Chapter 24 - Die

"Am I really going to die?"

Gromril looked at the highly corrosive liquid, so concentrated that it was evaporating and subtly smoking, and couldn't help but gasp. His Valaya Ritual had just been used to grant the entire army immunity to poison and was now on cooldown.

Just at this desperate moment, he was pleasantly surprised to find that he had gained another skill point. The continuous battles and slaying of giant beasts had finally allowed him to reach Level Six.

"Ancestor Gods bless!"

The young dwarf mumbled, this time with rare sincerity. He added that point to his ultimate skill – Avatar of the Gods – and immediately activated it.

Gromril had simulated the precautions for activating it countless times in his mind. He didn't forget to remove his gloves and rings to avoid crushing himself or damaging these two precious, exquisite treasures.

A strange energy covered every corner of his body. Gromril's consciousness returned to reality, and he slowly raised his hands, stretching and clenching them. His palms, originally calloused from forging and combat, had now turned to stone.

Gromril then clenched his fists, feeling a significant increase in his strength. But this was no time for testing; he needed to escape as quickly as possible.

"Hammer!"

He raised his hand and recalled his one-handed warhammer. With a reference point, Gromril clearly felt that his body had also grown considerably. His custom-made weapon, which had fit perfectly, was now two sizes too small. He almost completely gripped the hammer handle, and swinging it felt a bit awkward.

"Pfft!"

"Smash!"

Gromril, like Sun Wukong inside the demon's belly, wildly destroyed the inside of the Queen Spider's mouth. His stone body gave him higher resistance; the deadly venom only caused a slight tingling sensation.

"Crack! Crack!"

Finally, with the help of his clansmen's frantic attacks from outside, Gromril saw a ray of light.

"Open up!"

Gromril gripped the hole with both hands and pulled forcefully to either side.

"Whoosh!"

He subconsciously wanted to take a breath of fresh air, but then realized that his stone body, brought about by the Avatar of the Gods, didn't need air.

"This…"

"Ancestor Gods above!"

"Mother Goddess, is it Mother Goddess Valaya's grace?"

"Master Gromril has turned into a statue?"

"Legend has it that among the Black-skinned Pointy-ears, there's a monster called a Blood-Bone Medusa. Gazing into its eyes turns people to stone. Could it be, could it be…"

"Impossible! Master Gromril is protected by the Ancestor Gods! Besides, there was no such thing on that Black Ark!"

"What if, I mean, what if, it was the Mother Goddess's blessing that delayed the curse from taking effect until now…"

Gromril lowered his head, admiring the effects of his ultimate skill. His surrounding clansmen, seeing his appearance, erupted into an unprecedented discussion. Apart from the Giant Spider, which was the main target, the other spiders and greenskins took the opportunity to flee without a trace.

"Too bad there's no mirror right now!"

Gromril heard the various noises. He shook his head, muttered, and then voluntarily deactivated his Avatar of the Gods state, returning to his flesh-and-blood body.

"You, what is this?"

Henrid, as expected of a dragon-slaying warrior, was the bravest. The other clansmen and humans stared, dumbfounded, as a tall stone statue suddenly transformed back into a living dwarf. Only he approached the fastest.

"Oh, it's nothing much, just the Ancestor Gods' care!" Gromril smiled slightly. He decided to maintain an air of mystery for now, giving his clansmen some space to imagine and elaborate.

This skill was originally called Avatar, derived from Sanskrit, meaning "manifestation" or "incarnation." In Sanskrit, the word 'avatar' carries the connotation of a deliberate "descent" or "reincarnation" from a higher realm for a specific purpose, hence it is also translated as Avatar of the Gods.

Gromril hadn't decided what to call it yet, but there was no rush. As the sole chosen one, he held the final right of interpretation. As long as the White Dwarf didn't come out to challenge him, even if he called Chaos Mutation "Ancestor's Blessing," no one could question him.

"Compatriots, we have won! Clear the battlefield, then we'll go check out the fortress!"

Gromril shouted loudly. His subordinates, as if waking from a dream, began to clear the battlefield, tend to the wounded, and burn the enemies' corpses.

Gromril walked back to the most important spoils of this battle – the corpse of the Arachnarok Queen Spider. This enormous spider's body was covered in wounds – scratches from sharp weapons, indentations from blunt force, and shell craters of various sizes.

But the fatal injuries were mainly in two places: one was a large, charred hole from the inside out near the waist, and the other was a large hole in the cephalothorax, which was where Gromril had emerged.

He slowly climbed onto the corpse and came to the shrine. This object, seen from afar on the Giant Spider's back, didn't seem large, but in reality, its size was comparable to that of a dwarf.

"The style of this spider, I'm afraid it carved it out itself over the years!" Stroking the shrine, Gromril knew that the material of this object was extraordinary, otherwise it couldn't have been used to carry divine power.

The Spider Demigod's body was too massive, and its power strong enough. In contrast, its divine power wasn't particularly abundant. If stored within the body like a humanoid creature to amplify itself, it would undoubtedly be a drop in the bucket. It was better to store it externally to reduce losses during release.

However, with the death of the Queen Spider, the divine power also dissipated. Now, this shrine was just a material of excellent quality with a touch of divinity. Gromril sighed, preparing to descend, when he suddenly keenly sensed another trace of divinity.

"No, that's not right!" He mumbled, closing his eyes, and slowly followed that faint sensation. Gromril followed the feeling to the Queen Spider's lower abdomen.

"Smash it open! Never mind, I'll do it myself!"

After giving the order, Gromril thought about it and decided to do it himself. He took Henrid's family heirloom battle-axe and chopped for a long time before finally prying into an existing gap in the spider's carapace.

"What is this?" He rummaged for a while and pulled out a translucent, crystalline, calculus-like object. This was the source of that trace of divinity.

"This power, it seems, seems to be maternal? No, not right, it's reproductive!" Gromril clutched the crystal, slowly savoring it. He vaguely felt a slight connection to the Mother Goddess Valaya's authority he had seen during his initial transmigration.

"My goodness, this spider is truly formidable!" He couldn't help but blurt out after realizing. This spider beneath his feet not only condensed the godhead of a Spider God on its own, but after realizing this path had no future – a god whose main followers weren't even intelligent beings was destined to be a laughingstock.

It decided to take a broader path. Combining its inherent talent, it wanted to become the God of Reproduction! Reproduction is a process almost all living beings go through, which truly opened up its ambitions.

"Am I not strangle ing a genius in its cradle?" Gromril even felt a little regret for the talent. To have fought her way to this point purely on her own, the Queen Spider's capabilities exceeded his imagination.

When a path narrows, how many intelligent beings don't think to take another one? And there are many who think of it but can't do it.

"However, even if I hadn't killed her, Ufric would still kill her later. He was cursed by the Chaos Gods to forever hunt powerful monsters or warriors. Even if she could have escaped that calamity, the End Times were still looming."

Gromril shook his head. Not to mention whether his collar could control a divine creature, given the dangerous situation at the time, he couldn't afford to hold back.

The crystal in his hand was not yet the Godhead of the God of Reproduction; it was merely a crystallization of related divinity. Therefore, it did not vanish with the death of the Queen Spider. Gromril silently tucked it into his in my arms. This item's value was immeasurable, especially for the Dwarf race, and he did not intend to share it with anyone.

As the arson unit returned, the casualty report was handed to Gromril. The battle at Spiderweb Mountain had inflicted the greatest losses on Gromril's army since he took command.

Ten percent were killed outright, and another twenty percent of the troops suffered severe injuries that made them unable to continue fighting. Considering that he would be able to perform healing again once the Valaya Ritual cooldown ended, the injured still had hope of rejoining the ranks.

Most of the deaths occurred under the claws of the giant spiders. A single solid blow from a giant beast, without high-quality armor, could easily be fatal. The massive spider legs, as thick as pillars, had to be filled with lives.

Overall, the Butchers had the highest casualty rate, with half of the warriors finding their deaths. The lowest casualty rate was among the artillerymen in the ranged units; apart from one team directly hit by a giant spider's web spray, there were no other casualties.

Everyone knew they were the main force against the giant beasts. When the giant spiders charged closest, the gunmen and crossbowmen picked up their battle axes and shields to protect the artillerymen.

The dwarves stripped materials from the giant spiders. Their carapaces were tougher than plate armor, and their fangs and claws could almost be used directly as weapons.

After refinement and reinforcement, they should be usable to create exquisite weapons. If they were lucky, the limbs of a demigod might even be crafted into legendary weapons. The Mountains Kingdom hadn't had this level of harvest in quite some time.

At dusk, the dwarves arrived at the main gate of the Spiderweb Mountain fortress. The destruction here was ten times worse than at Red Cloud Mountain. Looking at the gate opening, which had become a large hole, an interesting term, "Silk-Worm Cave," popped into Gromril's mind.

It was a pity that the Queen Spider and other spiders had not evolved the ability to transform into human form. In this regard, the imagination of his former Cathay people was richer.

Another ritual would require waiting for the cooldown, and the first round would definitely be used to heal the injured, so it would be a long wait before they could move in. The dwarves could only begin manual clearing. They destroyed unhatched spider eggs and removed the filth left by the spiders and greenskins.

Gromril planned to continue forward after a brief rest at Spiderweb Mountain. His army still had strength, and Karak-Zorn was not far away.

Gromril calculated his available forces. The number of troops that could be left to garrison was limited, so the larger the cleared area, the greater the defensive pressure.

