Chapter 120: Shrinking

Back in the damp, dark expanse of the catacombs, the Orc clans had gathered, earlier feasting and celebrating their victory under Volk's command, now tense.

Even though the air was thick with the smell of roasting meat, laughter, and the constant hum of conversation, everyone came to stop.

Volk stood tall at the center, his broad frame casting a long shadow across the stone walls.

He had ordered the feast, believing that after all they'd been through, his newly united horde deserved a moment of respite.

But then it happened.

A low murmur rippled through the crowd. One of the Orcs from the Bloodfang Clan, his voice shaky, called out.

"Warchief... something's wrong!"

His words were barely audible at first, but they carried a weight that silenced the entire gathering. S~eaʀᴄh the NôᴠeFire.ηet website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

Eyes turned toward the Orc, whose once-muscular form had begun to change.

Volk furrowed his brow. His eyes narrowed as he noticed the slight shift in the Orc's stature.

The Orc's broad, green body was shrinking.

Slowly at first, then faster. His arms and legs withered, muscles shrinking, veins disappearing beneath the skin.

The sight was both grotesque and horrifying.

"What's happening to him?" another Orc from the Ironhide Clan yelled, his voice trembling.

One by one, the other Orcs began to feel the same strange sensation.

Their bodies, once powerful and towering, started to shrink.

Their voices rose in panic, echoing off the catacomb walls, as confusion turned to fear.

"This is sorcery!" shouted an elder from the Stonejaw Clan, his voice shaking with both anger and terror. He raised his hand, but even his strong arm was withering before their very eyes.

The Ironhide chieftain, normally calm and composed, was the next to shout,

"Warchief, what have you done?" His massive form had shrunk to nearly half its size. He was no longer the indomitable force that had fought side by side with Volk.

The panic grew. Shrkk, shrkk—the sound of bones shifting and muscles retreating filled the room as more Orcs began to diminish in size.

One of the younger Orcs screamed in terror, "We're turning into a small version of ourselves!"

Volk stood frozen for a moment, confusion and shock etched on his face. His own body remained unaffected. His skin, cleansed by the crystal's radiant energy, kept him from shrinking.

The same could be said for the rest of the Dreadmaw Clan. But the other Orcs were not so lucky.

Volk's mind began to search for an answer, trying to find the reason for what was happening in front of him.

He suddenly recalled something the Orcs had mentioned in passing, something he had not paid much attention to before: the Elven wives.

Orcs, without or far away from their Elven wives, would slowly weaken.

Without them, their strength would be drained, and they would continue to shrink, until they were no stronger than goblins.

His eyes widened in realization. "It's because we've been separated from their Elven wives…" he muttered under his breath.

Another shriek echoed through the cavern as an Orc from the Frostfang Clan dropped to his knees, his hulking form now shrunken to a mere shadow of what it had been moments before.

"This can't be happening!" one of the younger warriors yelled as his voice cracked, his body now no larger than a common goblin's.

"We're doomed!" another shouted in desperation, his voice full of hopelessness.

The chieftains, those who had once mocked Volk for his arrogance, were now the most fearful of all.

Their bodies were rapidly diminishing, and they looked to Volk in desperation. Their voices, once full of authority, were now shrill and weak.

"Warchief!" one of them screamed, the title now more of a plea than an acknowledgment of his power. "You have to stop this!"

"Stop what?" Volk snapped back, his patience thinning. "I didn't cause this."

"You must know something!" the Ironhide chieftain shouted, his voice trembling. "You have to fix this!"

But Volk didn't have the answers. He glanced at the rest of the Dreadmaw Clan, who remained unaffected.

Their skin had been cleansed in the crystal's light, sparing them from the curse that now afflicted the others. But Volk knew that this wasn't going to end with just shrinking.

If left unchecked, the Orcs would become as weak as goblins—perhaps even weaker.

As Volk pondered their fate, his gaze turned to the others who continued to shrink before his eyes.

It was clear now—without their Elven wives, they were doomed to wither away into nothing. But how could he stop it?

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Znnnng!

A sudden chime broke through his thoughts.

The sound echoed loudly in his mind.

The system screen flashed before him, hovering in mid-air where only he could see.

| Ding!

| Mission: Have the Orcs have the highest kill count in the Ranker World within an hour!

| Rewards: The other clans under the host will return to full strength and stop shrinking.

| Failure: The host will shrink as well. |

Volk's eyes widened. "What...?"

Before he could process the message, a low, rumbling noise filled the catacomb.

The Orcs, now in full panic, turned toward the far wall, where a bright, glowing crack had appeared out of nowhere.

The dimensional gap.

The crack slowly widened, its edges pulsing with energy.

Through it, they could see another world—one filled with vast changing landscapes, strange creatures, and a sky that shimmered with the light of a distant sun.

The Orcs stood frozen, staring in awe and confusion.

"What is that?" one of them whispered, his voice barely audible.

Volk clenched his fists, his jaw set in determination.

He knew what had to be done.

The system had given him a clear mission, and there was no room for failure. If he didn't succeed, he too would shrink and weaken. But more importantly, the entire horde would fall apart.

Their strength, their unity—it all rested on his shoulders.

Without a word, Volk turned to face the gap.

He knew what this world was—it was the Ranker World, a place of unknown.

It could be a world where the strong dominated and the weak perished or something else entirely.

He could hear the voices of the Orcs behind him, their panic growing louder as more of them continued to shrink.

"What is this thing? Are our powers being sucked by this thing?" the Ironhide chieftain screamed, his once-proud voice now barely more than a squeak.

Volk ignored them, his focus solely on the gap before him.

He had one hour.

One hour to claim the highest kill count and save his horde.

His hand gripped the hilt of his weapon, and with a deep breath, he stepped forward into the unknown.

As he crossed the threshold of the dimensional gap, anticipation thrummed in his veins.

He expected the air to be thick with the scent of blood and battle, but all he felt was a disorienting emptiness.

Volk's mind began to create images of a scorched landscape, littered with the remnants of past conflicts.

He imagined the silhouettes of countless creatures—warriors, beasts, monsters—all poised for bloodshed. But as he moved deeper into the void, the world remained hidden from his sight.

His senses heightened, he felt the ground shift beneath him, a subtle tremor echoing through the fabric of reality.

He could almost hear the distant whispers of a chaotic battlefield, yet nothing materialized before him.

Volk's eyes narrowed, determination hardening his resolve.

There was no turning back now.

With a roar that echoed in the silence, he charged forward, his weapon raised high, ready to confront whatever lay ahead.

Behind him, the screams of his shrinking horde faded into the distance as he set his sights on victory.

The hour had begun.