Stormwind Prison, Confiscated Goods Room.
At this moment, a plump guard was sticking his backside out, rummaging through rows of wooden shelves.
His name was Markul. He had worked in this pitch-dark dungeon for ten years. His greatest pleasure was pawing through prisoners' belongings—of course, every now and then, a few silver coins would "accidentally" fall into his pocket.
This was his extra income. No one cared.
The prisoners? Who would care about the words of a bunch of criminals?
"Let me see… that pretty boy who just came in today…" Markul muttered as he opened a wooden crate that had just been delivered.
Inside, clothes were piled messily, along with a short sword, a cloak, a ring, and some miscellaneous items.
He reached in and felt a heavy coin pouch.
Opening it, he found two gleaming gold coins and seventy-six silver coins, shimmering temptingly under the dim oil lamp.
Markul's eyes lit up instantly.
"Ha! This idiot's carrying this much money and doesn't even know to grease some palms?" he clicked his tongue in amazement, stuffing the pouch into his clothes. "Serves you right for ending up in jail."
He rummaged further and pulled out a shriveled ration bag, and then—
A dagger.
It was an ordinary-looking ritual dagger.
Markul casually picked it up, about to toss it back into the crate—
But his gaze suddenly froze.
The etched patterns on the sheath seemed to writhe slowly, as if alive.
Markul stared at it without blinking, his whole body stiff as if frozen in place.
'Pick me up.'
A voice sounded in his mind.
Soft and alluring, like a lover whispering in his ear—or a call from the abyss.
Markul shuddered, yet instead of snapping out of it, he became even more entranced, staring obsessively at the dagger.
'Pick me up… it belongs to you now…'
His hand unconsciously tightened around the hilt.
A chill spread from his palm, yet it filled him with an inexplicable pleasure.
Markul grinned, a strange purple glint flashing in his eyes.
He tucked the dagger at his waist, staggered to his feet, and walked out of the storage room.
As for what he had originally intended to do—
He had already forgotten.
...
At the same time, deep within the dungeon.
Allen sat on damp straw, leaning against the cold stone wall, his mood heavy.
The blustering thug who had come to provoke him had shrunk into a corner after just one glare, not daring to make a sound.
Now he was curled up at the far end of the cell, occasionally sneaking glances at Allen before quickly looking away.
Allen had no time for him. His mind was churning with thoughts.
Onyxia had said she would leave Stormwind for Lordaeron tomorrow.
Sure enough, she wouldn't stay in Stormwind long.
Allen was starting to recall—reopening the Dark Portal required several artifacts, most likely the usual three: the Book of Medivh, the Eye of Dalaran, and the Scepter of Sargeras.
Teron Gorefiend infiltrating Azeroth was probably to retrieve these three items. Could one of them be hidden in Stormwind?
Very possible.
From the looks of it, Teron had likely reached some sort of agreement with the black dragon. Onyxia had assisted his actions in Stormwind—but that was as far as it went.
Without Onyxia, Teron was not unbeatable.
What Allen needed to do now was leave this prison, reunite with Wren and the others, confirm Varian's condition, and then kill Teron Gorefiend.
A rat scurried out from the corner, squeaking as it sniffed around the straw.
Allen instinctively checked his pocket—empty. His belongings had all been confiscated.
Including the dagger he had always used as a wand.
He raised his hand, a faint glow flickering at his fingertips.
[Speak with Animals]
In an instant, the world changed. Subtle sounds became clear, and vague perceptions sharpened.
The rat's squeaks turned into words in his ears:
"Hungry… hungry…"
Allen crouched down, looking at the scruffy little creature.
"Show me a way out of here, and I'll give you something good to eat."
The rat tilted its head, its bead-like black eyes staring at him.
"Hungry… hungry… hungry…"
Allen: "…"
This rat probably only knew that one word.
He sighed and stood up.
Forget it. I'll figure something out myself.
He lightly tapped the chain on his right wrist with his left hand.
[Knock]
Click.
The chain snapped open, falling to the ground with a crisp sound.
The thug in the corner widened his eyes, completely dumbfounded.
Allen flexed his wrist, then turned to look at him.
"Where can I get food here?"
The thug trembled all over. His name was Pete. He had been locked up for theft three months ago and had been bullied ever since. When he saw Allen—who looked like an easy target—come in, he thought he could bully him for a change.
