As Allen uttered that nearly inaudible "bang," a commotion erupted at the far end of the street.
Kel'Thuzad, bound layer upon layer in Arcane chains and iron shackles, suddenly seemed to lose all support in his body and collapsed limply forward.
The battle mages escorting him scrambled to catch him, and then chaotic shouts rang out.
"He's dead! He's dead!"
Ansirem abruptly turned his head, his gaze landing on Allen.
Standing behind Ansirem, Emmy saw it—saw the silent shape of Allen's lips, saw the slight movement of his fingers hidden within his sleeve.
She said nothing. She merely looked away and fixed her eyes on the swaying signboard across the street.
Allen met Ansirem's gaze and shrugged helplessly. "Sorry. Maybe I hit him a little too hard earlier."
Ansirem stared at him for several breaths, then let out a sigh and said nothing more.
Dead still wasn't enough. Allen lowered his eyes, his fingertips brushing against Xal'atath hanging at his waist.
A dead Kel'Thuzad was still a threat.
Once the defense of Dalaran was over, he would need to find Kel'Thuzad's corpse and destroy it.
He could not allow some bizarre twist in this timeline to resurrect him into a lich again.
"Allen!" Morgan's voice came from behind him.
He and Stella had finally arrived, both breathing heavily from running.
Allen grabbed Morgan by the arm and pulled him toward the inn. "Morgan, you're here! Hurry and save Paval and the others—they're all injured."
Morgan asked no questions.
He strode through the blasted-open doorway and stood amid shattered glass and overturned tables and chairs.
Closing his eyes, he clasped his hands before his chest. Golden Holy Light poured from his palms, at first only a faint, flickering glow, but growing brighter and brighter until it resembled a tiny sun cradled in his hands.
The radiance spread outward, washing over the guards lying on the ground, washing over Paval, drenched in blood.
It was warm and gentle, like sunlight filtering through leaves on a spring afternoon, like a mother's hand resting against one's forehead.
Wounds healed within the light, and color slowly returned to pale faces.
Paval's chest rose once, and a muffled groan escaped his throat.
Jaina looked at the color returning to his face, and tears finally spilled from her eyes. Choking back sobs, she said, "Thank you, Mr. Morgan."
She turned her head and looked toward Allen standing at the doorway, her voice softer now. "Thank you, Allen."
Arthas stood nearby, watching Morgan withdraw the Holy Light, watching the guards slowly sit up one after another, dazedly touching their faces and arms.
His fingers clenched and loosened again. Although he had never learned healing spells, why hadn't he at least tried using the Holy Light earlier?
He was the prince of Lordaeron, yet he stood here watching others save people, watching others shine, like a candle forgotten in some corner.
Like a supporting character.
His gaze settled on Allen.
That man standing at the doorway—he was the one Jaina liked.
Arthas suddenly felt that aside from the title of "Prince of Lordaeron," he seemed inferior to the other man in every way.
And as the prince of Lordaeron, the people of Lordaeron had placed far too many expectations upon him, while he himself did not know whether he could bear them.
For the first time, he did not need to answer anyone's expectations. He only needed to stand quietly at the side as a supporting character.
The princess of Kul Tiras was not looking at him. He did not have to shoulder the duty of saving her.
Everyone naturally waited for Allen Prestor to save everything.
He did not need to do anything. He did not need to bear any responsibility.
This feeling...
Allen straightened up and turned around, only to discover that Ansirem was still standing there.
The old man had not followed the battle mages away. He merely stood there quietly, as though burdened by some lingering concern.
"What's wrong, Archmage Ansirem?" Allen asked. "Shouldn't you be helping the other archmages defend Dalaran?"
Ansirem shook his head, fatigue visible on his face. "Mr. Prestor, the agreed coordination time for the Cult of the Damned has long since passed. No one attacked Dalaran. Nothing happened. Archmage Antonidas wishes to see you."
A silent thunderclap exploded inside Allen's mind.
Nothing had happened.
