Chapter 30 - Grimoire

As the party entered Sea Gate, Gromril keenly felt the tension in the air; fully armed patrol teams appeared periodically at crossroads. Lord Panos knew why his fortress prospered so greatly, and he was very attentive to Gromril's affairs.

"The Lord requests your presence in his office!" the gatekeeper of Sea Gate came forward to greet them.

"What's going on? Can pirates really break into Barak-Var?"

"Your guest, the friend of the Mountains, Kasimir VII, the pastor of Heldens Hammer's followers, has arrived. The dark treasure he is escorting is coveted by countless evil demons." The gatekeeper licked his lips, clearly very tense these past few days and lacking the sustenance of beer to avoid mistakes.

"How did the news leak?" Gromril muttered. Although this wasn't what he wanted, it seemed that, by convention, escort missions were always accompanied by unexpected events; humans were too easily tempted and corrupted.

"Mission accomplished!"

The old dwarf and the Lord's personal guards stood together, surrounding a chest burning with holy flame. Despite the divine fire of Sigmar and the runes on the chest itself, Gromril could still feel the dark power pulsating within, perhaps like a beacon in the darkness for users of necromancy.

"You've worked hard. Where are the injured? I will treat those brave warriors." Kasimir VII's left arm was in a sling; for the High Lector to be injured clearly indicated a series of fierce battles.

"That would be excellent. But let's complete the handover first." The High Lector gestured for the surrounding dwarves to step aside. With one hand, he reached through the divine fire and abruptly opened the chest.

"Hiss!"

Dark and blasphemous magic surged out like a raging tide. Gromril gasped, feeling as if they even wanted to burrow into his body through his pores.

"Close it quickly!" Everyone present knew this was no joke, but before he finished speaking, a clamor erupted outside.

"Bang! Bang!"

"Ding! Clang!"

"Ugh!"

The surging magical power acted like a flare, as gunshots, sword clashes, and the muffled groans of the injured echoed one after another.

"Clang!"

Kasimir quickly closed the lid of the chest, and the dwarves drew their weapons, ready for battle. But moments later, silence fell outside the room again.

"A Zombie Dragon, repelled by our cannon fire."

"Your Excellency guessed correctly; there were indeed corrupted individuals among your subordinates. They suddenly launched an attack just now, but thankfully we were prepared."

"There was an anomaly at the Ancestor's Tomb, but fortunately the Rune Smiths reinforced security in time."

Several messengers brought back good news, and Gromril breathed a sigh of relief. It seemed that Kasimir and Lord Panos had made contingency plans; dwarves were hard to tempt, and it was difficult to raise an army of the dead in the fortress. Nagash's followers wouldn't be able to cause too much trouble.

Gromril used a ritual to treat the injured. Kasimir VII's forces had been halved during the previous journey and the recent fierce battle. The High Lector's expression was grim; those he had chosen to accompany him to the Southlands were the core strength of his sect.

"Sea Gate and the Dreadfleet haven't really engaged, but according to reliable intelligence, Admiral Count Noctilus is a Vampire. His desire for those two evil grimoires is probably ingrained in his bones."

Lord Panos muttered worriedly from the side. Dealing with undead pirates was already not easy, and if that Vampire Admiral were to ally with other kin who coveted the Nine Books of Nagash, Gromril's pressure would be even greater. Considering the ships belonged to Sea Gate, he would suffer losses regardless of victory or defeat.

"You can rest assured on that point. Although he comes from the Von Carstein family of Sylvania, he should have fallen out with his blood relatives on land. Otherwise, he wouldn't have dragged his castle into the sea."

Gromril offered a word of reassurance, "More importantly, it's greed. He will want to keep the evil grimoires to himself. Let us discuss how to help them rest in peace forever!"

Returning to the office, they took their seats as host and guests. Gromril handed the sealed chest to Gotrek for safekeeping, trusting that this young strongman could deal with anyone who coveted them.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, don't look so gloomy! I have a plan that might allow us to eliminate those floating corpses without shedding a drop of blood." Gromril tapped his wine glass, trying to lighten the mood.

"This…"

"By the Ancestor Gods!"

"The Sons of the Mountains do not belong in the ocean!"

Gromril's speech, rarely, received no agreement. The dwarves present all looked displeased. It was understandable; a group of individuals who would sink upon contact with water were to fight deep in the ocean, and as the attacking force no less, they held no advantage in timing, terrain, or human cooperation.

"Sea Gate still has submarines, right?" Gromril asked. His elder brother Grom had acquired one two years ago to explore sunken treasures beneath Black Water Lake.

"Yes, but that thing has almost no combat capability," the head of the Marine Engineers Guild stood up. The dwarf navy's hypothetical enemy was still the High Elves, and underwater combat had little future when facing high-level spellcasters' detection.

"Then what about sea mines? I presume there are many in stock?" Gromril didn't answer but continued to ask.

"Indeed, many," the Old engineer nodded again. Before Gromril's transmigration, Sea Gate's navy's primary task was to safeguard the Black Gulf. Sea mines were inexpensive, powerful, easy to deploy, and difficult to detect and clear, making them perfectly suited for defense.

"But they need to be deployed in advance, with sufficient density at key points to be effective. In the vast ocean, no matter how many…"

"Then it's easy!" Gromril interrupted the old dwarf's rambling. He burst into laughter, "I have a brilliant plan! Notify the fleet to set sail on an auspicious day! The Southlands are waiting for my return!"

Sea Gate's fleet set sail in a grand spectacle; news of their departure could not be kept secret. As several bats flapped their wings high in the night, they landed on an island in Brigand's Strait.

"Let me see how those fellows who crawled out of cracks in the rocks will beg for mercy from the esteemed Count Noctilus!" A tall Vampire, wearing a wide-brimmed captain's hat and with spikes covering the armor on his back, rose from his throne.

He raised the halberd in his hand, allowing the bats to land on its blade. Count Noctilus then lightly flicked it, performing a halberd flourish, cleverly retrieving the secret message carried by the bats into his palm.

This action would appear very elegant in human eyes; such aristocratic demeanor was a major characteristic of the Von Carstein family. Unlike the other four bloodlines, they were skilled at infiltrating human society.

"What? They dare to come straight over to their deaths? Gromril-az Thorson, hmph, even if he can banish a Great Unclean One, he can't float in the sea!"

Count Noctilus held Gromril, his opponent, in high regard. The King of the Southern Lands was currently riding a wave of popularity, widely considered a figure adept in both politics and military strategy.

"Relay this Admiral's command! Dispatch all the fast boats! I want to know the movements of those landlubbers, every single moment!" He turned to look below his throne, and an Arabyan man with a turban stood forward.

"As you wish, Lord of the Shipwreck Graveyard." This Arabyan was the Executive Admiral of the Dreadfleet. Besides his undead servants, Count Noctilus had brought in two additional forces: the Arabyan pirate king before him and a skeleton wearing a captain's hat sitting opposite him.

This Nehekhara and pirate-style fellow was King Faruk of Zandri, a monarch from the same era as Settra. After being reawakened, he saw that he was no match for The Undying Emperor. To avoid subjugation again, he and his Liche Priests imbued his pyramid with buoyancy, taking to the sea to become a pirate.

The two of them watched the dwarf fleet, laden with treasures, pass through their territory again and again, practically drooling. But deterred by the gaping muzzles of the Dreadnought's main cannons, they dared not act. As soon as Count Noctilus raised his banner, they immediately rallied to his call.

"Continue the music!" Count Noctilus issued a few more commands before sweeping his cloak and sitting down. A beautiful female servant filled his goblet with crimson liquid.

"Oh, oh! Look at the sea! A band of heroes emerge from the mist! Anchor the tides, chase the bright moon, calm the waters, search for hidden treasures! Break the waves, tame the ocean, how strong can this beast be?"

The pirates' shanties rang out, and some undead creatures that still retained the ability to vocalize responded with roars. Skeletons, zombies, ghosts, and humans gathered together, the desolate pirate cove resembling the underworld.

A few days later, the leaders of the Dreadfleet gathered again. The Arabyan pirate king looked grim. He ordered his subordinates to hang a sea chart.

"The dwarf fleet left the Black Gulf three days ago, but after entering the open sea, they slowed down. To maintain pursuit, two of my ships were sunk by carrier-borne aircraft!" He pointed at the sea chart with his scimitar.

"Slowed down?"

"Why? Is the mighty Plague-Dispeller afraid of death?"

"Could it be that he knows we are ambushing him here?"

The unusual behavior of the dwarf fleet sparked discussion among the leaders. Evil forces outside the Mountains generally chose the moniker "Plague-Dispeller" to refer to Gromril, indicating that he had defeated and banished Kugath, Nurgle's foremost Greater Daemon, and not some random nobody.

To be honest, the thought of facing such a powerful individual made the pirates nervous. Gromril, at the end of a long expedition, managed to defeat Nurgle's Daemonic Army; how much more formidable would he be with a strong and well-equipped army? The power of the Stormhammer was also rumored to be legendary, but undoubtedly no one wanted to test it with their own head.

"Are you sure this is their only route?" Count Noctilus stroked his chin, pondering. The dwarves' ironclads were largely unaffected by wind and tide, so a sudden slowdown likely meant they were planning something.

