Qin Duanyu? When did you arrive?!

The number of Shadowmoon orcs in the Bastion of Pain was astonishing. After all, this was their stronghold and fortress, so once the rescue of the civilians was complete, Captain Nobundo immediately prepared for the retreat.

With their small numbers, turning a surprise raid into such an outcome was already an absolute victory. However, with Gul'dan now in power, the internal corruption of the Shadowmoon Clan, directly overseen by that "Progenitor Warlock," was truly shocking.

Reinforcements from all over the fortress had already rushed up to the high ground, even including elite bone-constructs strengthened and eroded by void energies. These foes were not easily dismissed by the shining of the Holy Light, but Captain Nobundo, having just been reprimanded, had learned his lesson.

He did not proactively suggest a retreat, but instead led his people to stand firm beside the Saint and continue the fight.

He believed that the legendary Vigilant was not some reckless brute who only knew how to charge blindly. After all, his close friend Maraad had told him many stories about Brigadier General Diacum, and in those tales, the Saint always appeared as a figure of both wisdom and valor.

Facts proved that Nobundo's expectations of the Saint were indeed not disappointed.

Noticing that the Vindicators had already sustained injuries, Diachum decisively gave the order to retreat.

"Nobundo, Tenum, take your respective warriors and escort the civilians away! Shanthuk and Yrel, lead two squads to cover the rear. Escort the civilians to Umberhollow as quickly as possible and wait for the ranger reinforcements from Telredor."

Leaning on his already searing Heritage Battleaxe, Diath issued the order for the warriors to fall back, yet he himself did not retreat.

Instead, he stepped forward a few paces, unleashing a fierce and brutal Judgment of the Ashes followed by a dazzling Divine Storm to purify the void bone-constructs ahead. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he hurled his flying hammer in the manner of a Hammer of Wrath, executing the necromancer manipulating the bone-constructs from afar.

Empowered by the legendary trait [Divine Nova], every remote execution of Diacum's Hammer of Wrath left a trail of scorching light halos upon impact, resembling a miniature "Holy Light missile." The splash damage generated upon landing was enough to clear out the ring of weaker enemies surrounding it.

Legendary skills—such fancy toys were truly useful to have.

Yet, seeing that the Saint was still eager to leap forward and find a worthy opponent, the Vindicators knew that this Vigilant clearly hadn't had his "fill yet." Their fiercely brave Saint had no intention of retreating with them.

"Where are you going?" Nobundo asked with a deep frown.

"You are the commander! If I may be so bold, Your Excellency, your choice right now is a bit too outrageous."

"Precisely because I am the commander, I must bear the most difficult part of this battle, child."

Diath turned back with a smile, waving his hand as he said:

"I have confirmed that Chieftain Ner'zhul of the Shadowmoon Clan is within their sanctuary. If we are to create the possibility of peace negotiations later for High Exarch Velen, we must capture this shamanic leader of high standing in orc society.

This is my mission, and the final link in the strategic plan.

Your mission to rescue the civilians is already complete. Today's battle has been fierce enough, honoring the Holy Light and proving to me that you have not lost the courage of your ancestors, which pleases me greatly! But the area I am about to enter is fraught with dangers you cannot endure. Therefore, obey orders, Nobundo!

Immediately escort the civilians away.

This mission is not as simple as you think. These Shadowmoon orcs will not let you escape so easily; they will pursue you relentlessly until you fall into a trap woven by fatigue.

My demand for you, however, is that there must be no more casualties!

Every Eredar life is precious, and ensuring the safety of every single life is the Vindicator's vocation. I am now entrusting this vital mission to you!

Go."

"I'm going with you!"

The rescued female orc shaman, Rekar Bloodfire, clutched a hunting axe. She could understand Draenei, and upon hearing that the Saint of the Draenians was heading to the Shadowmoon Burial Grounds, she was the first to step forward, shouting:

"I also want to know what our foolish old chieftain has been hiding in the sanctuary to do all these years, and you need a guide! The paths within the sanctuary are difficult and winding. Once you get lost, what awaits you is a relentless onslaught from powerful undead."

"Unnecessary!"

Diath looked the wounded shaman up and down, shaking his head with a trace of coldness:

"The Holy Light will bless me in completing this task, and the responsibilities you will bear in the future exceed your imagination, young orc. Return, and protect your people just as I protect mine."

With that, under the gaze of the Vindicators, their Saint summoned a radiant Holy Spirit warhorse, vaulted onto the saddle, and brandishing his battleaxe, charged straight toward the seething sanctuary deep within the Shadowmoon Bastion.

Like a streaking beam of light and a falling meteor, he effortlessly pierced through the defensive line formed by the void bone-constructs, leaving a trail of scorching ashes everywhere he passed.

"Move!"

Nobundo gnashed his teeth. Seeing surrounding orc warlocks showing signs of encircling them, he decisively leaped onto his mount and led the warriors back to defensive positions. Panic filled the eyes of the civilians already outside the fortress, making Nobundo realize that the upcoming operation would remain arduous.

Following Diath's orders, they split into two teams: the vanguard escorted the civilians toward Umberhollow, while the rearguard utilized the terrain at the entrance of the Shadowmoon Hold to ambush the pursuers.

However, the Shadowmoon orcs quickly deployed the fortress's rylak riders.

These ferocious aerial beasts, carrying berserk warriors, soon caught up with the retreating column. They continuously fired dangerous energy arrows from the air, attempting to shatter the Draeneis' morale in this manner. But they were quickly dispersed from the airspace when the veteran orc shaman Turogo within the column invoked the power of the wind elements.

Howling, swirling gales protected the evacuees, preventing the rylaks from drawing close easily. Yet these shamans had been abused for far too long; even relaying their protection would make it hard for them to hold out until they cleared the danger zone.

Still, the orcs possessed a simple and steadfast mental fortitude to persevere.

If the frail maiden Samara could save them regardless of the cost, then the orcs could naturally help the Draeneians under such circumstances without regard for the consequences.

They also wished to convey a clear signal to the Draeneians through this action: not all orcs had chosen corruption! They, the traditionalist orcs who refused to submit to the beguilement, were also victims of this war.

"Speed up! Our shamans can't hold out much longer."

The courageous and resourceful female orc Rekar Bloodfire shouted to Nobundo:

"The shamans are very weak, and the elements refuse to grant us more power because of what the Shadowmoon Clan has done over the past many years. Hurry! Get into the woods before we collapse."

"We can't go in there!"

The veteran Vindicator Tenum was experienced. He shouted:

"Orc rylaks can breathe fire. Once we hide in the woods, we're done for! Find high ground and wait for the rangers to rendezvous, letting them use ranged weapons against these vicious beasts."

"Uncles and aunts, look ahead! Something is coming down from the sky."

A child carried on the back of a Vindicator in the crowd suddenly piped up in a childish voice. Nobundo and the others raised their heads to see several special creatures rapidly approaching through the clouds.

Their bodies resembled skink-tailed lizards, but their backs featured oversized butterfly wings that changed color depending on the situation. Most importantly, every single one of these creatures possessed a pair of genuinely expressive, oversized eyes.

They looked both ugly and cute, filled with an aura of wisdom and gentleness.

Harnessed with reins, wearing gemstone-polished goggles over their large eyes, and protected by light armor, they were obviously specially domesticated flying mounts.

"Great! It's the Nether-drake riders of Telredor! Reinforcements are here, we're saved."

The veteran Vindicator cried out, causing the terrified crowd to burst into cheers.

The orc rylak riders overhead also spotted the arrival of the Draenei reinforcements, but there were only four Nether-drake riders against their eight rylaks. Relying on their numerical advantage, these wild Shadowmoon orcs brandished their whips and urged the rylaks forward to meet the enemy.

However, before both sides even entered aerial combat range, across a distance of at least four hundred meters, a speeding gem-tipped arrow enveloped in swirling winds was loosed. With an eerie shriek, it struck the left head of the lead rylak dead center.

Piercing straight through the eye into the brain, it caused the beast to shriek in agony as it tumbled and plummeted from the sky.

Along with it, the orc riders were forced to experience a parachute-less airdrop amidst terrified and furious roars. They must have felt utterly desperate at that moment, just as desperate as a certain heavily built prisoner failing to pry open a helicopter cabin door despite his utmost efforts.

Well, man, what can I say!

Orc, out!

Yet this deadly arrow was merely a greeting. Following it, storm arrows continuously rained across the expanse of the sky. After the third rylak was shot down, the orcs finally realized that an apex predator of a hunter had arrived on the opposing side!

For an arrow fired at such a distance to still pack such destructive power—and it was, damn it, a frenzied aerial mounted archer—when ordinary hunters couldn't even aim properly while traveling at high speeds aboard flying mounts, this undoubtedly signaled the appearance of a second Draenei legend.

The orcs decisively retreated, cursing furiously in their hearts.

Damn it, they had been having the time of their lives doing sacrifices in the Bastion of Pain, only for a giant of the Holy Light to charge in this morning and beat them silly on the ground. Before they could even stanch their bleeding, another ranger grandmaster had rushed over at noon to farm them like fish in a barrel.

To be waited on in turn by two legends—wasn't the Shadowmoon Clan's fortune today just a bit too overwhelming?

That son of a bitch Gul'dan had long since run off God knows where to do God knows what, and Ner'zhul, having lost all his ambition, hid in the sanctuary every day playing with handicrafts and proving utterly useless. And yet they clearly had two legends of their own on this side!

So why was the battlefield truly a complete landslide, dammit?

Of course, the orcs' foot-stamping rage contrasted with the Draeneis' ecstatic relief. Seeing the orc rylak riders fleeing in panic, the civilians on the ground knew they were finally safe.

They began to give thanks to the Holy Light and sat down on the spot to rest. This was not because they lacked organization or discipline; it was simply that the experiences of the previous night and that morning had been far too thrilling for mere civilians.

The Vindicators stood guard on the perimeter, awaiting the landing of the four Nether-drakes. Nobundo stepped forward to greet them, but upon seeing the figure leap down from the lead Nether-drake, his heart skipped a beat.

Holy shit!

High Exarch Naielle had come in person?

They had only sent the message to Telredor before they set out. By all calculations, it hadn't even been three hours. Even if Her Eminence had departed immediately upon receiving the word, crossing a third of Shadowmoon Valley in such a short time was nothing short of a miracle.

No wonder her Nether-drake was so exhausted its tongue was hanging out.

Hey! Just what kind of high-speed transit did you use to rocket all the way here? Speeding is dangerous, even in the air! What? Had the crash of the Genedar not taught you "pilots" how to drive safely?

"Vindicator, where is Diath?"

High Exarch Naielle had left in a genuine hurry.

She hadn't even had time to change into her High Exarch's ceremonial armor, arriving instead in a simple ranger leather jerkin. Her hair was unkempt, and her red-rimmed eyes showed she had clearly stayed up all night.

Yet judging by the Exarch's anxious expression to see her "late husband," Nobundo knew that if he wasted any more time talking, he might very well receive a heavy backhand slap across the face.

Therefore, he spoke with concise brevity:

"To help High Exarch Velen achieve the possibility of peace negotiations, the Vigilant entered the Shadowmoon Catacombs alone to pursue Shadowmoon Chieftain Ner'zhul. We tried to dissuade him, but you cannot stop a Saint who has made up his mind."

"Of course you couldn't stop him. No one can persuade him to halt at a time like this... Ah, still as reckless as he was twenty thousand years ago."

Naielle let out a sigh of relief.

