In the forest, Volk ran with all his might, with both of his feet pounding against the earth in a steady, relentless, loud and heavy rhythm.

The trees around him were tall and ancient, and each of their thick trunks covered in moss and creeping vines.

Sunlight filtered through the dense canopy, they were casting dappled shadows on the forest floor.

Volk ignored the air that was filled with the sounds of chirping birds and rustling leaves, creating a symphony of nature that seemed at odds with Volk’s frantic pace.

His face was set in a mask of anger.

After being knocked unconscious by the armored Orc, Luk’Tar, Volk had been forced to stay the entire night in the forest. Now it was morning, and he was late for the awarding ceremony, the GharKhalmon.

Being late wasn’t just an inconvenience; it was a potential disaster.

If he missed the ceremony, he would remain a Labor Hornless Orc forever.

The significance of this event depends on Volk’s feet.

The GharKhalmon was not just a ceremony; it was a crucial opportunity for the Hornless Orcs to prove themselves and gain the chance to strengthen their tribe.

Without this opportunity, Volk would be condemned to a life of labor and servitude.

He would be unable to rank up or gain the power necessary to protect himself in this dangerous magical world.

Most of all, he would feel the same as he was when he was on Earth! Limited!

The trees seemed to blur as he sped past them, his mind racing as fast as his feet. The stakes were so high that he needed to reach the place.

In this world ruled by powerful Elven Warlocks and Dark Witches, the Hornless Orcs were vulnerable.

They had found a precarious foothold thanks to a symbiotic relationship with the Elven Witches, but without the chance to prove himself, Volk would be stuck at the bottom of this fragile hierarchy.

“Thump! Thump! Thump!”

The sound of his heartbeat echoed in his ears, mingling with the rustle of leaves and the distant calls of forest creatures.

His muscles burned with the effort, but he pushed on, driven by a mix of desperation and rage.

The history of the Hornless Orcs flashed through his mind.

They had come from an unknown realm, lost and helpless in this magical world.

Their salvation had come through a desperate witch who had partnered with one of them.

This partnership had allowed the Orcs to find a new home and a means to strengthen themselves.

By bonding with the Elven, the Orcs could gain power and provide resources in return. It was a symbiotic relationship that had allowed them to survive.

Remembering that without an Elven Witch partner, he would be relegated to the role of a laborer, a builder, and a slave, just to survive.

The thought of such a fate filled him with a burning rage. “I will not be a laborer!” he growled to himself, his breath coming in short, angry bursts.

“YOU DAMN ORRCCC!!” he shouted into the forest.

Suddenly, a system screen appeared before him, startling him.

| Ding!

| Would you like to enter your Radioactive Form?

| Note:

| Radioactive Form would automatically revolve every twenty-four hours.

| After using this form, the host would be vulnerable for the time being and could perish. |

Volk’s anger flared anew at the sight of the message. He was still furious, but he stared at the screen for a long moment, weighing his options.

The radioactive form had saved him before, but it came with significant risks too.

As he continued running, he shook his head. “Not now,” he muttered. “I’ll save it for later!” His eyes gleamed with determination.

His feet pounded against the forest floor, “thud, thud, thud,” as he picked up speed.

The forest seemed to blur around him, the trees and undergrowth rushing past in a haze of green and brown.

His breath came in ragged gasps, but he pushed himself harder, with his legs pumping with violent vigor.

“Swish, swish, swish,” his clothes rustled with each powerful stride. The wind whipped against his face, cool and refreshing despite his heated anger.

The morning sun cast long shadows, but Volk’s focus was unwavering. He had a goal, and nothing would stop him from reaching it.

With each step, the sound of the forest grew louder, the “crunch” of leaves and twigs underfoot, the “chirp” of insects, and the “caw” of distant birds. But Volk’s mind was singularly focused.

He would reach the GharKhalmon in time. He would prove himself. He would not be a laborer.

His pace increased, each stride longer and faster than the last.

The forest seemed to part before him, opening a path as if acknowledging his determination.

His eyes narrowed, and he leaned forward, pouring every ounce of strength into his run.

The forest flew by, a blur of green and brown, the sounds of nature mixing with the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

Volk’s anger fueled him, driving him forward. “Thud, thud, thud,” his feet hit the ground with relentless force. He would not be late. He would not fail. He would reach the GharKhalmon and take his place among the warrior Orcs.

