Chapter 53: The Chieftain and the Marshal

Orgrim dreamed a very long dream.

During the battle of Hillsbrad, in order to cover the retreat of the Orcs, he was surrounded by dozens of elite soldiers of the First Legion. Despite fighting with all his might, his strength eventually failed him, and he fell upon the battlefield.

The moment before he closed his eyes, he hurled his Doomhammer toward Thrall with all his remaining strength. Countless knight lances and soldier swords of humanity pierced his body.

The legendary life of the notorious former Warchief of the Horde, Orgrim Doomhammer, ended thus. The Orc felt no fear or dread in the face of death; instead, there was a trace of release.

At least he had died a glorious death.

In a daze, Orgrim's thoughts drifted back to Draenor, the homeland of the Orcs. He saw his good friends Durotan and Draka, along with their child Go'el, growing up strong amidst the ice and snow of Frostfire Ridge.

The Orcs adhered to their simple traditions, no longer bringing death and terror to other worlds or the Orcish Horde itself. They had not abandoned the traditional path of Shamanism, living in harmony with nature and the elements.

"Go'el... I hope you do not blame me."

Orgrim had once had the opportunity to escape, just as he had done in the past. But he knew he was old, no longer the invincible Orc chieftain. The Orcs needed a new leader.

"The last bearer of the Doomhammer will lead the Orcs to prosperity and then plunge into the abyss of destruction; after that, the Doomhammer will pass into the hands of an Orc who is not of the Blackrock clan, and this Orc will lead the Horde back to glory."

This was the prophecy bestowed upon the famous warhammer since its forging. Orgrim had completed the first half, and he would no longer have the chance to witness the second.

Eventually, Orgrim's vision faded into darkness. His tired hands could finally relax, but what remained with him was a trace of guilt and self-reproach, both toward the Orcs and Draenor, as well as toward Azeroth.

"We had no choice. Without fighting, there is only extinction."

After the Grand Marshal Anduin Lothar, his most respected human opponent, lost to him beneath Blackrock Mountain, Orgrim had once wondered why the humans had not collapsed, but instead erupted with even greater morale.

Later he understood that by that time, the Alliance had no longer come together for the sake of interests, but like the Orcs, they were fighting a desperate battle for survival.

Orgrim was well aware that the entire Horde had been deceived and betrayed by Gul'dan and his Shadow Council. Their shameful actions had caused the Orcs to lose their homeland and their reason, bringing the flames of war and slaughter to every corner of Draenor.

The portion of them that still retained a conscience believed that the actions of the Orcs were not honorable, and they felt ashamed of the innocent blood staining their hands.

Orcs pursued combat and victory, not inglorious massacre—Orgrim knew this well, but as the faction leader, he had no choice but to bite the bullet and lead the Orcs forward on a path whose rightness or wrongness he could not discern.

The survival or destruction of the entire race hung by a thread in his mind. He could not afford needless benevolence and pity; even facing moral condemnation, Orgrim had to do it.

This was also the reason he chose to die in battle: humanity had given him a very good opportunity by dispatching their most elite troops to encircle and suppress the Orcs.

He hoped his death could trade for the rebirth of the Orcs, while he himself could lay down his heavy burden and die in "honor."

Yet sometimes, things do not unfold as one imagines.

When Orgrim opened his eyes once more and sat up from the cold ground, he sensed that he was "different."

His sinewy muscles and formidable physique had not changed; in fact, they were even stronger, but his originally dark skin was now tinged with a bloodless pallor.

The newly resurrected Orgrim felt his thoughts to be extremely chaotic, with a massive amount of complex knowledge and unprecedented power surging restlessly within his body. He had to concentrate intensely to calm himself.

"I... I should be dead."

The Orc muttered to himself, thoroughly bewildered by his condition. He looked around; besides endless glaciers and gloomy clouds, there was not a single familiar sight.

The biting cold wind whipped against him, yet bare-chested Orgrim felt no chill at all, merely sensing that the wind was blowing over him.

