New Novel is out you should add it to your library "The Mage Who Became a God"
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Shapes moved within it, half-glimpsed silhouettes: skeletal forms dragging steel weapons, ghoulish beasts crouching low like carrion wolves, and towering hulks of stitched flesh lurching like obscene statues of war. The cries of the damned whispered on the wind, carried in echoes from the fog's heart.
In the distance, seated astride a nightmare beast whose mane burned with ghostly green fire, was Arthas.
The Deathlord.
The Patient One.
The butcher of a thousand halls.
His presence poisoned the air itself. The Nightmare beneath him pawed the ground with hooves that struck sparks against the stone, each step warping the ground into withered black scars. Arthas lifted his hand, palm outward, and the fog responded like a living thing.
It surged toward him, twisting and funneling, drawn into his palm. The air howled, as though all of the Underdark were being inhaled into a void. Dark Purple-Black mist thickened, condensed, hardened in his grip, until at last it took shape:
A spear.
Not a weapon of steel or stone, but a vast, jagged pillar of condensed death and Dark Purple-Black Fog. Its shaft writhed with veins of oily light, and its tip was a void so absolute that it seemed to devour sight itself. Even from across the battlefield, the Gray Dwarves could feel it—a wrongness, a pressure in their chests, as though the spear aimed not at the barrier but at their very souls.
Arthas's hollow gaze swept across the fortress. He already knew the barrier's weakness—he had tested it for days with tendrils of fog, probing, gnawing, hunting for its fault lines. He needed to deliver a shock so intense that the energies of the magic circle barrier couldn't handle it.
He shifted in the saddle, muscles moving with inhuman precision. He raised the spear like a javelin thrower, his undead mount screaming into the night, its cry a chorus of a hundred tortured voices. And then—
He threw.
The sound seemed to split.
The spear tore through the air at a speed no mortal eye could track, the sound barrier not merely broken but shattered into fragments, each crack like thunder that shook the stone foundations of the fortress. The shockwave knocked Undead soldiers from their feet, weapons rattling from hands as the wind howled past them. And yet—the spear was still visible, a black comet streaking across the Underdark, its passage leaving a trail of unraveling sound and air.
The barrier convulsed in response. Blue light surged, straining desperately, every rune along its surface blazing at once. For a heartbeat, the two forces clashed—the holy blue against the profane black, light against void. The sky burned with their collision, a storm of sparks and mist and flame.
Then came the sound.
The spear struck like the hammer of an angry god. The impact boomed across the barrier, a deafening roar that made even the stone mountains tremble. Cracks spiderwebbed through the dome of blue light.
And then—shattered.
The barrier broke apart like glass beneath a warhammer. Shards of blue light scattered across the fortress walls turning into mana, raining down on the Gray Dwarves like dying stars. For a moment the world seemed to pause, as though holding its breath.
And then—the tide came.
The fog surged forward, no longer held at bay. It poured into the fortress like a Dark Purple-Black ocean, dragging with it the endless dead. Skeletons poured through the breach first, clattering in waves, their eye sockets burning with violet flame. Behind them lumbered ghouls and corpse-beasts, stitched giants that carried big bones for clubs, each footstep cracking the stone. Above, shrieking wraiths swooped down like carrion birds, claws extended.
The holy water spread across the walls hissed and smoked at first contact, burning away skeletons and searing holes through the fog—but there were too many. Once the mass of death reached a certain density, even consecration meant nothing. The tide extinguished it. The wards dissolved like salt in a flood.
Kurman's heart clenched.
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The clang of steel against bone roared like a funeral bell. A gray dwarf soldier—his beard plaited with iron rings of his clan, his eyes hard as obsidian—swung his heavy axe in a brutal arc. The weapon sheared through a skeleton's neck, splitting vertebrae like brittle twigs. The skull bounced across the black-stained stone.
But there was no time to rejoice.
