Early in the morning, Emperor Karl Franz of the Empire awoke from his slumber.
The bright morning light illuminated the interior of the small cabin. As the emperor forced his eyes open, he found himself lying on a fur rug—undoubtedly a high-quality one from his court. Yet, the hard ground still left his shoulders and back feeling uncomfortable.
The emperor quickly felt ashamed of this. He almost forcibly drove away his drowsiness, throwing off the blanket to let the morning chill rush into his body, forcing himself to wake up.
Karl, Karl, has years of pampering made you complacent? The emperor cursed himself inwardly.
It's easy to forget, but Karl Franz was now in his fifties. For a legendary-tier human, this age was considered the prime of life, where experience and skill were at their peak, and physical decline had yet to set in.
Yet, the emperor was dissatisfied with his condition—deeply dissatisfied.
Years of administrative duties and court life had left him with little progress in combat skills since his ascension to the throne. The endless demands of governance and court activities had drained his energy, leaving him with little time to hone his martial abilities or delve deeper into the mysteries of power.
In his youth, he had been a warrior, mingling with soldiers in the barracks, sustaining his fighting spirit with just salted meat, black bread, and ale.
Getting up from the rug, the emperor surveyed the room. It was a small wooden cabin, resembling a hunter's lodge or a guest house. Memories soon flooded back—he recalled that he and his army were out on a hunt. This was the Empire's annual autumn hunt, one of the few court activities the emperor genuinely enjoyed, offering him three days and two nights of hunting.
Yes, it was now the autumn of 2519.
This year had been a tumultuous one for the Old World.
At the beginning of the year, several human settlements near the Grey Mountains and Black Mountains had been attacked. Any attempts at rescue came too late; by the time the armies arrived, they found only ruins. The human forces could not venture deep into the mountains.
At this time, the Empire and Bretonnia once again set aside their differences and united, sending armies to cooperate in battle. The Shadowgave Beastherds were driven deeper into the Grey Mountains—at least, that's how it appeared on the surface.
Yet, the Empire seemed to have no respite. Just as the threat of the Shadowgave Beastherds was dealt with, a new Beastmen horde emerged in the Old World—the infamous Tongue Tribe, led by the legendary Beastlord Morghur the Shadowgave, a Nurgle-worshipping Saint of Chaos. This abomination turned fertile fields into wastelands and forests into barren lands teeming with poisonous insects. With a single dark incantation, it could unleash destruction upon any land and the forces protecting it.
Swarms of skeletal locusts, like living storms, devoured fertile crops, leaving behind barren wasteland. With its phlegm-filled laughter, pure rivers turned into undrinkable bile. A single praise to Nurgle filled the skies with writhing maggots, raining down like hail into lakes. Granaries once filled with corn and barley were now filled with foul, rotting sludge, and sweet ale turned into thick, filthy spittle.
The emperor knew that Morghur could not be allowed to enter the Empire's heartlands. Under his command, the Reikland army marched out, led by Marshal Helborg, and clashed with the Tongue Tribe at the Six Peaks.
Helborg fought valiantly, but caught off guard, the Imperial forces struggled against the Tongue Tribe's onslaught and Morghur's sorcery. It wasn't until Gelt arrived with the forces of Solland, the Wind of Chamon stirring, that hundreds of Bestigors were turned into golden statues by the ultimate alchemical transformation. The addition of artillery from the College of Alchemy and the Eldrad Guard turned the tide, allowing the Imperial forces to snatch victory from the jaws of defeat.
This was the Battle of the Six Peaks.
But before the Empire could catch its breath, a plea for aid arrived from the distant hold of Karak Hirn.
Karak Hirn was besieged by a massive Greenskin horde! With only 25,000 residents, the dwarfs faced a formidable enemy. King Barundin Stoneheart had no choice but to set aside past grievances and call for aid from the Empire and other dwarf holds.
Yet, the enemy arrived faster than expected. Before the reinforcements from High King Thorgrim and King Agrim Ironfist could arrive, Karak Hirn's artillery managed to suppress the Greenskin assault.
But then, a horde of Ogre mercenaries appeared, nearly turning the tide and forcing the dwarfs to retreat entirely into the fortress. In desperation, King Barundin even considered sealing the gates and holding out to the last.
At that moment, reinforcements from Nuln arrived. This was the first campaign of Frederick von Leobwitz-Bernadino, the 16-year-old Baron of Nuln, first heir of Countess Emmanuelle, and godson of Emperor Karl Franz.
It was unrealistic to judge Frederick's talent based on a single battle, but the young baron displayed terrifying command skills and artillery placement in his debut. With over a hundred cannons firing in unison, the Greenskin horde and Ogre mercenaries were utterly annihilated. This battle became known as the "Hundred Cannons Battle," and afterward, King Barundin Stoneheart and Frederick exchanged tokens of friendship.
The relentless wars left Karl Franz and his Empire with no respite. Finally, with the various conflicts settled, the emperor took a few days off for the autumn hunt, hoping to rest.
As Karl Franz pondered, heavy footsteps approached from outside. The emperor instinctively reached for his Runefang: "Who's there?!"
"It's me, Your Majesty, Gunter."
The emperor exhaled in relief and relaxed: "Come in."
The Reiksguard entered with attendants, bringing a basin of water and breakfast—cream bread, butter, fried eggs, Thuringian sausage, and a vegetable salad.
