Strongest Radioactive System

The Horde hesitated at the edge of the descending path, the steep trail snaking down into the unknown depths of the mountain. Volk stood at the forefront, his gaze scanning the jagged rocks and shifting shadows below. Though the owl leader's body lay broken and lifeless, his parting words clung to their minds like a ghostly whisper. The Lost Mountain. A place where mists swallowed invaders whole, and beasts hunted in silence. The air itself seemed heavier, charged with an unnatural stillness that made every breath feel labored.

"We move," Volk ordered, his voice sharp but steady, slicing through the oppressive quiet. "Stay alert. Watch your steps. No one strays from the group."

The Horde began to descend in cautious silence. Each step was measured, their boots crunching against loose gravel and ancient stone. The trail narrowed precariously at points, forcing the group into a single file, with Volk leading and the ogres bringing up the rear. The goblins, smaller and lighter, moved with relative ease, though their wide, darting eyes betrayed their unease.

As they ventured deeper, the mists began to creep in around them like pale, ghostly tendrils. It started faintly, a thin veil that wove through the rocks and clung to the ground. But with each passing moment, it thickened, swirling and coiling around their legs. The mists felt alive, brushing against their skin with an unnatural chill.

"Do you hear that?" one of the goblins whispered, his voice trembling.
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Volk turned sharply, silencing him with a glare. "Focus. Fear feeds these kinds of places. Don't give it power."

But even Volk couldn't deny the sounds that began to filter through the mists. Low, guttural growls echoed faintly from unseen depths, followed by the crunch of shifting stones, as if massive claws scraped against the mountain. The noises were sporadic, fleeting, and always distant—yet close enough to unnerve even the hardened ogres.

"I don't like this," one of the ogres grunted, his deep voice carrying a note of unease. He shifted his massive club from one hand to the other, his eyes scanning the swirling fog. "Feels like somethin' watchin' us."

Another sound echoed—a sharp, piercing roar that reverberated through the rocks, sending shudders through the entire group. The goblins froze, clutching their weapons tightly, their knuckles pale. Even Volk paused for a moment, his ears straining to pinpoint the source.

"Keep moving," Volk commanded, his voice firm but lower now, as if unwilling to stir the mountain further.

The path grew steeper and more treacherous, forcing them to slow their pace. The mists thickened further, reducing visibility to mere feet. Shadows danced on the edges of their vision, twisting and contorting into shapes that seemed almost humanoid before dissipating into nothingness.

Occasionally, a sudden, sharp movement would catch the Horde's attention—a flash of something darting through the fog or the faint rustle of disturbed gravel. The tension was palpable, a living thing that wrapped itself around their throats and refused to let go.

"Did you hear that?" a goblin whispered again, his voice barely audible.

"I said quiet!" Volk barked, his patience fraying.

But even Volk could hear it now: a rhythmic, low growl that seemed to come from nowhere and everywhere at once. It was accompanied by a deep, rumbling vibration, as if the mountain itself was breathing.

The wind, which had been eerily still, began to stir, carrying faint, unplaceable sounds—whispers that danced at the edge of hearing, growing louder and clearer with every step. They spoke in no language Volk recognized, but their tone was unmistakably hostile.

The goblins huddled closer together, their nerves fraying with each passing moment. One of them tripped on a loose stone, letting out a small yelp that echoed far louder than it should have. The group froze, every eye scanning the mists, every breath held.

Then came the sound of movement—something heavy shifting just beyond the veil of fog. It was slow and deliberate, accompanied by a faint scraping, as if claws dragged against stone.

"Eyes up," Volk ordered, his voice a harsh whisper. He raised his weapon, his gaze fixed on the shifting shadows ahead.

The scraping stopped, replaced by a low, guttural snarl. It was close now—too close. Volk's heart pounded, but he refused to let his fear show. Instead, he stepped forward, his eyes narrowing.

"Whatever's out there," he growled, "it'll regret testing us."

The Horde braced themselves, weapons drawn, their nerves stretched taut. The mountain seemed to hold its breath, the mists closing in tighter around them. And then, from somewhere deep in the fog, another roar erupted—louder, closer, and filled with unmistakable malice.

Volk tightened his grip on his weapon, his eyes scanning the dense white void ahead. "Stay close," he commanded. "We don't stop until we're through this."

The Horde began to move again, their steps slower, their movements more deliberate. The sounds of unseen creatures persisted, following them like a predator stalking its prey. Occasionally, the roars would echo again, as if the mists themselves were mocking them.

Soon, the mists swirled thicker around the Horde as they descended further into the mountain's depths. What had once been treacherous but visible ground beneath their feet began to vanish, swallowed whole by the encroaching fog. The trail they followed disappeared inch by inch, leaving them to navigate blindly. The last glimpses of grass, jagged stones, and loose gravel faded into an endless expanse of white.