With a final burst of speed, Volk surged ahead, the forest a mere backdrop to his determined stride.

…

On the other side of the forest, the Tribe’s settlement stood tall and imposing.

The heart of the Tribe was marked by several incredibly tall towers, their brick exteriors covered in intricate carvings that seemed to pulse with natural magic.

The towers, resembling ancient trees, spiraled upwards, their tops adorned with enchanted fires that burned with a mystical intensity, casting a warm, otherworldly glow over the settlement.

The towers looked like they were not just structures but living embodiments of the Elven Witches’ desire for connection to their Forest Elven origins that abandoned them.

Below these majestic towers, groups of lean-muscled Hornless Orcs moved with purpose, accompanied by their Elven companions.

The Elven races varied greatly, each displaying their unique heritage.

Some had silver hair that shimmered like moonlight, others boasted deep auburn locks, while a few had golden tresses that seemed to capture the essence of the sun.

Their eyes ranged from piercing blue to deep green and even a rare violet, each pair telling tales of ancient wisdom and magic.

Their garments were as varied as their appearances, with some clad in flowing robes adorned with intricate patterns, while others wore armor that seemed both delicate and incredibly strong.

Scattered around the base of the towers were numerous tents, each one a testament to the merging of Orc and Elves cultures.

The tents were made of sturdy leather, reinforced with enchanted fabrics that provided protection and comfort.

Some were simple and utilitarian, while others were adorned with colorful banners and charms that swayed gently in the breeze.

In the center of the settlement, a massive bonfire crackled, with its flames dancing with a mystical life of their own, like it was casting flickering shadows across the ground and adding to the air of enchantment that permeated the area.

Inside one of the larger tents, four figures sat in a tense silence.

Luk’Tar Dhurgan, the Orc who had stolen Volk’s skinless venomous earth mole, wore a worried expression.

His brow furrowed as he stared at the ground, seemingly lost in thought. He couldn’t shake the feeling of unease that came out of nowhere.

The memory of his ambush keeps replaying in his mind, the look of the labor Orc he had challenged haunting him.

Luk’Tar had believed it would be an easy victory; after all, the labor Orcs weren’t trained to fight.

They were builders, not warriors. But something about that encounter felt off, something he couldn’t quite place.

Suddenly, a gentle hand rested on his shoulder, pulling him away from his reverie.

He looked up to see a beautiful elf with striking green eyes and long green hair. Her small, pointy nose and delicate lips gave her an appearance of sharp elegance. “What’s wrong?” she asked, with her voice filled with much concern.

Luk’Tar reached up to hold her hand, drawing some comfort from her presence.

“Solluha’r,” he began, but her gaze made him pause. He forced a smile and said, “I am fine.” He touched her lips gently with his large finger and murmured, “Not yet, we are not one yet.”

Solluha’r’s breath was warm against his skin as she leaned in closer. “Don’t worry about everything so much,” she whispered.

“If it’s your strength, don’t feel inferior. Even if you’re not the strongest, you managed to get the sole skinless venomous earth mole. That’s no small feat. It means you have a mind for strategy, perfect for leadership. In the future, the tribe might rest in your decisions. Combat isn’t everything.”

Luk’Tar’s face briefly reflected his guilt before he masked it again.

He knew Solluha’r’s words were meant to reassure him, but his actions of ambush were like a blade piercing through his conscience.

Just then, the flap of the tent was pulled back, and a fierce looking Orc entered hurriedly. “Luk’Tar, you, and the chosen wives-” the orc would paused, “I mean wife… Should prepare. It’s almost time,” he announced.

Luk’Tar nodded, releasing Solluha’r’s hand. He stood up, straightening his posture and pushing his worries aside.

“Thank you,” he said to the Orc, his voice firm. He turned to Solluha’r, his eyes softening. “We’ll talk more later.”

Solluha’r nodded, giving him an encouraging smile. “We’ll get through this together, Luk’Tar, you can do it!” she said softly.

As Luk’Tar stepped out of the tent, he saw the scene outside was bustling with activity.

He is ready!

Ready to receive Solluha’r completely!

Ready to face his future!

A future that he forcefully took from his fellow tribe member.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep