Chapter 46

Atlas panted heavily, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he leaned against the rough stone wall for support. One arm hung limp at his side, blood trickling from a gash on his brow to join the crimson stain already soaking his tattered cloak. His sword, a prized relic stolen from a noble knight during the Altdorf campaign, lay discarded at his feet, its once-gleaming blade now pitted and damaged from countless clashes against the stony hides of the Stone Trolls.

Around him, the remnants of his undead army lay scattered like broken dolls amidst the rubble. Splintered bones littered the cavern floor, a silent testament to the ferocity of the battle that had raged within these tunnels. Among the wreckage, only a few solitary items remained intact—a sword, a cloak, a talisman—relics salvaged from a fallen Wight who had fought bravely by Atlas's side until it could fight no more. Its spectral soul had faded from existence, leaving this realm for good – it was a loss that Atlas didn't have the skill to replace.

The nest of trolls had been dealt with, their formidable strength no match for Atlas's determination and skill. But the victory had come at a steep cost, paid in blood and bone. As he surveyed the aftermath of the battle, Atlas knew that the road ahead would be fraught with peril. Yet despite the wounds that marred his flesh and the losses, he remained resolute in his purpose. With a weary sigh, he straightened his posture and began to plan his next move, his injuries would heal with some blood wine to help.

Signalling to Strickler, Atlas gestured towards the Caldron of Blood, its dark surface shimmering with an otherworldly glow. As Strickler approached, the air seemed to crackle with arcane energy, his presence infused with the power of the undead. With practised precision, he began to channel his magic into the artefact, invoking ancient incantations that resonated with the very essence of the blood within.

As Strickler's power coursed through the Caldron, a strange transformation began to take place. The blood from the fallen trolls, once stagnant and lifeless, now stirred with a newfound vitality. It writhed and wriggled as if imbued with a will of its own, before slowly creeping up the sides of the enchanted vessel.

With each passing moment, the blood within the Caldron boiled and churned, its surface roiling with dark energy. Strickler's magic worked its alchemical wonders, gradually refining the raw essence of the troll's blood into a potent elixir of power.

Atlas watched with a mixture of fascination and exhaustion, his weary eyes following the mesmerizing dance of magic and blood. Despite the trials they had faced and the losses they had suffered, he knew that this was but a small step on the path to greater strength and mastery.

As the refining process neared its completion, Atlas could feel the energy in the chamber shift, the very air thrumming with the latent power of the transformed blood. With a final surge of arcane energy, the Caldron's task was done, its contents now a potent brew that pulsed with dark vitality.

Taking a ladle to drink deeply, the life essence began to flow through his body like water after a drought, rejuvenating his muscles and healing his injuries.

Glancing at the large remains of the nine trolls, Atlas knew they would be valuable when raised as greater undead but he needed time to recover his magical strength first. Walking through the camp of the trolls, he saw a few trinkets that could be salvaged but his attention was on wall with crater marks pitted over it.

Recognising the handy work of a Dwarf secret room again, he used his magic to trip the mechanism and open the door that the trolls had clearly been trying to break down.

As Atlas stepped into the secret room, the air seemed to hum with ancient magic, the faint echoes of dwarven craftsmanship resonating through the chamber. His eyes fell upon the sight before him, the grim tableau of a fallen dwarf clutching dearly to a treasure that had cost him his life.

The dwarf's corpse lay sprawled upon the cold stone floor, its lifeless gaze fixed upon the chest it cradled in its arms. Despite the passage of time and the ravages of decay, the dwarf's grip remained firm, as if in death he refused to relinquish his hold on the precious treasure within.

With a sense of solemn reverence, Atlas approached the fallen dwarf, his footsteps echoing softly in the dimly lit chamber. He knelt beside the corpse, his gaze drawn to the chest that lay within its embrace. Carefully prying the lid open, he beheld the gleaming contents within - blood gold, a rare and valuable commodity prized by dwarfs above all else.

Despite its name, blood gold held no value to Atlas, its crimson hue and unknown properties rendering it nearly useless to him. Yet he recognized its significance, a symbol of wealth and power coveted by dwarvenkind throughout the ages.

As he pondered the tragic fate of the dwarf before him, Atlas couldn't help but feel a twinge of sympathy for the fallen creature. In his mind's eye, he envisioned the chaos and destruction that had befallen the dwarf hold, the desperate struggle for survival in the face of overwhelming odds.

Gathering the chest, Atlas send his tired magic to raise the Dwarf. With a determined effort, Atlas focused his magic, channelling his dark power into the fallen dwarf's corpse. Despite the resistance he encountered, he persisted, his will unwavering as he sought to overcome the stubborn spirit that lingered within the dwarf's remains.

As his magic surged forth, tendrils of dark energy enveloped the corpse, suffusing it with unholy power. Slowly but surely, the lifeless form began to stir, the rigidity of death giving way to the unnatural movement of undeath.

With a final burst of magic, the transformation was complete. Before him stood the dwarf, now reborn as a greater undead, its skeletal form imbued with a strength and resilience far beyond that of its mortal existence.

Atlas regarded his creation with a sense of satisfaction, knowing that he had succeeded in harnessing the dwarf's essence to serve his own dark purposes. With a silent command, he beckoned the undead creature forward, its empty eye sockets fixed upon him with a silent obedience that spoke volumes.

As the greater undead dwarf moved to join the ranks of Atlas's undead army, the vampire felt a surge of power coursing through his veins. While he needed to drink and consume much blood to advance his vampiric cultivation, his magic seemed to resonate each time he raised a powerful creature as his servant. Each follower contributes to their master's strength.

Returning to his remaining troops, he began the laborious work of raising all the trolls – a task that would take several hours.

"My lord," Strickler made himself known, seeming to come out of the darkness as he embraced his new path. "Shall we continue downwards?"

Atlas considered it, the valuables he had obtained were likely to be nothing compared to what existed in the deepest depths.

*Beep!*

*Runic Matrix Created.*

The AI chip casting out his fantasies of treasures, "Not this day. When our work is done, we will return to the surface. Our journey is not yet complete." Greed was one of his biggest flaws, however his supernatural senses told him very clearly that he wasn't ready to face what lived below – not yet.

Besides, he still had a higher undead to create.