Deathenbulkiztahlem had never known peace, and perhaps never would again - not since the day Deathwing first rose from his unmarked grave. Thick fog clung to the desolate continent like a festering wound, seeping through the jagged remnants of civilization. The soil itself lay contaminated by strains of lethal viruses, swirling in noxious clouds. Ruin was the only constant here. And in the midst of it all, upon a throne of twisted metal and rotted bone, sat Deathwing, the once-brilliant doctor whose unnerving resurrection had changed the fate of this land forever.
He was an abomination by every stretch of the imagination. Dark-gray and purple blotches sprawled across necrotic flesh, gaping lesions exposing sinew and mottled muscle beneath. His eyes - cross-shaped pupils tinted in a dark-purple hue - captured the room like the promise of plague. Yet, behind that monstrous façade lay a savant intellect, honed by years of studying chemistry, biology, and everything in between. At one point in time, his colleagues had whispered he would solve every disease known to mankind. They hadn't imagined the price he would pay.
A Past Best Left Unburied
Deathwing still recalled the exact moment of his death. The acrid smell of spilled chemicals in his private laboratory, the crackle of shattered glass, and the fateful swirl of toxic fumes filling his lungs. It was an experiment that should have propelled him into medical history - an attempt to fuse viral strands with groundbreaking chemical compounds. Instead, it ended with a violent explosion and him lying motionless on the lab floor. Those mysterious compounds and the half-finished viruses seeped straight into his corpse, saturating dead cells with unholy life.
When his eyelids fluttered open again, Deathwing no longer felt mortal shackles. He had awakened something within that dark realm between science and sorcery, a metamorphosis that rendered him both unstoppable and unrecognizable.
The Throne Room
Now, centuries - or perhaps mere months - later, time had become a fluid concept in Deathenbulkiztahlem. His domain stretched far across the wasted plains. The walls of his throne room reflected grim trophies: half-scorched walls decorated with twisted spines, shattered test tubes, and jars containing disembodied limbs floating in pungent, brackish fluid.
Around him, the Death Regime stooped low in obedience. They were a legion of similarly mutated zombies, their flesh likewise stained with grayish-purple patches of rot. Though undead, they each bore the memories and judgment once attributed to living humans - soldiers, scholars, and everyday folk twisted by the same viral plague and subservient to their unholy master. Their minds were intact, yet warped by Deathwing's mania; they followed him without question.
A Hunger for Flesh and Knowledge
Deathwing's elongated fingers tapped the arm of his ghastly throne, each click echoing in the high-ceilinged chamber. His thirst for blood rivaled a vampire's. It wasn't merely the taste - though he craved the rush of warm fluid after so long in the cold emptiness of undeath. It was the knowledge gleaned from every subject he dissected. With a scalpel in his hand, Deathwing felt a familiar surge of excitement. He did not simply savor blood; he used every drop, every splatter to fuel his twisted research.
The next experiment always loomed on the horizon of his mind. On this particular evening, one of his faithful legionnaires dragged in a young scout from a distant rebel faction. The poor soul was battered, eyes terrified. Deathwing greeted him with a sadistic smile - dark lips peeling back to reveal a row of jagged, discolored teeth.
"Now, now," Deathwing crooned, his voice a rasping whisper. "Let's not waste the opportunity for...education."
An Unholy Consultation
The scout screamed when Deathwing's living corpse descended upon him. No bars or chains could be seen, yet the aura of dread and the unwavering grip of rotting hands pinned the prisoner motionless. The Death Regime circled around them, quiet as the grave.
Deathwing prodded gently at the scout's chest with his scalpel. "Tell me, do you fear infection more than death?" His eyes glowed with a sinister curiosity. "It's a question I ask everyone, sooner or later."
With precision that only a masterful surgeon could exhibit, he nicked through layers of cloth and skin. Blood trickled down, an offering to the ravaged soil. The prisoner's howl echoed off the chamber walls and spilled out into the night. For Deathwing, it was the perfect symphony of agony.
He watched intently, noting how the rebellious youth's flesh responded to the environment. There was always data to collect, always a new puzzle to solve in the twisted labyrinth of disease and undead physiology.
Revelation in Rot
When the prisoner's screams died to a ragged whimper, Deathwing motioned for his legion to step back, and he straightened with a contemplative hum. The dark hush of the throne room pressed around them. A jagged grin spread across his dead lips, as though he had just uncovered yet another vile secret of the plague-ridden world.
"You have served me well," he whispered, leaning close to the barely conscious scout. "You might even say you've contributed more to science in these few moments than in your entire mortal life."
And then he spoke a single word - faint and guttural, an incantation that seemed part-medicine, part-curse. The scout's eyes rolled back, and he began to convulse, skin darkening to mottled shades of gray and purple. Slowly, painfully, the transformation began. Another soldier for the Death Regime was born.
Unshackled Dominion
Across Deathenbulkiztahlem, rumors churned of Deathwing's growing power. His cunning mind never ceased to push the boundaries of what the undead could accomplish. Whispers spoke of unstoppable armies, able to siege entire outposts without pause. Others warned of the twisted new research projects locked away in Deathwing's laboratories - dissections, forced mutations, horrifying spawns that further desecrated the land.
Yet for Deathwing, it was not enough. There were always new frontiers to explore, fresh viruses to splice, and unholy concoctions to perfect. The rotted continental plains of Deathenbulkiztahlem formed merely the start of a greater vision: his vision.
High atop his rusted, crooked fortress gates, the undead doctor stared out into the gloom. "This land is ours," he breathed to no one in particular, though his legions heard each word. "But it won't be the last. The world beyond is teeming with veins ripe for the bleed - and minds in need of my...help."
His cross-shaped eyes flared with a vile light. In the distance, thunder boomed, echoing like war drums. The Death Regime raised their decaying arms, moaning in loyal adoration for their brilliant, blood-hungry ruler.
Soon, all of Deathenbulkiztahlem would discover what happened when Deathwing decided it was time to expand. And for anyone still breathing beyond its borders - hope was a dying flame.