She waved a hand, signaling her adjutants behind her to take over the escort duties. Then, carrying three times the usual quivers of arrows and ammunition, she remounted her Nether-drake and took off, hurtling urgently toward the defensive lines of the Bastion of Pain.

"Do these legends really all have to be this reckless?" Nobundo thought helplessly:

"Could you at least have brought a few guards, Your Eminence."

"What are you thinking?"

The High Exarch's adjutant, a female hunter wearing ruby flight goggles, looked Nobundo up and down. She twitched her tail and quipped:

"I can tell what you're thinking just by looking at your expression, but we ordinary folks wouldn't dare rush up there right now and play third wheel. You need to know, she's an old maiden who's been single for over twenty thousand years. Having finally managed to get the only man brave enough to want her resurrected and awakened, upon reuniting, they're bound to spark a raging fire.

Tsk tsk. In this situation, whoever disturbs the High Exarch's good time better be prepared for a headshot execution from the 'Tooth of the Red Maw'."

"Huh?"

Nobundo turned his head in surprise, looking at this talkative high-ranger captain, and whispered:

"Isn't the 'Tooth of the Red Maw' our hunting sacred artifact? The Exarch brought that thing along too?"

"Are you stating the obvious?"

The high ranger, whose manner of speaking always sounded like a cross-talk routine, folded her arms with a world-weary, gossipy air and curled her lip:

"She's here to see her sweetheart, naturally she has to bring the 'token of love.' Oh, us ancient Eredar affairs are none of your young junior's business. Hurry up and lead the people back to Umberhollow. Your old auntie has been busy for days without sleep, and today when I finally wanted to sleep in, I ran into this damn mess.

Still, Brigadier General Diacum's return isn't a bad thing. At least it cures Old Naielle's two-thousand-year menopause rage. Hopefully, she can retire from the jianghu with her sweetheart and pop out a dozen or so kids.

Oh my, wouldn't this be my chance to finally get promoted, Senior Yura?

Being Naielle's adjutant on Argus twenty thousand years ago, and still being an adjutant now that I've run to Draenor—didn't I waste these past twenty thousand years of suffering for nothing?

Tell me if that makes sense, kiddo."

"Uh, I still think that you young ancient Eredars should keep me, a young Draenei, out of your complicated affairs. After all, I can't afford to offend a single one of you."

***

Diath had no idea that the "little Naielle" of yesteryear was currently rushing over to help in a blaze of anxiety.

To be honest, though, he didn't feel he needed any help.

After all, the Shadowmoon Burial Grounds—a poorly designed five-man dungeon from a terrible expansion, which he had farmed endlessly back in the leveling days. To reiterate, coming here felt just like coming home; he knew the way blindfolded.

Most importantly, there was finally no one else around him at the moment, which meant Diath no longer had to suppress the release of his overly violent holy power out of fear of "friendly fire."

The heavy, pent-up holy power accumulated over more than twenty thousand years was precisely in need of massive release. This would effectively alleviate the crushing pressure on Diath's physical form. Thus, the moment he charged into the Shadowmoon Burial Grounds, the Sun Herald's holy blaze erupted in the form of a most violent, noon-tide scorching light.

Standing within that heat intense enough to melt metal, he didn't even need to swing his weapon; he merely had to walk forward, and those bone-constructs infused and strengthened by the void would "melt naturally" in the light.

Although the Sun Herald was undeniably a hero class and ought to be flashier than normal classes, Diath knew that his overwhelmingly exaggerated AoE combat power right now was definitely abnormal. At the very least, ordinary legends couldn't sustain this absurd degree of prolonged energy release the way he could.

Who told the naaru to be born within the Holy Light, while he, now possessing a naaru vessel, was essentially a "miniature puzzle block"?

Exhaustion of holy power?

Nonexistent.

Diath discovered with dismay that as his holy power transformed into scorching light and burned away, his radiant energy was simultaneously recovering at an "mana regeneration speed" unimaginable to ordinary mortals. This proved that the current "low-intensity" combat could not help Diath rapidly consume his accumulated holy power.

