Strongest Radioactive System

The clamor of the training ground reached a fever pitch as Volk and Gozorm'al squared off once more.

The elder orc's demeanor had shifted, the playful mockery replaced with a stern, unyielding focus. His movements were no longer leisurely or taunting; every swing of his sword now carried the weight of years of experience and raw power.

The air hummed with tension, whoosh! as Gozorm'al's blade cut through the air, barely missing Volk by a hair's breadth. Thud! Volk dodged, feeling the impact of the missed strike vibrate through the ground beneath his feet.

The watching orcs, seeing the change in Gozorm'al's approach, began to shout out taunts, their voices loud and boisterous. "Oi, Gozorm'al! Did the kid hurt you where it counts?!" one of them yelled, a wide grin splitting his face. "You look like you're actually trying now, old man!"

Another orc joined in, slapping his knee in laughter. "Take it easy, Gozorm'al! You don't need to lose your temper just because the little Kaz'rogal got one up on you!"

"Careful, old orc! We don't need you pulling a muscle!" another hollered, his voice full of mock concern. "The tribe can't afford to lose its elder to a duel with a *labor orc*!"

"Did that hit between the legs make you remember your youth, old man?!" a fourth orc called out, his laughter ringing through the air. "Maybe Volk should take it easy on you before you keel over!"

"Come on, Gozorm'al!" yet another orc bellowed. "Don't let a little tap down there ruin your day! We know you're old, but don't go dying on us from shame!"

The crowd's jibes fueled Gozorm'al's growing anger, his face darkening with each taunt. His green skin was taking on a reddish hue, a sign of the fury building within him.

Volk could see the shift in the elder orc's posture—his strikes were harder, faster, each swing aimed with deadly intent.

Clang! Clang!

Their swords collided with a force that sent shivers up Volk's arms, the impact of the blows rattling his bones.

Despite the increased intensity, Volk felt a thrill of excitement coursing through him. The challenge was exhilarating.

Every time he evaded a strike or parried an attack, he felt his confidence grow.

Thud!

Gozorm'al's blade crashed into the ground where Volk had just been standing, sending a spray of dirt and debris into the air. Whoosh! Another swing, narrowly avoided, left Volk's heart pounding in his chest.

But Volk's thoughts were not on survival alone. He realized that if he could master weapon combat, he wouldn't have to rely on his radioactive form all the time. This was a chance to grow, to become a true warrior, and he was determined to seize it.

"Attack me for real, Kaz'rogal!" Gozorm'al's voice boomed across the training ground, filled with frustration. He was no longer interested in playing games.

Volk didn't hesitate. He repeated the trick that had worked before—driving his sword into the ground to kick up a cloud of dirt.

Thum!

The earth erupted in a dusty plume, obscuring Gozorm'al's vision for a brief moment. Volk slid forward, aiming to strike low once more, but Gozorm'al was ready this time. With a grunt of effort, the old orc jumped back, narrowly avoiding Volk's sword as it sliced through the air where his legs had been. Swish!

The surrounding orcs erupted into cheers, their voices a cacophony of support for Volk. "That's it, Volk! Show him what a real Kaz'rogal is made of!" one of them shouted, his fist pumping in the air.

"He's got the moves! None of the other Kaz'rogals had the guts to pull a trick like that!" another cheered, his voice full of admiration. "This year's Kaz'rogal is a real warrior!"

"Volk's making history right here! Who cares if he's from the labor caste? He's showing all those other Kaz'rogals up!" a third orc added, his voice loud with pride.

"Forget the past! Volk's the only Kaz'rogal worth remembering!" a fourth orc bellowed, his words met with a roar of agreement from the crowd.

The orcs were no longer just watching a duel; they were witnessing something extraordinary—a labor orc proving himself not just as a worthy Kaz'rogal, but as a warrior who could outshine even the best of the tribe.

Gozorm'al, however, was far from amused. His earlier irritation had now morphed into full-blown rage.

The elder orc's pride had been wounded, not just by Volk's earlier strike but by the relentless taunts of his peers. His green skin was flushed, a deep red that spoke of a temper on the edge of exploding.

Thud! Thud!

His strikes grew heavier, the ground trembling with each blow. He was no longer pulling his punches—he intended to make Volk pay for the humiliation he had caused.

Volk, for his part, was unfazed. Each of Gozorm'al's attacks was met with a calm, calculated response. Clang! Clang! He deflected the blows with precision, his movements smooth and controlled.

He could see the anger clouding Gozorm'al's judgment, making his attacks more predictable, and Volk used this to his advantage. He danced around the elder orc, his steps light and agile, evading each swing with a grace that belied his size. Whoosh! Thud!

The more Gozorm'al's frustration grew, the more Volk seemed to thrive. He could feel the power of the fight coursing through him, sharpening his instincts and heightening his senses. And in the back of his mind, he knew that even if things went south, his Radioactive Form would kick in automatically, a safeguard against any real danger.

This knowledge emboldened him, giving him the confidence to push Gozorm'al further.

But as the fight wore on, the crowd began to notice the change in Gozorm'al.

The elder orc's usual composure was gone, replaced by a wild, almost desperate fury. His swings were erratic, his focus solely on landing a hit on Volk rather than fighting with his usual skill.

The taunts from the crowd had done their job—Gozorm'al was losing control.

"Uh-oh, the old man's really losing it," one of the orcs muttered, the laughter in his voice fading.

"Looks like Volk got under his skin for real," another added, his tone more cautious now.

"Watch out, Volk! Gozorm'al's gonna snap!" a third orc warned, his eyes wide with concern.

The realization spread quickly among the onlookers.

What had started as a routine sparring match had turned into something far more dangerous. Gozorm'al, the elder orc who had always been a pillar of strength and discipline, was on the verge of losing himself to his anger.

But Volk, ever sharp, noticed this as well. He wasn't just fighting a powerful orc now; he was fighting an orc on the edge, and that made him all the more dangerous.

Yet Volk didn't flinch.

He knew he had to stay calm, to use Gozorm'al's anger against him, and to prove once and for all that he was worthy of the title Kaz'rogal.

As Gozorm'al raised his sword for another powerful swing, Volk made his move.