The wounds inflicted by the blades and lances had healed under the influence of dark magic. He felt his brand-new body, devoid of its previous senility, as if his physical form had returned to the absolute peak of his youth.

Without a doubt, he was now even stronger than he had been in life. He possessed the combat experience brought by a lifetime of warfare, alongside a physique even more formidable than in his youth.

Once he had steadied his emotions, a look of anger surfaced on Orgrim's face—he recalled something from the Second War: the death knights created by Gul'dan.

***

Gul'dan that traitor was still alive? The surging fury made it difficult for Orgrim to suppress his emotions. He sprang up abruptly from the ground, searching for the figure of this Orc warlock.

"Orgrim, it seems your ritual was also completed quite well, without turning you into a mindless zombie."

This voice?

Orgrim was stunned for a moment. Although the voice carried a mysterious soul-tremor, he could still easily recognize whose owner it was.

Yet that fellow should have died long ago! Died beneath his own warhammer!

With a mixture of shock and suspicion, he turned around and saw a familiar figure. His resolute features and slightly mocking expression were things Orgrim would never forget.

"Anduin Lothar?! Aren't you dead?!"

"Heh, not just me, aren't you dead too?" Anduin Lothar was gazing at Orgrim with a profound look in his eyes.

The Orc did not know what kind of emotions were contained in Lothar's gaze, but hatred was certainly not among them.

Orgrim frowned. He always felt that there was something slightly different about Lothar.

"Wait... how did your hair grow out? I remember you went bald ages ago?"

Lothar's air of mystery instantly collapsed. The Grand Marshal's mouth twitched as he said, "Hey! Is your attention focused solely on that kind of matter?"

Anduin Lothar had used dark magic to "stimulate" the growth of his hair. Although hair was of little significance to a dead man, as a high aristocrat in life, he still cared very much about his grooming and appearance.

If he had not been overly diligent and busy during the Orc wars, his once-thick head of hair wouldn't have fallen out in such large quantities over just a few short years.

To avoid eventually evolving into a "Mediterranean" style, Lothar had made a difficult decision and shaved his head bald.

Unfortunately, the bald head not only failed to grant him a critical strike bonus, but instead, during his duel with Orgrim, he was "critically struck" by his opponent, who shattered his sword and won the battle.

"Where is this? Is this state of ours another of Gul'dan's conspiracies?" Orgrim stopped dwelling on the hair issue and directly asked the question in his heart.

"This is Northrend, the northernmost extremity of Azeroth. The location we are at is the northernmost tip of this extreme north, known as Icecrown Glacier."

Lothar explained their situation to Orgrim. "And right now, we are standing at the very top of the glacier, the symbol of the Lich King's power—the Frozen Throne."

"Lich King... What kind of thing is that?"

"He is the one who resurrected the two of us. By the way, his predecessor was named Ner'zhul; you should know that name."

Orgrim's expression carried deep bewilderment. "Ner'zhul?! I thought that coward died long ago!—And you mentioned resurrection, so where is the one who resurrected us?"

"He went to preside over another ritual," Lothar seemed somewhat helpless. "Young people nowadays, even squeezing labor out of the dead."

"What do you mean by that?"

"It means: congratulations on waking up from your long sleep, and then going right back to working hard labor. Previously I served the Alliance, and you commanded the Horde, but now we both serve the Scourge."

Orgrim's brow furrowed tightly. He found it somewhat difficult to accept such forced servitude; it was a desecration of Orcish traditions.

"I cannot accept such a thing. At worst, I will go challenge this so-called Lich King. Either I finish him off, or I return to my ancestors once again."

Lothar spread his hands. "What you choose to do is your choice. My task right now is to take you to meet this 'Lich King.' But before that, you had best come take a look at this; the view from up here happens to be quite good."

Leading Orgrim to the edge of the Frozen Throne's platform, Orgrim stared in shock at the boundless embryonic form of the black silent citadel and the endless undead legion.

