Matos has fallen.
In a rather undignified manner, he exploded from the inside out in the depths of Gundrak's temple.
The tremendous impact left a deep crater where he stood, the bottom of which was covered with an unsettling, viscous blue substance.
The scene was a mess for a time.
This was not Obsidian intentionally replicating Matos's death in the game.
It was purely because, after losing his core essence, the power accumulated within this Loa completely lost control, ultimately exploding with a 'bang'.
This scene terrified Gundrak's priests, who frantically scurried around, eager to find out what had happened.
However, by the time they finally understood the truth, half a month had already passed.
As for the other Loa deities? They did indeed sense Matos's demise immediately.
That spiritual shriek, filled with resentment and fear, was too jarring within their 'circle'.
But to expect them to send down an oracle, kindly informing their followers—"Matos was instantly killed by a passing Dragon God due to his lack of strength"?
Absolutely impossible.
It was too humiliating.
This would not only damage the 'divine' majesty of the Loa collective but also potentially shake the already tenuous faith of their followers.
The Loa tacitly chose silence, only casting more wary glances at the unfamiliar Dragon God in secret.
However, on the other side of Northrend, Ital'ruk City was already immersed in the joyous fervor of victory...
The unfinished plaza in front of the shrine was temporarily requisitioned, transformed into a grand open-air banquet hall.
To celebrate the incredible victory in Gray Tooth Valley!
Ital'ruk not only defeated the Frost Howl elite, but even Matos, the Loa behind them, was effortlessly wiped out by their revered Emberglow Dragon, as if brushing away dust.
This was enough for the entire Ital'ruk to stand tall and truly establish a firm foothold in the harsh land of Northrend.
Bonfires blazed in the plaza, and the savory aroma of roasted meat mingled with the rich scent of ale.
Giant iron pots simmered with traditional troll dishes, where root vegetables, a specialty of the frozen tundra, were cooked until soft, emitting a simple, sweet fragrance.
And the grilled cooking method, quietly promoted by those with foresight, also occupied an important place in the feast—
Thick-cut ice plain rhino meat sizzled under the flames, its edges curling and browning, and dripping fat ignited the firewood, sending out tiny sparks.
The soldiers had shed their combat tension, gathering in small groups, laughing loudly, and clinking their rough bone cups with joyful sounds.
Even the usually serious artisan Agri had relaxed his brow, conversing in low tones with the witch doctor Beno, occasionally gesturing at something.
Gollon, meanwhile, was enthusiastically boasting about his heroic performance in the war to the curious new recruits.
Children weaved through the crowds, playfully snatching a few freshly grilled meat patties, drawing half-hearted scolding from the adults.
On the temporarily erected high platform, the leader Skala's face glowed with pride.
New flags were planted around the platform, embroidered with divine emblems and flame rings, fluttering in the firelight.
He raised his Dragon God emblem high, his booming voice overpowering the clamor below:
"People of Ital'ruk! Warriors! Look at the land beneath our feet, look at the sky above our heads!"
"The claws of Frost Howl have been broken, and the ice of Matos has completely melted under the glorious might of the Dragon Father!"
"From today onward, Gray Tooth Valley will have a new name—'Godslayer's Maw'!"
"It will forever commemorate our victory, and the fate of any enemy who dares to invade! For the Emberglow Dragon! For Ital'ruk!"
"Emberglow Dragon! Skala! Long live Ital'ruk!" Responding to him was a thunderous roar, a wave of sound that almost overturned everything in the plaza.
Gulen did not join the reveling crowd.
He stood with his arms crossed, leaning in the shadows of the government hall's portico, silently observing the clamor.
The victorious commander scrutinized each excited face, and finally, a subtle, almost imperceptible curve touched his lips.
The joyous songs and laughter from the plaza, by the time they reached the prisoner camp outside the city, had transformed into a muffled, low hum, as if separated by a thick curtain.
The atmosphere here was a world apart from the revelry in front of the shrine.
The camp was filled with dampness, sweat, and a pervasive sense of despondency.
The chill of the Northrend night began to seep into the makeshift tents, and the prisoners instinctively pulled their thin clothes tighter, their exhaled breath briefly visible in the dim light before quickly dissipating.
Hundreds of Frost Howl prisoners—mostly scattered common soldiers—sat or lay in a dispirited state.
Their wounds had received basic treatment, but the emotional trauma ran deeper.
Commander Hamur had fallen, their worshipped deity had perished in an extremely dishonorable manner, and their proud guard was almost completely annihilated.
Now captives, their eyes held only confusion and despair.
Ital'ruk guards patrolled the perimeter with bone blades, their gazes vigilant but without much malice.
Skala had given orders: maintain order, provide basic food, and avoid unnecessary abuse.
Labor was always scarce in Northrend.
These prisoners could be useful in future wall reinforcements, mine excavations, or any place requiring heavy labor.
In the most secluded corner of the camp, in a small space barely enclosed by tattered animal hides, lay a man.
The former Frost Howl Commander, Matos's high priest—Hamur.
His former dignity and ruthlessness were completely gone.
His face was ashen, and he stared blankly through the gaps in the animal hides, unresponsive to his surroundings.
The deep, long wound on his left arm, left from his plea for Matos's power, was merely covered with some crude herbs.
His priestly robes, symbols of his former status, were stained, the blood dried, and utterly dilapidated.
A guard brought a bowl of vegetable mush and placed it on the ground: "Hey, yours."
Hamur's eyeballs moved very slowly, glancing at the bowl of mush, and a few unintelligible grunts escaped his throat.
He didn't touch it, his unfocused gaze returning to the gap, as if he could glimpse the final moments of Matos's demise through it.
The guard shook his head: "It's better if he's crazy, less trouble." Then he turned and left.
Hamur's spiritual world had completely collapsed.
The faith he had devoted his life to, the source of his power and glory, was so fragile and vulnerable before that Dragon God.
Combined with the disillusionment of betrayal, it was more fatal than any physical wound.
As for the fate of Matos's guard?
About half of its members chose to commit suicide after witnessing the divine battle.
Most of the remaining survivors were in a similar mental state to Hamur—they were fanatical believers meticulously cultivated by Matos, their life's meaning rooted in their faith in the deity.
Only a very small number chose to surrender and were held in a more robust wooden fence area on the other side of the prisoner camp.
On Ital'ruk's night of victory, some reveled in the lingering warmth of the bonfire, while others could only swallow the bitter fruit of defeat in cold iron shackles and desperate darkness.
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