Strongest Radioactive System

Volk's crimson eyes narrowed as he absorbed the information. His mind raced, calculating the risks and rewards.

The message wasn't just an annoyance—it was a demand.

The penalty for failure, the reward system, the pressure of a ticking clock—it all felt like a cruel joke.

But there was no time to dwell on it.

Volk glanced at the scout who had found the tracks, then at the restless Horde behind him.

If they could find the lair quickly, he could secure a vital resource. He had no illusions about what the "goblin slaves" implied.

They would be disposable assets, perfect for aerial engagements.

He straightened, his expression hardening into something cold and unyielding.

"We move immediately," Volk barked, his voice sharp enough to cut through the tension. He turned to the scarred Ogre and pointed toward the ridge.

"You'll lead the main force along this path. Weapons ready. Move cautiously but swiftly."

The Ogre thumped his chest in acknowledgment, bellowing orders to the others.

Volk then looked to his scouts.

"You'll fan out again," he commanded, his tone icy and precise. "Focus on the skies and the ridges. If there's a lair, I want its location now. Report the moment you find it. No delays, no mistakes."

The scouts nodded, their faces tense but determined as they sprinted off into the wilds.

Finally, Volk's gaze turned to the remaining members of his horde. "The rest of you will stay in formation. Weapons ready. Keep an eye on everything—rocks, cliffs, shadows. Harpies aren't the only threat in these mountains."

The Horde roared their agreement, their energy renewed by the possibility of battle. Stay tuned for updates on empire

Volk stepped forward, leading the way as they moved with a mixture of speed and caution.

His eyes flicked toward the translucent screen still hovering at the edge of his vision.

The timer had already begun counting down.

29:15…

The seconds ticked away relentlessly.

The Horde advanced, their boots pounding the ground with a steady rhythm.

Scouts darted through the terrain, their sharp eyes scanning every crevice and outcropping.

The tension was palpable, a coiled spring ready to snap.

Finally, as the timer reached the twenty-minute mark, the scouts began to return.

One by one, they arrived, their expressions grim but unified in their reports.

"Nothing," the first said, shaking his head.

"No sign of the lair," said another.

Volk's eyes narrowed as he processed the information. His mind raced, considering the possibilities.

The harpy people couldn't have vanished entirely. There had to be something they were missing.

For now, however, he gave no outward reaction. "Hold position," he ordered, his voice calm but firm. "We keep moving forward. The lair will reveal itself soon enough."

And with that, Volk led his Horde onward, his crimson gaze fixed on the distant peaks as the timer continued its relentless countdown.

As the scouts returned one by one with empty-handed reports,

Volk's crimson eyes narrowed. His fingers twitched under his cloak, tapping against his thigh as he weighed his options. He could feel the timer ticking in the back of his mind, each passing second a silent taunt.

Finally, he let out a low, sharp breath and reached into the leather pouch hanging from his belt.

The worn material creaked softly as his hand brushed past dried herbs, sharpened flint, and a handful of polished black stones. His fingers closed around a tightly rolled piece of parchment.

With a smooth motion, Volk unfurled the map, its edges fraying from wear. The detailed contours of the mountain range stretched out before him in inked precision.

Rivers marked as faint blue lines cut through the jagged terrain, while peaks and cliffs rose like scars across the parchment.

Tiny symbols dotted key locations—ancient ruins, caves, narrow passes, and forgotten paths that twisted through the wilderness.

Volk's eyes darted across the map, scanning it with a hunter's intensity.

The Horde stood behind him, their restless murmurs a background hum, but Volk tuned them out.

His focus was absolute, the weight of the mission pressing on him. He crouched low, spreading the map across a flat boulder, and began to mumble to himself.

"The harpy people wouldn't stay near the lower ridges," he muttered, his voice low but firm, as if thinking aloud helped him sharpen his focus.

"Too exposed. Not enough vertical coverage. They thrive on high ground—cliffs, overhangs, places where they can swoop down with the advantage of altitude."

His finger traced a path along the map, stopping at a steep ravine marked by narrow cliff lines. He shook his head. "No. Too narrow. Their wingspan would make it impossible to maneuver efficiently. They'd risk being trapped if someone were to corner them there."