The mist wasn't just dense; it was alive. It curled and twisted in unnatural patterns, tendrils reaching out as though testing the Horde's resolve. Each breath they took felt damp and heavy, the air clinging to their lungs.

"Is it… thicker now?" one of the goblins stammered, his voice shaking.

Volk glared at him but didn't respond. He too had noticed the oppressive change. The mist had grown not only heavier but colder, an unnatural chill that seemed to seep into their bones. Each step felt heavier, as though the very ground beneath them had turned against them.

The sounds began as faint whispers—soft, indistinct, and fleeting. They came from all around, darting from one side to the other. Sometimes it sounded like voices murmuring words too faint to decipher. Other times, it was a low, guttural growl, like a predator preparing to strike.

"Do you hear that?" an ogre asked, his voice breaking the silence like a hammer striking a gong.

"We all hear it," Volk snapped, his tone low and tense. "Keep moving. Ignore it."

But ignoring the noises was easier said than done. The whispers grew louder, more insistent, as if the mist itself carried them. Shapes began to form in the fog—dark, shifting silhouettes that seemed to move when no one was looking.

"Over there!" a goblin shouted, pointing frantically into the mist.

"Quiet!" Volk barked, but his gaze followed the goblin's trembling hand. There was nothing there—just the mist, swirling and coiling like a living thing. Yet even Volk couldn't shake the feeling of being watched.

The sounds became clearer. What had once been faint whispers now resembled guttural snarls and the crunch of something heavy moving just out of sight. Occasionally, there was the sharp crack of a branch breaking or the scrape of claws against stone. The noises were uncomfortably real, sending shivers down the spines of even the ogres.

"I don't like this," one of the ogres muttered, gripping his weapon tighter. "It's like they're circlin' us."

The goblins huddled closer together, their small forms trembling as they scanned the mist for any sign of movement. Some muttered prayers to deities they hadn't spoken of in years. Others simply gripped their weapons and stared into the void, their wide eyes filled with fear.

The ground beneath them seemed to vanish entirely. Where there had once been a trail of loose stones and dirt, there was now only mist. Each step felt like venturing into the unknown, the solid earth below replaced by a soft, almost spongy sensation that sent a jolt of unease through the group.

"Where's the path?" a goblin whispered, his voice barely audible.

"There is no path," Volk growled, his tone sharp but steady. "We make our own."

But even Volk couldn't ignore the growing sense of unease. The mist clung to him like a second skin, its cold touch unnerving. The sounds grew louder, closer, and more distinct. The growls now had depth and weight, as if the creatures making them were no longer distant echoes but right beside them.

A sudden roar erupted from the mist, loud and guttural, sending the Horde into a frenzy. The goblins screamed, clutching their weapons tightly. The ogres shifted uneasily, their massive forms tense and ready for combat.

"Hold!" Volk shouted, raising his hand to calm the group. "It's just a trick of the mist. Stay together!"

But even Volk wasn't so sure. The roar had felt real—too real. And now, the shapes in the mist seemed more solid, more defined. Occasionally, a flicker of movement would catch his eye—a dark form darting just out of reach.

The whispers returned, louder this time and accompanied by a strange hissing sound. It slithered through the mist like a serpent, curling around the group and filling their ears. The goblins covered their ears in desperation, their faces pale with terror.

"Keep moving!" Volk roared, his voice cutting through the chaos.

But the mist had other plans. It seemed to thicken further, wrapping around them like a cocoon. The white void became suffocating, and the sounds of their own footsteps began to fade, replaced by the constant growling and hissing.

Another roar erupted, this time closer—too close. It was followed by the unmistakable sound of heavy footsteps, the ground trembling beneath their feet. Whatever was out there, it wasn't hiding anymore.

"Form up!" Volk commanded, his voice sharp and unyielding.

The Horde obeyed, forming a tight circle with Volk at the center. Weapons were drawn, eyes scanning the mist for any sign of movement. The goblins crouched low, their small forms trembling but ready. The ogres stood tall, their massive clubs and axes gleaming in the faint light.

The silence that followed was deafening, broken only by the sound of their own ragged breathing. Then, from the mist, came a low, guttural growl. It was followed by another, and then another, until the air was filled with the sound of unseen predators.

Volk's grip on his weapon tightened. His heart pounded in his chest, but his face remained stoic. "Whatever's out there," he muttered under his breath, "it's going to regret facing us."

The growls grew louder, accompanied by the sound of claws scraping against stone. The shapes in the mist grew closer, their forms taking on terrifying clarity. They were massive, hulking beasts, their glowing eyes piercing through the fog like lanterns.

"Ready yourselves!" Volk shouted, his voice echoing through the mist.

The Horde braced themselves, their weapons raised. The tension was unbearable, the weight of the mist pressing down on them like a physical force. And as the first beast's glowing eyes locked onto Volk, a deafening roar erupted, signaling the start of the battle.