Ogrim had a very long dream.
During the battle in Hillsbrad, to cover the orcs' retreat, he was surrounded by dozens of elite soldiers of the First Legion; although he fought desperately, he eventually ran out of strength and fell on the battlefield.
The moment before he closed his eyes, he threw his Doomhammer with all his might towards Go'el, and countless human knights' lances and soldiers' longswords pierced his body.
The legendary life of the infamous former Warchief of the Horde, Ogrim Doomhammer, ended here; this orc showed no fear or dread in his dying moments, but rather a sense of relief.
At least he died honorably in battle.
In a daze, Ogrim's thoughts drifted back to Draenor, the orc homeland; he saw his good friends Duratan and Draka, and their child Go'el, growing up strong in the snow and ice of Frostfire Ridge.
The orcs adhered to their simple traditions, no longer bringing death and fear to other worlds and to the orc tribes themselves; they had not abandoned the traditional shamanic path, living in harmony with nature and the elements.
"Go'el… I hope you don't blame me."
Ogrim originally had a chance to escape, just as he had in the past. But he knew he was old, no longer the invincible Orc chieftain; the orcs needed a new leader.
'The last wielder of Doomhammer will lead the orcs to prosperity before falling into the abyss of destruction, and then, Doomhammer will pass into the hands of an orc not of the Black Iron clan, and this orc will lead the Horde back to glory.'
This was the prophecy given to this famous warhammer after it was forged; Ogrim had completed the first half, and he would not have the chance to see the second half.
Finally, Ogrim's vision faded into darkness, his weary hands could finally relax, but what he still retained was a trace of guilt and self-reproach, both towards the orcs and Draenor, and towards Azeroth.
"We have no choice; if we don't fight, there is only annihilation."
After his most respected human opponent, Grand Marshal Anduin Lothar, was defeated by him beneath Blackrock Mountain, Ogrim was very puzzled as to why the humans did not rout, but instead erupted with even greater morale.
Later, he understood that at that time, the Alliance was no longer united for profit, but, like the orcs, was fighting desperately for survival.
Ogrim knew well that the entire Horde had been deceived and betrayed by Gul'dan and his Shadow Council; their shameful actions had caused the orcs to lose their homeland, lose their reason, and bring war and slaughter to every corner of Draenor.
The part of them that still retained conscience believed that the orcs' actions were not glorious, and they felt ashamed of the innocent blood on their hands.
The orcs sought battle and victory, not meaningless slaughter—Ogrim knew this well, but as the faction leader, he could only grit his teeth and lead the orcs down a path of unknown right or wrong.
The survival and demise of the entire race rested on his single thought; he could not harbor unnecessary kindness and pity, and even if morally condemned, Ogrim had no choice but to do it.
This was also why he chose to die in battle: the humans gave him a very good opportunity, sending out their most elite troops to encircle and annihilate the orcs.
He hoped his death could bring about the orcs' rebirth, and he himself could lay down his heavy burden and die in "honor."
But sometimes, things do not develop as he imagined.
When Ogrim opened his eyes again and sat up from the cold ground, he felt his "difference."
His powerful muscles and formidable physique had not changed, and were even stronger, but his originally dark skin had taken on a bloodless pallor.
Newly resurrected, Ogrim felt his mind was very chaotic; a large amount of complex knowledge and power he had never possessed surged restlessly within him, and he had to concentrate to calm himself down.
"I… I should be dead."
The Orc muttered to himself, very confused about his state. He looked around, and apart from endless glaciers and gloomy clouds, there was nothing familiar to him.
A biting cold wind blew over him, but Ogrim, shirtless, felt no coldness at all, only the sensation of wind blowing.
The wounds caused by the blades and lances healed under the influence of dark magic; he felt his rejuvenated body, no longer showing any signs of previous old age, as if his body had returned to its peak youth.
Undoubtedly, he was now stronger than he had been in life; he possessed the combat experience of a lifetime of warfare, and a body even more formidable than in his youth.
After he calmed himself, an expression of anger appeared on Ogrim's face—he thought of something: the Death Knight created by Gul'dan during the Second War.
Was that traitor Gul'dan still alive? The surging rage made it difficult for Ogrim to control his emotions; he sprang up from the ground, searching for the orc warlock's figure.
"Ogrim, it seems your ritual was also completed well; you didn't turn into a mindless zombie."
This voice?
Ogrim was startled at first; although the voice carried a mysterious soul tremor, he could still easily recognize its owner.
But that guy should have been dead already! Dead under his warhammer!
He turned around in surprise and uncertainty, seeing a familiar figure; his resolute face and somewhat mocking expression were something Ogrim would never forget.
"Anduin Lothar?! Aren't you dead?!"
"Heh heh, not just me, aren't you dead too?" Anduin Lothar was looking at Ogrim with a meaningful gaze.
The orc didn't know what emotions were in Lothar's eyes, but there was definitely no hatred.
Ogrim frowned; he always felt that Lothar was somehow different.
"Wait… how did your hair grow back? I remember you were bald long ago, weren't you?"
Lothar's mysterious air instantly crumbled; the Grand Marshal said with a twitching mouth, "Hey! Is your attention only focused on such things?"
Anduin Lothar had used dark magic to "grow" his hair; although it meant nothing to a dead person, as a great noble in life, he still cared very much about his appearance.
If it hadn't been for his excessive toil and busyness during the Orcish Wars, he wouldn't have lost so much of his thick hair from his youth in just a few years.