The spiders had operated here for thousands of years, and the ancestral underground complexes had been extensively modified, with spider holes everywhere. The old maps were completely useless.

Gromril organized clansmen with underground experience to first thoroughly explore the underground network, and then prepared to artificially destroy or block some hard-to-defend locations to reduce the burden on the garrison troops.

Those areas could be cleared later when immigration was complete and manpower was abundant. Wasting a little manpower and resources was better than a group of greenskins emerging from an unknown Fork in the Road.

Unable to stand the foul air in the fortress, Gromril set up a temporary camp on the forest land purified by fire. This forest, covered by spiderwebs for thousands of years, had long lost its vitality.

Three days later, Gromril healed the injured through a ritual, but the large number of people and mostly internal injuries meant he could only control the worsening of their condition; subsequent recovery would have to rely on the dwarves themselves, slowly.

Just as he was in his tent, looking at maps and comparing information sent back by scouts to plan the road ahead, Chieftain Gorat pushed aside the curtain and walked in.

"Respected, uh, Master Gromril, the exploration team has found some things they're unsure about and needs you to take a look!" The middle-aged clan chief bowed deeply before speaking. Gromril had noticed the change in his attitude over the past few days.

Not just him, but the entire expeditionary force now felt an added layer of awe towards Gromril, beyond respect—an awe for things beyond their comprehension.

Gromril had always been highly respected in the Mountains Kingdom, but most of this respect was not for him personally, but for the Ancestor Gods standing behind him. To many Longbeard Elders and experienced clansmen, he was merely lucky to be chosen to deliver messages.

But after he demonstrated his ability to transform into a stone statue and then back into flesh, everything changed. dwarves are a race that respects history; the book of grudges, which every clan possesses, also serves as a historical record.

Although a considerable portion was lost in the earthquakes and fortress collapses of the Dark Ages, the sections concerning the Ancestor Gods and the Golden Age remain well-preserved.

It can be said with certainty that even if dwarves were prone to exaggerating achievements, there was no record of any Ancestor God or hero having the ability to transform into a large stone statue.

Over these three days, Gromril knew that the matter of his Avatar of the Gods skill was the hottest, and almost the only, topic in the entire camp. His silence and the inherent characteristics of the dwarves further fueled the fermentation; every clansmen in every corner was constantly discussing and analyzing.

Rumors, if spread widely enough, become truth. The clansmen who fought alongside Gromril initially went from

"I swear by the Ancestor Gods, I truly don't know!"

to

"Yes, yes, yes! Master Gromril is…"

It only took at most two days, or as little as half a day. Now, the clansmen had directed their speculations towards the greatest beings they knew—the Old Ones, the powerful, mysterious beings said to have created the first Ancestors.

Anagonda's Amazonians also played a role in fanning the flames. These women from Lustria were also awed by Gromril's might. When the dwarves questioned them, they were vague, only guiding the conversation towards the Old Ones.

"What is it?" Gromril looked up and asked.

"A stone chamber. The Amazonians say there are Lizardmen symbols carved on the door. We didn't dare open it. Please come and see."

Tomorrow is the New Year cleanup, taking a day off.

Gromril stood up, like a human silencer, all creatures along the way, no matter what race, couldn't help but lower their heads.

"This feeling is really good!" Gromril secretly rejoiced in his heart; awe gave him a better experience than respect. He twisted and turned along the leyline network until he reached a cave entrance, where Anagonda and Andumgar guarded either side of the entrance.

"Chosen of the Old Ones, you have arrived!" Anagonda's tone was still very awkward; she gave Gromril a strange title.

"The Old Ones left their relics for their most trusted servants to use. To prevent this power from falling into the wrong hands, they set up protective devices and password locks on these relics. As time passed, the power of the protective devices had been weakened, but the mysterious locks still remained."

"Old Ones' puzzle?" Gromril blurted out. He had indeed encountered Old Ones' puzzles in games in his previous life. The Old Ones built two Star Gates at the north and south poles of this planet, and after the Star Gates collapsed and turned into Chaos portals, they withdrew from this world.

"You, you are indeed the one they chose!" Anagonda became incoherent upon hearing this. "The Old Ones have not, have not abandoned their servants!"

"Relax, don't get excited!" Gromril reached out and kept the Amazonians leader, who was gesticulating and pouncing towards him, at a suitable distance. This wild female did not quite appeal to his senses.

"Let me see what this puzzle is first." Gromril walked to the door; the power sealing it was indeed not strong. A rune on his right glove flashed, and with a forceful push, the dust-covered door opened.

"What is this?"

"Never seen before!"

"Could this be the legendary wisdom of the Old Ones?"

Gromril led the way into the inner stone chamber, and other curious members of the expedition also squeezed in. They saw a stone platform, divided into sixteen 4x4 squares, some of which were empty, and some contained circular coins of different colors and numbers.

No members of the previous expedition had seen this set of items before. Although it looked ordinary, when combined with the name of the Old Ones, everyone knew it was extraordinary.

"What does this line of text say?" Gromril pointed to a line of symbols carved on the edge of the stone platform. Gromril judged from the distinct style that they should be in the Lizardmen language, the language of the Lizardmen.

But this language was divided into three dialects, corresponding to the three core species of Lizardmen society: the Slann Mage-Priest, Skinks, and Lizardmen. The Lizardmen language also relied on the unique structure of a reptile's tongue to be pronounced.

Gromril was not sure what it was exactly, but he believed the Amazonians understood its mystery.

"The Old Ones' Enigma - Tehenhauin never likes to say the same thing twice!" Anagonda did not disappoint Gromril.

"Tehenhauin manifested as a feathered serpent. This fantastic appearance made it known among the Lizardmen as the mysterious god of wind and sacred places. Lizardmen blessed by Tehenhauin have purple scales, which gives them additional magical resistance, making them more resilient than their comrades under the attack of damaging spells."

Balin, as Gromril's earliest follower, had been tormented by the clansmen around him quite a bit these past few days, and he was already familiar with all the existing information on the Old Ones.

"This is a Sudoku puzzle, why isn't it the simplest 'spot the difference'?" Gromril muttered to himself, but he also knew in his heart that this one was at least not the most difficult.

The Sudoku puzzles in his previous life were 9x9 grids, requiring each row, each column, and each 3x3 bold-lined box to contain the numbers 1-9 without repetition. This 4x4 elementary school math problem wouldn't even be the final question.

The main difficulty of this Old Ones' puzzle lay in understanding the problem statement; understanding the so-called "never likes to say the same thing twice" made it easy to comprehend.

Gromril didn't know what the bad consequences of answering incorrectly would be, and he was also afraid that if too many people tried one by one, someone would eventually figure it out. So he stepped forward directly and solved it in no time.

"Click!"

"Creak!"

Ten thousand years of time had caused the original mechanism to lose its lubrication. After a strange sound, the stone platform underwent some changes; it split in the middle, and an opening appeared.

Gromril waved his hand, signaling for his Anvil Guard to block the entrance, and strode down amidst the gasps of astonishment echoing through the cave. If the Old Ones' relics were all problematic, he might as well surrender to Chaos on the spot and try to compete for the position of Everchosen.

Just as he stepped down the stairs, Gromril's consciousness suddenly left his body. He once again appeared in a space surrounded by light.

"It's a dwarf?"

A voice sounded. Gromril found that something resembling a Slann Mage-Priest appeared before him, but a voice inside him told him that this was not a Slann.

"Oh, it seems that thing has been activated. Well, those little fellows like to dig tunnels, so it's fitting that it fell into their hands." The toad-like creature muttered to itself.

"You, no, are you an Old One?" Gromril still asked knowingly.

"Old One, hahaha, I didn't expect you to call me that after so many years!" The toad-like creature laughed.

"I'm here because of your power, right?" Gromril frowned, trying to find a topic. To be honest, he didn't like communicating with creatures of a higher level than himself; it was quite tiring.

But this question was actually something he had been pondering. Logically, the Ancestor Goddess Valaya shouldn't have had the ability to accomplish this feat on her own.

During the End Times, her hiding place, Valaya's Gate, was discovered by the Vampire progenitor Neferata. The Rune Master of Iron Peak Fortress, Thorek Ironbrow, attempted to save her. But he fought to the end, even ultimately detonating his anvil of doom, yet he failed to defeat the Vampire Queen.

The Ancestor Goddess was eventually offered by Neferata to Nagash and had her divine power devoured by the Lord of the Undead.

"Indeed, we left behind many interesting little things before we left. Some can cross time, and some can cross dimensions. How about it? Interesting, right!" The Old One was very talkative; he looked at Gromril as if he were an interesting experimental subject.

"Alright, it seems my backing has gotten a lot stronger!" Gromril also laughed.

"Backing, that's an interesting way to put it! Heh heh, I am merely a phantom. Where my true body is, or whether it still exists, I wouldn't know!" The toad-like phantom poured a bucket of cold water on Gromril.

"That doesn't matter, as long as you give me the ultimate right to interpret the Great Plan, wouldn't it be a mere trifle for me to solve the threats facing this world together with your remaining servants?"

Gromril still smiled brightly. The power of the Lizardmen was still very strong; they were all the most terrifying weapons of war, only constrained by their interpretation of the Great Plan and not yet mobilized.

"Good idea!" The Old One's phantom smiled again. "The Slann Mage-Priests were created based on us. The first two generations were indeed a bit too strong, so we made some adjustments to suit the carrying capacity of this world."