He had to find an opportunity to release the terrifying holy power stored within his body all at once.

"So my dear Doom Lord Kazzak, when are you ever coming to Draenor again? So that I can find a chance to 'reasonably throw a tantrum' and incidentally complete your third execution to deepen our personal relationship,"

Diath strode forward, hefting his battleaxe, and sighed:

"Without a good opponent who is as tough, overbearing, and generous as you, my new life is visibly quite boring. Speaking of which, it's been over twenty thousand years; no matter how inefficient the Burning Legion's operations are, they should have recruited a pit lord who is both durable and hard-hitting by now, right?

Woohoo, those fel-fat-bottoms just sound like the perfect punching bags...

Hm?

Wait!

What did my AoE just burn to death?"

While the Vigilant Saint's thoughts were wandering, a notification from the combat log made him realize he seemed to have "accidentally" burned a boss to death.

He paused in place, letting the Holy Light transform into a blazing sun that continuously scorched the petty void forces lingering around. Under Gul'dan's leadership, the Shadowmoon Clan had incessantly researched the mysteries of the void, turning a proper burial sanctuary into a void den.

Judging by the gloomy aura here, these warlocks had definitely raised a "big daddy" for themselves in this place.

However, these issues were nothing to the Vigilant Saint.

He had plenty of strength and means to purify these utterly insignificant void remnants. What tier was this world of Draenor anyway? It couldn't even manage to secure a slot for an Old God's parasitism; running a void cult here was absolute suicide by drunk driving through a roadblock.

Moreover, Diath felt he really ought to accumulate some experience in fighting the void. After all, with the Dark Portal about to open, he might find himself taking a spin on the great stage of Azeroth before long.

In that cursed place with four Old Gods acting as "hidden bosses," his current level of cultivation wasn't quite enough to look impressive.

He flipped through the continuously refreshing combat log, then looked helplessly at a familiar name.

"Sadana Bloodfury... It's you again!"

Diath muttered:

"Back in the dungeon lore, I already knew you were a hopeless fanatic blindly following Ner'zhul to the bitter end, but I didn't expect you to still be unrepentant at this stage.

Though the tag says 'undead creature'... well, time checks out too; the Seven Fictions of Draenor in this era of official lore have indeed reached middle age. A little chicken like you dying to the erosion of time is somewhat understandable.

Yet to be corrupted by the void even in death and denied peace—sigh, Gul'dan ruins lives!"

Amidst such reflections, the Vigilant maintained his pervasive, all-encompassing wide-range AoE resembling a scorching midday sun as he walked through this underground ritual hall. Then, he realized the problem seemed a bit serious: he saw void specters drifting through the shadowy forces in utter confusion.

Those pitch-black creatures, resembling elemental entities but composed entirely of the purest void power, were each entwined with chilling negative energy.

The material world could never give birth to void creatures of this purity. Once released into the outside world, they could undoubtedly form mobile void pollutions, which were indeed troublesome things.

Although void lacked the overbearing destructive force of fel, this stuff acted like a stubborn plaster; once stuck on, it was hard to completely eradicate. Furthermore, regions polluted by the void were rife with whispers that disrupted minds, making those with weaker wills easily bewitched into void lackeys.

Needless to say, these things were certainly "weapons of war" prepared by Gul'dan for his assault on the Temple of Karabor. In the official lore of the Dark Portal, that thoroughly wicked scoundrel had indeed done precisely this.

"Must be purified! Not a single flaw can remain."

Diath frowned, hefting his battleaxe and marching forward. Surrounded by the blazing sun's glow, he hacked them down one by one. But these elemental creatures felt terrible to hit; their soft, mushy bodies lacked any sense of impact feedback, quickly causing the Saint to lose interest in melee combat. He hoisted his Grudge of Kazzak, shifting into priest form, and tossed out glowing rings of scorching holy light. Then, with the posture of a Sword of Justice, he smashed down a Holy Smite, burning every single void specter he encountered into dim fragments.

