The High Lich, Azaroth, hovered above the muddy fray, his skeletal face twisted in annoyance. The golden light of the Elder Oak was burning his minions, cauterizing their wounds before they could regenerate.
"Interference," the Lich hissed.
He turned his back on the slaughter and faced the colossal tree in the center of the village. He raised his staff, the skull atop it vomiting a stream of thick, grey sludge—pure, concentrated decay.
The spell arched over the rooftops and splashed against the silver bark of the World Tree.
HISSSSSS.
The sound was like a scream. Where the grey magic touched, the glowing silver bark turned black and brittle. A massive branch, heavy with golden leaves, withered in seconds and crashed to the ground, shattering into dust.
The golden aura surrounding the villagers flickered. It did not vanish—the Spirit was too ancient to be snuffed out so easily—but the light dimmed. The healing slowed. The infinite stamina began to drain away.
"FACE ME!"
The roar cut through the noise of battle. Thorne launched himself from a pile of rubble, his warhammer swinging in a deadly arc.
The Lich turned just in time to raise a magical barrier. CRACK. Thorne's hammer shattered the shield like glass, the momentum carrying the weapon forward to smash into the Lich's ribcage.
Azaroth was flung backward, crashing through the wall of a blacksmith's shop.
Thorne didn't give him a second. He charged into the dust cloud. "I am the wall you cannot break!" Thorne bellowed, swinging again.
For a moment, the Chieftain seemed to be winning. He was a whirlwind of black iron, predicting the Lich's teleports, smashing the ground where the creature appeared, forcing the undead lord on the defensive. He landed another blow, crushing the Lich's left shoulder, cracking the ancient bone.
But the Lich was not flesh and blood. He did not feel pain; he only felt cold calculation.
As Thorne wound up for a killing blow, Azaroth didn't move. Instead, he pointed a single finger at Thorne's chest.
"Nulla."
A spear of condensed void energy shot point-blank into Thorne's chest plate.
There was no sound of impact—only the sound of air rushing in to fill a vacuum. The rune-enchanted armor that had protected Thorne for decades disintegrated instantly. The spell carved a deep, blackened furrow across his chest, searing flesh and cracking ribs.
Thorne gasped, the air leaving his lungs. His hammer slipped from his numb fingers. He collapsed to his knees, blood pouring from his mouth, staining the mud crimson.
Thorne looked up, his vision blurring. The Lich floated over him, the cracked shoulder bone knitting itself back together with a sickening crunch.
Azaroth lowered his face until he was inches from the kneeling Chieftain. He spoke, the words vibrating in Thorne's skull, a language that sounded like tearing metal.
"Kheleth... Vok... Mor... Tyra."
Thorne didn't understand the words, but he understood the tone: Pity. Disgust. Finality.
The Lich drifted upward, ignoring the dying Chieftain. He raised his staff again. The grey decay on the World Tree pulsed, and in response, the green fire in the eyes of the undead flared brighter.
The skeletons and Orcs, who had been pushed back by the golden light, roared. They weren't fully healed—the Tree was still resisting—but they were stronger than before.
"Hold..." a lieutenant shouted, but his voice cracked with fear.
The villagers watched their invincible Chieftain fall. They saw the golden light dim. The hope that had fueled them evaporated.
The undead wave crashed into the defenders. This time, the shield wall broke. Men were thrown aside like dolls. The line collapsed.
The battle for the streets was lost. Now, it was a slaughter in the homes.