"This is merely a fraction of the Scourge's power. Right now, most of Northrend's territories are under the Lich King's dominion."

"Such a colossal scale... What is his purpose in creating these? To create more meaningless slaughter?"

***

"These were not actually created by him, but by Ner'zhul—as for the purpose, it is somewhat complicated to explain, but it is completely different from what you imagine, otherwise I would not have chosen to assist the new Lich King."

Lothar's gaze was similarly complex. He did not know whether Arthas's choice was correct or not, but this mysterious prince had actually asked him a question back when he was still a child.

"Lord Lothar, would you be willing to renounce your identity in order to protect human civilization and protect Azeroth?"

Lothar back then had merely responded with a smile, "If it is not to protect everything I cherish, what meaning would those empty titles hold?"

Yet what he had not expected was that more than a decade after his fall in battle, the former little prince had truly grasped a power sufficient to shake the entire world.

There was no longer Grand Marshal Anduin Lothar; standing here now was the High Lord of the Death Knights, Anduin Lothar.

"Let's go, Orgrim. I will take you to the armory, and then go meet our superior."

Orgrim, who had originally wanted to refuse, remained silent for a moment of reflection and followed in Lothar's footsteps away from the platform of the Frozen Throne.

Before leaving, Orgrim glanced sideways at the empty throne and the uniquely shaped helmet resting upon it.

十几分钟后，用厚重的符文板甲覆盖住自己的奥格瑞姆一边摆正着自己的肩铠，一边与洛萨聊天。

"To think there would be armor here fitting for an Orc—and this material is more extraordinary than any metal I have ever seen."

Even the suit of dark iron plate he had worn previously could not compare to this current set of runic plate armor.

"This is armor forged from Saronite. Both its strength and flexibility far surpass ordinary metals, and it cannot even be compared to rare metals like dark iron or thorium. Its yield is also far greater than those rare metals; countless Saronite ore veins are buried within the glacier beneath our feet."

"Such high-quality metal, and you humans did not use it previously?" Orgrim was clearly puzzled.

"Heh, that is because the bitterly cold Northrend is completely unsuitable for our survival. Our current bodies cannot feel the cold, but this place is a forbidden zone for any living creature."

"Moreover, Saronite has a characteristic: it causes corruption and harm that ordinary people cannot endure. Only the undead can immunize themselves against this effect."

Orgrim nodded. Lothar's introduction had already made him aware of the pros and cons of this metal, but for the Scourge, this metal had absolutely no flaws.

The most difficult mining stage was simply not a problem for the undead, and its side effects had no impact on the undead whatsoever—it was practically the most ideal metal for the Scourge to use.

Whether considering its strategic location or its resource distribution, Icecrown Glacier seemed tailor-made for the undead. Orgrim's exceptional strategic vision quickly allowed him to realize that the master of the Scourge harbored grand designs.

Seeing his old rival looking solemn and remaining silent, Lothar maintained his good-natured persona, smiling affably, "You must be worried now that if the master of the Scourge makes a move, you Orcs are also very likely to be implicated, right?"

"Hmph, Orc warriors do not fear these fragile bones."

"How many strong soldiers do you have left after experiencing two great wars? The fact that you fell in battle shows that the situation for the Orcs is hardly optimistic," Lothar hit the nail on the head, maximizing the mockery. "Or did you also die after being challenged by the new Warchief? That fellow Blackhand would probably be happy enough to leap out of his grave."

"I am in no mood to argue about these things with you, Lothar. You need only know that we fear no challenge," Orgrim sidestepped the deeper implications of the topic. The two stopped before a closed massive door. "How much longer until we meet this so-called Lich King?"

"This is it."

High Lord Lothar pushed open the black metal doors before them, and Orgrim quickly felt a crushing pressure wash over him.

A voice that nearly caused Orgrim's soul to resonate made his long-stopped heart come close to being stimulated into beating once again.

"Lord Lothar, you have arrived."