In the Warhammer World, Slann Mage-Priests are divided into five generations, with each generation being weaker than the last. The First Generation Slann, Venerable Kroq-Gar, could correct the trajectories of stars. The Second Generation Slann, represented by Mazdamundi, could easily alter continents, raising entire mountain ranges with a wave of their hand.

By the Fifth Generation Slann, Gromril suspected their spellcasting ability was likely similar to, or even slightly inferior to, powerhouses like The Fay Enchantress, Green Prophet, and Dark Omens.

"But you should know, I'm not the only one who can adjust the difficulty for you," the Old One said, waving his arm, which seemed a bit thin compared to his corpulent body. "If it's easy here, it might become extremely difficult there. Are you sure you want to do this?"

"Uh, if we talk here, will the The Four Gods know?" Gromril was startled. He subconsciously looked around. When his consciousness was pulled into the warp in the Rune Smith Guild's forge, he had just transmigrated, fearless as a newborn calf. Later, the more he thought about it, the more he regretted it.

"It's mostly safe here, but you have to go out eventually, don't you?" The Old One stared into Gromril's eyes.

"Alright," Gromril nodded. He was well aware of the Chaos Gods' ability to spawn troops. It seemed he would have to solve problems within a relatively fixed framework. If he wanted to achieve everything in one go, the Chaos Gods' power could suppress even his atomic bomb creations.

"Then, you should give me something, right?" Gromril thought for a moment and still asked for something. He was currently lacking everything: power, equipment, and subordinates—he would accept anything.

"Come here, let me see." The Old One's phantom slightly extended a hand. Gromril obediently moved closer, and the Old One gently placed his hand on his head.

"Heh heh, those little guys made it a bit too rigid, but then again, that's how you Dwarf race were designed to be," the Slann shook his head slightly, but quickly accepted it.

"Alright, I've made a slight adjustment for you, but it will take some time to take effect. That crystal, bring it to me."

Gromril handed over the embryonic form of the reproductive divinity. The Old One gently took it into his hand. "That spider is quite good, isn't it? I watched it grow from your size to what it is now."

"Ah, this…" Gromril was speechless. To be honest, the moment he saw the Old One's riddle, this thought had occurred to him. The Queen Spider's absurd growth likely involved external intervention, and the Old One clearly had that capability, even as a phantom.

"It's alright, life and death are fated. Even if my true body were here, I might not interfere much, let alone as a phantom now?" The Old One dispelled Gromril's worries.

"Do you want to be the God of Reproduction? This method seems more effective than hatching now!" He asked Gromril after pinching the crystal and sensing it.

"God of Reproduction?" Gromril raised an eyebrow. This divine position certainly didn't lack believers. However, he suddenly thought of himself, a male transmigrator, and how embarrassing it would be if he were placed in strange positions by a group of women, perhaps even having strange parts touched.

More importantly, divine spells would inevitably be related to the divine office. If he were to hold back on the battlefield for a long time only to unleash a "stare and impregnate" spell, or even perform a live birth like the Queen Spider, that would truly be a laughingstock.

"Forget it, I'm not very interested in this!" Gromril refused. Anyway, this thing was just an embryo, without any substantial power. Once he settled down, he would have plenty of inspiration to create something better for himself.

"Alright, then I'll feed it back to that little girl through you." Gromril's answer seemed to be within the Old One's expectations. He waved his hand, and the problem was directly resolved.

"This thing just opens a new window; how effective it can be depends on your own efforts," the Old One continued.

"I am just a phantom, after all. The only physical items I can give you are what was originally left behind." The Old One waved his hand again, and a human-sized two-handed battle-axe appeared in the void.

"I left in a hurry back then, so this thing was just casually left for the Lizardmen to use. By your current standards, it probably isn't considered top-tier, but fortunately, there's still room for improvement."

Gromril took it and examined it. The axe was indeed crudely made, a standard Lizardmen style. It was essentially a polished obsidian blade tied to a long stick, and that was it.

In his estimation, this item was at most a rare quality weapon right now, but as the Old One said, it hadn't undergone runic engraving or enchantment yet.

With its excellent quality, it wouldn't be difficult for it to become an exquisite weapon by carrying master-level runes, and with good luck, becoming a legendary-level weapon wasn't out of the question.

"My task is almost done. Go now, and good luck." The Old One's phantom waved his hand, signaling Gromril could leave. Such high-dimensional beings were no longer confined to a single world or even a single river of time. Gromril was at most an experimental subject, and it was uncertain if he was even the most interesting one.

"Alright, I hope we'll have a chance to meet again!" Gromril's temperament was like this: if there was an opportunity, he would certainly strive for it, but he wouldn't go as far as fawning, especially when the benefits were unclear.

Slowly walking out of the stone chamber, Gromril unconsciously changed from holding the newly acquired battle-axe aloft to carrying it by his side.

"This, could this be a gift from the Old Ones? I've seen things like this in the hands of the Lizardmen!"

"The chosen of the Old Ones have come to us!"

"Praise Gromril!"

Anagonda and her female warriors cheered. The cheers, which would normally have been very pleasing, now sounded a bit harsh in Gromril's ears. He vigilantly looked around, as if the The Four Gods' minions were hidden somewhere.

"The Ancestor Gods teach us that it's best to spread less unsubstantiated rumors!" Gromril squeezed out a sentence with a somewhat stiff tone.

The Old One's phantom had warned him. The Chaos Gods were not mere spectators; they were players capable of shattering the chessboard itself. Gromril made up his mind that after capturing Highland Fortress, he would lie low for a period, accumulating strength.

In the following days, Gromril stayed in his tent, silently directing everything, from converting the former fortress site into an outpost, to mapping the surrounding terrain and resource points, and then to settling the wounded and temporarily burying the fallen.

Most Dwarves preferred to be buried in their clan's tombs after death, but some members of the expeditionary force requested to be buried in their ancestors' homeland if they fell in battle.

Gromril needed to fulfill their last wishes according to their requests. Some also required that their clan's heirloom equipment be removed and returned to the deceased's hometown.

Spiderweb Mountain Fortress was actively abandoned by the ancestors who migrated north, so no valuable treasures were left behind. The only decent spoils came from the adventurers killed by the spiders over the years. Anything not corroded by their venom was still in good condition.

The expedition team's harvest mainly consisted of materials, but Gromril and the entire Dwarf race gained even more. Although it would take some time for the Old Ones' system adjustments to take effect, he believed that by then, there would definitely be an option to increase the birth rate.

In the original system, he needed to restore the lost gift of the artifact Valaya and reclaim Karak-Eight-Peaks to perform the ultimate Valaya Ritual. However, the two components of that lost gift—Valaya's Great Goblet and the Enchanted Alchemy Vial—were still nowhere to be found, let alone the reclamation of Eight Peaks Mountain.

A few days later, the expeditionary force set off again. This time, their numbers were significantly reduced. After accounting for the dead, the seriously wounded who needed rest, and the troops left to guard the outpost, Gromril was left with only 1,700 men.

For the garrison of Spiderweb Mountain Fortress, he had originally favored Count Marvin, a Questing Knight. This nobleman, from the Duchy of Bastonne, was as formidable in combat as the previous Fatis, and even surpassed him in knightly virtues, with relatively rich management experience.

However, this Knight was more dedicated to his expeditionary oath. He refused to stay here, demanding to follow the expeditionary force all the way to Highland Fortress. Therefore, Gromril entrusted the task of guarding and clearing out the remaining spiders to Chief Gorat.

The expeditionary force set off again, following the Mountains for another five days, until a vast, endless plateau appeared before them.

This was the place called the 'Lost Plateau' by previous adventurers. Karak-Zorn was named Highland Fortress because it was built here, and adventurers believed that the lost fortress lay at the end of this plateau.

"Lady above! This place is simply Her divine realm!"

"Besides Quenelles and Carcassonne, I don't know where else there is such a large expanse of fertile land!"

"Why did our friends in the Mountains leave this place?"

The dwarves and Amazonians didn't react much; these folk who lived in the Mountains and rainforests weren't very keen on flat land. But the Errant Knights cheered.

Most of these Knights who had crossed the ocean to join the adventure had given up hope of accumulating enough merit to earn a fief, and had instead decided to earn a fortune to live out their old age.

But now, seeing this new, undeveloped land, their desire for territory rekindled. Gromril, seizing the opportunity, declared that contribution points could also be exchanged for land, and that other Bretonnian people would be allowed to buy land here to live and produce in the future.

This was already part of his plan. Currently, the Dwarf race's population was limited, and even fewer were willing to leave the fortresses where their clan had lived for thousands of years to migrate here. Developing the Southern World's Edge Mountains would inevitably require the help of humans with sufficient populations.

And Dieter IV's name was still on the great book of grudges. The traditional ally, the Empire, was out of the question for now, so the Knight Kingdom became the top choice.

The part of the Lost Plateau near Spiderweb Mountain originally belonged to a Green Skin tribe, the same one that had participated in the war between the dwarves and the spiders.

Although they withdrew in time, avoiding a fight to the death with the spiders, they still suffered considerable losses. Their leading shaman dared not face Gromril's army directly and evacuated their original encampment in advance.

"A bit of trouble!" Gromril looked at the remnants of waste in the Green Skin encampment and shook his head slightly. He wasn't afraid of the Green Skins lining up against him, fighting a battle of stone knives against axes, and bows against guns. What he feared was the Green Skins constantly harassing his army from behind.

"Send out the scouts, and the helicopters too! We're almost there. The Ancestor Goddess tells me that the lost homeland is at the end of this plateau."

