The Lich King smiled at Neo, a grotesque rictus of cracked bone and flickering green soulfire in its eye sockets. The expression stretched unnaturally wide, as if the undead lord found the intrusion genuinely amusing. "A bold little champion," it rasped, voice like grinding gravel and distant screams. "Coming straight to my threshold. Sintron will reward me well for your skull."
Neo tightened his grip on the Sword of Light. The blade pulsed with holy radiance, cutting through the oppressive gloom like a beacon. Up close, the Lich King towered over him—nearly three meters of reinforced bone plating, runes etched along every joint that pulsed with necrotic energy. Its ribcage housed a swirling vortex of captured souls, and in its right hand, it clutched a staff topped with a massive skull that seemed to whisper curses.
