"Unless?" The priestess raised her head proudly, the divine light flowing in her eyes, looking like a very patient, very holy, very powerful interrogator who was just itching for a good plot twist.
"Unless," Aegwynn replied, a conspiratorial glint in her eye, "the group of people who raided Karazhan can take advantage of the fact that we have tied up most of Sargeras' forces and deal a fatal, utterly humiliating blow to the Demon King. You know, a good old-fashioned backstab, but with more cosmic implications."
"Can you do it?" The night elf expressed some doubt, her gaze flickering towards the distant tower, where even from this distance, the faint smell of brimstone and bad decisions wafted. "They look a bit... squishy. And prone to getting decapitated."
"The one inside is the descendant of Thoradin!" Aegwynn declared, as if that explained everything, which, to be fair, it kind of did.
Emperor Thoradin is a name that even the most ignorant night elves have heard of, usually whispered in hushed tones around campfires, or shouted during very enthusiastic historical reenactments. Although the night elves have almost no contact with humans (they mostly just argue about tree sap and ancient grudges, occasionally sending very passive-aggressive fruit baskets), this does not prevent them from knowing that there was a hero on another continent who drove away the trolls, unified the various human tribes, and established a great empire. He was basically the human equivalent of a very impressive, very loud, very successful carpenter who also happened to be a king. Hearing the name, the priestess was in awe, a rare expression for her, usually reserved for particularly well-maintained moon wells.
"If that kid Anduin Lothar really did it, then he would be the hero of the entire world of Azeroth..." Aegwynn's voice lowered, a hint of genuine hope in her tone, quickly followed by a cynical whisper, "Provided he doesn't trip over his own feet, of course, or get distracted by a shiny object."
What is Lothar, who Aegwynn has such high hopes for, doing at this very moment? Sorry, dear reader, this great hero is currently running away in a mess, looking less like a noble warrior and more like a very large, very armored, very panicked chicken who's just realized he's late for a very important appointment with a very large, very angry golem.
Lothar was very tired. He could hear his own heavy breathing, a sound like a broken bellows attempting to inflate a very large, very deflated balloon, announcing that his physical strength had dropped to a very low, very pathetic level. His lungs, which still felt insufficient no matter how much oxygen he took in, could no longer squeeze out more physical energy for him. He was basically running on fumes, sheer stubbornness, and the faint, lingering scent of fear.
He took off his helmet, a heavy, impractical piece of metal that was now just extra weight, probably making a very satisfying clunk as it hit the ground. And after the shoulder straps of his armor were accidentally broken (probably from a particularly enthusiastic, very undignified roll), he had to take off and throw away his armor, leaving him with only his well-tied hand and leg armor, which he had no time to throw away. There was no other way. In front of the Golem whose power was beyond human imagination (and probably beyond the imagination of a few minor gods), the word "strength" was meaningless. The only way to save his life was to dodge flexibly, like a very large, very clumsy, very desperate dancer attempting a very complicated, very dangerous tango.
Between the twelve columns surrounding the workshop, Lothar rolled and crawled to dodge the repeated attacks of the giant golem, looking less like a hero and more like a very determined, very sweaty slug attempting to escape a very aggressive, very metallic garden hoe. Gradually, his physical strength and luck seemed to have reached their limit, like a very old, very worn-out rubber band on the verge of snapping.
Lothar glanced at his old friend Medivh, the guy who should now be officially referred to as "Sargeras-in-a-Medivh-suit." There was an evil red light in the wooden eyes in the deep eye sockets, and the white teeth seemed to be ready to bite people at any time, probably for a very unpleasant snack. The dry body without a trace of life in the body was even more frightening, like a very aggressive, very dead puppet that had decided to go on a rampage.
Sargeras, meanwhile, completely ignored Lothar, probably deeming him too insignificant to bother with. He nervously muttered a series of demonic spells that Lothar did not understand. It was unknown whether this was a spell to maintain the space channel of the Dark Portal, or something else, or perhaps just a very long, very evil grocery list for his next cosmic conquest.
Looking at Garona who was still lying on the ground twitching, looking like a very sad, very traumatized pretzel, and Duke's body whose blood was gradually turning cold (and probably attracting flies, which was just rude), although Lothar's will to resist had not weakened in the slightest, despair had already gripped Lothar's heart unknowingly. The little power of mankind is too small in front of Sargeras, the lord of the Burning Legion, and is not even as powerful as a mantis trying to stop a chariot. It was basically a very small, very insignificant, very futile effort against a very large, very angry, very demonic tank.
Even if Lothar guessed that Sargeras had been pinned down (which was a big "if," given his current predicament), what else could he do? He couldn't even escape the pursuit of the giant golem behind him, who seemed to be enjoying its job immensely, probably humming a very evil tune. The huge lightning ball thrown by the golem flashed blue and white electric light and made a sharp "crackling" sound, which constantly irritated Lothar's nerves and threatened him - if he dared to cross the line, being scorched would be Lothar's only end. He was basically being herded by a very large, very angry, very electric shepherd who was also trying to turn him into charcoal.