Gromril sat on a rock ram, shading his eyes with his hand as he gazed into the distance. As a transmigrator, his love for helicopters surpassed that of any dwarf lord these machines had served since their inception.

He wished he had an aircraft circling overhead at all times, and as a result, the theoretically sufficient fuel he had brought was now almost depleted. There was currently no way to replenish such a thing.

"Master Gromril! By the Old Ones, no, by the Ancestor Goddess! I can hardly believe my eyes!" By night, Gromril was comparing data with the strategic map in his mind, planning the final route, when Altman-Rockbrow burst in directly.

"We've seen a group of fellows we've never encountered before. They're very primitive, like..."

"Lizardmen? Let me go see. I hope the Slann of the Southlands still know how to interpret the Great Plan." Gromril looked up and mumbled. He vaguely remembered that the Slann of the Southlands had lost contact with their older, more powerful brethren in Lustria.

Due to a lack of guidance, many Lizardmen in the Southlands had even degenerated into brutal, unintelligent beasts. Some spawning pools couldn't even hatch Lizardmen anymore, and leaders could only train Skinks, originally meant for logistics, to fight.

"No, not Lizardmen. I've been to Lustria and seen those fellows. These, well, they're a bit like humans, but very short, not much taller than us, and as primitive as Savage Orcs!" Altman used three similes in a row, indicating how difficult it was to describe the fellows he had seen.

"Such a thing exists?" Gromril was also shocked. In the game, the Southlands shouldn't have anything strange. He picked up his newly acquired two-handed axe, but then thought better of it, put it down, took his warhammer in hand, and walked out of the tent.

Several short, dark-skinned humanoids appeared before Gromril, surrounded by the Iron Hammer Guards. Their exposed bodies were adorned with colorful paint resembling the war paint of Savage Orcs, and they wore a collection of bones and religious symbols as embellishments.

The dwarves showed great curiosity towards these fellows, who were only about a dozen centimeters taller than them, but the words from their mouths seemed to be an ancient language with a heavy accent.

Just then, an elderly explorer stepped forward. He was Brann Bronzebeard, nicknamed for his brass-colored beard. He was no simple explorer, but a renowned explorer throughout the Old World.

Brann's travels had covered almost the entire world. He compiled and published his adventure stories, which became very popular reads and also earned him funds for his adventures.

However, he was also quite controversial, with many questioning whether his stories were fabricated, as he lacked both human witnesses and much valuable physical evidence.

Brann tried to communicate with them, and after mumbling for a long time, he finally got a general idea. "These fellows must be Pygmies. They say their god sent a divine oracle, saying that the evil power entrenched in Spiderweb Mountain has vanished, and sent them to investigate."

"They have gods too?" Gromril scrutinized the Pygmies. Although he wasn't tall himself now, he didn't stint on malice towards these equally short but more shabbily dressed fellows.

Seemingly recognizing the person in charge, the Pygmies started chattering again. Brann Bronzebeard couldn't be bothered to translate word for word and communicated with them directly.

"Master Gromril, these fellows say they live at the foot of the Mountains, but their original dwelling places have been encroached upon by spiders and Greenskins for years. They greatly admire you, the warrior who can slay a spider demigod, and hope you will allow them to utilize the resources on the mountain."

Brann truly was a dwarf who had published several books. His ability to grasp key points and express himself was outstanding, not just among Dwarves, but possibly even among Elves.

"Ask them how many people there are in total!" Gromril tugged at his beard. He was currently short on population; there were only so many Dwarves. Having locals as a supplement would be a good thing, provided these Pygmies could manage themselves.

"They say there's one town, seven or eight villages, about ten thousand people," Brann reported.

"That should be fine. These fellows don't seem very strong fighters," Gromril said, nodding as he looked at the Pygmies' melee weapons made of bone, wood, and stone, and their crude blowpipes.

Those sent out for reconnaissance wouldn't be the old, weak, or sick. They had to be the most elite or at least second-tier armed forces; otherwise, wouldn't they just be extra meals for the spiders?

"Tell them they can use the resources in the Mountains, but they have to prove they're worthy of using them. The Greenskins whose spines we broke should be dealt with by them. If they can eliminate them—er, never mind, if they can prevent them from interfering with our expedition, then I'll agree."

Gromril thought for a moment and lowered his demands. These Pygmies probably didn't have much combat power, but if pushed too hard, they might join the Greenskins in attacking him, which would still be a hassle.

After another round of mumbling, Brann indicated that they needed a written commitment. Gromril naturally had no objection. He took out a runic contract, quickly wrote it up, and then hesitated at the signature line.

"Never mind, let it be." He wrote down the title "Lord of the Southern World's Edge Mountains." According to custom, any lost fortress without a clansmen of sufficient status to claim it belonged to whoever reclaimed it.

Moreover, the current High King Thorgrim, who would approve it, was his father, and the expedition, supposedly guided by the Ancestor Goddess's oracle, already had a strong claim.

After handing the treaty with his fingerprint to the Pygmies, Gromril watched their retreating figures and silently prayed. For a possible Greenskin pursuit, he only had the strategy of reducing cooking fires in his mind.

But even the cleverest stratagem requires the opponent's cooperation to be effective. Gromril sincerely doubted whether the leading Savage Orc shaman had the keen observational skills of Pang Juan.

The dwarf army continued its march. Gromril had originally wanted to wait for the Pygmies' true leaders to arrive and discuss things before leaving, but considering the many days it would take for them to come and go, and the possibility of further discussions, he didn't know when they would arrive.

Although his side was supplementing food by hunting in the jungle, the wine, which the Dwarves valued as life, was steadily diminishing. The reduction in wine supply had caused some subtle complaints among his subordinates, so Gromril decided to proceed to the final destination as quickly as possible.

The army advanced continuously across the Lost Plateau. Facing this endless, featureless plateau was undoubtedly a huge drain on their mental energy. For a normal small-scale expedition, this was a more terrifying danger than large groups of enemies.

Facing enemies, they could detour, retreat, or attempt a quick breakthrough, but facing the trials of nature, fewer numbers would endure greater pressure. Without landmarks, it was even difficult for them to determine which direction to go.

Over thousands of years, even the most successful expeditions had been forced to turn back after days of trekking across this plateau due to various reasons. But Gromril was different from his predecessors.

He had the strategic map in his mind to control the general direction, and knights and helicopters to scout the path ahead. Some large wild animals encountered along the way were merely extra meals for such a large army. As long as morale remained high, it could be said that nothing could stop him.

"Giant Eagles! There are Giant Eagles in the sky!" Ten days later, when Gromril was less than a hundred kilometers from Highland Fortress on the strategic map, Andumgar came in to report.

"Isn't it normal to have Giant Eagles on the plateau?" Gromril sat on his rock ram, frowning deeply. The entire expeditionary force was very tense; they were completely isolated deep in enemy territory, and there wasn't as much game on the plateau as in the forest.

"They shouldn't be wild; they have the Pointy-ears' insignia on them!" Andumgar held up his binoculars.

"How is that possible!"

"What nonsense are you talking, young'un!"

"At your age, you must have heard the term Pointy-ears in bedtime stories, haven't you?"

The surrounding clansmen cried out. This place didn't even have the Sons of the Mountains themselves, so how could there be High Elves? They should all be singing, dancing, and composing poetry on Ulthuan.

"Investigate carefully!" Gromril's tightly furrowed brow lifted slightly. He vaguely remembered a High Elves stronghold in the Southlands, but several years had passed since his Crossing, so his impression wasn't as clear.

"Dawn Fortress!" Altman emerged from the side.

"It's at this location, near the southern tip of the Southlands. It's a stronghold of the Pointy-ears. Sailors call it Sun Island, seemingly because the time they see the sun each day is exceptionally long!"

Gromril narrowed his eyes. This world was also round, so it was no problem for high-latitude regions to have longer daylight hours.

"When was this fortress built? Why? To seize our homeland?" Gromril had been a bit irritable these days. The Ancient Sage's phantom's warning had put pressure on him; the Chaos Gods wouldn't sit by and watch him develop slowly.

"To my knowledge, Dawn Fortress was built in the eighty-second year of the reign of the ninth Phoenix King, Morvael the Rash, which was over a thousand years ago," Brann Bronzebeard said loudly.

"How do you know so much?" The young Altman was startled.

"You have to learn to respect beards, young fellow. I've been to Lothern. It's written in my second book, 'Mysterious Lands.' Perhaps you should read it!" Brann stroked his bronze beard, smiling proudly.

"Lothern, their Sea Guard are quite famous!" Gromril mumbled. They were a standing army of the High Elves, armed with spears, shields, and capable of using bows.

"You are truly as knowledgeable as the rumors say!" Brann praised.

Lothern is an important city of the High Elves, situated on the Lothern Strait, serving as the gateway from the outer sea to the inner sea.

It is also the location of the Phoenix King Court of Finubar, the current Phoenix King and Lord of the Seas.

During his time as High Prince of Eataine, Phoenix King Finubar reopened the port of Lothern, allowing human merchant ships to enter under the guidance of High Elven vessels.

Consequently, trade between the High Elves and human nations flourished once more.

Finubar was a great navigator and diplomat; he re-established contact with the forces of order in the Old World, even including the dwarfs.

After he ascended to the throne, a small number of dwarfs even visited and resided in Lothern, which was previously unimaginable.

Gromril stroked his beard, thinking that if given the chance, he would very much like to reconcile with the High Elves and rejoin forces to fight against Chaos.