How could nothing have happened? Didn't the Horde and the black dragons want the Eye of Dalaran anymore?
He lifted his head, his gaze sweeping across Ansirem's face, across Emmy's face, across the battle mages cleaning up the battlefield at the street corner.
A sense of unease unlike anything he had ever felt seized his heart.
He recalled the hysterical state Kel'Thuzad had been in back at the inn.
He had long felt that something was wrong. Why had Kel'Thuzad been so desperate? Even if the Cult of the Damned had been wiped out in one stroke, why hadn't he gone to carry out another mission or fled into hiding? Why had he instead come seeking revenge against him?
And now, once again, nothing had happened...
Could it be that Kel'Thuzad had known from the very beginning that nothing would happen today? Had he already been abandoned?
Not only had the organization he painstakingly built been destroyed by me, but even someone he deeply cared about had abandoned him as well... Was that why he had fallen into despair?
If it wasn't Kel'Thuzad, then who was it? Who had infiltrated Dalaran to coordinate with the black dragons from within and seize the Eye of Dalaran?
Was it Ansirem?
Allen glanced toward Ansirem, then toward Emmy.
This was the first time he had encountered something that had completely gone off the rails from the game's original plotline, and it left him deeply unsettled.
What exactly were the enemy trying to do?
Suddenly, Allen remembered the vision he had seen that day—the old orc muttering to himself.
He had said there was no more time.
They had to—they had to what?
Wait.
The Horde had sent so many troops to Azeroth. That meant they could open portals to Azeroth whenever they wanted.
So then... did they really need the Three Artifacts to open the Dark Portal to Azeroth?
Allen's hazy memories suddenly became clear at this moment. The Three Artifacts were needed to open another Dark Portal!
Where did that Dark Portal lead?
Their attempts to obtain the Three Artifacts had failed one after another. Cornered and desperate, what would they do?
Allen abruptly raised his head.
If infiltration failed...
Would they...
Launch another full-scale frontal invasion of Azeroth?
...
The Blasted Lands.
The Blasted Lands had not been peaceful lately. The orcs had intensified their harassment of the Sons of Lothar. Those green-skinned madmen surged forward wave after wave like a tide, disregarding casualties, disregarding the cost.
But despite the endless harassment, the Sons of Lothar had still managed to complete Nethergarde Keep.
It was a gray stone fortress built at the mountain pass of the Blasted Lands, like a crouching beast gripping the throat of the Dark Portal's route into Azeroth.
The newest gryphon landing platforms had been installed atop its towers, while enough food supplies and arrows to last half a year had been stockpiled behind its walls.
On the training grounds outside the walls, a silver-haired high elf was drawing her bow at a training dummy.
Her movements were so fast they could barely be seen. The first arrow pierced the dummy's throat, its shaft still humming. The second arrow followed the exact same trajectory, driving the first even deeper into the wooden post. The third, fourth, fifth—its chest, abdomen, limbs, every fatal spot on the dummy was filled with arrows.
She lowered her bow. Her silver hair was damp with sweat, clinging to the pale skin of her neck.
She wore light leather armor, the sleeves rolled up to her elbows.
Wind blew from the depths of the Blasted Lands, stirring her messy silver hair.
A fast horse galloped over from the direction of Nethergarde Keep, its hoofbeats rapid as drumbeats.
The messenger was a young Stormwind soldier.
He pulled on the reins at the edge of the training grounds and dismounted in one motion, carrying a bundle of letters and newspapers in his arms as he hurried toward the fortress.
"Messenger!" Vereesa put away her bow and strode over quickly.
Her voice was crisp and clear, carrying the elegance unique to a high elf. "Are there any newspapers from the north? Or any messages?"
The messenger turned his head and saw those sky-blue eyes looking at him. His face instantly flushed red.
He fumbled through the papers in his arms and pulled out a stack of wrinkled newspapers and several letters. "Yes! Yes there are, Lady Windrunner! Some from Menethil Harbor, and some from Stormwind too—the past few days' worth are all here!"
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