Chapter 44

As Atlas strode through the dwarven hold, the remnants of the battle lay strewn across the ground – the fallen greenskins, their bodies now lifeless husks, their once ferocious cries silenced by the cold touch of death. With each step, he passed by defaced statues, and monuments to the dwarven ancestors that had been desecrated by the marauding goblins. The air was heavy with the stench of filth and decay, a testament to the vile presence that had occupied the once-hallowed halls.

Entering a chamber littered with crude tents made from tanned skins, Atlas beheld the survivors – a pitiful band of goblins who had surrendered in the face of his overwhelming might. They huddled together in fear, their eyes darting nervously as they awaited their fate.

Surrounding them, his undead minions stood sentinel, their spectral forms casting an eerie glow in the dim light of the chamber. The wights, with their eyes fixed on Atlas, awaited his command, their ghostly visages betraying a trace of intelligence that lingered within their spectral bodies.

With a purposeful stride, Atlas began to walk the perimeter of the circle, his every step accompanied by the soft whisper of arcane incantations. With practised precision, he bent the very fabric of magic to his will, weaving intricate runes beneath his feet as he completed the circle.

As the last rune fell into place, a hushed silence descended upon the chamber, broken only by the faint sounds of the goblins' squirming and whimpering. With a gesture, Atlas initiated the spell, channelling dark energies into the circle as he unleashed the full power of his necromantic magic. Rising goblins as undead servants was easy however they would serve little purpose, being too weak and small to do much damage. Their value lay in their life essences that still ran through their veins.

The runes glowed with an otherworldly light, pulsating with the raw energy of the spell as it began to take effect. The goblins' struggles grew more frantic, their feeble attempts to escape the confines of the circle thwarted by the relentless power of Atlas's magic.

One by one, the goblins fell silent as the life force was drained from their bodies, leaving behind only withered husks. Their panicked cries turned to weak moans of agony as their vitality was sapped away, leaving them but dust to be blown away by the wind. The chamber filled with a palpable sense of dread as the sacrificial spell reached its climax, the air thick with the scent of death and decay.

The very essence of life, a multitude of blood and soul, that Atlas had pulled from the pathetic creatures, far more potent than any blood wine. The AI chip scanned it and Atlas read its simulations. The energy it contained was not enough to break the cultivation barrier to become a Marques. Quickly hiding his disappointment, he knew there were many other uses for such energy.

With a final flourish of his hand, Atlas controlled the collected energy to become tendrils that slithered their way across the stone floor to wind their way around his minions. Wights, Knights, Ogres, Orcs, Strickler – all his greatest creations felt a rush of power. The life force healed cracked bones, knitted skulls and strengthened bodies raising their ability to rend, tear and crush in Atlas's name.

As the echoes of the spell faded away, Atlas surveyed his handiwork with a sense of grim satisfaction. The chamber was now littered with the lifeless bodies of the fallen, their struggles and defiance silenced forever.

With a single command, Atlas set his undead minions and human followers to scour the ruins of the dwarven hold, their tireless efforts yielding the spoils of victory. They gathered what treasures remained hoarded by the defeated greenskins – glimmering gold coins, precious gems that sparkled in the dim light, and assorted trinkets of dubious value.

Among the loot, they discovered scraps of weathered leather, etched with crude goblin scrawl. Recognizing the potential importance of these artefacts, Atlas carefully collected them, intending to scan them into the AI chip for translation at a later point. Each scrap held the promise of valuable insights into the greenskins' magic and machinations, information that could prove invaluable in his ongoing quest that would inevitably lead to more conflict with the green menace.

Standing amidst the ruins of the dwarven hold, Atlas allowed his mind to wander, envisioning the bustling halls and cavernous chambers alive with the industrious energy of the bearded dwarfs. He imagined them toiling tirelessly, their skilled hands carving deep into the stone, shaping it into grand halls, sturdy fortifications, and intricate works of art. The clang of metal echoed in his mind as they forged weapons and armour of unmatched quality, their craftsmanship revered throughout the land.

In his imagination, Atlas could almost hear the hearty laughter and spirited songs that would have filled the air during dwarven celebrations, echoing off the stone walls and ringing out into the mountainous expanse beyond. He admired the dwarfs' dedication to their craft and the unwavering strength of their fortresses, even if he harboured a disdain for their insular nature and reluctance to engage with the world beyond their mountain strongholds.

Despite their differences, Atlas couldn't deny the respect he held for the dwarfs' craftsmanship and resilience. As he stood amidst the remnants of their once-great hold, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of regret for the loss of such skilled artisans and the rich culture they represented.

While deep in his thoughts, the AI chip faithfully scanned the surroundings, as it always did, looking for threats and abnormalities to inform its users about. As Atlas wandered deeper in the mountain, torchlight flickering in his cold hands, it spotted something.

*Beep!*

Highlighting a section of wall to his left, Atlas paused, and pulled out of his reverie. Seeing only a stone wall, flat and carved in the same style and pattern as all others, he brought the light closer to satisfy his curiosity.

Atlas's keen eyes narrowed as he scrutinized the seemingly unremarkable section of the wall to his left. Despite its outward appearance of solidity, something about it nagged at the edges of his consciousness, urging him to investigate further. The light illuminated the surface, revealing the intricate patterns and textures of the stone, a testament to the enduring skill of the dwarf craftsman.

Yet, even as he examined it, his senses honed by centuries of existence, Atlas detected a subtle irregularity—an imperceptible gap between the stones, worn away by the passage of time. It was a small detail, easily overlooked by all but the most observant, but to Atlas, it was a clue—a potential doorway to hidden secrets.

With a deft motion, Atlas summoned forth the soul of a fallen goblin, its spectral form materializing before him. With a flick of his wrist, he directed the spirit to pass through the narrow gap and explore the space beyond. Time seemed to stretch agonizingly as he waited, the seconds ticking by like hours as he strained to glean any insight into what lay beyond.

Then, at last, the spirit returned, flooding Atlas's mind with a rush of images—a grand chamber, its walls adorned with intricate rune carvings that had concealed its existence for untold ages. At its centre stood a magnificent coffin, crafted from the finest marble and adorned with ornate designs—a testament to the wealth and power of those who had once dwelled within this hidden sanctum.

As Atlas contemplated the implications of the hidden chamber before him, he couldn't shake the sense of destiny that seemed to guide his every step. Here lay not just the remains of a dwarf, but the legacy of a valued individual of the Dwarf kingdoms. Only the most skilled or honoured dwarfs would have the funeral chambers hidden in such an elaborate way; either way, Atlas knew they would be valuable.

With a sense of reverence, Atlas approached the concealed entrance to the chamber, his mind already racing with plans for the future. In his quest to build a new domain, he would need every advantage he could find, and the expertise of the dwarf could prove invaluable in shaping the world to his vision.

But raising the dwarf from its slumber would not be a simple task. To preserve its skills and knowledge intact, he would need to employ powerful necromantic magic, weaving intricate spells to awaken the dormant spirit within the ancient remains. It would require delicacy and precision, a careful balance between life and death, which he had failed to do with the shaman. Perhaps even requiring an improved higher undead spell to achieve his desired results.

With a determined resolve, he set forth his magic, triggering the hidden mechanism to open the door to him. Greeted by an age of dust, Atlas knew he couldn't afford to fail again. In this world of chaos, lesser undead were plentiful, what Atlas lacked was Generals.