In fact, this was not impossible; during the End Times, Thorgrim once allied with the legendary heroes of the High Elves to rescue Alarielle the Everqueen from Nagash's clutches.

"Dawn Fortress should be a large seaport, intended to protect and eventually control the eastern sea trade route to the Cathay Empire, as well as to prevent any attacks by Dark Elf pirate ships."

Gromril listened to Brian while thinking.

The middle-aged adventurer received continuous praise from the surrounding clansmen.

"Then they shouldn't come looking for trouble with us, but if those Pointy-ears dare to seek death, even if they are Phoenix Guards, I will make sure they stay here forever!" Gromril fiercely punched the air; he was determined to reclaim Highland Fortress, and not even Nurgle's Daemonic Army could stop him.

"Go to Balin and get a beer, tell him it's specially approved by me!" Gromril gave Brian a thumbs-up, then led his army onward.

Another day later, three magic chariots pulled by giant eagles landed a bowshot away in front of the dwarf army.

Each chariot carried two or three High Elves; this was the first time Gromril had seen these guys since his transmigration.

They were indeed as the legends described: golden-haired, blue-eyed, and tall.

They wore armor that was overly ornate by dwarf standards and carried long spears and bows, which dwarfs disdained to use.

However, the dwarfs knew that while these Elves looked slender, they were actually muscular, possessing strong control and explosive power.

"Lothern Skycutters!"

"Pointy-ears!"

"Prepare for battle!"

Shouts erupted through the ranks, one after another.

The dwarfs quickly formed battle formations, and some clansmen even pulled out their personal book of grudges, flipping through it to find the grievances they would need to shout during the fight.

"I am Prince Afazel, the nephew of His Majesty Phoenix King Finubar, Lord of Dawn Fortress, Guardian of the Southern Seas, from the Kingdom of Eataine! dwarf, let someone of appropriate standing among you come forth and speak with me!"

"Bah! Cowardly Pointy-ears, you're not worthy!" roared Henrid, who was serving as the vanguard.

He rested his battle-axe on his shoulder and used a free hand to adjust the forest dragonhide cloak on his back.

"Our leader is the Chosen of The Old Ones, the Divine Chosen of the Ancestor Goddess, the Emissary of the God of War, the One Acknowledged by Whitebeard Ancestor, the Slayer of Demigods, Vice-President of the Rune Smith Guild, High Prince, Stormhammer, Gromril the Generous!"

Listening to the long string of titles, Prince Afazel was stunned.

He licked his lips; the young dwarf riding a golden rock ram, slowly moving to the front of the army under the protection of his guards, was actually so outrageous!

He thought that even his uncle, Archmage Tyrion, the Great Lord of the War Council, nicknamed the Dragon of Cothique, probably couldn't come up with such a set of titles.

He wondered which of The Old Ones was referred to as the Chosen of The Old Ones, and which demigod was slain by the Slayer of Demigods.

"Ah, where, where are you going?" Seeing Gromril had already reached the front, Prince Afazel recovered and spoke.

This arrogant but not foolish High Elf did not want to immediately test what the so-called "Stormhammer" was with his Phoenix Helm.

"Pointy-ears, listen to me!" Gromril spoke in a deep voice.

Although he was annoyed at the moment, he still managed to show the necessary patience.

"My clansmen and I are going to reclaim the ancestral homeland.

Anyone who dares to stand in the way of the Sons of the Mountains will suffer our wrath.

Do not say you were not warned!"

"Hmph! May you keep your promise!

If you dare to covet my fortress, the arrows and spears in the hands of the Asur will surely harvest your beards!" Afazel uttered a threat, and the giant eagles gently flapped their wings, lifting the Skycutter chariots into the air.

The High Elves' chief deity is The Old Ones Asuryan, and the Elves often refer to themselves by a variation of his name – Asur, meaning Sons of Asuryan.

His divine power is perhaps the strongest among all deities in the Warhammer World.

Legend has it that he was once killed by Khorne but resurrected in flames, and even the Lord of Skulls could not defeat him.

Only Greater Daemons can maintain stable forms near his temple without being banished.

Watching the Elves' retreating figures, the dwarfs became excited; they all knew they were close enough to their goal, otherwise, the Elves at the end of the Southlands wouldn't have come to block their way.

Gromril's troops continued to advance for three days, and every Clansman was in good condition, but Gromril secretly worried as he looked at the map.

He suddenly felt that everything was too smooth; no Greenskins, no Elves, would he just pass through the Lost Plateau and reach Karak-Zorn like this?

"Deliver my command: slow down a bit.

We are almost there; a few steps won't make a difference!"

Gromril's order was carried out; a considerable number of clansmen felt that something was amiss, though most of their worries were about those Pointy-ears.

The next day, it was still normal by noon; Gromril even began to doubt his own war instincts, when suddenly, the anvil of doom, carried by guards behind him, lit up on its own.

"Not good! Prepare for battle!"

Gromril leaped off his rock ram and climbed onto the anvil; he saw that this treasure had turned red-hot, which meant the concentration of the Winds of Magic nearby had far exceeded normal standards.

"Who could it be? Teclis? Sent by Lileath to stop me?" Gromril wondered, his first suspicion falling on the Archmage of the White Tower of Hoeth.

But that was not the case; a dark green portal appeared in the void before them, and a nauseating aura emanated from it.

Accompanied by the howling Winds of Magic, a group of green, slimy things descended upon the mortal world.

"Nurgle's Daemonic Army!"

"Hahahaha!"

"Caw! Caw! Caw!"

A large group of grotesque, squawking creatures, looking like miniature Nurgle, making funny faces, with small, green, and swollen bodies, rushed out.

"The plague cauldron bubbles, the path to rebirth is joyful. High and low, all fall, tirelessly spreading divine grace!"

A loud and even slightly comical voice echoed from the depths of the portal. Nurgle, in the eyes of his followers, was a benevolent deity, spreading rebirth, laughter, and happiness rather than plague, so Nurgle's Daemonic Army was always smiling and generous.

Every dwarf gripped their weapons tightly. To be honest, among the forces of the Chaos Gods, Nurgle's Daemonic Army was probably the one that fought the dwarves the most. dwarves were very immune to plague and corruption, which made the God of Corruption even more eager to conquer them.

All sorts of Nurgle Daemons poured out of the portal, and Gromril keenly noticed that there weren't too many high-ranking ones. This might be due to his anvil of doom; this area didn't have enough Winds of Magic to sustain the Daemons' manifestation.

Before the dwarves could comment on this relatively small Chaos force, a large palanquin, carried by a swarm of Nurglings, emerged halfway from the portal.

"Stumpy dwarves! Long time no see, hahaha! I hope you like my new concoctions!" With a spine-chilling roar, the giant creature straddling the palanquin with splayed legs poked his head out of the portal.

"Nurgle's Palanquin?"

"Could it be?"

"By the Ancestor Gods!"

Gromril's clansmen grew tense, and Gromril himself had a bad premonition.

"You disobedient little darlings, you made I, Kugath, the Father of Plagues, lose grandfather's favor!" A huge, green Great Daemon appeared, with a distended belly that opened into a gaping maw, and antlers like a deer on his head.

"Kugath, the Father of Plagues!" Repeating the name of the Nurgle Great Daemon before him, Gromril licked his lips. In his previous life's game, the The Four Gods' Daemonic Army hadn't appeared yet; he knew of this one only through his current life's memories.

While other Great Unclean Ones diligently spread plagues, Kugath became obsessed with researching and training new viruses. To acquire more test subjects, he occasionally left his laboratory to descend upon the mortal world.

According to the records in the great book of grudges, the dwarves had thwarted Kugath's attacks three times. Two of these were in Karaz-A-Karak, once during the initial advent of Chaos and again approximately two thousand years ago.

The most recent time was in Zhufbar, over a thousand years ago, when the Chaos Gods made a wager, each sending their subordinates to attack a city. Nurgle sent Kugath—at that time, his foremost Great Daemon.

However, with the help of Zhufbar's own war machines and reinforcements from Butcher Keep and Everpeak, Kugath failed, and he consequently lost the favor of his grandfather Nurgle.

Gromril took the newly acquired two-handed battle-axe from a subordinate beside him; he was already prepared to use Avatar of the Gods. Previously, the Ancestors were able to defeat this Great Unclean One mostly by leveraging the fortress's advantageous terrain; now in an open field, he could only clash head-on with this former Nurgle's foremost Great Daemon.

As the Plague Palanquin squeezed out of the portal, the unstable passage instantly became overloaded and trembled. After another Great Unclean One squeezed through, the portal directly collapsed. This one appeared to be a relatively lower-ranking Daemon.

Nurgle's sacred number is seven, and the Great Unclean Ones are also ordered by powers of seven. Not every Great Daemon receives the same favor from the Ruinous Powers; this one was noticeably smaller than Kugath, and his antlers were much shorter.

"You stumpy dwarves are such a nuisance. Come on, try this! My new creation!" Kugath looked at the closed portal behind him with a hint of dissatisfaction. He rummaged in his messy palanquin, grabbed a mass of filth, and hurled it towards the dwarves.

"Get out of the way!"

"No!"

Even dwarves with poor eyesight knew not to get hit. They quickly changed formation, letting the mass of filth hit empty ground. But before they could celebrate, a splash of green erupted.

Several nearby clansmen, unable to dodge in time, were splattered. Gromril saw their armor corrode at an alarming rate. Two quick-thinking ones ripped off the contaminated parts and threw them away.

