Allen raised Xal'atath and pointed it at Teron Gorefiend.
Grease!
However, the instant he began casting, a violent pain exploded in his head, as if countless steel needles had pierced straight into his brain.
The agony made his movements falter. The conjured slick of grease veered off course, splashing uselessly beside Teron and his group, spattering them without hindering their actions in the slightest.
Teron let out a cold laugh.
As expected. According to the information provided by Lady Katrana, Allen Prestor was the weakest among these troublesome fools.
The death knights moved.
Like grim reapers harvesting lives, they plunged into the ranks of soldiers, blades flashing, flesh and blood flying.
Ordinary weapons striking their bodies only produced sparks, incapable of inflicting fatal damage—while every swing of their weapons claimed a living life.
Wren drew his bow, an explosive arrow aimed straight at Teron.
"ROAR—!"
Teron suddenly bellowed. His voice carried a strange, eldritch power. One after another, crimson blood-hands burst forth, seizing dozens of soldiers and dragging them toward him like helpless dolls.
Wren immediately lowered his bow, afraid the explosion would harm the soldiers being dragged toward the blood demon.
Allen tried to cast Tasha's Hideous Laughter on Gorefiend, but suddenly, the pain in his head intensified. He collapsed to his knees, his skull feeling as though it were splitting apart.
The captured soldiers screamed and struggled, yet they could not break free.
Crack—crack—crack—
The sound of bones shattering echoed one after another. The soldiers were crushed into mangled masses of flesh and bone, then tossed aside like torn rags.
Then, the dead began to twitch.
Their corpses slowly rose.
Ghostly green flames ignited in their empty eye sockets. They turned around, lifted their weapons, and pointed them at their former comrades.
Undead. They had been resurrected as undead.
Varian's eyes turned bloodshot.
"No—!" he roared, about to charge forward, only to be tightly restrained by Morgan.
Morgan held him fast.
"Your Majesty!" The paladin's voice trembled with desperation. "You can't go! You must not—"
Varian struggled, but could not break free.
Stella frantically rummaged through her bag, muttering under her breath, "Grenades… grenades… damn it, where did I put them…"
Allen knelt on the ground, both hands clutching his head.
The pain churned in his mind like countless steel needles stirring his brain, each pulse darkening his vision.
Through the gaps between his fingers, he saw Wren entangled with several death knights, saw Morgan restraining a nearly maddened Varian, saw the terror on Stella's face as she searched.
Then his gaze fell onto his own hand.
That dagger.
Xal'atath.
Could it be… she was the one behind this?
In an instant, the world froze.
Stormwind Keep vanished. The battle vanished. Blood and screams vanished.
Allen stood atop a field of ruins.
Behind him, a burning Stormwind City collapsed, flames lighting half the sky.
Amid the shattered remains, he sat upon a throne forged from bones and blades—the highest point of the ruins, a platform built from corpses.
And he sat at the very top.
At his feet lay countless figures—humans, orcs, elves, dwarves, and even… dragons.
Those once-proud beings now knelt beneath him, trembling in submission.
Katrana, the proud black dragon princess, now bowed her head, kneeling at his feet.
Allen lowered his head and looked at his hands. Shadows coiled around his fingers—power enough to crush stars.
Allen stared at it all coldly.
"My dear."
A voice came from behind him.
He turned.
From behind a broken pillar, a figure slowly emerged.
Xal'atath.
She had taken the form of a high elf, though her skin bore a faint violet hue, like the twilight sky.
Her eyes were like the deepest cosmos, countless stars flickering within.
In her hands, she held a crown.
Pitch black, set with countless purple gems. At its peak was a single open eye, slowly rotating as it stared at Allen.
She approached him step by step, each footfall landing upon the void, sending ripples of shadow outward.
Allen looked at her coldly.
"What are you trying to do?"
Xal'atath stopped before him, her smile growing ever more enchanting.
"To crown you, of course, my dear."
She bent forward, slowly raising the crown toward his head.
"These past days, I've grown quite tired of watching you play house with those insignificant mortals. You do not belong to their world. You should become—what you are now."
She gestured to the surroundings—the burning Stormwind, the kneeling masses, the endless ruins.
"All beings, even the entire world, bow at your feet. You should rule everything—minds, thoughts, even dreams. You are the King of Shadows, the god through whom the Void descends upon this realm."
She raised the crown higher.
"So go. Use my power. Kill everyone present—leave not a single one alive."
Her voice echoed like a call from the abyss: "Use their blood to forge your path to godhood. Then present the Book of Medivh to me."
Allen said nothing.
He only stared at her coldly.
"Let me out. I don't have time to play games with you."
The smile on Xal'atath's face froze.
Those deep, star-like eyes suddenly turned cold.
"My dear."
Her voice changed—no longer gentle, but cold and absolute, filled with overwhelming authority.
"It seems my indulgence has given you the wrong idea."
Her body began to expand.
Taller. Larger. In an instant, she became a colossal being towering over the ruins like a god.
Before her, Allen was no more than an ant.
"Have you forgotten who the true master is?"
Her voice thundered, shaking the entire ruin.
"Have you forgotten that you swore upon your true name before me, that you forged a contract?"
"Did you think you were some chosen child of destiny, the protagonist of this world?"
"Did you think I was merely an object—something that fell in love with you at first sight, to be used and played with at your whim, granting you everything you desired?"
A storm of void energy surged behind her, like the end of the world itself.
"Did you think that a contract made before a true Void god was nothing more than a joke?"
Her massive face descended, her gaze locking onto Allen.
"The moment you swore that oath, you became nothing more than my puppet."
"So—Allen."
Each word carried an irresistible pressure: "I command you. Kill everyone. Present the Book of Medivh to me."
Allen raised his head and looked at that godlike face.
Then suddenly, he laughed. "Who's Allen?"
---
I will post some extra Chapters in Patreon, you can check it out. >> patreon.com/TitoVillar
---