Time passed quickly, and before he knew it, Hulk was already twelve years old.
He had gradually adapted to life among the Orcs. Though savage and brutal in appearance, the members of the Bloodfang Clan were fiercely loyal to their kin, especially their family.
His father was the Chieftain of the Bloodfang Clan—mighty and battle-hardened; his mother was a ferocious yet caring orc matron, and his elder sister, Gorrka, was already a warrior renowned even beyond their clan's borders.
Hulk and his tribe made their home in the Bloodfang Hills, a savage expanse of rocky wastelands and dense forests. Many brutal races dwelled in these lands—beastmen, goblins, ogres—always fighting for territory and survival.
Summers were brutal, the land baking under a merciless sun, but winters were far worse. Snow piled high, and starvation often compelled tribes to raid one another. Worst of all were the voidspawn tides—waves of monstrous creatures descending from the mountains in search of prey.
In these lands, only the strong survived. Weaklings were abandoned or devoured.
Now, midsummer had come, and warm winds swept through the blood-colored plains. Hulk sat atop a jagged boulder, staring at the far-off mountains, lost in thought.
A voice, brimming with teasing menace, broke his silence.
"Oi, whelp. Dreamin' of bein' a warlord already?"
Hulk turned to see his sister, Gorrka. Taller than most orc males, her muscles coiled like steel cables beneath her green skin, and her tusks glinted in the light. Her fiery red braids swayed as she strode forward.
By orc standards, she was striking—a brutal kind of beauty, more axe than flower. But Hulk, still carrying remnants of his human sensibilities, thought she looked like a walking siege tower.
"Sister," Hulk greeted her calmly.
Gorrka dumped a freshly killed boar at his feet and clapped him roughly on the shoulder, nearly knocking him off the rock. "Brought yer favorite, runt. Boar ribs. Best I could find. Eat, you skinny bastard!"
"Thanks," Hulk said with a faint smile.
Back on Earth, he was famous not just for fighting, but for eating. He had once won three competitive eating contests. But here, among these monsters, his appetite was considered small—by orc standards, anyway.
Gorrka squinted at him. "You're shrinking again. Skippin' trainin', are ya?"
Hulk scratched the back of his head. "Nah, just… thinkin'. I like to think."
His sister let out a barking laugh. "That's why you're weird. Orcs smash. Orcs kill. You sit here thinkin'. You're not gonna be chieftain by thinkin', you know that, right?"
Hulk nodded but said nothing. His body, even as a young orc, was far superior to his former human form. But compared to his kin, he was still weaker. That ate at him.
"Oh, I fixed that thing you wanted." He handed her a crude but well-balanced stone axe, its haft reinforced with bone and sinew.
Gorrka lifted it, eyes wide. "Ha! You fixed it! You're clever for a runt."
"Just somethin' I picked up," Hulk said with a small shrug.
"Bah, don't downplay it. You'll make a fine war-smith one day if you don't die first," she said approvingly. "With this, I'll gut a troll next time we raid."
"Watch your back out there," Hulk muttered.
She grinned, flashing her tusks. "Hah! If I die, I'll come back and haunt your scrawny ass."
With that, she reached into her satchel. "Here. I made you a new loincloth. The old one's a disgrace."
Hulk frowned. "I don't need—"
Too late. Gorrka was already tugging the old one off and fitting the new one around his waist. Hulk sighed. "Sis, I'm twelve. I don't need—"
"I wiped your ass when you were a babe. I've seen it all," she snorted, then paused, staring between his legs. "By the gods… You might be a runt, but that's a chieftain's spear right there. With that thing, you'll have a dozen orc wenches fightin' each other for a place in your tent."
Hulk pulled the new hide tighter. Orc craftsmanship wasn't exactly comfortable, but it fit better than the stretched, torn thing he had before.
Even in this world, some things never changed—puberty was a curse.
The Bloodfang Hills didn't get much sunlight, and the short days soon gave way to deepening night.
By the time he returned to their den—a longhouse built from bones, hides, and thick logs—the evening meal was ready. His father, chieftain Grond, was home, sitting by the roaring hearth with a great curved blade across his knees, lost in thought.
"Hulk," Grond called, voice low and thunderous. "Come."
Hulk stepped forward obediently.
"Gorrka says you fixed her weapon again," Grond said.
"I did," Hulk replied.
His father grunted, clearly pleased. "Clever hands. But cleverness alone won't win you battles. Strength is what matters to Orcs. You'll have both if you're worthy of carrying my name."
Hulk nodded. "I understand."
Three nights later, he found himself alone, standing atop a windswept hill, the full moon hanging high like a pale eye in the void. The smell of blood and pine mingled in the air.
"Damn it…" Hulk clenched his fists. Even though this orc's body brimmed with vitality, he wasn't strong enough. Not yet. He could feel the potential, just out of reach.
That's when it happened.
A shimmer—barely noticeable—glimmered before his eyes. Something alien. He blinked, then stared.
A translucent panel hovered in front of him.
[Name: Hulk]
[Race: Orc]
[Level: Mortal]
[Age: 12 yrs. old]
[Height: 6 feet 8 inches]
[Weight: 320 pounds]
[Strength: 4 (average orc cub: 9)]
[Agility: 3 (average orc cub: 6)]
[Intelligence: 9 (average orc cub: 2)]
Title: Champion
Special Trait: Fighter's Blood
The instincts of your former life remain within you. While others grow by brute strength, you may evolve faster through challenges, tactics, and battle experience.
Path of the Warlord unlocked.
Rise or die. Your choice.
[New Quest Available: 100 Push-ups = Strength +1]
Hulk stared at it, stunned. "No way… a system?"
His lips curled into a grin. Finally—finally—the cheat he'd been waiting for.
"Alright," he muttered, cracking his knuckles. "Let's get started."