Lothar spotted an opening, a tiny sliver of hope, like a single, very dim light at the end of a very long, very dark tunnel, and rushed over with all his might. He failed. Spectacularly. The giant golem was more agile than he had imagined, moving with the surprising grace of a very large, very angry, very metallic ballerina. A huge fist came at him, and Lothar had no choice but to do an ugly roll to avoid the blow, looking less like a hero and more like a very desperate, very uncoordinated tumbleweed. The fist hit Lothar less than a meter away, where there was a huge pillar.
The shock of destruction spread to the ceiling above Sargeras' head, and a huge, winding, twisting black crack line immediately appeared on the wall, looking like a very angry, very magical spiderweb. The black line spread at a high speed, and after a moment, it directly collapsed a small half of the entire workshop. "Crash!" The rubble fell all over the ground, turning the floor into a very dangerous, very dusty obstacle course, and unknowingly, it covered Duke's body. "Well, that's one way to get buried," Lothar probably thought, if he had time to think.
Lothar had no time to care because another heavy punch from the golem had already hit him. It's over! Even though the fist hadn't arrived yet, Lothar knew that he couldn't dodge it this time. Not only was his strength almost exhausted, but just now, a piece of gravel hit his ankle, and he suddenly felt a piercing pain. It was basically the universe telling him to give up, very loudly, and with a sharp rock.
Maybe it would be enough to take a break, a quick nap, but the problem is that the inhumane golem will not give its enemies time to rest! It was basically a very relentless, very unforgiving, very metallic personal trainer who believed in no breaks, ever. "Bang!" With a loud bang, Lothar was swept away by the golem's giant fist, sent flying like a very large, very armored, very unwilling projectile. At that moment, Lothar felt that all his internal organs were displaced, probably rearranging themselves into a very uncomfortable, very painful, very squishy pattern.
Death is at hand. Lothar was very tired. He was exhausted both physically and mentally, and couldn't even stand up. The sword that a swordsman should never discard, the glorious Sword of the Kings, had been blown away in the bombardment just now. The Sword of the Kings turned a few times and lay quietly behind Medivh, probably sighing with relief that it didn't have to deal with any more flying.
Sargeras's face was full of mockery, a smug, evil grin, and he did not stop chanting spells. He used a voice from his soul to talk to Lothar, a smug, condescending whisper: "Haha! Lothar! Lothar, you have finally reached the end of your life. Why, do you have any feelings? Any last words? Perhaps a recipe for a good stew, or a lament about your terrible choices?"
Lothar should have been truly and completely in despair. But at this moment, a strange figure appeared on the back of the giant golem. It was a shadow that resembled a soul, but Lothar could swear that the ghost was definitely Duke. He would never mistake the face that had been filling his mind since just now, even if it was a ghostly, slightly transparent version. He also clearly saw the spirit-like Duke making a gesture to him. That was what he taught Duke before entering Karazhan, meaning - "I need cover. And make it snappy, I'm on a very tight, very spiritual deadline."
Cover? What cover? Well, all I can do is talk nonsense and make sarcastic remarks, Lothar thought, a desperate, defiant spark igniting in his weary eyes. Lothar, despite being on the verge of death, sat up in a very pretentious manner, like a very dramatic actor about to deliver his final, most important lines, and combed his hair with his left hand: "I'm sorry, it's not time to sum up my life yet. Because I have a shocking secret about the world of Azeroth... a secret that will blow your demonic mind, and probably make your tentacles twitch!" At this point, Lothar's voice trailed off, for maximum dramatic effect, leaving Sargeras hanging.
"Huh?" Sargeras became interested, his four eyes (or two, depending on which head was talking) widening slightly. He had seen many people who sold out their masters for fame and fortune. There were only a few so-called heroes who could persevere to the end. He was not afraid of Lothar deceiving him. In Sargeras's opinion, there would be no benefit for Lothar to deceive him. Moreover, Lothar was a descendant of the human emperor Thoradin, so he might have some juicy secrets, perhaps about forgotten treasure maps or embarrassing family recipes.
Sargeras approached Lothar while chanting a spell, his curiosity piqued, like a very powerful, very evil cat drawn to a dangling string. Next to Lothar, a huge golem raised its fist, ready to smash Lothar into a pulp at any time, just waiting for Sargeras' command. Standing in front of Lothar, Sargeras raised his chin proudly and looked down at Lothar who was lying on the ground, looking like a very smug, very powerful, very evil giant contemplating his next meal.
"You can say it now. Of course, the consequences of angering me are worse than death. You have to know one thing: for mortals in front of my power, death is not the end at all. It's just the beginning of a very long, very painful, very eternal torment. So spill it. And make it good."
"Okay, my secret is..." When he said this, Lothar's voice became weaker and weaker, a mere whisper, barely audible, but in the second half of the sentence, his voice suddenly increased, and it was like the roar of a lion, filled with a surprising amount of defiance and a distinct lack of respect.
"Fuck the devil—"