Earlier…

Lich King War-Mist gazed out toward the nameless city, a haven for the displaced souls of the Slaethian war, now shielded by vampires. The sight baffled the young goblin lich; the idea of vampires extending compassion was utterly foreign to him. And yet, beside him, stood Lord Demidicus, an ancient of their kind, enshrouded in an aura of darkness, exuding calculated bloodlust rather than kindness or weakness. This sinister figure stirred memories of his foster mother, harking back to a time when he was a mere goblin child by another name he dared not utter.

Dismissing these recollections from his undead psyche, War-Mist observed as a fleet of airships swooped down upon the city, wreaking havoc on both the refugees and their vampire protectors. He should have felt worry or concern—some semblance of emotion. Yet, he felt nothing. It seemed not just his body had succumbed to undeath, but his emotions too, with one poignant exception: his undying love for his mother—his mummy—remained fervent.

Over the past two years, War-Mist’s transformation had been profound. Ascending to lichdom had drastically enhanced his intellect, clarifying his thoughts and intensifying his resolve. He had evolved into a being of cold calculation and ruthless ambition, driven predominantly by his desire to win his mother’s pride.

The ancient vampire lord loomed ominously at his side while a formidable undead legion stretched out before them. Thousands of creatures, each personally slain and resurrected by War-Mist, comprised his ghoulish army. Ready to obey his every command, their allegiance mirrored his own unwavering devotion to the matriarch who had orchestrated his dark ascension from a mere wart-covered, pathetic goblin whelp into a formidable lich king.

With firm resolve, War-Mist advanced, his undead legion marching in grim unison toward the besieged city. As they neared the landing site, where airships were unloading knights, barbarians, and mages, the besiegers took notice. The undead horde met this opposition with overwhelming force. A spider, massive as a boulder and with chitin chipped and cracked, barreled into two barbarians, flinging them aside like ragdolls. Nearby, a half-rotten owl grizzly, its feathered hide in tatters, savagely mauled a caster. Meanwhile, a group of feral undead goblins and orcs, their flesh peeling from their bones, charged at a phalanx of knights, wielding clubs, jagged spears, and daggers with reckless abandon.

War-Mist casually strolled into the city as his army clashed ferociously with the Slaethians. Cheers erupted from the vampires as they caught sight of the ancient vampire at his side. Simultaneously, whispers hailing the vampire lord’s return floated to the ears of the goblin lich, weaving through the tumultuous din of battle. Observing the refugees, War-Mist noted how some scurried away into alleys and dark corners at the sight of Lord Demidicus, their faces streaked with fear and panic. However, not all reacted this way; the beastkin fighting alongside the refugees seemed unaware of the vampire lord, possibly never having had the misfortune of encountering him before—or so King War-Mist presumed.

His undead horde swept into the city, but to his dismay, it was not the one-sided slaughter War-Mist had anticipated. The Slaethians, seasoned and relentless, cut down his undead warriors by the droves. Sword swipes decapitated them one after another, war hammers crushed their bones beneath massive, moon-shattering impacts, and spells tore through their ranks, exploding them into chunks of useless flesh.

Then it happened—a ripple of rare power exploded out in a massive wave, poised to destroy all in its wake. Lich King War-Mist froze, his eyes darting toward the heavens as a dome of power enveloped the entire besieged city. He recognized this formidable barrier, yet could not quite place it. The dome prevented the surge of mana from tearing through everything, sparing the city from being consumed by the unleashed energy. Even his undead beasts froze to gaze up at the dome, awed more by it than the explosion of raw, untamed power rippling around them beyond that barrier. The sensation was not of undeath, but rather, pure, unbridled death—and it terrified the lich, as if his very existence defied the desires and design of that power.

For thirty long minutes, the city fell into an eerie silence. No swords clashed, no spells were cast, as all sides held their breath, waiting to see whether the dome would hold or shatter, potentially ending everything within. However, the goblin lich blinked in surprise when he noticed a Slaethian barbarian staggering through the street, utterly weaponless. The man clawed and punched at his own face in a frenzied panic. No one from either side intervened, merely watching as he struggled, pulling at a viscous liquid that clung stubbornly to his head. It seemed as though no one wanted to break the unspoken ceasefire, even if it meant leaving this solitary figure to struggle alone.

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War-Mist cocked his head to the side, tuning into the murmuring coming from the barbarian. However, it wasn’t the man’s words he heard, but something else entirely, a sound that seemed audible only to him. “Kill me! Kill me! Kill me!” a squeaky voice screamed out from the fluid like substance consuming his head.