The emperor took a towel and washed his face. As he did, his usual dark humor surfaced: "You're here for a reason, aren't you, Gunter? Spit it out. I hate riddles, especially when I've just woken up."
"There's been an incident," Gunter said helplessly. "We've found some poachers in the hunting grounds."
"Just drive them off according to the rules," the emperor replied, indifferent. "But let this be the last time."
"They're Kislevite hunters," Gunter added. "They've clashed with the Reiklanders… especially the hunters, who are demanding that these poachers be executed."
The towel was thrown back into the basin.
The emperor took a deep breath, opened his mouth, and finally uttered a single word: "Oh!"
In recent years, such news was no longer surprising. After the fall of Kislev, many Kislevites had flooded into the Empire, leading to numerous conflicts with the locals. While racial, cultural, linguistic, and customary differences often bred mutual hostility, the real source of conflict was competition for jobs.
Simply put, Kislevites were "cheaper" in every sense. For low-end services and heavy labor, hiring a Reiklander might cost ten copper coins a day, but a Kislevite would do it for five.
The influx of Kislevites into Reikland had taken over much of the low-end labor market, leaving many Reiklanders jobless and resentful. This had led to numerous large-scale bloody conflicts, leaving the emperor with a headache. While the Reiklanders were his base, they were often the ones instigating the conflicts.
How to judge this?
The emperor couldn't help but wonder inwardly—why didn't these people go to Ryan?
Across the mountains, noble estates were constantly hiring for corn harvesting and cotton picking. The knightly lords often provided watermelon and banana buffets, with fried chicken and grape soda on holidays!
Karl Franz had some reservations about Bretonnia's occupation of Erengrad and the fortification of Kislev, but on one hand, the Empire's finances couldn't support Katarin's restoration, and on the other, both Emmanuelle and Boris Todbringer believed the Empire's north needed a buffer. Thus, the emperor had said nothing.
"Drive them off. Tell the local hunters that if they have the skill, they should hunt Beastmen in the forest for bounties! This is the royal hunting ground—no one is allowed to hunt here again. If I find out otherwise, they'll face the emperor's wrath!" Karl's gaze sharpened. "And tell me, Gunter, while we've been focused on the west, is there any news from Sylvania?"
"The Stirland report says Sylvania is relatively quiet," Gunter checked the message and shook his head.
"Good. The dead should stay dead in their graves," the emperor nodded, wearily adding, "Don't come out and cause trouble."
---
The Old World, southern World's Edge Mountains.
Nagashizzar.
Nagashizzar, known as the Cursed Pit, was the lair where Nagash fled after his defeat by the Tomb Kings. It was one of the most formidable fortresses in the world.
Built by the tireless labor of the undead, the fortress rose 800 meters above the desert, carved directly into the Cripple Peak. Thus, the summit was its highest spire, while the mountainside was studded with hundreds of towers, their windows emitting eerie green magical light at night.
Here, dozens of undead legions, controlled by hundreds of necromancers, worked day and night to strengthen and fortify the citadel. Over millennia, the entire mountain had been hollowed out, with countless corridors and thousands of rooms carved within. The undead needed no rest, so after Nagash's semi-death, their sole task was to guard their master's fortress.
Four colossal bone golems guarded the gates of Nagashizzar, each dozens of meters tall. The walls were lined with hundreds of bone catapults, ready to rain down bone projectiles on any besieging army.
Beneath the citadel lay a network of tunnels twice as deep as the fortress itself—a vast, hive-like maze of mines where undead toiled to extract warpstone. These labyrinthine corridors were patrolled ceaselessly by Nagash's undead sentinels, ever vigilant against Skaven attempting to reclaim their lost domain.
Nagash, the Lord of the Undead, now existed in a state of undeath—or perhaps a Schrödinger-like uncertainty. His consciousness was semi-lucid, but with only a skull remaining, he could do little but scheme and exert his influence, using divination and whispers to guide his agents toward his goals.
Much like the decaying corpse emperor on the Golden Throne, Nagash's will was difficult to comprehend. Yet, there was no shortage of necromancers making pilgrimages to Nagashizzar, worshipping Nagash as a god and believing that one day he would lead them forth from the fortress to conquer the world.
After many years, the necromancers did not witness Nagash's true return, but they did welcome one man.
The last Vampire Count, Manfred von Carstein.
Manfred presented Arkhan's credentials and entered Nagashizzar. With earnest and sincere words, he recounted to the necromancers within the sacrifices he had made to resurrect Nagash, his alliance with the Lich King Arkhan, and his lifelong dedication to the cause of the Undead Lord's resurrection, even at the cost of his own life.
The necromancers were skeptical of Manfred's claims, but when he presented further evidence—including three of the nine Books of Nagash and the cursed blade that had once slain Nagash—they decided to consult their master through divination.
Soon, they received an affirmative response.
Thus, the necromancers of Nagashizzar swore a terrible pact with the Vampire Count—to aid him in achieving their grand goal: summoning the Lord of the Undead back to the mortal realm and leading them to conquer the world once more.
After over a thousand years, Nagashizzar stirred once again. Dozens of undead legions and hundreds of necromancers stood ready, awaiting Manfred's commands.
And so, the Nagash Resurrection Plan, under the collaboration of Manfred and Arkhan, was fully set into motion.
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