Thassarian had originally wanted to refuse the voice filled with darkness and death, but when he thought of his comrades who had died tragically, and his father's teachings, his hesitation turned into determination.
"I will."
"Very well, feel the call of our master and become his sharp blade!"
A violent pulling sensation spread through every part of Thassarian's body, as if he were a drowning man struggling, and then, after a terrible suffocating sensation, he was dragged back onto shore.
"Hoo—hah—"
Thassarian suddenly sat up from the ground. Everything that had just happened was like a nightmare, and his surroundings once again became real.
He found himself lying in a strange hall, which was entirely cast from an unknown black metal, and the lighting was a ghostly blue that Thassarian had never seen before.
"You're awake? It seems my work has gotten a bit heavier."
Thassarian followed the voice and found the speaker, but when he saw that face, he froze in place like a wax figure.
The person before him, he had only seen in paintings, and only should have seen in paintings.
He swallowed with difficulty, "Lo... Sir Lothar?"
"Oh? Am I that famous, even a child like you knows me?" Lothar stroked his chin. Was it true that one only became famous after death?
When Thassarian heard Lothar's confirmation, he couldn't believe it—hadn't Sir Lothar died more than ten years ago? How could he be standing alive before him again?
But upon closer inspection, Thassarian noticed that Sir Lothar's appearance was quite different from that of a normal living person; his skin was very pale, and his eyes glowed with blue light.
These were not characteristics a living person should have... Wait!
Thassarian thought of something. He looked at his hands; his originally healthy wheat-colored skin had turned as pale as Lothar's.
"I... I should be dead. I died in the battle against the Dreadlords." Thassarian clutched his head, the gap between cognition and reality making his mind somewhat chaotic.
"Well, to be precise, we can't really be called living people." Lothar tossed a close-fitting garment to Thassarian. "I had the Necromancer repair your shattered upper body—tsk, that battle must have been very fierce. You were almost torn into a rag doll."
"The demon's claws pierced me..." Thassarian touched his intact upper body; the large hole in his abdomen had disappeared, and his entire body was unharmed.
"What exactly is going on, Sir Lothar? What has happened to us?"
"As you might imagine, we are all dead." Lothar's voice carried a soul echo, a characteristic only high-ranking undead possessed. "But you were unwilling to die like that. Some emotion allowed you to successfully rise. I don't know if it was hatred or love, but it must have been very strong."
Arthas would not blindly choose Death Knights; he would only resurrect those who still had a significant obsession with the world of the living. These individuals often rose from their graves themselves for various reasons.
The other soldiers sent to Icecrown Glacier in the same batch as Thassarian believed they had died well, their wishes fulfilled, and entered eternal slumber.
As for Thassarian, he was resurrected in this selection of Death Knights, becoming another dark knight of the Scourge.
"How can this be—I clearly died. Is this some kind of evil sorcery?!"
But Thassarian obviously didn't know this; he still thought he had been resurrected by a demon.
Lothar patted Thassarian's shoulder. The unconscious aura of power he exuded brought Thassarian back from his somewhat uncontrolled state. "Power itself has no good or evil; it depends on how we use it."
"You, and I, both still have lingering attachments to this world, or something that absolutely must be done." Lothar's words carried a hint of vicissitudes of life.
Thassarian remained silent, neither agreeing nor refuting Lothar's statement. He quietly put on the close-fitting garment.
Lothar saw that the soldier was very dejected and knew he hadn't recovered from the shock of death and resurrection. "It seems you still need time to process this. If you have any more questions, you can find me on the upper level of the fortress."
"Wait, Sir!—I want to ask, what will happen to those who were sent here with me?"
Thassarian recalled what Lothar had said earlier, that he wasn't the only candidate for a knight.
Lothar curved his lips into a smile, "They have no regrets left. We will send them home."
Leaving Thassarian still in a daze, Lothar left the ritual hall. Passing by a room, he paused, his hand resting on the evil iron door.
After a moment of thought, Lothar still pushed open the door—this was a training room, where a tall and strong figure was fiercely striking training dummies with a runic warhammer.
Even wielding a two-handed warhammer, his attacks were still as fierce and continuous as a storm. The dummy clearly couldn't withstand such blows, and after one hammer blow completely smashed the dummy into a pile of scrap, the Orc stopped, expressionlessly lifting the broken dummy and throwing it into a nearby trash heap.
"Had enough?"
Lothar leaned against the door, facing Ogrim who had walked over to throw out the trash.
"You come before me, do you want to taste my warhammer again?" Ogrim snorted, but he placed his warhammer on a nearby weapon rack. "I pledge allegiance to that fellow, but that doesn't mean I have to obey your commands."
"But before Arthas left, he appointed me as the supreme commander here. Disobeying me is no different from disobeying the Lich King himself, isn't it?"
"Hmph, glib-tongued, you haven't changed a bit." Ogrim strolled to the dummy storage area, selecting a new dummy.
"What's the point of just hitting those inanimate objects?" Lothar casually took a longsword from the weapon rack, made a couple of gestures, "If you really want to fight, I can accompany you for a while."
"I don't want to smash your head and then have to find a Necromancer to fix you."
Ogrim set up the new dummy, his hand pressing on the dummy. After a long moment, the former Orc Warchief suddenly asked, "Lothar, do I look ridiculous right now?"
Lothar hadn't expected Ogrim to ask that question suddenly. After a slight pause, he replied, "To be honest, a little."
"I knew it—he resurrected me just to make a fool of me," Ogrim scoffed. Although he had submitted to Arthas's iron fist, he still hadn't truly emerged from his confusion.
"That's why I said you're ridiculous," Lothar shook his head; he knew Ogrim too well. "You haven't realized your identity yet."
"My identity? I'm very clear, I'm just a pathetic wretch who has lost all honor," Ogrim sneered, landing a punch on the dummy, leaving a clear imprint.
"Honor? All our honor disappeared the moment we died—" Lothar, seeing Ogrim in this state, found it quite uninteresting and put down the longsword.
He thought Ogrim would understand, but now it seemed the Orc was still trapped in his own thoughts.
"We are not living beings. The word 'honor' has no relevance to us. There is only one reason why we still act according to our own will."
"To eradicate everything that threatens Azeroth."
"We are not Grand Marshals, not Warchiefs, not even the heroes or arch-enemies written about in history books, but Avengers."
"Ogrim, Arthas doesn't hate the orcs. He could have killed all of you long ago, but he didn't—think about it carefully."
"As for the object of our vengeance, you should be very clear."
Having said that, Lothar quickly left, and the evil iron door closed once again. The soul flames in Ogrim's eyes flickered incessantly, and the powerful Death Knight murmured to himself:
"Avengers?"