But one Clansman, who hesitated for a moment, had the affliction spread to his skin. His flesh rapidly sloughed off, and rashes appeared on his body. He tried to scratch twice, and large chunks of rotten flesh fell off. The poor man died almost instantly.

"Hahaha! Looks good! By combining the rotten disease with pustules and sores, I can finally let you appreciate the beauty of rebirth and bathe in grandfather's grace!"

Kugath was very pleased with his new product. In this short time, Nurgle's Daemonic Army had deployed, and the rear-guard dwarves were also in position.

A layer of green mist, known as the Cloud of Flies according to the Ancestors' records, covered Nurgle's troops and the sky above them. Plagues permeated their surroundings; if the troops engaged in prolonged melee combat, the Cloud of Flies could enhance their melee defense.

The temporary poison immunity Gromril had previously cast on the army had not yet worn off. This might be effective against the poisoned attacks of ordinary Nurgle Daemons, but against the plague specifically concocted by Kugath, the Father of Plagues, for the dwarves, even Valaya herself would likely fall victim.

Watching the Father of Plagues sitting on Nurgle's Palanquin, digging more putrid bombs from his pouch, Gromril knew he had to act quickly. If this Great Daemon stayed in the back, throwing bombs from afar, no matter how many troops he had, they wouldn't last.

"Poof!"

Gromril wiped his finger across his ring, using a Rune Fireball to blast Kugath's second bomb in mid-air, then took off the ring and tossed it aside.

"Charge! In the name of the Ancestor Gods!"

Gromril roared, activating Avatar of the Gods and transforming into a towering stone statue. His breastplate and war boots were taut against his body. Gromril wielded the newly acquired battle-axe, swinging it; the size was just right.

"Kugath, come and meet your death!"

Gromril's stone body naturally retained the ability to speak, and his voice seemed even louder.

Kugath was also momentarily stunned when a living dwarf suddenly transformed into a moving stone statue. This Great Unclean One had long resided in the 'Gallows Tree' within the Chaos Wastes, researching new plagues, and thus lacked some combat experience compared to other Great Daemons of his rank.

"Smash!"

Another putrid bomb shot over, hitting the stone body without even a ripple. A virus mutated specifically for dwarves would naturally have no effect against someone who was no longer literally a dwarf.

"Go back to your sewers!"

Gromril roared, swinging his great axe at the Nurgle's Daemonic Army in the front ranks. The most numerous of Kugath's subordinates were Nurglings. These creatures, cultivated by the Great Unclean One himself, looked like miniature Nurgle. But Kugath's belly was full of pus, producing more and better Nurglings.

Gromril watched the Nurglings trying to scratch and bite his legs, gnawing at his ankles. But these little creatures' attacks could no longer harm him, as he had transformed into a stone statue.

"Get back!"

Gromril stomped his foot hard, unleashing a Thunder Strike. In his Avatar of the Gods state, he no longer needed to smash his hammer into the ground as a wind-up for his abilities.

A circle of shockwaves emanated from Gromril's left foot, and the surrounding Nurglings were either directly scattered or sent tumbling. Gromril broke free from their interception and, along with his clansmen, continued to push towards Kugath.

"What is this! Do you think this can trouble grandfather's Plague Lord?" Kugath roared, seeing the pitiful state of the little creatures that had burst from his body. Nurgle himself was his grandfather, and he, in turn, was the grandfather of his Nurglings.

"Go!"

Kugath raised his pus-filled arm, and a cloud of plague miasma spread out. Gromril noticed his surrounding clansmen slowing their pace, their attacks becoming somewhat feeble.

Some humans with weaker resistance immediately began to vomit, the putrid smell making it unbearable for them. They looked as if they were trying to throw up everything in their stomachs.

Gromril himself was unaffected by this spell. He continued to charge forward, with the Questing Knights following behind him. These powerful warriors, who had sworn the Grail Vow, were overjoyed to see the towering Great Unclean One; a Great Daemon was far more exhilarating than a dragon!

The Nurglings gathered in a rolling mass, moving fastest and reaching the front of the line. Behind them was a group of non-daemon units.

These creatures were about the same height as humans, but had been so disfigured by Chaos mutation that they no longer resembled human form—they were covered in scars, and their skin, oozing brownish-green pus, was almost completely obscured.

They had only one bloodshot eye on their forehead, which constantly wept pus, and a single horn protruded from their head, a mark of Nurgle's Rot.

These Plaguebearers of Nurgle gathered together to block the path. Alongside them fought a group of toad-like monsters, taller than humans, also one-eyed and horned, and filled with disgusting filth and pus.

Gromril wielded his great axe; his stone form greatly enhanced his strength, and these low-level monsters could not stop him. Each of Gromril's strikes sent two or three monsters tumbling back to the Chaos Realm.

But his clansmen were not so fortunate. Although the enemies' disease-ridden weapons could not poison the blessed warriors, the large swarms of fat-headed flies around Nurgle's Daemonic Army still interfered with them.

Gromril found that the Chaos Daemonic Army, like undead creatures, was immune to fear and routing. However, compared to skeletons and dried zombies, these swollen bodies could withstand much more damage without falling.

Gromril's clansmen's breakthrough speed clearly slowed. To avoid being separated from his clansmen, he also had to slow down. But with a guttural cackle, another cluster of explosive projectiles was thrown by Kugath.

The green mist on the battlefield grew thicker. Gromril chopped off a proboscis shot by a Plague Toad with his axe, then swung his hammer to smash a Plaguebearer who was riding on a toad's back and attempting to attack him.

Plaguebearers were all mortals infected with Nurgle's Rot in life. Some who mastered horsemanship would track Plague Toads in the darkest sewers of the Realm of Decay, driving them out of their foul lairs and then capturing and taming them as mounts.

These toad-riding riders could use their mounts' relatively fast speed within Nurgle's Daemonic Army and sheer physical weight to overwhelm some lightly armored units, but they were still insufficient against Gromril's elites.

Gromril's ranged forces were also unleashing projectiles. Although their unreplenished ammunition had been largely depleted after continuous battles along the way, these clansmen knew this was the most crucial moment.

If they won, Highland Fortress was within reach; if they lost, there would be no defensible positions on the Lost Plateau, and it was feared that everyone except the knights would perish. Therefore, they fired continuously, not caring if their guns and cannons overheated.

Kugath, the Great Unclean One who hated dwarves, watched his clansmen fall under the barrage fired by the dwarves, so enraged that the pus-filled boils on his cheeks burst open, and a grinning Nurgling crawled out from within.

Time flowed differently in the Chaos Realm than in the mortal world. To Kugath, it felt like only a short while since he had emerged from the punishment of the Soul Forge, yet how had these stubby ones' firepower become so strong?

Besides the burning crossbow bolts and handheld flamethrowers that had caused him trouble in the dwarf fortress by the waterfall before, this group also had several multi-barreled cannons and handheld devices that fired projectiles with fiery trails.

Not to mention the Plague Toads, even one of his Nurgle Beasts had been obliterated by concentrated fire. That enthusiastic little creature, which behaved in every way like an overly excited and lively large dog, only the unromantic stubby ones could bring themselves to kill it!

Kugath waved his fleshy arm again. The Lesser Great Unclean One beside him nodded and led some elite units to meet Gromril, who was currently charging.

"Great Unclean One! Bah! You bloated lumps of flesh aren't even fit to carry Tzeentch's shoes!"

Watching the Great Unclean One stride forward, one hand holding a flail covered in filth, the other waving a bell radiating a blasphemous aura, Gromril provoked him, intending to take on this powerful opponent himself.

The Chaos Gods are constantly warring, and Nurgle, the Lord of Decay, and Tzeentch, the Lord of Change, are arch-enemies. Tzeentch symbolizes constant change, while Nurgle's power comes from eternal despair.

In their unending antagonism, Tzeentch directly opposes his unexpected evolution and transformation against Nurgle's endless and stagnant cycle between closed life and death.

"grandfather doesn't like feathered creatures! Little brat, you don't deserve to join us, you should only turn to dust!" The Great Unclean One swung his flail down.

"Good!"

Gromril inwardly cheered, rolled forward, and chopped his axe at the Great Daemon's ankle.

"Snap!" The Great Unclean One's attack hit nothing, but it did send several daemons crowding around Gromril flying.

A flail was originally an agricultural tool, with a series of wooden or bamboo strips attached to a long wooden handle, used for threshing grain. But as a weapon, it consists of a handle, an iron chain connecting to the hammerhead, and the hammerhead used for attack.

"Pfft!"

Gromril brought his axe down with force, but couldn't cut too deep. A gush of green decaying pus sprayed out, hissing as it hit the ground.

Although Great Unclean Ones wear no armor, with their tough, leathery necrotic hides, they are still the most resilient among the The Four Gods' Great Daemons, second only to the Bloodthirster.

"This is truly unpleasant!"

Gromril grumbled, forcefully swinging his great axe upwards, but it was just another superficial wound. The Great Unclean One's skin was already riddled with scars, and Gromril suspected that these corrupted lumps of flesh no longer had any discernible weak points.

"Crack!"

"Hoh! That's quite a powerful blow!"

Gromril's eyes were fixed on the Great Unclean One's every move, not noticing the other Nurgle forces around him. He was struck twice by several human-sized monsters, more severely mutated than even Plaguebearers, using their twisted limbs.

These creatures were like ravenous beasts, possessing a madness not found in ordinary Nurgle forces. Unlike Nurgle Plaguebearers who were once mortals, these Forsaken were once powerful and proud Chaos Warriors.