"Ullatip's messenger told us that to reach the mouth of the Great River Mortis, they must pass through here," Faruk's raspy voice drifted over. His territory was in this vicinity, and for him, lying in wait on the only route was his bread and butter.

King Faruk had poured all his efforts into making his pyramid pirate ship, the Zandri Curse, buoyant. To give it propulsion would require more than a few Tomb Priests, so the ship was powered by hundreds of skeleton oarsmen, making its speed far from ideal.

"They shouldn't have any other place to go!" Count Noctilus made his decision, "Increase surveillance, not just at sea but also in the air! I will send out my bats, Faruk, and don't hold back your skeleton vultures either!"

"You are truly wise! Worthy of being a dignitary of Sartosa!"

"The dwarf ironclads have carrier airships and helicopters, so the air definitely cannot be overlooked!"

"It must be! Intelligence from shore says that Gromril likes flying contraptions, and his tricks will be exposed before your wisdom, Count!"

Flattery surged like a tide, and Count Noctilus shifted his rear with satisfaction. This was part of what he sought; if he were cooped up in Sylvania, he would have to fawn over others.

"Do it. If bats and vultures aren't enough, hmph, my big baby will make sure they never return to the ground!" His lips curled into a smile, revealing his fangs.

"Awooo!"

With a screech, a giant bat, only slightly smaller than a dragon, flew from the horizon. These creatures, known as Terrorgheists, made their homes in the caves of sea cliffs, but even the strongest beasts were no match for evil Vampires. Now, it had become a zombie, serving the Admiral of the Dreadfleet.

Count Noctilus was unlike traditional pirates who came and went like the wind, striking and moving on. He was an expert at manipulating giant beasts. Besides the inherited ability to create and control Terrorgheists and the relatively simpler task of corrupting Leviathans, he had made additional breakthroughs.

The Shipwreck Graveyard—his lair—was a magical vortex located deep in the ocean, between the tangible and intangible worlds, constantly devouring wrecked ships swept in from across the ocean.

Count Noctilus combined his necromancy with the endless supply of shipwrecks to create a terrifying construct known as the Necrofex Colossus. This giant humanoid skeleton could not only engage in melee combat but also fire with its former ship cannons from a distance. Such capabilities gave him confidence to confront the dwarf ironclads.

However, these Necrofex Colossi and Corrupted Leviathans possessed both undead and monstrous characteristics, making them very slow. To maximize their effectiveness, Count Noctilus decided to set up the battlefield and wait for Gromril's fleet to blunder in.

A large number of flying monsters took off from the terrifying warships, their dense numbers obscuring the moonlight. The fleet's high command nodded in approval; such a large air force would be enough to expose the dwarf aircraft.

"Whoosh! Whoosh!"

At the same time, beneath the surface, several dwarf submarines, making a loud noise, rapidly approached the small island where the pirates were entrenched. Compared to the sleek submarines of Gromril's previous life, these were somewhat bulky and considerably smaller in size.

"Esteemed Ancestor Chosen, I believe this is almost our limit. Going any further, we might disturb those undead," the Old engineer in charge said to Gromril, who was gazing into the distance, in the command room.

"Hmm, proceed as planned!" Gromril smiled, then strode to the stern of the submarine and leaped out of the vessel.

"Gurgle! Gurgle!"

As soon as Gromril entered the water, he quickly sank due to his greater body density. After feeling it for a moment, he immediately activated Avatar of the Gods, transforming into a giant stone statue in the water.

In his stone statue form, he no longer needed to breathe and had high resistance to the immense water pressure at the bottom of the sea. As his feet touched the seabed, the runes on his legendary boots lit up. He moved around a bit, and the master-level passage runes allowed him to move without restriction.

"Splendid!"

Gromril mumbled. Ever since he acquired the Avatar of the Gods skill, he had the idea of combining it with his boots to move freely underwater. When he returned to the Old World, he once thought of using this to explore the bottom of Black Water Lake for treasure, but it never materialized.

Black Water Lake is located in the heart of the Mountains. Several major battles have taken place around it, and according to the book of grudges, several legendary weapons sank within it. Salvaging treasures from the lake is also a popular topic in the Mountain Kingdom.

However, first, Black Water Lake is vast, with a sense of "East Lake as a sea," and searching it alone would be time-consuming and laborious. Second, his elder brother had just purchased a submarine, so it wasn't a good time to go.

After a brief adaptation, Gromril activated a communication rune, and the submarines, having received the signal, gathered around him. One by one, they opened their cargo holds and released the naval mines they carried.

Gromril tied the pre-bundled sets of naval mines, which were convenient for him to carry, onto his body, then watched the submarines return. This batch of naval mines wasn't enough to send the entire Dreadfleet to feed the fish; the submarines needed to make several more trips.

"Heave-ho, heave-ho!"

Gromril began his trek on the seabed. He activated the Bulwark of the World, gifted by his master, and the power of the mighty treasure erased the traces of his movements. In his stone statue form, he took large strides. Soon after, Gromril saw the silhouettes of ships above him.

"Good heavens, it's a good thing I didn't engage Count Noctilus in a direct naval battle!" Counting in his heart as he observed, Gromril couldn't help but feel a chill. Besides several terrifying warships and dense swarms of zombies and skeletons, two corrupted Leviathan and two Necrofex Colossus were also entrenched on the shore.

He had witnessed the power of the fearless undead beasts back then. With so many this time, he might truly capsize if he wasn't careful. Gromril unfastened the naval mines in order, placing them one by one around the undead Dreadfleet.

Undead creatures primarily perceive the outside world through their hatred for the living and their craving for fresh flesh. Lifeless spherical objects would not attract their attention.

"The dwarf's fleet has no other abnormalities besides being relatively slow."

"High and low altitudes are covered; no large-scale aircraft have been found!"

At the same time, the high-ranking officers of the Dreadfleet gathered again to listen to the intelligence. It was impossible for them not to feel psychological pressure. "Gromril-az Thorson, what exactly is he doing?" Every captain pondered the same question, but unfortunately, they could not get an answer.

Count Noctilus's face was ashen, and he toyed with a gem that glowed with an eerie red light. This object was known as the Schwarzhafen Gem, a symbol of his status as a Pirate King.

This gem contained the soul of a great martyr from Sylvania, dating back even before the Von Carstein family took power. Count Noctilus took it with him when he betrayed his kin, as a final memento of his former identity, "Neferata."

"Prepare for battle! Vast riches beckon us! My crew, sharpen your cutlasses, those dwarf necks are thick! Shortening their suffering will be Count Noctilus's final mercy to them!" The King of the Corpse Coast forcibly calmed himself and delivered his pre-battle speech.

"Phew! I'm so exhausted, it feels just like my old miners internship days!"

Gromril grumbled at the bottom of the sea; repeatedly moving the naval mines felt a bit like moving bricks. He made several trips. Although his body itself wasn't tired, being underwater lacked a sense of time, and the solitude and silence increased his mental fatigue.

"Heh heh, just you wait!" Looking at the fruits of his labor, Gromril stretched and finally smiled. He didn't return with the last submarine but instead lay in wait nearby.

As a seasoned general, he knew that those naval mines alone couldn't truly harm the powerful. To avoid future troubles, he still needed to rely on himself and the warhammer in his hand.

In his stone statue form, he had no heartbeat or pulse. Gromril fell into a long wait. Finally, the communication rune he carried lit up. As agreed, this meant the Dreadfleet was not far away.

"Awooo!"

A roar echoed over the island, and several Bloodthirsters descended. Count Noctilus's Vampires adjutant hurried over.

"Report! The dwarf fleet has suddenly accelerated and is heading straight for us!" he shouted loudly.

"Finally losing their patience!" Count Noctilus twisted his neck, revealing a cruel smile.

"They wanted to sail slowly to deceive us, make me misjudge, then suddenly accelerate at the end to attempt a landing and land battle. Simple and crude, typical dwarf style, but alas, it was all within my expectations!"

Count Noctilus laughed wildly as he stood up. He pointed his long halberd, "Look at the sea, a group of heroes emerges from the mist!"

"Since the waves have slowed, lower the sails, prepare to row! For as soon as the Great Vortex trembles, the monster will awaken and pursue its prey!"

As the Admiral started, her subordinates hummed along to the pirate shanty. The Bloody Reaver seemed to come alive, trembling slightly, as if waiting for its master to board.

As his subordinates quickly boarded their ships and moved into battle positions, Count Noctilus's cloak fluttered in the wind. He floated gently, landing on top of the castle tower that served as the bridge.

"Set sail!"

At the Admiral's command, the pirate ships of the Dreadfleet began to move.

"Boom, rumblerumble!"

Before Count Noctilus could savor the atmosphere of war carried by the sea breeze, he first tasted the strong smell of gunpowder.

"Enemy attack!"

"Starboard explosion!"

"Also at the bow!"

"Retreat quickly!"

The sudden, continuous explosions plunged the entire fleet into chaos. The hastily formed alliance had no trust or understanding. The Araby pirates and King Faruk immediately issued orders to turn and flee, but this led to further explosions.

"Boom!"

Count Noctilus was still stunned when only the spire of the Zandri Cursed remained visible. The magical array providing buoyancy to this pyramid pirate ship was destroyed by the recent explosion, and the collapsing boulders created new tombs for the Tomb King inside.

"Save me!"

The Araby Pirate King thrashed in the seawater, half-covered in blood, calling out to the Vampires.

