Capítulo 20: No Shaman, only smash!
Volk waited.
The shop was eerily quiet, save for the faint creaking of the wooden beams and the soft rustle of hanging meats swaying in the slight draft.
Then, without warning, a system notification flashed before his eyes.
| Ding!
| Nuclear Devastation Strike charging (1/9) |
Volk blinked in surprise, his mind racing. "Nine?" he muttered to himself. He hadn't seen that number before.
His thoughts drifted to Solluha'r, the beautiful elven witch he had been with the night before.
Could their passionate union have somehow influenced her abilities, making him benefit too? It made sense, in a way.
If their bond had strengthened her Mana manipulation, it wasn't too far-fetched to think it might have boosted his powers as well.
"One in nine… does that mean I could actually use this Nuclear Devastation Botanical Clap nine times?"
Volk wondered aloud.
He still has no idea what this is, he couldn't get out to try it in secret yet.
He was curious—no, he was desperate to know what this Nuclear Devastation Botanical Clap was and the number of nine representing it.
What is the Nuclear Devastation Clap even, what more Botanical added to it?
What does this number represent?
Suddenly, the sound of footsteps broke through his thoughts.
Volk looked up just in time to see Grak'thor returning, and his eyes widened in shock.
The old orc was carrying a massive horn-like trumpet, its size dwarfing the stout butcher's frame.
Grak'thor's expression was one of determination, his steps quick and purposeful as he prepared to blow into the instrument.
"Wait!" Volk shouted, raising a hand to stop him.
Grak'thor halted in his tracks, his eyes narrowing in confusion.
He looked at Volk, clearly puzzled by the interruption, as if silently asking, "Why?"
Volk took a deep breath, steadying his nerves. "Listen," he began, his tone serious.
"I know that shamans are rare, that it's uncommon for an orc to possess magical abilities. And I also know that if I'm seen as one, if I become a shaman, I'll be protected. But that's not what I want, Grak'thor."
The butcher's brows furrowed as Volk continued.
"I don't want to be shielded. I want to be in the thick of the fight. I want to face danger head-on, to grow stronger with every battle. How am I supposed to do that if I'm stuck in a shaman's hut, kept safe and away from the front lines? That's not who I am. Sir Grak'thor, I am Grum-gar awakened."
Grak'thor stared at him for a long moment, his eyes boring into Volk's as if trying to read his very soul.
Eventually, the silence stretched, the weight of the moment pressing down on both of them. Finally, Grak'thor sighed heavily, lowering the trumpet.
"Alright, alright," Grak'thor said, his voice a mix of resignation and respect.
"You're a Grum-gar awakener, a special kind of warrior in our tribe. Not every orc has that kind of power, and now I understand why you awakened it. You have the heart of a fighter. If I called everyone out now, I'd be destroying what you are—what you were meant to be."
Volk felt a wave of relief wash over him. He had been afraid that Grak'thor wouldn't understand, that the old orc would blow the trumpet anyway, summoning the entire tribe to witness his abilities.
But Grak'thor got it.
He understood Volk's desire to remain on the battlefield, to carve his own path through blood and sweat.
As Grak'thor turned to go back inside, he paused, a thought seeming to strike his head with an idea.
He turned back to Volk, with a curiosity gleaming in his eyes.
"Can you remove all the hazardous magic particles inside a body?"
Volk hesitated, unsure. "I… I don't know. I can try."
Grak'thor extended his wrist toward Volk, who took it carefully. He focused, trying to activate his ability, but nothing happened.
The seconds ticked by, the tension growing until finally, Grak'thor shook his head and pulled his hand away.
"Forget it," Grak'thor muttered, more to himself than to Volk.
"It only works with the meat." But then, his eyes lit up with a sudden thought.
"But if it only works with the meat… does that mean we could enjoy meat without hazardous magic particles? After all, doesn't that hazard make the taste unfavorable?"
Volk's eyes widened in realization.
Grak'thor was right!
What if they could actually eat the meat without any of the dangerous magic?
The thought was thrilling, not just because it would make the food safer, but because Volk was eager to experience what real orcish meat might taste like, untainted by the hazardous magic particles.
"We should cook it!" Volk suggested, his voice filled with excitement.
Grak'thor grinned.
Without wasting a moment, they set to work.
They selected a few choice cuts of meat, now devoid of the hazardous particles thanks to Volk's abilities.
Grak'thor led the way to a fire pit just outside the shop, where they began to gather wood and kindling.
The orcish butcher moved with surprising speed and precision, his years of experience evident in the way he expertly prepared the fire.
As the flames crackled to life, they positioned the meat over the heat, letting it cook slowly, allowing the juices to flow and the aroma to fill the air.
The scent was intoxicating, rich and savory, unlike anything Volk had ever smelled before. His mouth watered in anticipation, his hunger growing with each passing moment.
Grak'thor stood beside him, tending to the fire, a look of contentment on his face.
"This reminds me of the old days," he said, his voice wistful. "Back before everything went to hell. We used to have feasts like this all the time, back when meat was just meat, and we didn't have to worry about all this magic nonsense."
Volk nodded, his thoughts drifting to his own past, to the life he had lived before finding himself in this strange world.
It felt like a lifetime ago, a distant memory that was fading with each new experience he had here.
As the meat cooked, they both waited with bated breath.
The minutes felt like hours, they were becoming eager and eager. And finally, after a while, the meat was done, the skin charred just right, and it seems the inside were cooked to perfection.
Grak'thor carefully removed the meat from the fire, setting it on a wooden slab.
The juices sizzled as they dripped onto the hot surface, the smell making Volk's stomach growl in response.
Grak'thor handed Volk a piece, and without hesitation, Volk took a bite.
The flavor exploded in his mouth, rich and succulent, with a depth he hadn't expected. It was unlike anything he had ever tasted before—both familiar and entirely new.
The absence of the hazardous magic particles made the meat taste pure, untainted, and it was a revelation.
Every bite was a new experience, each one better than the last.
Grak'thor watched him with a grin, clearly pleased with Volk's reaction. "Good, isn't it?"
Volk nodded, unable to speak through his full mouth.
He hadn't realized how much he had missed the simple pleasure of eating until now.
This was more than just a meal—it was a celebration, a moment of shared joy in a world filled with danger and uncertainty.
PENSAMENTOS DOS CRIADORES 
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