Already, another two skeletons surged forward, their rusted blades hacking wildly. He parried, grunted, swung again, bones splintering. A ghoul lunged from the side, its jaw unhinged wider than any beast of nature, snapping at his throat. He shoved it back with his shield, slammed the edge of his axe into its skull, and kicked its twitching body aside.
But still they came.
Kurgrim, son of Iron, staggered beneath the press. He had trained since childhood, forged in the discipline of Deepstone Keep, where sons and daughters were taught that battle was prayer and death was duty. His armor was sanctified steel, blessed with molten runes by the Forge Priestess herself. And yet—even holy steel faltered. The fog's corruption gnawed at its runes, dimming them stroke by stroke.
Every kill was meaningless. For every skeleton crushed, another two clawed through the fog. For every ghoul hacked apart, the mist stitched it back together. The battlefield was drowning in them.
And then—the horror revealed its face.
A brother fell beside him, his chest torn open by a ghoul's claws. Kurgrim turned, swinging to protect him, but it was already too late. The corpse lay still for a breath—then the fog crawled in.
It slithered across the stone like living oil, sliding into the dead dwarf's mouth, nose, his wounds, his eyes. His body twitched, convulsed. And then—with a shudder—he stood again. His eyes glowed sickly violet. His axe, still slick with his lifeblood, now swung against his kin.
A brother reborn as an enemy.
Kurgrim's jaw locked beneath his helm. Around him, more dwarves fell, and more rose again moments later. The tide of undeath was not merely endless. It was self-feeding. Every life lost was a new soldier for the enemy.
The fortress walls echoed with the war-cries of the Gray Dwarves—short, guttural chants, oaths to Laduguer, to stone, to fire. They fought with the fury of a people who had never once retreated in their history. But even their stubborn, iron pride faltered before the ocean of death pouring through the shattered barrier.
Kurgrim's heart sank, but he had no time to mourn the fallen. Another skeleton surged from the fog, its rusted blade thrusting for his chest. With a roar like grinding stone, he parried, sparks shrieking as steel met corroded iron. He smashed the weapon aside and countered, his axe splitting through the thing's ribcage. The brittle bones exploded in a spray, clattering to the blood-slick ground.
But then—impact.
Something slammed into his side with the force of a charging beast. His breath caught in his throat. A ghoul.
The creature was pale as moonlight, its corpse-like body wiry with sinew and knotted with rot. It moved with unnatural speed, too fast for its decayed frame. Its claws screeched down his armor, sparks dancing as steel met necrotic talons. Kurgrim staggered, teeth bared, shoving it back with his shield. But the ghoul clung like a leech, snarling, its mouth dripping strands of black saliva that hissed when they struck the stone.
It tore at the straps of his armor with mindless desperation, talons ripping at seams meant to hold against centuries of war. One strap snapped. Then another.
Kurgrim's breath came ragged, sweat pouring into his eyes beneath his helm. "By the forge…" he snarled, straining every muscle. His shield arm trembled violently under the weight of the creature, as it clawed closer, closer—its rancid breath hot against his exposed cheek.
Then its claws found flesh.
Agony. White-hot fire seared his throat as talons raked across exposed skin where the armor had been torn free. The pain turned instantly to freezing cold. His limbs stiffened, trembling as though his very blood had turned to stone. Paralysis. He could feel it coursing through him, flooding his veins with necrotic ice.
His axe slipped from his trembling hand. He tried to raise it again, but his muscles betrayed him. Paralysis wrapped his body like chains.
The dwarf could only watch, eyes wide with fury and fear, as the ghoul pressed its hideous face closer. Its breath was rot and grave-dirt. With a savage jerk, it tore away the last remnant of his gorget. One claw rose—and raked deep across his throat.
Hot blood burst in a crimson spray, steaming in the cold air of the Underdark. Kurgrim's vision swam. He dropped to his knees, clutching at the wound, gasping broken prayers through a ruined windpipe. He glared with defiance, even as the light bled from his eyes.