The pirates of Araby were all living men, and their ships were conventional wooden sailing vessels, offering little resistance to violent explosions. However, unlike the Tomb Kings, who sank without a sound, some lucky survivors clung to driftwood, struggling towards the shore.

"Who can tell me what exactly happened?" Count Noctilus's voice, amplified by magic, echoed across the island. His usual arrogance and elegance were gone; sharp-eyed subordinates might have noticed their Admiral trembling.

"Explosions, everywhere!"

"We've been ambushed!"

"There's an enemy spy!"

The chaotic responses greatly displeased Count Noctilus. He quickly calmed down; as a long-lived and powerful being, he knew the immediate priority was to regain control of his forces. Facing an unseen enemy while in disarray was no different from offering their necks for slaughter.

"All ships, rally to the Bloody Reaver! Don't worry about those flailing in the water; the lucky ones who remain intact will rejoin us!" Count Noctilus attempted to consolidate his remaining strength, but this, regrettably, was a misstep.

The recently calm sea was once again churned by booming explosions. To ensure no pirate ship could escape, Gromril had laid enough naval mines. Using such weapons to weaken the enemy was far more cost-effective than sacrificing his clansmen's lives.

"Damn it! A bunch of fools!"

During the movement, one of Count Noctilus's direct warships also sank. The expanding losses due to his erroneous command made the Midnight Aristocrat bite his lip.

"The explosions are coming from underwater! Those bastards, can they dig tunnels under the sea?"

However, this wave of losses was not entirely without gain; at least the surviving pirates discovered where the attacks were coming from. The first round of explosions had been too chaotic, and the Dreadfleet, from top to bottom, had been taking a beating blindly.

"Cowardly rats! Dare to oppose Count Noctilus? I will drain every drop of its blood and pull out its bones to hang on my ship's prow! You, go down and investigate!"

Though Count Noctilus's words were fierce, when it came to actual action, he dared not personally enter the water to face an unknown enemy. He pointed to the Fleet Combat Admiral – his most reckless and capable subordinate – ordering the Vampire to go underwater and scout.

"Heh heh!"

Gromril, hidden beneath the sea, knew that sound travels faster in water than in air. He heard Count Noctilus's plan clearly, and a cunning trick immediately sprang to his mind.

The Combat Admiral, fully equipped, took a few breaths to compose himself before cautiously entering the water. Once submerged, he didn't rush to act, but first stabilized himself and observed his surroundings, clearly an experienced veteran.

"What is that?"

Just as he adapted to the dim underwater environment, the Vampire saw a massive sphere floating not far away. Long years of combat experience told him this was likely the source of the explosions.

"Winds of Death, heed my command!"

With a brief chant and a string of bubbles, a foul, blood-red energy appeared in the Combat Admiral's left hand. Apart from the Blood Dragon Family, other high-ranking Vampires possessed a certain degree of spellcasting ability.

He maintained the spell with one hand and gripped his scimitar tightly with the other, cautiously swimming towards the sphere. The Vampire's attention was highly focused; when he heard the sound of breaking waves behind him, he swiftly twisted his neck.

"A stone statue attacked me?"

Unfortunately, his keen reaction couldn't save him; this was his last thought before losing consciousness.

Gromril smirked and vanished again. He had ambushed the Vampire on the inevitable path between the entry point and the naval mine, smashing the fellow's head from behind with a hammer.

"Why is there no more movement?"

Count Noctilus stood by the ship's rail, staring intently at the sea. The five minutes since his subordinate entered the water felt like the longest of his pirate career. Although this member of the Von Carstein family was skilled in both magic and combat, neither had reached perfection, and the seawater severely limited his detection abilities.

"Useless, another useless one!"

His face was pale, and he cursed incoherently. The Combat Admiral had vanished as if swallowed by the sea, silent. Every undead on the Bloody Reaver who retained the ability to think knew he hadn't simply lingered to admire the underwater scenery.

"You, and you, go down there! I want to see what's truly beneath the sea!" After waiting a moment longer, Count Noctilus suddenly turned and pointed out two more front-line subordinates.

"captain, I, I don't…"

"It's the sea, it's manann's wrath that swallowed Milan!"

With the Combat Admiral's fate as a precedent, the two Vampire Pirates who were called upon certainly didn't want to face the unknown depths. As undead who had escaped death, they feared the possibility of eternal slumber even more.

"Nonsense! Those who sow discord, die!"

Count Noctilus grabbed his halberd and directly cleaved one of them in two from the shoulder. The other, seeing the dire situation, gritted his teeth and jumped into the water.

"Gurgle gurgle!"

After a burst of bubbles, the second Vampire also vanished as if he had never existed in this world. Count Noctilus finally snapped; his expression was already somewhat out of control.

"Woo! Woo!"

Before he could make further arrangements, several drawn-out whistle sounds came from afar. The dwarf fleet, at full steam, was approaching. This chain of unexpected events left the pirates numb.

"Prepare for battle!"

Count Noctilus roared with all his might. The Bloody Reaver had been severely damaged in the explosions, and the already slow castle-like pirate ship couldn't escape the pursuit of the dwarf steamships. Jumping into the sea to escape was clearly not a good option in the face of unknown threats. At this point, all they could do was fight with their backs against the wall.

"Splash! Splash!"

With a series of breaking waves, ironclads vaguely appeared in the mist at the horizon. The huge ship images were like terrifying sea beasts, jaws wide open, ready to devour the remnants of the Dreadfleet.

"Oh oh! Look at the sea, a group of heroes charging out of the mist!"

Gromril, beneath the surface, heard the sea shanties again, though this time it was clearly his own clansmen singing in chorus. The so-called "Lost Sea Shanty" was widely spread, and sailors were willing to sing it before battle to boost morale and relieve stress.

"Boom!"

This was the sound of the Dreadnought's main guns firing.

"Thud!"

Several cannonballs missed, one narrowly skimming past Gromril. It seemed that while pirate ships were massive, firing accurately while moving quickly was still a challenge for the gunners.

"Return fire! Starboard broadside!"

This was the roar of the Fleet Artillery Master; Count Noctilus had developed a system of fleet official positions to boost his subordinates' enthusiasm for work.

"Creak creak!"

As the pirate ships adjusted their direction to fire, there was also an unusual movement underwater. A Necrofex Colossus and a Leviathan slowly rose.

School suddenly reopened, and in the last few days, retaliatory gatherings began...

The ensuing battle was unremarkable; the remnants of the Dreadfleet, crippled by sea mines, had less than half their original fighting strength. Under the cover of several rounds of cannon fire, the dwarf navy boarded the Bloody Reaver.

The scattered undead forces were reduced to Count Noctilus, his Necrofex Colossus, and a contingent of his elite Deep Guard, who were stubbornly resisting. These were elite Vampire sentinels, clad in ancient undead armor, sustained by the Vampire curse.

Unlike common undead crewmen, the Deep Guard were not raised from the rabble who died at sea, but rather carefully selected warriors who received the kiss of blood before being brought aboard pirate warships to serve their master.

Their resistance inflicted some casualties on the dwarves, but as Gotrek and the Sigmar worshippers, wielding great axes and warhammers, joined the fray, the last vestiges of resistance crumbled. Count Noctilus leaped onto a Terrorgheist descending from the sky, attempting to escape, but a warhammer flying from the waves shattered his last illusion.

"Return to the Shipwreck Graveyard with your ship, Count Noctilus, it's for your own good!"

With the help of his subordinates, Gromril rose from the seabed. He watched the Terrorgheist, its wings broken by his strike and unable to fly, being dismembered by a flurry of blades, along with its master, and Gromril muttered.

Examining the system prompt for the "Dreadfleet Sunk" achievement and its accompanying naval leadership bonus, Gromril understood that Count Noctilus was truly dead. This battle had cleared most of the pirates from the shipping lanes, and it was foreseeable that his fleet would enjoy a long period of peace.

After clearing the battlefield and collecting the wealth carried by the pirates, the dwarf fleet set sail again, heading for the Southlands. Carrying two volumes of Nagash's evil scriptures, it was best to avoid any further complications.

As the fleet sailed through the waves, the cursed city in the Withered Marshes, north of Tilea, was far from peaceful. Pale green toxic mist enveloped the ruins of the city walls and the shattered urban area, while warpstone flames erupting intermittently from cracks in the ground further tormented the surface structures.

Most skaven structures were underground, but in the center of Skavenblight stood a massive bell tower—the Broken Tower—where, according to legend, the evil bell that brought about the birth of the skaven hung at its summit.

The tower's original color had been stained pitch black by pollutants, its dark surface covered in wet, sticky, crumbling grime and decay. A nightmarish cloud of toxic mist perpetually shrouded the bell tower, the vapors seeping through cracks in the heavy doors and windows into the interior.

The Council of Thirteen of the Skaven Empire was located here—the closest place to their horned rat god. In the room directly beneath the Great Bell, a round table was set, surrounded by thirteen seats.

The most elaborate and largest throne, inscribed with the number thirteen, faced the entrance, adorned with an idol of the horned rat god. The remaining thrones were smaller but ornately decorated, each bearing a clan emblem to signify ownership.

"Those who could come have come. Those who wouldn't, won't."

Now, illuminated by the warpstone fire on the table, a total of eight chairs had their masters. As the bell tolled, an old rat sitting to the left of the horned rat idol straightened himself, twitched his whiskers, and spoke.