To avoid eventually becoming "half bald," Lothar made a difficult decision: to shave his head.
Unfortunately, being bald didn't give him a critical hit; instead, in his duel with Ogrim, his opponent "critically hit" and broke his sword, losing the battle.
"Where is this? Is our current state also Gul'dan's conspiracy?" Ogrim no longer dwelled on the hair issue, but directly asked the doubts in his heart.
"This is Northrend, the northernmost land of Azeroth; our current location is the northernmost tip of the northern land, called Icecrown Glacier."
Lothar explained their situation to Ogrim, "And now we stand on the topmost layer of the glacier, the Lich King's symbol of power, the Frozen Throne."
"Lich King… what is that?"
"That's the one who resurrected us both. By the way, his predecessor was named Ner'zhul; you should know that name."
Ogrim's expression was one of deep astonishment, "Ner'zhul?! I thought that coward was dead long ago!—And you said resurrected, so where is the one who resurrected us?"
"He went to preside over another ritual," Lothar seemed a bit helpless, "These young people nowadays, they even exploit the labor of the dead."
"What do you mean by that?"
"It means: congratulations, you have awakened from a long slumber, and then you will work hard again. Before, I served the Alliance, and you commanded the Horde, but now we both serve the Scourge."
Ogrim frowned deeply; he found such coercive behavior unacceptable, as it was a desecration of orc tradition.
"I cannot accept such a thing; at worst, I will challenge this Lich King. Either I defeat him, or I return to the ancestors once more."
Lothar spread his hands, "What you choose to do is your decision. My current task is to take you to meet this 'Lich King.' But before that, you'd best come look at this; the view from here is quite good."
Leading Ogrim to the edge of the Frozen Throne's platform, Ogrim was shocked to gaze upon the boundless, nascent form of the Icecrown Citadel and the endless Undead Scourge.
"This is only a part of the Undead Scourge's power. Now, most of Northrend's territory is under the Lich King's dominion."
"Such a vast number… what is his purpose in creating these? To create more meaningless slaughter?"
"These weren't actually created by him, but by Ner'zhul—as for the purpose, it's a bit complicated to explain, but it's completely different from what you imagine, otherwise I wouldn't have chosen to assist the new Lich King."
Lothar's gaze was equally complex; he didn't know whether Arthas's choice was truly correct, but this mysterious prince, even when he was a child, had once asked him a question.
"Sir Lothar, are you willing to abandon your identity to protect human civilization, to protect Azeroth?"
At that time, Lothar merely smiled and replied, "If it's not for protecting everything I cherish, what meaning do those empty titles have?"
But what he hadn't expected was that, over a decade after his death, the little prince from back then had actually gained power capable of shaking the entire world.
There was no longer Grand Marshal Anduin Lothar; standing here now was the Highlord of the Death Knight, Anduin Lothar.
"Let's go, Ogrim, I'll take you to the armory, and then to meet our superior."
Ogrim, who had initially intended to refuse, remained silent after a moment of thought, following Lothar's footsteps away from the Frozen Throne's platform.
Before leaving, Ogrim glanced at the empty throne and the strangely shaped helmet placed upon it.
Ten minutes later, Ogrim, covered in heavy runic plate armor, adjusted his shoulder guards while chatting with Lothar.
"There's even armor here that fits an orc—and the material is more extraordinary than any metal I've ever seen."
Even the black steel plate armor he had worn before couldn't compare to the current set of runic plate armor.
"This is saronite armor; both its strength and toughness far exceed ordinary metals, even surpassing precious metals like Black Steel and Thorium. Its production is also much greater than those rare metals; countless saronite ore veins are buried within the glacier beneath our feet."
"Such high-quality metal, and you humans didn't use it before?" Ogrim was clearly puzzled.
"Heh heh, that's because the extremely cold Northrend is simply not suitable for us to live in. Our current bodies don't feel the cold, but this place is a forbidden zone for any life."
"Moreover, saronite has a characteristic: it causes corrosion and damage that ordinary people cannot withstand; only the Undead are exempt from this effect."
Ogrim nodded; Lothar's explanation had already made him aware of the advantages and disadvantages of this metal, but for the Scourge, this metal had absolutely no drawbacks.
The most difficult mining process was simply not an issue for the Undead, and its side effects had no impact on the Undead, making it the most suitable metal for the Scourge to use.
Both Icecrown Glacier's strategic location and its resource distribution seemed tailor-made for the Undead; Ogrim's excellent strategic insight quickly made him realize that the Scourge's master had grand ambitions.
Seeing his old opponent's solemn expression and silence, Lothar, still playing the good-natured old man, smiled amiably, "You must be worried now that if the master of the Scourge makes trouble, your orcs might also be affected, right?"
"Hmph, orc warriors don't fear these fragile bones."
"How many strong soldiers do you have left after two great wars? You're dead, which means the orcs' situation isn't optimistic, is it?" Lothar hit the nail on the head, full of mockery, "Or were you also killed after being challenged by a new chieftain? Blackhand would probably jump out of his grave with joy."
"I'm not in the mood to argue about this with you, Lothar; you just need to know that we don't fear any challenges," Ogrim avoided delving deeper into the topic. The two stopped before a closed gate, "How much longer until we can meet this Lich King?"
"This is it."
Highlord Lothar pushed open the black metal gate before them, and Ogrim quickly felt an overwhelming sense of oppression.
That voice, which almost caused Ogrim's soul to resonate, nearly stimulated his long-still heart to beat again.
"Sir Lothar, you're here."