his muscles burned with exertion. He wiped the sweat from his brow, leaving streaks of dirt across his pale skin.

As the final trap was set, Volk surveyed his work.

The ground outside the cave looked untouched, but beneath its surface lay sharpened stakes, hidden pits, and poisoned trenches.

Tripwires crisscrossed the narrow ledges. Above, the swinging chains hung silently, waiting like predators in the dark.

Volk knelt down, placing his massive palm on the ground. His lips moved in a low murmur—perhaps a prayer to some forgotten war god, or perhaps simply a promise to himself.

“This is the price of arrogance,” he muttered, his voice low and gravelly.

Volk rose to his feet, his towering form casting a long shadow over the entrance.

He stepped back, his eyes narrowing as he watched the traps in eerie silence.

The harpies would come.

They had followed him this far.

Their pride wouldn’t allow them to turn back.

His mind replayed the system’s words: Kill the harpies. Complete the mission.

Volk clenched his fists. A dark, cruel light glimmered in his eyes.

The harpies thought they had the advantage, attacking his horde while they were weakened. But now, they were the ones being hunted.

With his preparations complete, Volk retreated a short distance into the cave. He blended into the shadows, becoming an invisible sentinel.

Soon, he went back to the birdmen.

From here, he could watch and wait. Every muscle in his body coiled like a spring, ready to strike when the time was right.

The cave fell silent once again. The traps were set. The battlefield was ready.

Minutes ticked by, though they felt like hours.

The only sounds were the faint whispers of wind and the distant cawing of circling harpies.

Volk remained perfectly still, his chest rising and falling in slow, deliberate breaths. In the heavy silence, anticipation hung thick in the air.

Then, far off, Volk heard it—the faint rustle of wings cutting through the wind.

The corners of his mouth twitched into a cruel smile.

“I am coming…”

…

Volk, his mind sharp and his senses heightened, retraced the steps his horde had left behind, carefully following the faint trail through the dense forest.

The trees seemed to loom even taller as he ventured deeper, their thick canopies blotting out much of the sky.

He moved quickly and silently, aware that the harpies could be watching from above, their keen eyes scanning the surroundings.

His thoughts were a whirl of strategy, calculating every potential outcome, every weakness in the harpies’ movements.

He knew they would expect him to be cautious, to hide away in the cave where his horde rested, but Volk was never one to shy away from the frontlines.

He was certain the harpies would think they had him cornered, that their pursuit of him would be easy. But they were wrong.

The moment their guards dropped, he would strike, and he would strike hard.

As he navigated the forest, he sensed the oppressive weight of silence around him.

His sharp ears picked up the slightest rustle, the distant flapping of wings, and even the subtle whisper of wind in the trees.

The harpies were nearby, just out of sight. They knew something was off—why hadn’t he set any more traps? Where was the usual defensiveness that orcs were known for?

Volk slowed his pace as he approached a clearing where the trail seemed to converge.

His instincts screamed that the harpies were close, and with each step, his senses flared.

He crouched low, staying in the shadows, waiting for the right moment.

The subtle fluttering of wings reached his ears once again, and he tensed.

Finally, after what felt like hours, his sharp eyes caught movement at the edge of the clearing.

A harpy, its wings beating slowly, hovered just above the ground, its eyes scanning the area.

Volk held his breath, making sure not to make a sound. His heart beat in time with the rhythmic flap of the harpy’s wings. He had found them.

A sudden sense of satisfaction filled him. The time had come.

He had tracked them down, and now, it was his turn to strike.

The harpies were oblivious to his presence, unaware that the very predator they sought to hunt had quietly slipped into their midst.

Volk took a deep breath, steadying his nerves, preparing to make his move.

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