"The Great Horned Rat will finally descend upon the mortal world, and the era of the skaven is at hand!" He slowly paused, tapped his staff, and chanted the line, followed by the other council members. It was evident he often said this, as there was no stuttering, which was common among skaven.

This was the leader of the Grey Seers, High Priest Greyclaw—Krittslik. No skaven knew his exact age, but it was certain that his power was unrivaled among the skaven, his destructive magic reaching an unparalleled level. As The Great Horned Rat's most favored spokesman, he also possessed the additional ability to cast divine spells and summon Withered Lords.

"Eshin, news from Clan Eshin, the bearded things, just started, started a big meeting. These past few years, they, they've changed quite a bit." High Priest Greyclaw spoke slowly, using his almost bald paw to tap the rat sitting next to him, signaling him to continue.

"Yes! Yes!"

Next to the first seat was the third, the individual in the chair keeping his voice very low. He was wrapped tightly in a black cloak, his form flickering in the green fire, almost blending into the seat.

Though this black rat appeared inconspicuous, upon hearing his name: Snikch—Nightlord of Clan Eshin, no skaven warlord dared to sleep with the lights off.

"Black Twelve, Eshin, Eshin's finest fang, sent back news of the bearded things' meeting."

Clan Eshin's Assassin Masters were ranked from one to thirteen, with higher numbers indicating greater strength. Above Black Thirteen, there was also the most legendary and deadly "Master of Death."

"Those, those stone-heads, want to expand, expand! South, North, and, and West too!"

The Nightlord's intelligence sent the Council of Thirteen into an uproar. Since the skaven also lived underground, their animosity with the dwarves was as deep as the sea. The conflict between the two races had continued from the day the skaven first appeared until now.

"Quiet! Be quiet!"

Krittslik pounded the table. Even though his life had been infinitely extended through warpstone and other technologies, his energy could no longer return to its peak. The strange, sharp voices of the skaven gave him a headache.

"Speak, speak to the point!"

"The bearded things want, want to abandon Pillar City and instead, instead connect the Southlands with Iron Peak Fortress." Snikch didn't get angry; the Nightlord calmly relayed the information gathered by his subordinates.

Clan Eshin had gone to develop in Cathay and Nippon thousands of years ago, and upon their return, they received help from the Grey Seers. Therefore, they held some respect for these long-horned individuals and were also known as the "Hands of the Council."

"Further south than Pillar City?"

"What would happen then?"

The council members cried out. When they migrated south years ago, they encountered the mighty Nagash and were blocked in Nehekhara, never able to penetrate deep into the Southlands.

"Gak gak gak! The fools of Clan Mors are in for trouble!"

Sitting across from High Priest Greyclaw, separated by the horned rat idol, was a creature adorned with various mechanical prosthetics, barely recognizable as a rat. This was Mors Titak—Chief Warlock Engineer of the Skryre Clan.

The Chief Warlock Engineer's gleeful laughter drew agreement from the other attendees. In recent years, Clan Mors's power had expanded too rapidly, even threatening the four Great clans, which put pressure on that skaven leader.

"Gnaw, gnaw!"

Watching the ugly display of the council members, the High Priest gnashed his teeth in anger. He deeply detested the disunity among the skaven; if they could have worked together, The Great Horned Rat might have descended upon the mortal world centuries ago!

"Short-sighted!" Krittslik grew angrier the more he thought about it. He believed he was the only skaven loyal to the horned rat god. The other Grey Seers in the clan either fought among themselves or, hmph, coveted his position.

The elderly always enjoy reminiscing, humans included, and rats are no exception. Krittslik recalled how, in his youth, he had subtly made himself the sole candidate for the High Priest's position, and how he had fiercely battled clan Pestilens, leaving them feeling trapped and resentful, yet unable to voice their anger.

Such are the skaven: High Priest Greyclaw, at the pinnacle of power, while calling for an end to internal strife and unity, simultaneously suppressed Grey Seers who challenged his status internally; externally, he suppressed other clans that challenged the authority of the Grey Seer clan. How could the rats below not follow suit?

"Everyone, what are your thoughts?" The ringing of the bell again brought Krittslik back from his memories of his glorious years. He tapped the table with his scepter, signaling an end to the discussion.

The previously heated council members suddenly fell silent. They began to contemplate, no one willing to speak. This was the first rule of the Council of Thirteen: never explicitly state a position.

"You, what do you think?" The High Priest was clearly accustomed to this. He pointed to the fourth seat of the council, a very strong-looking black-furred rat, who, even with a deliberately hunched back, appeared a head taller than the council members on either side.

"In, in the name of the horned rat god, beard-things, die! Die!" This was Pasklit, the Grand Warlord of the skaven army, currently the most formidable and skilled warlord. However, to sit in the fourth seat, he was clearly no brute.

"I, I believe, Clan Mors, Clan Mors can solve, solve them on their own! Gnolandor doesn't like, doesn't like others stealing his prey!"

As the Grand Warlord spoke, the council members looked at the empty eighth seat; the elder of Clan Mors had not come to the meeting. The official reason was that he was in the Southern Badlands, a long and inconvenient journey, but in High Priest Greyclaw's eyes, this was a great disrespect to the horned rat and to him personally.

"You, you are absolutely right!"

"I, Kashrik, agree, agree with your view!"

Seeing a rat take the lead, the council members immediately broke their silence and began to act like brothers. Pasklit's words sounded good, but the implication was to not give Clan Mors additional support, which aligned with the other council members' desire to weaken the rising power.

Krittslik thought of recent events; his trusted "strongman" sent to "provide magical support" to Clan Mors had "accidentally" died in battle, which ultimately solidified his decision.

"I, I also agree!"

Gromril, of course, was unaware of the discussions happening in Skavenblight. He traveled unimpeded, upstream along the Great River Mortis, and once again arrived in Khemri. The Undying Emperor, having received news in advance, personally came out to greet him and invited the King of the Southern Lands to ride with him in the war chariot, which glowed with magical flames and bore the blessings of the gods of Nehekhara.

"Grant him a seat!"

Upon entering the main tomb chamber of the Great Pyramid, Gromril's treatment this time was vastly different from a few years ago. Gromril knew, of course, that this was not because Settra had suddenly changed his nature, but because the strength he had displayed earned the respect of the King of Nehekhara.

"As I see it, you possess the spirit of your ancestors!" The Lord of the Sand Sea exclaimed after inspecting the two spellbooks. Since his awakening, he had always wanted to find and suppress the Nine Books of Nagash, but had never succeeded.

From informing Gromril to having the two spellbooks delivered, for the Undying Tomb Kings, it was merely the duration of a short nap. How could the King of Kings not be amazed?

Having obtained the promised two artifact fragments, Gromril's lingering worries finally eased. He wasn't concerned about Settra breaking his word, but rather about Black Arkhan learning the news and bringing his army of the dead to seize them.

However, it seemed Gromril's worries were superfluous. The necromancers and Vampires of the Old World craved the Nine Books to increase their power, but Arkhan wanted to resurrect the Lord of the Undead. No sufficiently powerful individual would want to find a master to rule over him.

Building upon the original non-aggression pact, Gromril and Settra further reached a military agreement, though the enemies they would jointly confront were limited to Nagash's Vampires and the Tomb Kings' minions.

Leaving Khemri, Gromril then led his team back. Everything was normal at Red Cloud Mountain Fortress. The King of the Southern Lands gave further instructions for reconnaissance and infiltration to the north, and left Gotrek in charge of this task.

This son of Grungni had achieved great success in battles against the Vampire Pirates, but this would only be the prologue to his story. Gromril knew that the power contained within this young man's body was more than simply cutting down a riddled Necrofex Colossus and then cleaving half a squad of deep-sea guards.

Passing through Casket Canyon, Gromril saw that the construction site beneath Spiderweb Mountain was still in full swing, and the railway had extended further than when he left. It was estimated that full completion might still take three years, but finishing the section up to Demonbane Fortress might only take two years.

"My Lord, the situation is a bit grim."

A day's journey from Demonbane Fortress, Andumgar, the Western Depot's director, snuck into Gromril's tent.

"How so?"

"We lack the power to counter spellcasters. That corpse pit is not peaceful, and while Henrid is clearing out the undead creatures smoothly, we suspect corruption is secretly spreading."

"Corruption?" Gromril frowned. "What did I say? Act first, report later, by royal prerogative!"

"But, but the fall of humans always takes a process! Some might still be savable, so it's not good to just cut them down, is it?" Andumgar scratched his head; he was not a cold-blooded killer.

"Hmm, well said!" Gromril also nodded; he had indeed oversimplified many problems.

"Friends from the Sigmarite Church have arrived. You go and liaise with His Holiness Kasimir VII and borrow some of his power. Once we have enough Rune Smith apprentices later, I'll allocate some to your side."

Upon entering the city, Gromril found that the situation there was indeed problematic. The faith of The Lady of the Lake had not reached the common people, and many cults and illicit worship had sprung up, but fortunately, everything was still within controllable limits.

With the help of the system, Gromril quickly rooted out some gathering places. Kasimir VII chose the center of this Lost Plateau as his seat, and the Dwarf King allocated a large area in the city center for him to build a cathedral.