Pete shivered and stammered: "Th-this is a prison… the guards only hand out food once a day… there's none now…"
Seeing the deep, sinister look in Allen's eyes, Pete shuddered and hurriedly corrected himself: "Th-there is! Colin! Colin's the boss among the prisoners here—he definitely has food! Even now, he must have some!"
"Where is he?"
Pete pointed in a direction, trembling. But after hesitating, he suddenly gritted his teeth: "Bro, I… I'll lead you!"
Allen raised an eyebrow.
Pete regretted it immediately. He looked bitterly at the bars.
"But… but we can't get out…"
Allen walked to the cell door and tapped it lightly.
Click.
The lock opened.
Pete was stunned. Oh my god, this big shot must be a mage—someone important in his world.
Then how did you even get thrown in here?
Allen walked out just like that and glanced back at Pete.
Pete gritted his teeth and followed.
The two moved through the dim corridor, turning corners again and again, until they arrived at a relatively spacious cell.
The scene here was completely different.
Clean straw was spread across the floor, several bottles of alcohol were stacked in a corner, and even half a roasted chicken was stuck on a crude wooden rack.
Several burly prisoners sat together, drinking and eating heartily.
The bald brute at the center was probably Colin.
With a face full of flesh and a snarling wolf tattoo on his chest, he was gnawing on a chicken leg, grease all over his mouth.
Pete shrank behind Allen and whispered, "Th-that's him…"
Allen walked straight to the cell door.
The prisoners looked up. Seeing him, they froze for a moment, then burst into laughter.
"Well, well? Where'd this pretty boy come from?" one of them jeered.
Colin put down his chicken leg, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and looked Allen up and down with disdain and amusement.
"New here? Don't you know the rules?" he grinned, revealing yellow teeth. "If you want to survive here, you gotta show some respect."
Allen looked at him calmly. "I want a piece of bread."
"Bread?" Colin laughed as if he had just heard the funniest joke in the world.
The others joined in, laughing wildly.
"You think this is a charity house?" Colin stood up, cracking his neck and fists as he walked toward Allen.
His lackeys stood as well, grinning viciously as they surrounded him.
Pete's legs went weak, but he didn't dare run. He could only tremble behind Allen.
Allen, however, didn't move. He simply watched Colin quietly.
"Before you make a move, I just want to ask one last question," he said in a calm, chilling tone. "What crimes did you all commit to end up here?"
Colin paused for a moment, then sneered, pride and arrogance filling his face.
"Kid, I killed eleven people," he leaned close, reeking of alcohol, speaking word by word. "And even then, I didn't get the death penalty. Don't you get it?"
Allen looked at him, his lips moving silently as he uttered a few unheard syllables.
Mind Blast!
Colin's body froze abruptly.
He stood there, the cruel grin on his face stiffening like a statue.
"Boss?" one of his lackeys pushed him. "Boss, what's wrong?"
No response.
He stood rigid, dark red liquid slowly flowing from his seven orifices.
The lackey pushed him again.
Thud.
Colin's body collapsed to the ground, kicking up dust.
The cell fell into dead silence.
The lackeys looked down at Colin, then back at Allen. Their expressions shifted from confusion to shock, from shock to terror.
"Bl-black mage!"
"He's a black mage!"
"Help—!"
They screamed, scrambling backward, wishing they could burrow into the walls.
Allen looked at his hand and sighed.
Without Xal'atath, even the power of Mind Blast was greatly reduced.
A spell that should have blown his head apart could now only barely shatter his brain.
At that moment, a commotion of footsteps echoed from the end of the corridor.
"The guards are coming! The guards are coming!"
Someone shouted.
Everyone turned to look.
A figure emerged from the darkness of the corridor.
He wore a guard's uniform, but his steps were unsteady, his posture strange—like a sleepwalker.
In his hands, he held a dagger close to his chest, as if cradling something of immense value.
It was that guard.
Holding the dagger, he walked forward step by step.
Under the dim yellow light, his face showed an expression of obsession and intoxication, as if immersed in the sweetest dream.
Seeing the guard, the lackeys lit up like they had found a savior.
"Guard! Sir guard! Quick! This black mage killed Boss Colin!"
"He used dark magic! He's a black mage! Arrest him!"
"You must uphold justice for us!"
They shouted excitedly, hope of revenge igniting in their eyes.
Colin had killed for a certain noble, and that noble had already greased the right hands.
The guards had always turned a blind eye to Colin.
Now that Colin was dead, the guards would definitely stand up for him!
That pretty boy—
Was finished.
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