Archlich Vozen had raised grand armies of legendary proportions throughout his long life, and the purple-eyed corpses surging across the Fujimori line were an insult to every one of them.
No binding scripts, no muscular enhancements, no bone restructuring. Black Fang had made no effort to turn the dead into glorious undead constructs.
They were raw, unmodified, freshly killed meat walking on strings that had no business producing anything beyond a lurching shamble, and a dwarven captain she'd bisected seconds ago was carving through his own former comrades.
"Sacrilege!" The word tore from the archlich in a screech that cracked frost on the nearest tombstones, gems flaring white along his chain.
"She didn't modify a single one of them!" His gauntlet swept toward the horde. "Proper necromancy demands meticulous binding and restructuring to produce soldiers worthy of the craft! These puppets are raw meat running on fumes, inferior in every conceivable-"