They had once dedicated themselves to the ambition and glory of the Dark Gods, but now they indulged in slaughter driven by rage and endless hunger. These Forsaken furiously attacked Gromril, but could only leave some marks on his stony body.

Gromril stomped his foot again, shaking them off, then spun his great axe, granting them release. But then, the Great Unclean One's flail and Kugath's explosive projectiles followed in quick succession.

"Ugh, ah, ah!"

Gromril cried out in pain. He threw his hammer, deflecting the Great Unclean One's flail head, while simultaneously using his great axe to hack at his leg. This choice was not an issue, but Gromril was overconfident and did not dodge the explosive projectile thrown by Kugath.

The previous specially formulated plague for the dwarfs had no effect on Gromril, like a stone sinking into the sea, which made him lower his guard. But how could the former first Great Daemon under Nurgle be an easy opponent? Kugath would not stumble in the same place twice.

This time, his explosive projectile had been replaced with a type effective against stone, and its powerful corrosive properties almost instantly created a large pit in Gromril's ribs. Even in his Avatar of the Gods state, Gromril found the immense damage difficult to bear.

Fortunately, Rogov and the other Slayers caught up. An opponent like the Great Unclean One ignited their fighting spirit even more than the previous Spider Demigod. If they could slay this Great Daemon with their axes, they would be able to call themselves Daemon Slayers.

"Plbbblblbl!"

The large mouth on the Great Unclean One's belly suddenly spewed out a large amount of filth. Gastric juices, tissues, undigested food from his last meal, along with highly toxic gas, rained down on the charging warriors.

The filth he spewed also spread, clearing a fan-shaped area in front of him. Fortunately, the Slayers who had survived until now were experienced enough to deal with supernatural creatures, and everyone knew that such a large mouth on a belly wouldn't be for show.

Although weakened by the Great Vortex, the Great Unclean One was even more difficult to deal with than the Ghorgon they had encountered earlier. Unlike the Four-Armed Bull Centaur, who relied purely on brute physical strength, as a Greater Daemon, he possessed intelligence and a certain degree of spellcasting ability.

In addition to swinging his flail left and right, the bell in this Great Daemon's hand also rattled, making the surrounding monsters even more frenzied and disturbing the warriors' minds.

While the dwarfs did not achieve immediate results against the High-ranking Daemons, for the lesser Nurgle Daemons, these dwarfs, who had received divine blessings and were immune to ordinary plagues, were sufficiently powerful opponents.

The dwarfs' heavy armor effectively prevented the Nurglings' biting and tearing, and the Plaguebearers' rusty weapons from attacking. Their abundant artillery and flames, in addition to causing great damage, also made it difficult for these lumps of flesh to regenerate.

Kugath was originally seated on the Nurgle palanquin, gathering the Winds of Magic to try and tear open another portal, so as to bring more minions from the depths of the Chaos Realm onto the battlefield, but something seemed to prevent him. This Great Daemon never succeeded.

Seeing his children being continuously overwhelmed, Kugath could no longer hold back. He was no longer content with merely throwing Nurglings and explosive projectiles from afar; he was ready to join the battle directly to reclaim his lost favor.

"Wahahaha, my children, the Plague Tour is about to begin, let us all bathe in grandfather's grace!"

"Gurgle, gurgle! Stone dwarf in my tummy!"

The Plaguefather shook his head and began his rotten-to-the-sky address. This Great Daemon was a versatile individual. Besides being skilled at researching new plagues, he was also the great leader of his army, possessing immense power to inspire all who bore Nurgle's mark.

Gromril watched as the palanquin, laden with various chemical instruments, gradually approached, surrounded by a throng of Nurglings. A hint of tension appeared on his literally statue-like face.

Although previous records suggested that Kugath was not particularly strong in single combat, this was in comparison to first-tier Great Daemons. He was certainly a few points stronger than an average Great Unclean One, and they couldn't deal with the current one in a short amount of time!

Kugath and the Daemons around him advanced like a rolling green tide, grinning menacingly as they moved.

Gromril shouted loudly, cheering on his subordinates and reorganizing their scattered formation to meet the impact.

"Sons of the Mountains! Kugath, this filthy abomination, is no match for us! Our Ancestors have defeated him three times before, and now we too can defeat him again in Karak-Zorn, the Ancestral homeland, and settle our grievances! Fight! In the name of the Ancestor Gods!"

"Brothers, the most evil and vile daemon has descended upon the mortal world, and the Lady's gaze must surely be upon us! For the Lady!"

Count Marvin was not to be outdone. This powerful Questing Knight believed that his opportunity to drink from the Grail lay with Kugath, and his mount was also restlessly pawing the ground.

"dwarf! Rotten wood cannot be carved, and a wall of dung cannot be plastered!" Kugath looked down from above, displeased by the dwarfs' gleaming armor, as dense as fish scales, and their shield wall, harder than bedrock.

The Plaguefather had a deep understanding of the dwarfs' strength. These individuals had naturally high physical resistance, were difficult to corrupt spiritually, and were incredibly tenacious, fighting until only one remained was not uncommon.

"Come!" Kugath raised his hands, and the dwarfs found the ground beneath their feet trembling. A huge, foul, and pulsating pustule rapidly grew, and before they could scurry away on their short legs,

"Puff! Bang!"

This swollen lump suddenly burst, splattering its disgusting liquid, along with all its diseases, onto Gromril's subordinates. This plague, from Kugath's hand, was effective against dwarfs, and humans and Amazonians could not escape its wrath either.

"Ugh, ah, ah!"

"Ugh!"

Gromril watched his subordinates within the spell's range being directly knocked to the ground by the underground explosion. As the toxicity spread, many who were not directly hit were also infected and were now wailing in agony. Anger and heartache made Gromril's eyes feel like they would burst.

"Rotting, swelling! Pretty potent, isn't it?"

Gromril's subordinates were wailing in agony, but grandfather Kugath was not faring well either. He sat on his palanquin, panting heavily, the Winds of Magic in the surrounding space depleted from opening the portal.

He had drained his last reserves of the Winds of Magic to cast the powerful Nurgle-aligned spell known as "Wither and Swell."

Gromril activated the Valaya Ritual, hoping to save as many of his subordinates as possible. The green specks of light that appeared out of nowhere were incompatible with Nurgle's Daemonic Army's toxic mist, and they began to cancel each other out before they could even reach the wounded.

"dwarf, very bad!"

The Great Unclean One reached out, grabbing at the air. Spellcasters of this level undoubtedly had extra magical reserves and were excellent conductors of the Winds of Magic themselves, so he tried to recharge himself.

Kugath was furious, and Gromril was equally so. He knew he couldn't let Kugath continue casting spells like this.

"Bloated fat corpse, I'm going to squeeze all your pus out!"

With Gromril's roar, he hurled his warhammer. The max-level Stormhammer, combined with the extra strength from his Stone Golem form, made this strike exceptionally powerful.

Kugath was massive and slow-moving, and sitting on his plague palanquin, he had nowhere to dodge. He took the Stormhammer hit directly, falling backward. It took the Nurglings carrying the palanquin a long time to stabilize their creator.

But this was still not enough. grandfather was constantly approaching, and Gromril's subordinates were about to face his wrath. Just then, a strange sound echoed across the battlefield.

"Caw, caw, caw! Kugath, it seems the daemonfire in the Soul Forge didn't teach you a lesson!"

A blue portal suddenly appeared above Kugath's head, and a red feather shot out from it, embedding itself directly into the plague father's pustule-covered back.

"You are? Za-Zarok! How are you here? Are you going to go against me, do you dare to go against me?" Nurgle's once most favored child was experienced and, upon seeing the feather, instantly deduced who was about to ruin his plans.

"I'm telling you! This dwarf is not right, he's a variable! If…" Kugath tried to reason with the newcomer. He had lost the initiative, and opening the portal and casting spells had exhausted his strength. He was clearly at a disadvantage against the one hidden within the portal.

"Caw, caw, caw, in your brain, no, you rotten lumps of flesh don't even have brains, you just wait for shit in a filthy latrine, only you disgusting things would be happy," Zarok cackled, interrupting him.

Through the blue portal, the "caw, caw" cackle, and the mysterious feather, the identity of the interloper was self-evident—a Great Daemon of Tzeentch, a Lord of Change.

The surrounding dwarfs loudly mocked the endless infighting of the Chaos Gods, but Gromril remained tense. Although more than four years had passed, he still remembered his initial interaction with Tzeentch during the Guild assessment.

Although Tzeentch and Nurgle were enemies, he couldn't believe the nonsense that an enemy of an enemy is a friend. For Tzeentch and his Great Daemons, the concept of a friend simply didn't exist.

A blue, bird-like daemon stepped out of the portal. He was a huge, feathered creature with a carrion bird's head on a precarious, dangling neck.

The Lord of Change used the dagger in his right hand, shaped like an enlarged clock hand, to tap the staff in his left hand. The top of the staff was a large golden clock with countless twisted hands.

As the golden clock turned, the red feather on Kugath's back trembled simultaneously. The plague father tried to resist the Lord of Change's power, but in his weakened state, he was powerless against the ambush of a Great Daemon of the same rank.

In an instant, Kugath was sucked into the portal. From the intense dark power emanating from it, the other end must have been the Chaos Realm. This world was already repelling daemons from the warp; pulling a weakened Great Daemon from the other side and banishing him was not difficult.