In the Sigmarite Patriarch's plan, the Southlands should be designated as a separate diocese, and the cathedral built there should follow the highest standards. Gromril had no objection to this; perhaps it might even stimulate The Lady of the Lake to invest more power.

After a quick look at the subsequent urban planning, Gromril left Demonbane Fortress and hurried to Highland Fortress. He had just received news that the Wood Elves from the west of the Southern World's Edge Mountains had sent an envoy.

Before this, Gromril had always restrained his subordinates from entering the forests on the western foothills, and the other party had not come out to scout. Both sides acted as if the other did not exist, and they had been at peace for several years.

However, after the Bretonnians arrived and developed the land, they inevitably expanded outwards. They already had many connections with the Wood Elves in Athel Loren Forest in their homeland, and when they met their old acquaintances in the Southlands, they re-established contact.

As the scale of trade continued to expand, Gromril's subordinates finally could not sit by and watch all this happen. They took some measures to intervene, but the final decision had to wait for him to return.

"Pointy-ears, what brings you before the King of the Southern Lands? I shall grant you a chance to speak!"

The Wood Elf envoy was a Waywatcher who arrived riding a giant eagle, but her strength no longer caught Gromril's eye. The Dwarf King recalled the flying army that descended from the sky at Hornburg back then; the current situation was a complete reversal.

"Hm, *huff*!"

Hearing Gromril's blunt words, the expression under the Waywatcher's mask was undoubtedly not good. Her chest heaved, and she took several deep breaths before regaining her composure.

"We hope to have mutual exchange with your territory." Her common tongue seemed to have been unused for a long time, and her tone was stiff.

"Put that aside for now. Tell me, which part of you are you from? Why did you leave Athel Loren Forest to come to the Southlands?" Gromril asked what he was most curious about.

"Our bows are drawn for the Lord of the Wild Hunt, and our arrows are loosed for the King of the Forest," the Waywatcher said circuitously.

"The Bretonnians say these Pointy-ears call themselves Orion's Kindred," Balin explained to Gromril.

"Orion's Kindred?" Gromril remembered the bare-chested, stag-headed strongman. There were only a few demigods active in this world. Although Orion's power was greatly affected by seasonal changes, there was no doubt that no one wanted to provoke the stag-headed man in midsummer.

"So you came here on his behalf then?" The Dwarf King curled his lip. Orion probably couldn't stray too far from Athel Loren, but he still didn't intend to test the power of the Spear of Kurnous. That thing had even chipped Aenarion's Dragon Armor during the End Times; it was not something to be trifled with.

"Indeed," the Wood Elf replied simply.

"Don't tell me you're here for environmental protection."

"There is nothing to report, but Athel Loren can promise that as long as you do not enter our forest, we will never take a step out."

The strength of this Wood Elf expeditionary force was not too strong. After the Bretonnians described the dwarves' achievements and military might, these Pointy-ears abandoned the idea of direct confrontation.

"Then why not build a few trading posts on the hillside? I think that would benefit both of us." Gromril still needed a lot of natural resources like timber, but fortunately, the Lizardmen could also provide them.

"Is there anything else you need?" The words were all said, but the Waywatcher seemed not in a hurry to leave. Gromril felt a bit strange; Wood Elves shouldn't be of this temperament.

"This, do you know Black Arkhan?"

"Of course, what about him?" Gromril rubbed his forehead, the journey's exhaustion making him feel weary.

"Uh, perhaps, we could have a chance to fight that Lich King together? He and his undead legions are the bane of all living things..."

The Waywatcher asked tentatively, this might be her true intention. Arkhan's Black Tower was in southern Nehekhara. Compared to going north to Settra, west to the sea, or east into the mountains to fight the dwarves, the Lord of the Undead's Grand Vizier surely thought this isolated Wood Elf expeditionary force would be easier to deal with.

"Heh, we'll talk about it later!"

The Dwarf King waved his hand impatiently. Firstly, he didn't want to seek out that ancient king of slaughter for trouble. Secondly, the Nine Books of Nagash had entered Settra's pyramid, so if Arkhan still wouldn't give up, he would first have to contend with The Undying Emperor.

Now he and his territory still had many things to do. Compared to connecting Iron Peak Fortress to the north, dealing with Arkhan was more difficult and offered low returns. However, Gromril thought about it and decided to connect the Wood Elves and Settra. With those two flanking Arkhan, the Lich King would be too busy to bother with others.

After finishing diplomatic affairs, Gromril briefly handled some internal matters. The various Elder Councils were running well, and the immigrants were living in peace and prosperity. The Southlands were currently in a period of rapid development, and the huge dividends suppressed any potential conflicts.

"I will be going into seclusion for research. You all can discuss and decide on general matters. Unless it's extremely important, do not disturb me!"

With these words, Gromril retreated into his workshop. He hadn't yet had time to thoroughly study the information provided by the Slann Mage-Priest. Compared to honing his tactical skills through continuous training and actual combat, he preferred a different way of increasing his strength.

The profound and obscure knowledge of ley lines was beyond the time traveler's imagination. This stuff was never designed for dwarves during its development. Even with the help of the system and his previous life's theories, it took Gromril three years to achieve a preliminary understanding.

"Phew! By the Old Ones! Fortunately, I persevered."

Gromril stood up from his meditation, the back of his undershirt soaked with sweat. In these three years, he searched inch by inch and finally found the closest ley line node to Highland Fortress.

Just now, he had once again tried to approach the underground ley line, but the impact from the immense energy of the world itself almost caused his soul to be lost forever.

According to Gromril's research, the utilization of ley lines must be divided into three steps: first, to find, or rather, sense it; second, to draw it out through technology and limit the energy output to a safe and controllable range.

After completing the first two steps, the last step is to control that powerful force and make it follow one's will. In practice, the task Otlax entrusted Gromril with falls into the second step—repairing the architectural sequence that draws out the power of the ley lines.

Gromril had spent three years just to achieve the first step. His next task was to repair the ley line architecture of the White Bone Temple while trying to replicate one of his own at the Highland Fortress node.

"It took less time than I expected, but unfortunately, the process was too immersive. I only got a fragmented outline of what happened in these three years during occasional breaks."

Gromril mumbled as he pushed open the door to the secret chamber. His current location was no longer the original workshop but deep within the mine.

"The construction of the Spirit Vein Sequence architecture sounds easy but is difficult to implement. More importantly, I'm not sure if using the power of the spirit veins would be detected by other Slann. The fourth and fifth generation Slann in the Southlands might not care, but whether Master Mazdamundi and Master Kroq-Gar know or want to intervene is hard to say."

"Hmm? Core restricted area, no one, no one is allowed to pass!"

Gromril was thinking as he walked out when suddenly, several weapons appeared from around the corner, blocking him.

"Which unit are you from? What are you messing around with here?"

As soon as he heard the clang of armor and weapons, Gromril's body reacted instinctively. The battle experience gained from years of campaigning had not dulled due to three years of focused study. He had all his skills ready before realizing that the people around him were a few drunken clansmen.

"You, you are His Majesty Gromril, *hic*, His Majesty?"

The confused dwarves, seeing the Crown of Wisdom on Gromril's head, realized that they had just stopped the very person they were supposed to be protecting.

"Come on, tell me what major events have happened in these three years, if you're still sober enough."

Gromril mumbled, anyone would be displeased to find their security personnel in such a state. Drunkenness causing trouble has always existed in dwarf society, but it is also intentionally or unintentionally ignored by the clansmen.

Leaving the mine, a small patrol of Rangers spotted their King. Escorted to the foot of Highland Fortress, Gromril found that it was much more prosperous than three years ago, with a town appearing before the Rune Gate.

"You've finally emerged, my King!"

Balin rushed out, jogging. His current position was Gromril's chief civil official and a member of Karak-Zorn's Elder Council.

"You've worked hard these three years." Balin looked much older; Gromril still remembered his initial baby face. However, the young man had been nourished by power, and his spirits were clearly good.

"Thanks to you and the Ancestor Gods, our territory changes almost daily!" Balin said, leading Gromril inside.

"It certainly looks great. Reducing royal interference is the only way to accelerate development," Gromril muttered to himself. He brought up the system and found that the extremely high development value was offset by less pleasing public order.

"First, immigration. With the addition of our friends from the Imperium of Man, the Southlands has completed the first phase of immigration goals you set, essentially achieving food self-sufficiency."

Entering the top-floor office, Balin's subordinates had already prepared documents and maps.

"The railway has also been completed. The engineers are doing the final debugging, and it will be fully operational soon."

"Hmm, just as planned!"

Gromril praised. The construction difficulty of this railway in the Southlands was not great, and if he had wanted to, multiple fronts could have significantly shortened the construction period. The reason it took three years was to provide immediate work for the new immigrants, allowing them to support their families, and also to train some local engineers.

"Externally, the situation is mainly focused on Red Cloud Mountain Fortress. Some Tomb Kings east of Casket Canyon have awakened, and there also seems to be dark forces brewing in Lahmia."

"So we've drawn off some troops?" Gromril asked, connecting it with the generally mediocre guards he'd seen earlier.

"Yes, um, I think, this, perhaps." Balin stammered.

"It's alright, speak freely, I understand." Gromril waved his hand. He knew that being a hands-off manager would inevitably lead to some problems, especially during a period of rapid development.

dwarves are inherently not good at adapting, and it's common for them not to come up with great solutions to new problems and challenges. But he also had his reasons; the good relationship with the Lizardmen was based on the promise of repairing the Spirit Vein Bridging Tower, and even if Otlax didn't press him, he had to keep it in mind.

