CHAPTER 128: THE VOLCANIC ALLIANCE

News of Gor'muka's annihilation and the desecration of his corpse tore through the upper steppes like wildfire. Panic, cold and unyielding, finally pierced the arrogance of the remaining tribal lords.

Deep within the obsidian stronghold of the Ashen-Crags, where molten rivers of lava bubbled beneath colossal archways of stone, Grand Necromancer Mal'kor and Giant King Thrum stood face to face. Gone was the mocking laughter of the council chamber; in its place was the grim realization that a single human was systematically unraveling centuries of orc dominion.

"The fool is dead," Mal'kor rasped, his hollow green eyes burning with frantic energy as he slammed his bone staff against the stone floor. "Gor'muka’s entire clan has knelt to him. If we wait in our separate domains, that human will harvest us both. We must pool our forces entirely."

Giant King Thrum grunted, his fourteen-foot volcanic frame radiating intense, furnace-like heat. The towering brute crossed his massive stone arms, his obsidian-crusted jaw clenching. For the first time, he did not scoff. He had underestimated a boy with spatial tricks, and the price was blood.

"Bring the catacomb ghouls and the stone-shapers to the caldera," Thrum commanded, his voice rumbling like an earthquake. "We will unite the Ashen-Crag Giants and the Grave-Walker legions at the Heart of the Steppes. Let the human come to the volcano. We will bury his entire horde in rivers of fire and bone."

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Three days later, the ground trembled across the central plains as Caius marched his growing empire forward.

At the vanguard walked the three blindfolded, self-refining puppets: Krag'gath, Borgath, and the newly forged husk of Gor'muka, dragging their heavy weapons through the ash. Behind them marched a terrifying unified horde of three thousand five hundred elite veterans including Iron-Skulls, Blood-Moons, and subjugated Dire-Fang riders.

Caius rode at the absolute front, his dark traveler’s cloak billowing behind him as the scorching heat of the eastern horizon began to bake the air. Shaman Vrak rode close behind, nervously clutching his bone staff as the towering, jagged peaks of the volcanic heartland rose into view.

"My Lord," Vrak whispered, his voice strained against the rising wind. "The scouts report that Mal'kor and Thrum have combined their forces. Thousands of undead abominations and fourteen-foot rock giants are fortifying the central caldera. They mean to make this our graveyard."

Caius pulled his mount to a halt at the edge of the obsidian cliffs, overlooking the vast, magma-lit basin below.

Down in the basin, the combined armies of the final two clans formed an apocalyptic wall of stone, bone, and fire. Grand King Thrum stood at the front like a living mountain, flanked by legions of skeletal horrors commanded by Mal'kor from the shadows.

Caius gazed down at the final obstacle standing between him and total conquest of the Shattered Steppes. His pale eyes flicked over the massive enemy forces, completely devoid of fear or hesitation.

"Good," Caius said softly, his voice cutting through the roar of the underground magma. "It saves me the trouble of hunting them down one by one."

He raised his right hand, his fingers igniting with blinding violet spatial-lightning as his Crown Core pulsed within his soul.

"Advance," Caius commanded.