Chapter 125: Back to power

The air in the city was thick with the acrid smell of dust and debris.

The ground trembled as the final towering building, now reduced to a crumbling shell of steel and concrete, collapsed with a resounding crash. Stay updated with mvl

BOOM!

The sound echoed through the streets, shaking the ground beneath Volk's feet.

He stood amidst the chaos, towering above the shattered ruins, his breath steady and controlled.

His muscular and massive Orc frame glistened with sweat, and as he wiped his brow, a faint smile tugged at the corners of his lips.

His eyes, glowing with a fierce satisfaction, scanned the screen only he could see.

Ding!

| Rank 1 - Orcs: 63,729 kills. |

The numbers flashed in front of him, stark and undeniable.

He had done it.

A smirk crept onto his face.

The mission was a success, but it wasn't just the victory that pleased him.

It was the battle itself—the raw, unfiltered chaos, the bloodshed, the satisfaction of dominating an entire city.

"I can't believe that killing humans wouldn't make me feel anything. Is this because I am an Orc now?" Volk asked himself, wondering.

He imagined himself vomiting after killing a human, but instead, he felt even more pleased.

Soon, his knuckles cracked as he clenched his fists, still feeling the residual power coursing through him.

The orcs around him, his warriors, stood silent for a moment, their gazes shifting toward him as they sensed the shift in the air.

Suddenly, another screen flickered before Volk's eyes.

Ding!

| Mission: Have the Orcs achieve 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. seaʀᴄh thё ηovёlFire .net website on Google to access chapters of novels early and in the highest quality.

| Failure: The host will shrink as well.

| Mission Status: Completed. |

A low rumble spread through the group as the significance of the moment settled in.

One of the orcs, smaller and more hunched than the rest, suddenly straightened up, his eyes widening in surprise.

His frame began to swell, his muscles expanding, and his skin darkened to a deep, healthy green.

Volk turned toward him, his gaze steady but alert.

"Hmm?"

The smaller orc's transformation was swift but noticeable.

He grunted, looking down at his hands as they grew back to their former size. His body pulsed with raw energy, the very essence of orcish strength returning to him.

Gasps filled the air.

"Look!" one orc shouted, pointing at the transforming warrior. "He's... he's back!"

The excitement spread like wildfire.

Soon, the other orcs, smaller from the strange curse of the dungeon, felt the same sensation ripple through their bodies.

One by one, they began to grow, their bodies filling out, muscles bulging, and their skin darkening to the deep shades that marked their strength and vitality.

Thud.

Thud.

Their feet stomped into the ground as they regained their full height, towering once more like the titans they were meant to be.

"By the ancestors!" another orc gasped, eyes wide with disbelief. "It's true! The curse—it's lifting!"

A chorus of gasps, followed by guttural cheers, rose into the air.

The once-shrinking orcs, who had been reduced to trembling shadows of their former selves, were now standing tall again.

The atmosphere was electric, every orc who had felt the creeping fear of weakness now roared with exhilaration.

Weapons were raised high into the air, and the thundering sound of feet stomping in unison made the very ground tremble beneath them.

"Volk! Warchief!" one of the orcs shouted, his voice hoarse with emotion. "You did it! You saved us! By the Orc Gods!"

"Look at them!" another orc exclaimed, his eyes wide with astonishment as he pointed to the rapidly growing crowd. "Every clan, back to full strength!"

Volk stood at the center of it all, his expression calm and composed, but there was a glint in his eye that spoke of his satisfaction.

His arms were crossed over his broad chest, muscles taut beneath his green skin.

The cheers of his warriors echoed around him, a symphony of victory that filled the broken city.

Each orc who looked to him did so with reverence, their voices thick with respect and awe.

"Never doubted the Warchief!" an orc called out from the crowd. Others echoed him, their voices raised in triumph.

"We follow you, Warchief!" another roared. "To the ends of this cursed world if need be!"

Volk's gaze swept over his warriors, a deep sense of pride swelling within him.

They had faced impossible odds, had been driven to the brink of despair by the shrinking curse, and yet here they stood—stronger, fiercer, and more united than ever before.

He knew that this victory was only the beginning.

The other realms, the creatures of this world—they would all come to know the might of the Orc Horde.

No, the nuclear Orc Horde!

Suddenly, Volk would touch his chin with his finger and begin to think, "Hmmm… what kind of system do I have again?" He wondered, it was need stated.

And then, a sound, faint at first, but growing louder, pierced through the cheers.

Whop-whop-whop-whop.

The unmistakable sound of helicopter blades cutting through the air.

Volk's ears twitched, and his eyes narrowed as he turned toward the sky.

The roar of engines grew closer, and soon, dark shapes appeared on the horizon. Helicopters—metal beasts of human design, hovering above the ruins like vultures over a carcass.

One by one, they materialized, sleek black machines against the smoky backdrop of the city.

There were several of them, their blades slicing through the air with mechanical precision.

"What are those?" one of the orcs muttered, his voice tinged with both awe and suspicion.

Another orc squinted up at the helicopters, frowning. "Flying machines… humans use them in their wars. But why are they here?"

Volk's gaze remained fixed on the sky, his mind working quickly.

These were no ordinary machines.

Helicopters!

Something told him that the presence of so many helicopters was not a coincidence.

As they drew closer, he could make out figures inside the cockpits—humans, their faces grim, focused.

They were not here for rescue.

No, these humans had come for something else entirely.

"Warchief," one of the orcs growled, stepping up beside Volk. "Should we prepare for battle?"

Volk said nothing for a moment, his eyes tracking the lead helicopter as it hovered overhead.

His sharp instincts told him that the appearance of these machines was no accident. But he was calm, unshaken.

The city, now a graveyard of rubble and broken glass, was theirs.

These humans were intruding on orcish territory.

The helicopter doors slid open with a hiss, revealing more figures inside.

He could feel some kind of faint and controlled hazardous magic particles in their presence.

Volk recognized the humans from stories passed down in this new world—elite warriors, the kind that nations sent when they wanted swift and decisive action. But why here? Why now?

Suddenly, he would shake his head.

Of course, after wrecking havoc, the would surely send their top level warriors, of course.

He felt the weight of the axe in his hand, the blade still warm from his recent kills.

A storm was brewing, and he knew that what came next would be a clash unlike any other.

Volk's voice, deep and steady, broke the silence. "Hold your ground."

The orcs obeyed immediately, each one of them having eyes glowing with readiness.

They were ready to follow their Warchief into any battle, no matter the foe. And as the helicopters circled above, like vultures awaiting the feast, Volk smiled to himself.

Let them come.

The orcs had never feared a fight.