Strongest Radioactive System

The forest was darker here, the canopy thick with gnarled branches that clawed at the sky.

Sunlight barely seeped through, casting the clearing in a hazy twilight.

At the center of this gloom, an Orc stood—a mountain of muscle and menace.

His skin was a mottled gray-green, scarred and rough like the bark of an ancient tree.

A jagged, broken tusk jutted from his lower jaw, and his eyes glowed faintly with a predatory gleam.

Thick cords of muscle wrapped around his arms, and his chest was bare except for a necklace of human teeth strung tightly around his neck.

In his hand, he held a cruelly forged axe, the edges darkened from countless battles.

This was Kragath, the arena gladiator.

Soon, he would prepare his massive sword and shield made of hardened wood and steel.

Kragath stood motionless, his piercing gaze locked on the group of Orcs approaching through the forest.

His warriors, thirty strong, milled about the clearing behind him, sharpening their weapons or feasting on dried meats.

They were a disciplined lot, hardened by their leader's ruthless training.

One of his warriors, a wiry, dark-skinned Orc with sharp features, stepped forward.

"Chief," he said, his voice low and gravelly, "those Orcs. Should we attack them? They're nearing our territory."

Kragath didn't turn to look at the speaker. His eyes stayed fixed on the approaching figures.

"No," he said after a pause, his voice deep and deliberate. "Spilling blood for no reason weakens the horde. I will not waste our strength on a fight that has no honor."

The warrior frowned, his hand tightening around the hilt of his blade. "Then what, Chief? Let them come to us unchallenged?"

Kragath's lips curled into a grim smile, and he finally turned to face his follower. "No. I will challenge their leader to a Mak'Gora. If we fight them head on—gang to gang, there will be huge consequences to each side and I won't like that…"

And then, Kragath would mumble to himself, 'and they won't like it too.

So yes, he would proceed to the Mak'Gora Decision.n/ô/vel/b//jn dot c//om

Mak'Gora is a traditionala Orc ritual from that was written on their bloodline.

It is a formal challenge or duel that often involves combat, typically between two Orc individuals.

The ritual serves as a means to resolve disputes, restore honor, or establish dominance, and it is deeply rooted in Klingon values of honor and strength.

During a Mak'Gora, the participants engage in combat until one of them is unable to continue, often leading to the death of one combatant.

The process is highly ritualized, with strict rules and a code of conduct that reflects the Orc warrior ethos.

The outcome is considered a matter of honor, and the victor gains respect and status.

The warrior flinched at the word, his brows furrowing in concern. "Mak'Gora?" he asked hesitantly. "But, Chief, none of the other gangs ever accept your challenge. They all know you're from the human arenas. They fear you."

Kragath chuckled darkly, his broken tusk glinting in the faint light.

"Fear is a weakness," he growled. "If this one turns down the challenge, his horde will know he is a coward. And if he accepts... well, then I'll show them why I am their rightful leader."

The warrior nodded reluctantly, though doubt flickered in his eyes.

As Kragath turned his attention back to the approaching group, he squinted at the figure leading them.

The Orc at the front walked with a commanding presence, his head held high and his steps purposeful.

His armor glinted faintly, and a strange gauntlet adorned his hand, pulsing with faint energy.

Kragath narrowed his eyes, watching the stranger with growing intrigue.

"Plus, look at him," Kragath muttered, almost to himself. "That one will accept."

…

Soon, enough, Volk marched at the head of his newly formed horde, his sharp gaze sweeping over the clearing.

The air here was heavy, thick with the scent of damp earth and the faint metallic tang of blood.

He could feel the eyes of Orc's gang boring into him, their suspicion and hostility practically tangible.

As they drew closer, Volk raised a hand, signaling his group to halt.

He stepped forward alone, his gauntlet gleaming as he walked confidently into the enemy's territory.

Kragath strode out to meet him, his axe resting casually on one shoulder.

The two Orcs stood face to face, their imposing figures casting long shadows across the clearing.

"What brings you to my land, stranger?" Kragath asked, his voice rumbling like distant thunder.

Volk met his gaze unflinchingly. "I am Volk, Warchief of this horde," he said calmly. "And I bring a warning."

Then, he gestured broadly to the forest around them. "Humans are coming," he said. "Not just hunters or small patrols. An army. They march to avenge their fallen Baron."

Kragath's eyes narrowed. "Humans? Here?"

"Yes," Volk said firmly. "Their numbers are great, and they are angry. They want Orc blood. If we do not unite, they will slaughter us all."

Behind Kragath, murmurs broke out among his warriors. Some looked uneasy, others skeptical.

Kragath tilted his head, studying Volk closely. "Why should I believe you?" he asked.

Volk stepped closer, his voice lowering but losing none of its intensity.

"Because I have seen them. I have fought them. They wear shining armor and carry weapons that gleam like the sun. They ride beasts of war and chant songs of conquest. They march to kill, to burn, to destroy. And they will not stop until every Orc in these forests is dead."

After that call of unity, Kragath would let out a low growl, his hand tightening on his axe. "If they come, we will fight them. Let them taste our steel."

Volk shook his head. "You don't understand. This isn't a fight we can win alone. They outnumber us, out-arm us. If we fight them separately, they will crush us. But if we stand together, as one horde, we can break their lines, slaughter their knights, and send them running back to their cities in fear."

The murmurs among Kragath's warriors grew louder.

Some nodded in agreement, while others crossed their arms and glared at Volk with suspicion.

"And what happens after?" Kragath asked, his voice laced with distrust. "You want me to bend the knee to you? To follow your orders?"

Volk met his gaze steadily. "I don't care who leads," he said. "All that matters is survival. If you're strong enough to command this horde, then prove it. But first, we must fight together."

Kragath stared at Volk for a long moment, the tension between them crackling like a live wire.

Finally, he nodded slowly.

"You speak well," he said. "But words are wind. Strength is what matters among Orcs. If you want my horde to join yours, then prove your worth. Fight me in Mak'Gora."

Volk smirked. "I thought you'd never ask."

The horde erupted into cheers and roars of anticipation as the two Orcs prepared to face off.

The forest seemed to hold its breath, the air thick with the promise of violence.

Volk clenched his gauntlet, the faint hum of its power resonating in his ears.

He had no intention of losing this fight.

If he was to unite the Orcs, he would do it the only way they understood: through strength and dominance.