The ghoul shoved him onto his back and shrieked in triumph, a cry that echoed like broken glass through the chaos, before bounding away to hunt new prey.
Kurgrim lay drowning in his own blood. Around him, the battle raged—Gray Dwarves voices raised in grim war chants, undead howling in hollow mockery, steel shrieking against bone. He tried to move, but his body no longer obeyed. Warmth drained from him, replaced by the creeping cold of the cursed fog.
The last warmth drained from his body as the cursed fog rolled toward him, tendrils of black-purple mist wrapping around his corpse.
The dark purple black mist slithered to him like a living tide. Tendrils of black-purple smoke coiled over his corpse, wrapping him, seeping through his wounds.
And then—he felt it.
At first, numbness. Then agony worse than death itself. His chest convulsed. His eyes snapped open, but they no longer saw with his own sight. They burned now with a violet flame.
The fog filled him, twisted him, remade him. What had been Kurgrim, son of Iron, was gone. His soul screamed soundlessly, caged deep within, as the corruption devoured him. His body lurched upright, movements stiff, wrong. The axe he had wielded in life rested once more in his hands—yet now he raised it not against the enemy, but his own kin.
But there was a difference.
Where most of the newly risen burned only with dull violet light, his eyes flared with twin flames of sickly blue—the mark of Arthas's claim. His soul had not merely been enslaved. It had been bound. Hardened. Weaponized.
Kurgrim roared, though it was no longer his voice, and hurled himself back into the fray. His axe came down in brutal arcs, cleaving into the shields of dwarves he had once sworn to protect. He fought with twice the ferocity and strength with impossible movement he had shown in life, for now death itself drove his arm.
So another son of Deepstone Keep was devoured by the tide.
And so the endless army of the dead grew stronger.
All across the fortress walls, the same scene repeated. Gray dwarf after gray dwarf fell, their deaths fueling the fog's hunger. Each body that touched the ground rose again within heartbeats, stripped of soul, remade in mockery of what it had once been. The ranks of the living dwindled. The legions of the dead swelled.
Kurman, high captain of the watch, roared in defiance. He split an undead creature in two with a furious strike, his rune-etched axe blazing briefly with sanctified fire. Bone splintered. The thing collapsed—but still its torso dragged itself forward, clawing with blackened fingers. Its jaw snapped at his ankle armor, forcing him to crush its skull beneath his boot.
"Damn it!" he spat, beard drenched in blood and sweat. "Is there no limit to that monster's power?"
His eyes flicked up, past the walls, past the fog, to the distant rider on the nightmare steed.
"Is there no limit to that wretch's ability to twist corpses into his servants?"
Normally, the act of raising undead in the material world was not so simple. It required elaborate sacrifices, layers of binding circles, rare reagents gathered under moons that never saw the sun, and precise chants that could last for hours, even days. To wrest a soul from its rest and force it back into rotting flesh was an art that strained the very fabric of life and death. And do it in an instant it could only be done if a Death God assists you. But this figure—this Death Knight cloaked in unnatural power—did it with nothing more than that strange fog.
The dark haze seeped across the battlefield like liquid shadow, an oily miasma of purple-black smoke that writhed as though alive. The air itself seemed to shudder as it passed, carrying with it the stench of iron and grave dirt. Wherever it touched the fallen—beast, dwarf, or stranger—it slithered into wounds, poured into orifices, and vanished beneath broken armor. And then… eyes snapped open. Eyes that should have remained forever shut.
Within mere heartbeats, soldiers who had died screaming rose again in silence, their movements jerky, mouths slack, jaws gnashing without will. Others swelled with grotesque vigor, warped by the fog's corruption into horrors more monstrous than their living forms had ever been. A dead Osquip's skull split as black bone-javelins pushed through its hide, forming a new kind of abomination.