"Whew! Besides the original Greenskins, skaven have also been discovered in the Misty Mountain. Your senior brother, Master Nathan, and Gotrek Gurnisson are working hard to clear them out. In addition, King Belegar is stationed at Karak Drazh, but that fortress has been abandoned for a long time, and he and his subordinates need more help."

"So it's a multi-front war, and you've drawn off some of Highland Fortress's forces?" Gromril listened patiently to Balin's analysis.

"Yes, I also mobilized some forces from Demonbane Fortress, and the human immigrants have taken on their due defensive responsibilities." Balin stroked his short beard.

Gromril leaned back in his chair; the throne in Highland Fortress finally had a cushion. He understood the difficulties Balin faced. No one in the Southlands, other than himself, had the authority or prestige to mobilize conscripted troops.

Considering that the current warfare was still controllable and did not qualify as an "extremely important situation," Balin didn't want to disturb him, so adjusting troop deployment within his authority was understandable.

"I need to establish a standing army, in addition to the Anvil Guard and Iron Hammer Guard!" Gromril tapped the armrest, balancing troop size and development in his mind.

"Whether it's fighting Eight Peaks Mountain in the future or the northern campaign, these will be truly tough battles. Temporarily conscripting clansmen lacking combat experience could lead to heavy losses. Training a professional army through small-scale battles would be quite cost-effective!"

The King of the Southern Lands made up his mind. The railway was about to be completed, and a considerable number of laborers would be freed up. Recruiting soldiers at this time could also be considered creating new jobs.

"You want to establish new standing units? Then there's a group of vigorous Longbeard warriors who are worthy of your favor." Balin rarely offered advice on military matters.

"There's such a thing? Tell me!" Gromril's interest was piqued.

"Two years ago, a group of respected veterans formed an organization, hoping to gain official recognition. Although I didn't disturb you, I kept it in mind," Balin said, pulling a document from a safe.

"They named their organization the Daemon Slayer Brotherhood. Its members are all warriors who participated in the Great Holy War under His Majesty Thorgrim and High King Auricsson, and then joined our expeditionary force, arriving at Highland Fortress."

"Grimnir's fury! Having defeated the Chaos Daemonic legions twice, each one of them is a true treasure of the Mountains!" Gromril looked at the signatures on the document's attachment. The youngest of these veterans had to be over 250 years old; they were all Longbeard Venerables.

"Issue my command: summon them immediately! At this critical juncture, the Southlands needs their axes." Gromril secretly rejoiced. In his opinion, this would be the first elite unit under his command.

In the previous life's game, the excellent attributes of elite units and their lack of recruitment time had saved him countless times. Gromril believed the Daemon Slayer Brotherhood would not disappoint him.

"You go handle it! The total number for the standing army recruitment will be set at one thousand for now; diluted across four fortresses, that won't leave many."

Gromril saw Balin still standing in place, so he urged him. While dwarf Lords generally believe that mining and blacksmithing can seamlessly transition into smashing and beheading, in reality, this is merely the most gold-saving option. War still requires a basic level of respect.

"There's also one other matter: Miss Wan'er conveyed that Ming Dragon Yin Yin wishes to visit the Southlands."

"Change it to Ming Dragon; it seems the previous translation wasn't accurate enough," Gromril mused. Over the past three years, his territory's cooperation with Cathay had grown closer, and it was natural for their high-ranking officials to meet.

"Convey my invitation: the Southlands, and indeed the entire Mountains, welcome Zong Ji Yin Yin at any time. I myself would also be very happy to visit Fuzhou City to experience the scenery of Cathay, or even to the Celestial Court to meet the Haotian Dragon Emperor. However, all of this must wait until the issues at Red Cloud Mountain are resolved."

Gromril gestured for Balin to get busy. He currently had two important tasks: repairing the Spirit Vein Bridge Tower of the White Bone Temple and heading north to Red Cloud Mountain. Both tasks would take a considerable amount of time and could potentially trigger chain reactions.

As his understanding of spirit veins deepened, he couldn't help but wonder what would happen if the Bridge Tower were repaired. For one, Otlax would definitely be able to contact his ancestors in Lustria, and who knew what their attitude would be then?

If Commander Kroq-Gar were sent over, like in the game, Gromril didn't want any unpleasantness with Axlotl's last guardian. Commander Kroq-Gar, wielding the Hand of the Gods and the Spear of the Revered God Xl'aq, was absolutely one of the strongest individuals in the mortal world.

"Let the Lizardmen suffer a bit more; they've endured this long anyway!" The King of the Southern Lands shook his head and made his decision. He needed to stabilize his territory to better handle other surprises.

"My Lord, a message from Chairman Brockson: the railway has passed all inspections and is ready for official operation at any time!"

Just as Gromril was checking the progress of his nominal apprentices in the Rune Smith Guild hall, the telegraph operator brought the long-awaited news. Gromril once again left his apprentices; after all, Rune Smiths needed a lot of time to learn basic knowledge.

"Arrange it well, celebrate well! This is an important milestone for our Southlands!" Gromril's excited shouts echoed throughout the entire floor.

"Fellow clansmen, human friends, under the blessings of the Ancestor Gods, the wise leadership of His Majesty Gromril, and everyone's tireless efforts, the Southern World's Edge Mountains Grand Railway is finally complete!"

A few days later, Highland Fortress station was festively decorated, dignitaries stood in a row on the stage, and the area below was packed with spectators. Balin, serving as the host, glowed with health; he had probably never spoken in front of so many people before.

Beyond the grand scale of the ceremony, what was even more appealing today was that after three years of seclusion, the King of the Southern Lands, Gromril, was making his first public appearance. One should know that the new immigrants of these past years had heard Gromril's great deeds so many times they were sick of it, yet they had never seen him in person.

"The railway is a crucial supporting project for our Southlands. Its completion marks a new chapter in the development of this land and will undoubtedly have a positive impact on all aspects of our lives…"

"Please allow me to introduce the guests attending today's ceremony. First, the Chosen of the Ancestor Gods, King of the Southern Lands Gromril-az Thorson!"

Waving to the cheering crowds, and seeing the hopeful smiles on their faces, Gromril felt a strong sense of accomplishment. He still remembered Karaz-A-Karak, which had been so desolate, full of grumbling and complaints, when he first transmigrated. Now, everything was different.

"…Councilor of Spiderweb Mountain's Elder Council, Garrison Commander Gratt the Spider-Hunter; and myself, Councilor of Highland Fortress, Balin of the Grazman clan!"

The young dwarf, as per custom, introduced himself last. Gromril knew he had earned some commendable epithets for his outstanding contributions to internal affairs. But on this grand occasion, he chose to announce his clan name, clearly bearing the hope of revitalizing that once glorious ancient clan on his shoulders.

"Furthermore, attending guests also include His Eminence High Lector Kasimir VII; Lady Wan'er, the Grand Commandant of Cathay's Wei Nan Province and representative to the Southlands; The Undying Emperor's special envoy, King of Quata Tutankhamun III; and from Bretonnia, Lord Saint Marvin and Lady Freya!…"

Besides dwarves, the ceremony had also widely invited allies from various factions; figures from all order races, except the Pointy-ears, could be found.

"Now, I declare the completion ceremony of the Southern World's Edge Mountains Grand Railway officially open. First item: cannon salute and music!"

"Second item: Please welcome Master Brockson, the Southlands' Chief engineer and Chief Railway engineer, to introduce the specific details of the project!"

"Third item: Please welcome the High King's special envoy to speak!"

"Fourth item: Please welcome Master Nathan, Chairman of the Red Cloud Mountain Elder Council, to announce the commendations for outstanding workers during the construction process!"

"Fifth item: Please welcome the representative of outstanding workers to speak!"

.

.

"Finally, with warm applause, please welcome His Majesty Gromril to speak!"

"I declare the Southlands Railway officially open! Everyone, let us celebrate this great moment together!"

"Toot!"

As soon as Gromril finished speaking, the locomotive stopped in the station whistled in response. The Dwarf King raised both hands, drained his cup of beer, signaling the end of the ceremony and the beginning of the celebration.

"Let me think, let's make today a holiday for the Southlands. I believe that even on the day the Mountains are eroded into dust by the breeze, the benefits brought by the opening of this railway will be remembered by the residents of the Southlands."

A tipsy Gromril sat at his desk, his gaze seemingly able to stretch through the window all the way to the end of the World's Edge Mountains.

As a Lord, Gromril had the right to add new holidays to his territory. In dwarf society, holidays were divided into those determined by seasonal changes or related to the three main gods, celebrated by all clansmen, and those specific to certain fortresses or guilds.

Representatives of the former included Grungni's Day and Midsummer Festival, while the latter included Demonbane Fortress celebrating the day the expeditionary force defeated Nurgle's Daemonic Army, and Spiderweb Mountain celebrating the day the Brood Queen was slain.

"Respected Plague-Scourge, the Daemon Slayer Brotherhood reports to you!"

The group of long-bearded veterans who appeared before Gromril were burly and sharp-eyed, clearly having fought their way through Mountains of corpses and seas of blood. All of them wielded two-handed weapons, and the axes gleamed with the light of runes. Weapons inscribed with appropriate runes could inflict magical damage, which was very effective against Daemons.

