The Holy Light on the blade dimmed, then flared bright again, then dimmed once more.
"Have the entire army fall back to the defensive line we've already established. Keep dragging them out—until Khadgar turns back." He paused, his gaze falling on the sheep that was still sulking in silence. "Then have Khadgar lead us in a strike against the Horde's rear lines, shut down the Dark Portal, and cut off their reinforcements."
Danath nodded and immediately ran toward the messengers.
Alleria did not move. She looked at Turalyon, and he looked back at her.
She did not say that she wanted to find her sister, and Turalyon did not tell her she could not go.
He merely fell silent for a moment before giving a faint nod.
Alleria's dragonhawk shot into the sky. The golden beast let out a piercing screech as it tore through smoke and blood mist, flying toward the fading blue lightning in the distance.
She would not alter the entire army's strategy for the sake of her sister.
But she herself would absolutely go save her.
...
After the lightning faded, Allen finally saw the enormous gate not far behind them to the right.
The Dark Portal stood at the far end of the Blasted Lands like a tombstone built for giants.
Two towering pillars pierced into the gray, hazy sky above, their statues carved with twisted runes.
Fel fire poured from the edges of the gateframe, staining the entire portal a sickly green.
Beyond it was the chaos of another world—countless eyes, fangs, and claws churning within the green abyss.
Good grief. Vereesa, just how far behind enemy lines did you run?
Allen tore his eyes away from the Dark Portal and swept his gaze across the burning wasteland.
The battle line was retreating toward Nethergarde Keep. He could not tell whether it was a rout or a strategic withdrawal. He only knew that no matter what it was, he and Vereesa were about to be left behind here.
The black dragon he had ridden here was already dead.
It lay not far behind them, its wing membranes spread limply like a crumpled piece of black cloth. Black blood seeped from its nostrils and the corners of its eyes.
It had endured too much shadow power.
After Allen's first wave of Chain Lightning cleared out an open area, he had cast Grease around the two of them in a circle.
Sticky lard surged out from the void, spreading across the scorched earth in a slick ring.
Most of the orcs who charged in would lose their footing and crash to the ground in a heap.
And any that managed to get through would be met with another Chain Lightning from Allen.
But this could not continue.
His magic power was running dry.
This was the first time since transmigrating that he had ever felt this way.
"Allen." Vereesa's muffled voice came from within his arms. "How did you end up here?"
"Is now really the time to ask that, my Lady Vereesa?" Allen sounded far calmer than she had expected.
Vereesa lowered her head.
"I'm sorry," she whispered softly, so softly it felt as though the wind might carry the words away. "I'm out of arrows."
Allen looked at her.
This high elf, who had always been so strong, now kept her head lowered. Her silver hair had been clumped together by blood.
"Damn it," Allen said.
His voice was not loud, but it was serious—serious like a promise he fully intended to keep.
"One day, I'm getting you a bow that doesn't even need arrows."
Vereesa froze.
She slowly raised her head. Within those weary, dimmed eyes, something lit up again.
One day.
He was always this confident.
Even now, he still acted as though they had a future ahead of them.
Allen snapped his fingers.
A translucent purple hand emerged from the void.
Its fingers were long and slender, its joints clearly defined, like a real hand made of flesh and blood.
It hovered beside Allen's shoulder, waiting for instructions.
Allen tilted his chin toward the corpses scattered with arrows, and the hand drifted over. Its fingers deftly picked up one arrow, then another, then another.
In the distance, the roar of orcs echoed out.
Comprehend Languages!
Those hoarse, muddled syllables transformed into clear commands within his ears.
"Archers!" the orc sergeant bellowed from atop a protruding rock, waving his bloodstained longsword. "Get every archer nearby over here—! Shoot them through—! Turn them into pincushions—!"
Allen raised Xal'atath high toward the sky.
He could not let this continue.
A silver streak shot from Vereesa's bowstring, brushing past Allen's side before piercing straight through the orc sergeant's open mouth.
The sergeant's voice cut off abruptly, and his body swayed atop the rock.
Then the Void Torrent descended from the heavens.
That pillar of light was the Void itself.
The breath of the abyss.
A nothingness capable of vaporizing even souls.
The beam crashed down onto the sergeant and the few nearby orcs who had not managed to flee in time.
The rock disintegrated within the radiance.
The orcs did not even have time to scream. Their bodies dissolved inside the beam like snow falling into boiling water, like something swallowed by the abyss itself.
The remaining orcs stopped in their tracks.
They stared at the place the Void Torrent had licked across.
Only a smoking crater remained, its surface gleaming like glass.
Then they looked at Allen.
That gaze made their knees go weak.
Gul'dan.
Someone muttered the name softly in Orcish, then shuddered immediately after saying it.
The warlock who had sacrificed all of Draenor to fel power by himself.
The devil who had founded the Shadow Council.
The traitor who had turned the orcs from warriors into demonic slaves.
They had thought Gul'dan was already dead—dead within the Tomb of Sargeras, dead within endless darkness.
But now, as they looked at this man...
His face was not Gul'dan's.
His robes were not Gul'dan's.
But those eyes—
There was something within those eyes that reminded them of nights when they awoke from nightmares only to realize they were still trapped inside them.
"What are you cowards afraid of?!" another centurion roared from the rear. "He's only one man! One human! There are hundreds of you! Charge him! Hack him to pieces! Or I'll kill you myself!"
The orcs began moving again.
They shoved against one another, crowding forward. Some tightened their grip on their axes. Others swallowed nervously.
Damn it.
Allen stared at the approaching green tide, his fingertips growing numb.
He did not have much magic left.
Damn it. Allen now understood more clearly than ever that unless someone created a miracle and turned the tide of battle around, they were going to die here.
[Your charm and confidence can sometimes create miracles, twisting reality itself.]
Allen activated Tides of Chaos.
His next check would automatically gain advantage, and his next spell would inevitably trigger a Wild Magic Surge.
He needed...
A miracle.
Allen raised his hand and pointed at the orc charging at the very front.
"Kill him."
The orc's companions behind him swung their battle axes down onto his neck. The blades lodged into his spine, and they had to yank twice before pulling them free. Blood splattered across their faces.
A second orc joined in.
Then a third.
They hacked that orc apart until he was dead.
The three wave-shaped marks on Allen's wrist began to glow as wild power surged violently through him.
---
I will post some extra Chapters in Patreon, you can check it out. >> patreon.com/TitoVillar
---