He shifted his attention to another area—an open plateau surrounded by dense trees. His lips tightened as he stared at it.

"No. They avoid dense tree cover. Harpies prefer open skies. The canopy would hinder their flight, and they wouldn't have a clear line of sight for aerial ambushes."

The wind rustled the edges of the map, and Volk pressed it flat with one hand while continuing his murmurs. His thoughts were a relentless torrent, each possibility examined and discarded.

"What about here?" His finger stopped on a marked cave system at the base of a jagged peak. He squinted, his mind racing through the logistics. "It's deep enough to provide shelter... but the entry point is too exposed. Any attack on their lair would pin them inside. Too risky for them. They wouldn't make that their stronghold."

He moved on, his sharp eyes landing on a cluster of towering spires farther north. The jagged shapes bristled with danger, their sharp edges resembling the talons of some ancient beast. Volk's brow furrowed.

"These spires… they're high enough to give them dominance over the sky," he mused, his voice dropping even lower.

"Plenty of perches for roosting. Open air for their maneuvers. Natural barriers against ground assaults. And they're close enough to major passes to strike travelers or invaders without venturing too far from their lair. This… this could be it."

He paused, his gaze lingering on the spires, then shifted to another marked location—a jagged cliffside riddled with narrow ledges. "Or here," he added, his voice laced with doubt.

"The ledges could work as makeshift nests. The height would give them security. But it's exposed to the wind. Harpies are resilient, but constant battering from mountain gales would weaken their defenses over time."

Volk sighed and straightened, his eyes never leaving the map. His mind ticked through every possibility, every terrain feature that could serve as a harpy lair. His mumbling grew louder, almost as if he were arguing with himself.

"Not too low. Not too high. Not too open, but not too closed. They'd want altitude for ambushes, but they'd avoid places that are easily collapsed or cornered. They're cunning, but cautious. This…"

His finger tapped on another location, an overhanging cliff with multiple escape routes leading into the sky. "This might be it. But then again…"

He traced a line between the spires and the cliffside.

"If they're mobile, they could shift between these spots. Use one as a decoy while the true lair remains hidden. Or they could divide their forces—some here, some there. But if they've consolidated, they'd pick the stronger defensible position."

Volk stood abruptly, folding the map with practiced ease. He turned toward his Horde, who watched him with a mix of impatience and curiosity. His voice, sharp and commanding, cut through their mutterings.

"We spread out," Volk said, his tone brooking no argument. He stepped forward, his crimson gaze sweeping over the gathered Orcs and Ogres.

"The harpy people could be in one of three locations. Scouts, you'll head north to the spires. Stay low, stay quiet. Report back the moment you find signs of activity."

The scouts nodded, their faces grim as they prepared to set off.

"The rest of you will form three groups," Volk continued, gesturing with sharp, precise movements.

"One group will sweep the ravine. Search for tracks, nests, or any signs of movement. The second group will head to the cliffs. Focus on the ledges—check for fresh droppings, feathers, or disturbed rock. The final group stays with me. We'll take the overhanging cliff."

He turned to the scarred Ogre who had been his de facto second-in-command.

"You'll lead the group heading to the ravine," Volk said. "Keep your eyes sharp and your weapons ready. Harpies don't fight fair. They'll attack from above if they think they can catch you off guard."

The Ogre thumped his chest, a low grunt of acknowledgment rumbling from his throat.

Volk's gaze hardened as he addressed the entire Horde.

"Expect ambushes. Expect traps. Expect the unexpected. Harpies are fast, vicious, and intelligent. If you see one, there are likely more waiting just out of sight. Do not chase them blindly. Stay in formation, stay alert, and report anything unusual immediately."

The Horde roared their agreement, their weapons clanging in a symphony of readiness.

Volk folded his arms, his crimson eyes narrowing.

The map and his deductions had given them a chance—a thread to follow in this deadly game. Now it was up to them to find the harpy lair before time ran out.

The translucent timer in his mind ticked down, relentless and cold, as the Horde began to spread out into the jagged wilderness.