"Alright! I toast to all of you!"

Gromril was very pleased looking at the elite unit before him. He waved his hand, and several barrels of Bergman beer were brought over. The Southlands had only just achieved food self-sufficiency, so beer, especially good quality beer, was still relatively scarce.

The Dwarf King checked the unit card of this "Daemon Slayer Brotherhood" in the system. According to the game's conversion method, they possessed psychological immunity and the ability to deal magical damage.

"Logically, my level should be enough to unlock most elite units, so why do I only have one now?"

Gromril stroked his beard, pondering. What he didn't know was that to outsiders, his true elites were his Anvil Guard, a group of warriors who had followed him from the very beginning, respectfully called the "Ancestor Chosen Guard" by their clansmen.

They were no longer the mixed, half-and-half, hastily assembled force they had been at their inception. These warriors carried Gromril's anvil of doom, fighting north and south, and with him, they had defeated one powerful enemy after another from different races.

After the wedding, the Guard had engraved the rune of the Ancestor Goddess Valaya on the crest of their helmets as a symbol of their unit's identity, but it proved to be premature.

To atone for their mistake, during Gromril's two years in seclusion, they had also engraved the gate of the legendary Ancestor Gods' temple onto their meteorite iron shields, to display the supreme glory of fighting under the Ancestor Gods' watchful eyes.

While savoring the fine wine and listening to these veterans, who had fought alongside his father, share stories of the Great Holy War, Gromril secretly assessed the strength of the enemies in the Chaos Wastes to the north.

He knew that whether by proactive attack or forced defense, he, and indeed the entire world, had to defeat those terrifying Chaos forces. Before that, he needed to strengthen himself and weaken the enemy as much as possible.

"Report! Highland Fortress troops have assembled at the station!" The messenger's voice interrupted the pre-campaign drink.

"Good, board the train according to the assigned seats, we depart!" Gromril waved his hand and, with a few guards, entered the foremost carriage. This would be the Southlands Great Railway's first use for war.

"Haha, this feeling, this flavor, is worthy of a poem!" As their exchanges deepened, Gromril learned that the Cathay Empire in this world also had poetry, and perhaps some of the sentences lingering in his mind could still be put to good use.

Looking at the scenery rushing past the window and listening to the warriors' exclamations from the carriages behind, which drowned out the "clack-clack" of the train, Gromril was very satisfied with his accomplishments.

The speed of this warpstone train was already faster than Bretonnia's best four-horse-drawn half-elf carriages. Even more remarkable, the locomotive didn't need to rest at night or stop to graze.

This current speed was the result of Gromril deliberately lowering it, a decision Brockson had complained about countless times. If the energy from the warpstone were fully unleashed, the train's speed could easily match the green-skinned trains of Gromril's previous life.

But the classic shows from his previous life had taught him that since the advent of railroads, countless unfortunate incidents had occurred on them. Not to mention, once a derailment happened, the consequences would be immeasurable.

In this world with supernatural powers, protecting a long stretch of railway inch by inch was unrealistic. All Gromril could do was ensure the train's braking performance to minimize losses in special circumstances.

"Whoosh!"

Before the sun had set, the outline of Demonbane Fortress appeared in Gromril's sight. A new unit of dwarf warriors boarded the train; these fellows were conscripted regular soldiers, intending to make a living with axes and warhammers from now on.

After picking up another group of new recruits at Spiderweb Mountain, the train burst out of the mountains and into the canyon. To lay tracks on the soft sand, Senior Brother Nathan, with all the rune-users of the Southlands, had carved runes onto critical components.

"You've come at just the right time, my dear junior brother."

It was clear that Master Nathan hadn't rested well lately. Besides his daily administrative and logistical duties, he occasionally had to step onto the battlefield, using the power of runes to turn the tide of unfavorable battles.

"You've worked hard during this time." Gromril didn't stand on ceremony. He immediately summoned the various leaders at Red Cloud Mountain and announced that he was temporarily taking over the fortress's military and political authority.

"Tell me, what's the situation with the greenskins, rats, and undead?"

The Dwarf King looked at the familiar faces around the long table. Andumgar was also present. Red Cloud Mountain was now the frontline for intelligence and counter-espionage, and without his leadership, the newly established Western Depot wouldn't be able to adapt to the struggle.

"I'm mainly responsible for the Nehekhara side. You know, they are all undead, so they can't be bribed, and it's hard for us to infiltrate them." Andumgar broke the silence in the meeting room.

"I understand, but there must be some results."

"There aren't many Tomb Kings that have awakened in the east, and they've been repeatedly campaigned against by Settra, so their strength is limited. But from the intelligence we've intercepted, these fellows want to contact that Black Arkhan you asked me to pay special attention to."

The young man chose his words carefully. He clearly remembered Gromril's solemnity when telling him the Lich King's name, and his years of work had made him realize how powerful that Grand Vizier was.

"The Tomb Kings' problems are for the Tomb Kings to solve. The Undying Emperor should be more anxious than us. When the time comes, the main eastern defenses will be handed over to him. We will focus our efforts on the north."

Gromril then assigned some internal tasks to purge the Vampire infestation before turning his gaze to the soldiers on the other side. Johnson Strongshield and Gotrek had vastly different styles, so they were responsible for separate areas.

"Ahem, those rats come from very diverse origins. We've found no less than ten different clan emblems on the spoils of war we've captured, though of course, those could also be their spoils."

captain Johnson cleared his throat. In recent years, he had shouted orders in battle more times than he had in total when working for Uncle Iron Chisel.

"Most of the ratmen we've engaged are disorganized mobs, but from some details, I judge that there's a powerful force behind them, organizing them. Those small clans should, by all rights, collapse after a little loss, but instead, they've united."

"Clan Mors?"

Gromril said casually when he heard this.

"Mor… Mors? Yes, you are truly wise!" Johnson was clearly unsure, but he still followed Gromril's lead.

"Have you found any elite Stormvermin?" Gromril was concerned with the most prominent characteristic of that warrior clan.

"It's hard to say. When the numbers aren't too large, it's difficult for me to tell if those black rats are different." Johnson scratched his head. It seemed that having too high a quality of troops could also bring a small problem.

"Keep an eye out for powerful Stormvermin; report any sightings immediately," Gromril instructed. He wasn't sure how far Clan Mors had developed, but he was certain there was something fishy behind these smaller clans.

"What about your side, Gotrek?"

Gromril finally looked at the young strong one; he was still not quite used to his current bushy-haired appearance. For the past few years, he had been responsible for armed escorts of Belegar's supplies, traveling back and forth between Red Cloud Mountain and Karak Drazh.

"Hmm, my work has been quite smooth. Karak Drazh guards a vital transportation route, and the Geomantic Web is intricate. As long as I avoid large groups of greenskins and chop down any scattered fools who get in my way, I arrive easily."

Gotrek shrugged. In his opinion, this task was too simple. According to his understanding, the best approach would be to send out the entire army and twist off the heads of all the ork leaders.

"So, how is the Angrund Clan doing?" Gromril took a sip of wine, looking at Erik of the Helheim clan. Gotrek couldn't give him the answers he wanted for such a complex question.

"To be honest, King Belegar faces a very tough challenge, but fortunately, he's not as, uh, useless as the rumors say." This young man had gotten his chance after being recommended by Master Nathan, and was currently in charge of various liaisons with Belegar.

The Angrund Clan's persistence in reclaiming their homeland earned them the respect of their clansmen, but repeated failures confirmed the fact that their leaders were incompetent. Especially with Gromril's swift recapture of the Southlands as a contrast, their inability to take Eight Peaks Mountain for thousands of years seemed even more apparent.

"After you conveyed the oracle, Belegar spent a year retreating and re-gathering, then broke into Karak Drazh two years ago. But that fortress had been fallen for too long, and the damage was too severe. When I first went, I could barely make out its outline, and that was after they had made some emergency repairs," Erik gestured with his hands.

"Fighting greenskins filling the tunnels ahead, while also having to rush repairs to fortifications and deal with enemies rushing out from unknown side tunnels behind them. King Belegar and his subordinates' resilience is unimaginable."

"Indeed, they have truly seen big battles," Gromril nodded, which caused many attendees to show surprise.

Praise for Belegar had earned Erik no small amount of criticism among his colleagues. In the eyes of Gromril's followers, only young'un, who joined later and had not participated in the expedition or witnessed divine grace, would think that the perpetually defeated general had any capability.

"After a long tug-of-war, they finally control the entire fortress and are starting to try and restore production. But the results are not significant in the short term, and most of it still relies on support from us and Iron Peak Fortress."

"Good. Belegar has gold, which just happens to provide a nearby buyer for our goods."

"Hmph, that prodigal son is truly adept at spending his ancestors' wealth!" Master Nathan suddenly grumbled. "He gives too much! Hundreds of young lads from Red Cloud Mountain have run off to him!"

"Yes, I want to see how else he can mess things up!"

"Didn't you also sell him a few of your proud masterpieces?"

"Don't even talk about it! You were just short of dismantling Red Cloud Mountain's city defense cannons to sell!"

Gromril smiled, calming his quarreling subordinates. During his seclusion, the lack of strong leadership meant that changes beyond the "routine affairs" of the territory inevitably met with resistance, which was a characteristic of the Dwarves.