Kugath departed the mortal realm amidst his own roars. The Lord of Change, Zarok, cackled as he too stepped into the portal. As the last few feathers disappeared into the gateway, the eerie blue portal closed.

"Brothers! Kill! Drive these rotten lumps of flesh out of our world!"

With Kugath's sudden banishment, both sides on the battlefield were stunned by the abrupt change. Gromril was the first to react, roaring as he brought his axe down on the Great Unclean One's knee.

"dwarf, either become a child of grandfather, or be crushed by us!"

This lesser Great Unclean One had existed for an unimaginably long time. He reacted quickly, immediately taking command of the daemonic army. Daemons in the mortal realm would not be truly killed; their souls would eventually return to the warp, though this process could be somewhat lengthy.

With Kugath banished by a Great Daemon of Tzeentch, grandfather Nurgle's attention must have shifted here. If he could prove his capabilities under grandfather's watchful eye, not only would his resurrection process be accelerated, but his power might also increase.

The two sides clashed once again. Gromril shook his body, shedding the eroded fragments of stone. In his Stone Golem state, his injuries would not significantly impact his combat, but the Avatar of the Gods would be forcibly dispelled if he sustained damage beyond a certain limit.

A large group of more elite Nurglings swarmed to the Great Unclean One's feet. These creatures were Kugath's personal guards. Zarok, of course, would not have taken them along when he banished Kugath.

There were many theories about how Great Daemons, these higher-ranking daemons, came into being, but according to the plague father himself, he was a Nurgling that sprang from Nurgle himself. This origin led him to produce stronger and more robust Nurglings.

For Gromril himself, elite Nurglings could not harm his stone body, but for the bare-chested, unarmored Slayers, it was a different story. These experienced and more ferocious little creatures tied down the warriors attempting to encircle the Great Unclean One.

Gromril raised his hand and recalled his hammer. He decided to dual-wield to increase his damage a bit. Theoretically, wielding two battle axes was a good way to combat large units,

but firstly, the newly acquired battle axe, though a product of the Old Ones, was simply made and inferior in quality to his one-handed warhammer. Secondly, using heavy two-handed weapons also required extra practice; Gromril had previously just swung wildly with the brute force provided by the Avatar of the Gods, wasting a significant portion of his strength.

He roared and fought the Great Unclean One, hammering and axing, trying to destroy the physical form of this powerful daemon.

His stone body had been considerably damaged by Kugath's ranged attacks, and Gromril dared not test his limits. Therefore, he constantly rolled and moved, dodging the flail's tricky strikes while circling and attacking the Great Unclean One's pillar-like thick legs.

"Instead of injuring ten fingers, it's better to sever one!" Henrid, who was commanding the melee troops, saw Gromril fighting for a long time with little result and shouted a reminder.

"Easier said than done! One of that guy's fingers is as thick as my thigh!" Gromril grumbled to himself.

The Great Unclean One was thick-skinned and tough; an axe blow would cause a burst of pus.

If he wasn't immune to normal toxins, he might have been finished long ago.

"Hmph!"

Although he grumbled, Gromril knew Henrid was right.

He forcefully threw his hammer, smashing it into the Great Daemon's right hand, which was wielding a flail.

"Ugh, ah!"

It seemed one of the Great Unclean One's fingers had been broken, and he let out a painful howl.

Gromril seized the opportunity, turning his battle-axe sideways and pushing it directly into the Great Daemon's ankle.

He wasn't actually trying to break the Great Daemon's finger; he just wanted to buy himself some time.

This area had been repeatedly struck by Gromril, and the rotten thick skin had already peeled off, exposing disgusting, green, moldy-cheese-like tissue.

His two-handed axe sank in until its back met resistance, and Gromril knew that was bone.

"Hah! Yah!"

Gromril raised his stone fist and heavily smashed it onto the axe's back.

"Crack!"

The axe blade was driven inward a little by the impact, but it wasn't enough.

Gromril gripped the axe handle and rotated it slightly, trying to find a gap between the bones.

The Great Unclean One reacted; no matter how tough he was, he couldn't endure an axe repeatedly cutting at his joint.

The Great Daemon tried to shake off the dwarf beneath his crotch, but at this moment, Gromril's subordinates provided him with help.

They poured as much cannon fire as possible onto the Great Daemon's body, forcing him to shield his head and face with his arms.

Gromril seized the precious opportunity, pressing his advantage.

After pulling his warhammer back, he smashed it hard onto the axe's back again.

"Clunk!"

This blow did not disappoint Gromril.

The battle-axe finally severed the Great Unclean One's ankle joint.

Losing a point of support, the massive mass of rotten flesh knelt down like a mountain collapsing.

"Gurgle!"

"Ugh ah!"

The Great Unclean One's upper and lower mouths "erupted" simultaneously.

Filthy stomach acid and equally blasphemous daemonic sounds startled Gromril.

"Charge together!"

"Banish the Great Daemon, save the world!"

"This is an opportunity to bring glory to our ancestors!"

The Great Unclean One's bloated belly sagged to the ground.

Gromril and his subordinates could finally reach the Great Unclean One's relatively core areas.

They swarmed him, wildly swinging their weapons.

Fighting a Great Daemon, a direct subordinate of the The Four Gods, was an experience even more commendable than fighting a dragon.

Even in the days when dragons were very active, slaying a dragon was merely for defending a city or a specific area.

In the current stage, where dragons were gradually falling into slumber, dragon slaying was more about personal gain, seizing the treasures accumulated over a dragon's long life and the materials from their bodies.

Unlike the barbarians in the north who worshipped the Chaos Gods, and the cults of evil gods hidden in cities—these "Chaos-led armed forces"—Great Daemons were part of Chaos itself and the true core components of the Chaos forces.

These dark powerful beings certainly didn't descend to the mortal world to do good deeds.

Every warrior who fought against them could proudly claim to have contributed to saving this world.

The dwarfs discovered that the power of Nurgle's Daemonic Army was gradually weakening.

These summoned daemons were not receiving replenishment of power because their summoner was banished and the portal was closed.

These daemons began to become unstable, and some of the weakest even disintegrated on the spot.

One after another, members of the ranged units ran out of the limited ammunition they had before the battle.

They took off their personal weapons and quickly joined the melee.

Both crossbowmen and gunmen carried their preferred weapons.

The addition of this force completely overwhelmed the tottering daemon front.

The daemons, already demoralized by the disappearance of their leader Kugath, were annihilated in droves.

The last few Nurgle Chaos Spawn, twisted and mutated to the extreme, were destroyed.

These monstrous creatures were covered in incredible spines, eyes, and mouths.

In life, they had all been powerful Nurgle Chosen.

As grandfather's blessings accumulated, those Chaos cultists with sufficiently strong minds might eventually ascend to become Daemon Princes.

However, most were not so lucky.

Chaos mutation twisted and destroyed their minds from the outside in, turning these former warriors into mindless beasts.

"Waaagh! All things must decay, and this world will eventually belong to grandfather! When that time comes, I will return!"

The Great Unclean One uttered two harsh threats before collapsing under the siege of hundreds of people.

With his disappearance, the remaining Nurgle's Daemonic Army completely lost its support, and their physical forms instantly disintegrated.

"Phew!"

Gromril let out a long breath and deactivated Avatar of the Gods.

In the recent battle, he was undoubtedly the primary target of the Great Daemon's attention.

After taking several hits, his armor was in tatters, and his body was nearing its limit.

Fortunately, the original injuries were not inherited when he transformed back from the stone statue to his flesh body.

He surveyed the battlefield, a mix of the joy of victory and the grief of loss washing over him.

"Drip! Drip!"

A few tears streamed from his eyes, and Gromril turned his back, wiping them away fiercely with the back of his hand.

The summoned daemons left nothing behind after disappearing, so those lying on the ground were all Gromril's subordinates.

Honestly, he could accept troop losses; there's no war without casualties.

He also knew that the deaths of these brave clansmen were valuable and meaningful.

But accepting that people who were alive and well yesterday, sitting and laughing together, had gone to another world today, required time.

"Clean up the battlefield! We'll march a bit further before setting up camp!"

Gromril turned around, a resolute expression returning to his face.

As a commander, he didn't have much time for sorrow.

The arrival of Nurgle's Daemonic Army had severely eroded this battlefield.

The land was pitted and scarred by corrosive venom, and evil green fungi grew wildly.

Gromril couldn't expend energy purifying it now, so leaving quickly was the best strategy.

The clansmen swiftly collected the bodies of the fallen, leaving only the erosion and bloodstains on the ground to tell of the great battle that had just occurred.

"Are there that many?"

Gromril looked at the casualty report Balin handed him.

"Alas, and this is after the Mother Goddess's divine grace saved quite a few."

Balin had one arm in a sling.

The battle had been critical, and he had joined the fight to protect the artillery crew.

This young man had grown a lot in recent years, which was essential for him to shoulder greater responsibilities in the future.

This expeditionary force, which had set out from Spiderweb Mountain with seventeen hundred people, had now been sharply reduced to twelve hundred, of which two hundred were severely wounded and unable to walk on their own.

Despite heavy losses, Gromril noticed that his clansmen's morale had not fallen; instead, it had risen even higher. First High Elves blocked their path, then Chaos Demon armies directly appeared. Everyone knew they were on the right path and were nearing their objective.

Every member of the expeditionary force was eager to march on foot to Highland Fortress, but the wounded and war machines forced them to slow their pace. Gromril appeared confident on the surface, but in reality, he pulled out his map almost every hour to confirm their location and direction.