Author's note: MC's name changed from Gruumsh to Hulk.
Hulk closed his eyes, trying to conjure an image of the orc women from the neighboring clans. Broad-shouldered, tusked, thick thighs, and massive hips—they were built like warriors, brutal and powerful. He imagined them gripping his cock with their rough, calloused hands, mouths wide open with sharp tusks flashing—but those same tusks might very well shred his flesh to ribbons.
Ugh. No good
The orc women simply didn't stir him. Their ferocity in battle was unmatched, but when it came to lust, their snarling faces did nothing for him.
Then his thoughts drifted to elves. Soft skin, delicate features, those long, pointed ears full of elegance and mystery—but they were tiny, fragile things. Hulk could crush one by accident just by holding her too tightly. Not exactly ideal.
His half-risen cock twitched… then deflated in disappointment.
Even after evolving, it had gone from twenty inches to twenty-five, yet it still hung limp. It needed more than crude fantasies to rise to the occasion.
Then, he remembered.
Years ago, succubi from the Infernal Wastes came to Bloodfang territory, offering dark bargains to his father. Hulk had been just a whelp back then, but the image of those infernal temptresses had seared itself into his mind—smooth, sinfully perfect skin, swirling tattoos on ample thighs, dresses of sheer silk that promised everything and revealed just enough to drive a male insane.
Pure evil and perfect seduction all in one form.
In his mind, Hulk stripped one of them bare, gripping her heavy breasts with one hand while lifting her leg with the other, impaling her on his monstrous shaft. Hearing her moan as the proud, aloof succubus facade melted into shameless ecstasy—that was a victory worthy of an orc warrior.
With that thought alone, Hulk's cock surged with blood, expanding to a monstrous thirty inches.
Big. Long. And. Hard.
A wicked grin stretched across his face. Planting his hands behind his back, Hulk lifted his entire body using nothing but his cock for support, balancing his orcish bulk over the ground.
This was his special push-up challenge.
[Newbie Quest Completed: +1 Strength]
[Newbie Quest Completed: +1 Strength]
[Newbie Quest Completed: +1 Strength]
His Strength stat had climbed to 14. The rush of physical growth was addicting, but the toll it took on his lower anatomy was starting to make itself known.
He flopped back on the ground, exhaling heavily, muscles twitching in satisfaction.
Just then, the thick hide door of the tent was pushed aside, and a heavy hand smacked down on his shoulder.
"Oi, boy!" came the deep rumble of his father, Chieftain Grond Bloodfang, dragging in a massive haunch of freshly butchered meat. "Your old man brought home a feast."
Hulk rose to greet him, clasping forearms in the Bloodfang Clan's traditional warrior greeting.
Behind Grond, his sister Gorrka stomped in, dragging another bundle of hides and meat, while his mother Vrakka calmly followed, sharp-eyed and silent as always.
Hulk's nostrils flared. The smell of raw blood and fresh kill filled the tent, rich and wild. Elite prey. A successful hunt. His father didn't come back empty-handed.
"Choose your cut," Grond said with a grin. "We'll get the fires burning."
But before Hulk could reply, Vrakka stepped forward and gave him a long, calculating look.
"You've gotten stronger," she said flatly.
"I thought so too," Grond grunted approvingly. "Go on, boy. Show us the strongest part of you."
Hulk almost glanced at his crotch but thought better of it. Parents didn't need to see that kind of strength.
Instead, he moved over to the iron cauldron at the edge of the tent—something brought back from a raid—and hefted the 3000-pound behemoth over his head with one hand.
Both parents raised their brows in approval.
"Good," Grond rumbled, nodding. "Another warrior for Bloodfang. You'll make us proud."
Hulk let out a rough, bashful chuckle.
At fourteen points of strength, he was already outpacing most whelps his age. But before the moment could settle, Grond's expression twisted slightly in pain, and Hulk spotted dark drops falling to the ground—blood. His father had been wounded.
Hulk immediately helped him sit down while Vrakka fetched bandages. Elite beasts didn't die easily, even under his father's might.
That night, Hulk sat outside the tent, staring into the starless sky.
The orc tribes of the Blood Fang Mountains had never known peace. Clans warred over territory, and beasts hunted orcs as much as orcs hunted them. But the true enemy wasn't just the beasts or rival clans.
It was weakness.
He was still too weak to protect his family. And soon, by the tribe's law, he'd need to leave the safety of their tent, live alone, and begin his true path as a warrior.
No coddling. No more whelp's games. Orcs lived by the blade or died with regret.
And now came the choice of his path:
Hunter. Raider. Berserker. Shaman. Each with its strengths, each a path to power.
"You've always been clever, Hulk," his father said before dozing off. "I thought maybe… shaman's work might suit you."
"Bah," Vrakka scoffed. "Let him choose."
Hulk clenched his fists, staring at the weapon data flickering in his mind's eye:
Glave: 1000% compatibility
Greatsword: 100%
Spear: 90%
Club: 85%
Bow: 60%
Knife: 40%
The answer was clear.
He was born for the glaive—and by it, he'd carve his name into the bones of history.