"After establishing a foothold, King Belegar began to relocate the clan's elderly, weak, women, and children. Now Karak Drazh already has over three thousand people." Gromril's approval greatly excited Erik, and he reported the latest situation.

"Elderly, weak, women, and children? It seems he still listened to my advice." The King of the Southern Lands stroked his beard with satisfaction. Belegar was not yet beyond redemption after all.

"Your Majesty, there are about a hundred immigrants in the next convoy. Could I borrow some of your troops? Those clansmen have no self-preservation ability against danger." Gotrek interjected. It was easy for him to chop people down, but protecting people with just an axe wasn't enough.

"It's fine. I heard from Balin that Red Cloud Mountain's forces are indeed stretched thin, so I've brought reinforcements. Seven hundred and fifty full-time soldiers should help alleviate some pressure."

"By the way, when does the convoy depart?" After dealing with some other internal affairs, Gromril asked as the meeting was about to adjourn.

"In two days, why?" Gotrek replied hastily.

"That's perfect. I'll go see for myself. Belegar came by the Ancestor Gods' decree, so it wouldn't be right for me not to go. Add two more carts of good wine; a generous person should never go empty-handed."

On the day of departure, seeing the sudden appearance of the Ancestor Chosen and his majestic guard, the immigrants were overwhelmed with gratitude. Having just left their homes, they received both physical and spiritual assurance, and the entire convoy was enveloped in devout prayers.

The Geomantic Web north of Red Cloud Mountain was severely damaged, and it became even worse after crossing the Ashen River. Fortunately, Gotrek was in front, clearing the way with his great axe, so there were no major problems.

As greenskins gradually appeared, Gromril knew he had entered the Misty Mountain. The greenskins here were still in a state of great chaos; for this warlike race, it was not easy to produce a Warboss capable of subduing all the strongmen and leading a sufficient Waaagh.

Bypassing the main strongholds in the Misty Mountain, the convoy finally entered the Badlands. This could be described as a vast ocean of greenskins. According to Gotrek, there were many more than usual this time, and fortunately, they had extra forces, otherwise the consequences would have been unimaginable.

By the tenth day, a fortress carved into a steep cliff finally appeared in sight. The entire convoy breathed a sigh of relief; after being on edge the whole way, they could finally relax.

With communication maintained by rune senders, Belegar Ironhammer had received news of Gromril's arrival early. He opened the city gates and, with his guard, welcomed the distinguished guest.

"Three years, and you've changed a lot!" Gromril gave Belegar a hug. Now, the last bloodline of the Angrund Clan had hope in his eyes; having received guidance, he was no longer lost.

"The Ancestor Gods' return to the mortal world is truly a great fortune for our clan!" Before Gromril could ask further, four Ancestor Spirits approached. The one at the head, wearing a crown, bowed deeply and spoke.

"King Runi, I presume?" Gromril turned to look at these ancestral spirit grandfathers. He was used to seeing and using them in his game, but this was his first time seeing such heroes, who only existed in legends. Admiration and exclamations came from the back of the convoy.

"Indeed. As a king, I failed to defend my lands and protect my people, and I am ashamed to face the Ancestor Gods and the previous kings. Please forgive me."

"Let's not talk about the past; as long as we keep moving forward on the right path, Karak-Eight-Peaks will eventually return to the embrace of the Mountains." Gromril didn't know what to say for a moment, after all, if one were to be strict, King Luan bore leadership responsibility for the fall of Eight Peaks Mountain.

"Are there any wounded? Gather them. I will perform a ritual and ask the Ancestor Goddess to bestow her grace." Gromril wasted no more words. After acquiring the Hero's Pendant from Settra, he restored the divine artifact, Gazul's Mercy.

The dwarf God of Death's relic allowed Gromril to summon a heroic spirit from the Ancestor Halls to serve him, but the King of the Southern Lands had never used this one-time item.

Half of a dwarf strongman's power lies in his equipment. Even if he were to summon Gotrek Starbreaker, unless Thorgrim's High King armor set was stripped off and given to him, his spiritual form would probably be no different in essence from other Dwarf Kings.

"My father, King Kazador, sends his regards to you, revered Ancestor Chosen." Before Gromril could ask again, a burly dwarf dressed in slightly peculiar attire stepped forward.

"I forgot to introduce him. This is Prince Kazrik of Iron Peak Fortress! He heard you were coming and traveled through the Southern Badlands specifically for this, arriving just two days ago." Belegar patted his forehead.

"It's a pleasure to meet you. Your bravery and skill are widely known throughout the Old World." Gromril exchanged a few polite words.

"Master Ironbrow recently returned to Karak-Azul. We have sharpened our battle axes and prepared enough provisions, just waiting for news from your side."

Although the Prince was no younger than Grom, his temper still seemed very impatient. He directly stated his intentions. Gromril suspected this might be due to Iron Peak Fortress being isolated in the Badlands for too long.

"I am here for that very reason. Previously, the Southlands urgently needed development, and I also had other important matters. Progress here hasn't been very satisfactory, and I hope you and His Majesty Kazador understand."

"How is the situation at Karak Drazh?" The reliability of this important transit point was key to whether the plan to connect Iron Peak Fortress could succeed as desired.

"Those green mushrooms with grass growing in their heads gradually gave up attacking after we repelled them countless times, turning to surveillance and harassment instead. However, the Ironbreakers have reported traces of rats appearing underground." Belegar lowered his voice as he spoke the last sentence.

"What do you mean?" Gromril frowned. According to his analysis and the intelligence he had gathered, the Skaven harassing Red Cloud Mountain should be those from Crooked Peak in the northeast. They were the clan that competed with the Lord of the Undead for warpstone veins thousands of years ago.

As the warpstone in Crooked Peak was gradually mined out, these Skaven also grew weaker day by day. They shouldn't, and had no reason to, appear at Karak Drazh, so it could be inferred that these were not the same group as those at Red Cloud Mountain.

"Traces? Be more specific, this matter is too important!" Gromril also didn't want to make a big deal out of it. He walked into the fortress gate as if nothing was wrong, preparing to preside over the ceremony to heal the wounded and purify the corruption. Now that his revival points were flowing continuously, this small expenditure was nothing.

Just as Gromril was solemn and reciting prayers, the area north of Karak Drazh was not peaceful. Among the Mountains, there was a "mountain basin," a plain nestled between the peaks, surrounded by eight towering Mountains like loyal guards.

These eight peaks each had names: Zlifen Peak, Yar Peak, Monar Peak, and Silverhorn Peak guarded the eastern Mountains, while Runy Peak, Rein Peak, Nair Peak, and Pale Lady guarded the western entrance to the mountain basin.

In the mountain basin, a large lake shimmered like a silver mirror under the sun, and on its shore, a magnificent fortress stood. Because of this great lake, known as "Silver Depths," the fortress earned the nickname "Queen of the Silver Abyss."

The fortress on the surface was already spectacular, but this was like an iceberg; the underground portion was ten times larger. Karak-Eight-Peaks was a product of the dwarves' peak power, symbolizing the glory of their Golden Age.

However, now, this beautiful place no longer belonged to the dwarves. Upon closer inspection, the colossal statue in front of the gate was already dilapidated, and the once smooth, flat walls were covered with defiling, blasphemous hangings and graffiti.

Numerous green figures moved in and out, their equipment generally adorned with grotesquely grinning yellow crescent moons. These were the greenskins of the Evil Moon clan; they had usurped Eight Peaks Mountain, their influence covering half of the Badlands.

And in the intricate underground network of earth veins, countless skaven scurried back and forth. Anyone sufficiently familiar with this filthy race would notice an unusually high proportion of strong, black-furred rats among them.

In the deepest part of the underground, there was a hall whose original purpose was now difficult to discern, but it was certainly a very secluded and defensible place. Without special markers, it would be impossible to find.

"You, you've come, Queek, my sharpest, sharpest claw."

"Yes, yes, Great Elder Gnolandor."

The leader of Clan Mors was very old, so old that his proud black fur was beginning to fade. But whenever he saw the giant rat before him, a hint of a smile would always appear on his aged face.

Queek, taller than the most elite Stormvermin and a circle broader, held terrifying violence within his body. This rat-god of war was chosen by Gnolandor from a filthy breeding pit and raised by him personally, so he had absolute loyalty to him.

"Why, why did you summon me back? I just, just added a new, new collection."

Queek crouched down, revealing the trophy rack on his back. Two heads hung from it: one, somewhat dried, belonged to an ork, and the other, still relatively fresh, was from a skaven himself.

Even more terrifying than having two heads hanging on his back was that these two heads were still alive! With the help of evil rituals, Queek had sealed the souls of these two worthy trophies within their heads.

"Spies, found, found those bearded things!" Gnolandor played with a map in his claw. "I want you, to, to make them go die! Die!"

"Yes! Yes! Belegar, his, his head will be my best, best collection! Ooh! I, I'll save a, a good spot for him!" Queek grinned maniacally upon receiving the order, feeling the urge to hunt burning within him.

"This, this is for you! Put it on! Come back safe, safe!" Gnolandor gestured with a claw, and two large rats emerged from the shadows, carrying a suit of armor.

Queek's two crimson rat eyes couldn't tear themselves away from the armor. The main body of the armor was scarlet, regularly inlaid with many green warpstone fragments, emitting an aura that made the rats' hearts pound.