Advancing all the way, he soon encountered the "big daddy" the Shadowmoon warlocks had raised for themselves: a massive void specter squatting on the path leading to the depths of the sanctuary.

Needless to say, the sheer size of that thing was immense; it sufficed to know that cyan-colored void runes had already formed outside its pitch-black ghostly form. The appearance of that ominous entity indicated that the creature was undergoing "entropy-fiend" transformation.

If it were allowed to continue devouring energy here, it would ultimately become a rift connecting the Void Sea to the physical universe.

Even worse, this thing was devouring "souls." The restless souls of the orc ancestors circled it, unable to find peace under the constraints of its "Dark Song," gasping and wailing as if suffocating.

It fed on souls; that single point alone sealed the evil essence of this entity.

"Those orcs who accused the Draeneians of desecrating their ancestors really ought to come over and take a good look at just who is torturing your forebears!"

Diath spat to the side. He had no intention of stepping up to resolve this wicked thing himself.

For one, physical attacks had truly poor efficacy against such void creatures.

For another, Diath, who had spent over twenty thousand years in solitary confinement practicing and leveling up, intended to showcase his "training results" in the material world as well.

"A trusty fifty-cent bro should always be used on the right occasion, wouldn't you agree, buddy?"

Diath snapped his fingers. Amidst the flickering holy flames, his Radiant Spirit emerged from the scorching light in the posture of a Guardian of Ancient Kings, but this time it no longer bore the Eredar appearance of twenty thousand years ago.

Instead, it seemed to have undergone some sort of "evolution."

At the very least, its appearance was sufficiently cool.

Diath wove a suit of blessed holy armor for it with the Holy Light, draped its form in white combat vestments woven from his own milky-white holy flames, and shaped a white hood over its head to veil its face.

Its original radiant wings had also been altered. In the long mental training where he was utterly bored out of his mind, the artistic Vigilant had fashioned floating beams of light to replace the ostentatious wings.

Five on the left, five on the right, those milky-white, sacred beams of light fluttered like ribbons behind the Guardian of Ancient Kings as it hovered, imparting an indescribable pure majesty and sacred power.

That's right, it was modeled after the posture of the Archangel Tyrael.

This was undoubtedly a time-consuming process, and shaping the Holy Light thoroughly tested a原力 (force/power) wielder's understanding and manipulation of energy. Diath had personally chipped away at it, bit by bit, reshaping its form with his own holy light. Achieving the current level of refinement—a 1:1 collector's edition figurine—essentially proclaimed that Diath's affinity for the Holy Light had reached "perfection," at least among the legendary tier.

Though to say he trained his holy light affinity purely through this process wasn't entirely true...

Mostly, being trapped in that spiritual world for so long meant that outside of combat recreation, he simply had to find ways to amuse himself, or he truly would have gone mad.

"So, Tyrael, my fifty-cent bro."

Diath raised the battleaxe in his hand, and the Guardian of Ancient Kings behind him mirrored the action, its left hand gripping a greatsword forged of milky-white holy flame that was drawn from the light. With a dashing flick, it trailed light and fire along the blade within the scorching glare.

The instant Diath swung his battleaxe downward, his Guardian of Ancient Kings zipped forward like a deployed Pokémon with a whoosh, taking his place to fight the forces of evil to the death!

It sounded stirring, but even if it got beaten, it didn't matter.

Given Diath's currently exaggerated holy light affinity and holy power reserve, once the Guardian of Ancient Kings was shattered, it could be resummoned after fifteen minutes. Why else would it deserve to be called a trusty fifty-cent bro?

Ha, Void!

Your specters annihilate and perish by every second, while my trusty fifty-cent bros are infinite. So you'd better skedaddle back to Azeroth to stir up trouble; if you insist on sitting at the table here in Draenor, you only deserve to sit with Durotan's dog.