After a long moment, the lich recognized the substance on the man as a slime monster. A faint twinge of pain for two lost pet slimes he once had as a child fluttered into his undead heart, but it evaporated away as quickly as it had come. Regret and sadness were emotions War-Mist rarely experienced anymore, and if they did flicker into existence, they departed just as swiftly, all except for the memories of his mother. Those emotions were far too precious for him to lose.

As War-Mist’s fleeting emotions dissipated, the dome above began to crack, eliciting rounds of gasps from all sides of the warring city. Everyone held their breath as the dome collapsed, having absorbed all it could. Like breaking glass, it shattered into pieces that evaporated into nothingness before they could reach the ground, protecting the city below.

Almost immediately, a screaming wind howled through the city, ripping roofs from buildings and tossing debris around. Several soldiers tumbled and rolled as the wind flung them about. Despite the chaos, the dome had served its purpose; the worst of the mana detonation had passed. Now, a raging mana storm enveloped them, presenting a new challenge in the aftermath of the dome’s destruction. The ceasefire ended at once, and all sides returned to the fray, resuming their violent clash with renewed ferocity.

Bodies crumbled under the swing of swords and the thrusts of spears, while arrows struggled to find their targets, their paths skewed by the bellowing winds that blasted through the city like a hurricane unleashed. However, the number of spells cast significantly diminished as mages grappled with the oversaturation of mana filling the environment. This raw energy seemed to crush most spells, disrupting the intricate weavings of magic and leaving many mid-tier casters, and even quite a few experienced, high-quality mages, struggling to harness their powers effectively.

War-Mist found himself slightly staggering as if he were drunk—a sensation he thought he’d never experience again since becoming undead. His best guess was that the mana saturation all around was interfering with the link between his phylactery and his body. Thankfully, he always kept his phylactery nearby, so he doubted his soul would be disconnected from his flesh, but that couldn’t be said for his army. The connection to nearly his entire army was severed by the high mana saturation. Only a few dozen nearby undead beasts remained under his command, while the others collapsed helplessly in the midst of battle, unable to receive his orders or act with any coordination. This sudden loss of control amidst the chaos of the storm left him vulnerable and disoriented.

The battle seemed to turn in the Slaethians’ favor until War-Mist noticed several remarkable figures not only fighting and casting spells amidst the mana storm but seemingly thriving off it. He squinted at them, recognizing three—one was a wolfman beastkin, another a needled-mouth dark fae, and the third a blonde high elf woman. A slight anger rose within him as he recalled these were among those who had slain his first precious pet slime. He didn’t recognize the wood elf accompanying the high elf, nor did he spot the dark elf woman, his mother’s priestess, if he remembered correctly. However, he did notice a second high elf glistening in gold and silver. A memory of his own death briefly resurfaced as she marched down the cobblestone street, pointing a golden sword at a bald man on the enemy side.

As his nearby undead stumbled about, desperately fighting for the lich, the city was strewn with bodies, hinting at no end to the carnage. War-Mist squinted as he noticed a small black snowflake gently descending from the sky, seemingly in defiance of the winds blasting all around. Then another appeared, and another, until, before the goblin lich realized it, small hordes of the substance were everywhere. It didn’t fill the entire sky, but it was spread out, with one or two visible in every direction he looked, each heading straight for a corpse that littered the ground.

One of these entities approached one of his nearby undead, and with squinted eyes, War-Mist got a good look at what appeared to be a small black octopus with a single orange eye and what seemed to be a horn atop its head.

With a sharp gasp, War-Mist stuttered, reminiscent of his lost childhood, “M-Mummy?”

At his single command, he allowed the small black creature he recognized as a black pudding to reach one of his undead, watching as it clung onto the rotten flesh and began consuming it with fervent haste, multiplying as quickly as it devoured in a desperate feeding frenzy.

Simultaneously, screams and yelling erupted throughout the city. Combatants who had been clashing with each other moments earlier now desperately swatted at the little terrors. Yet, as the lich smiled, he knew the city was littered with dead bodies. Even if the living put up a diligent fight, the dead were left undefended, a fertile meal to increase his mother’s mass.

Raising his head, War-Mist—no, Wartie—smiled and laughed, reveling in the delightful anticipation of soon being reunited with his mother. His laughter mingled with the chaos of the battlefield, a dark, joyous sound that marked a poignant moment of personal triumph amidst widespread despair. He raised his arms and spun, caught up in the sheer delight of the moment.