It was at this moment that Kurman understood why Sarath had called this foe something more than a mere Death Knight. This was no ordinary necromancer's trickery. This was something far older, fouler, and more dangerous.
"Want to eat me? Then see if your teeth can pierce my flesh!" Kurman bellowed, his voice carrying like thunder through the cavernous Underdark.
Around him, the cavern ceiling dripped with stalactites that glistened in the faint blue glow of fungal patches. The Gray Dwarf soldiers—gray-skinned, grim-eyed, and ever pragmatic—had always been creatures of bitter endurance. Hardened by centuries of life in endless darkness, they were distrustful, stubborn, and quick to rage. Yet even they faltered at the sight of their kin rising again, mouths frothing black ichor, swinging rusted axes still slick with their own blood.
Kurman refused to falter. He invoked the Giantization Technique. His veins bulged, runes carved into his flesh burned with red light, and his body surged upward. From a sturdy dwarf of barely four feet, he swelled into a towering colossus of thirteen meters. Bones cracked and stretched, muscles swelled like molten iron poured into a mold, until finally his immense figure loomed like a moving fortress.
With a roar, thick plates of black armor unfolded across his form, forged long ago in the forges of grief and blood. It was his own craft, a masterwork of the Gray Dwarf smiths—layered plates interlocking so tightly even the tiniest crack was sealed, helm concealing even the eyes, only faint blue flames burning through the visor's slits. His weapons did not remain idle either. The absorption shield on his arm grew massive enough to cover a house, and the battle-axe in his other hand extended into a mountain-splitting blade.
The absorption shield and giant axe in his hand also grew in proportion.
He swung. The axe split an abomination in two, a beast with many undead that had once been simple hunting spiders. Its blackened organs spilled in streams, and its bones cracked like dry twigs. Kurman's foot came down, flattening a cluster of risen Gray Dwarves into nothing more than pulp and splinters of bone, their bodies bursting under the sheer weight of his frame. The cavern floor shook with each step, sending tremors through the black stone.
But there was no end. The fog kept working, pulling the dead back into motion, bending them into unnatural forms.
From the ridge above, Arthas looked at the blue flames burning in the eyes of the huge gray dwarf who was fighting more and more bravely in the distance.
Arthas extended his hands once more. His gauntlets dripped with that same crawling fog, and with a guttural incantation, the vapor condensed into shape. Fog itself solidified, writhing and twisting until a spear of pure blackness materialized in his hands, edges jagged and hungry, humming with the sound of gnashing teeth.
Around them, the battle had become a nightmare tableau—Gray Dwarves fighting their own kin, friends butchering friends, every victory drowned by the fog's touch. The Underdark, already a land of eternal gloom, now seemed to pulse with the rhythm of undeath, a place where the boundaries of life and death were collapsing into one.
The clash between gray dwarves hardened by centuries of survival and the unholy tide summoned by the Death Knight was no ordinary battle.
Just as Kurman was cutting through the endless tide of abominations, he felt it—an overwhelming pressure, a killing intent so suffocating it froze the blood in his veins. His instincts screamed. He jerked his absorption shield up, bracing it across his chest.
BOOM—BANG!
The colossal black spear struck with a force that shattered sound itself. Twice the speed of sound, it tore through the air like a god's judgment and slammed against his absorption shield.
The impact was cataclysmic. Kurman's towering body was hurled backward as if he weighed nothing, blasted more than a hundred meters through the air before crashing into a stone-built dwelling. The house crumpled like paper beneath his mass. Two gray dwarf soldiers, too slow to move, were crushed instantly, their bones cracking like brittle twigs under the weight of their commander's body.
"Arghhh!"
Kurman staggered upright, his vision swimming. His eyes fell upon the shield he had forged with his own hands, a relic capable of devouring even legendary attacks. Now it lay in fragments at his feet, utterly destroyed. His heart clenched. This was no ordinary blow—it had been enough to ruin an artifact the Gray Dwarf believed indestructible.